Kate O’Mara - Good Time Girl

KATA O’MARA

Good Time Girl

HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

Copyright © Kate O’Mara 1993

Kate O’Mara asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

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HarperCollins Publishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication

Source ISBN: 9780006472599

Ebook Edition © MARCH 2017 ISBN: 9780008252687

Version: 2017-03-27

To Ted Rhodes, in happy memory

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Epilogue

About the Author

Other Books By

About the Publisher

The studio was dark, silent and tense. The crew, technicians and production team were shrouded in shadow. Only the actors in their little world of a make-believe art gallery were illuminated in a bright pool of light. They stood poised ready to spring into life at a given cue – a flamboyant wave of a white handkerchief from Larry Matthews, the highly eccentric, camp floor manager/PA/script editor/general right-hand man to Hugh Travis, the producer. Larry always used this rather overt method of cueing, claiming that the actors could see it easily in their peripheral line of vision. He was right, of course; the slightest movement from anyone on the studio floor could be misinterpreted as a cue by an actor already fraught with nerves. Larry was usually right about most things. He ran the studio, and indeed the series, like a tight ship, loved and feared by actors and technicians alike. Now he stood, his head encased by ‘cans’, keeping an ever-vigilant eye on the monitor that was suspended above his head. The cameramen adjusted focus. The boom operators pushed the microphones in and out of the set, paying them out and winding them in again like trout flies, checking and rechecking for shadows. It was the soundmen’s difficult task to position the booms so as to be able to pick up every nuance from the actors. They had to achieve this without getting into shot, yet be near enough to hear even the most inaudible player. There was no difficulty with the experienced performers but the newcomers and those who had not had theatrical experience always posed problems.

Larry, ever watchful, glanced briefly around the studio, then up again at the monitor. Where -

A tall fine figure of a man, with a remarkably even golden tan and deep-set vivid blue eyes was threading his way through the hustle and bustle of Mayfair. His silver hair was a touch too long for a banker or a barrister, and proclaimed him at once a man connected with the arts. Women’s heads turned as he strode confidently along, his gaze firmly fixed ahead, a slightly worried look on his handsome chiselled features.

Back on the studio floor, Larry suddenly yelled, ‘Coming out of telecine in two minutes,’ thereby quelling even the faintest murmur of chatter and quiver of movement. The brightly lit actors braced themselves for the fray. The trick was to look and act perfectly naturally in a completely unnatural situation, the actor having to start exactly on Larry’s cue. In this instance, the responsibility lay with Geoffrey Armitage, an old hand at the game, who played Paul McMaster in the series, and Amy Brindle, a relative newcomer, who played Sophie, his receptionist, and who was learning fast.

Paul arrived at his destination and glanced up briefly with an air of ill-concealed pride at the name displayed above the premises. ‘McMasters’ it announced in discreet gold roman lettering on a very dark green ground. He paused for a moment to glance at the superb seventeenth-century Flemish painting that was the sole exhibit in the window, then pressed the intercom. A distorted voice responded immediately.

‘Good morning, sir.’ A buzzing sound indicated that he was given admittance.

‘Stand by, studio. Coming out of telecine in one minute!’ Larry’s voice was now lower both in volume and pitch, and had the effect of concentrating everyone wonderfully. His eyes were staring at the monitor.

‘Morning, Sophie.’

‘Paul, thank goodness you’re here. Helen has been on the phone. There’s been some sort of mix-up over the German consignment.’

Paul McMaster put a weary hand to his brow. ‘Oh God, can’t she handle it? I’ve got a meeting this morning.’

‘There’s a fax from Mr Van Geldes from Amsterdam, about the exhibition at the Rijksmuseum.’

‘Yes, good. I was expecting that, anything else?’

‘Yes,’ said Sophie, looking embarrassed, ‘your brother …’

‘What’s he done now?’

‘I’m afraid he may be responsible for the confusion over the Hamburg shipment,’ she replied, becoming more flustered by the minute.

Paul sighed heavily. ‘All right, I’ll deal with it,’ he said resignedly, and crossed to the back of the shop. Sophie watched him go, then turned back to her desk with a troubled expression on her face.

There was a door leading to an outer office and a further door to an outhouse where restoration work and packing was carried out.

‘Coming out of telecine in ten seconds, nine, eight, seven, six, five …’ Five to zero were mimed by Larry using the fingers of one hand followed by the famous flourish of the white handkerchief descending in the manner of one starting a race and Geoffrey Armitage slipped smoothly and expertly through the studio office door, which exactly corresponded with the one in the telecine, and so achieved the transition from film to live studio. He spoke his lines on cue easily and effortlessly, with just the right amount of energy and charm to make him immensely watchable and adored by several thousand female admirers.

‘Who said you could use my office?’ snapped Paul McMaster.

An extremely good-looking man in his middle thirties was lounging nonchalantly in the leather captain’s chair with his feet up on the desk in front of him.