Cathy Kelly - Just Between Us

Three more awards trundled by. Winners gravely thanked everyone from their kindergarten teacher to their Pilates coach. The only excitement was when the forty-something Best Actress gave rather an over-enthusiastic kiss to the teenage boy band member presenting her with the award. The audience applauded with delight. At last, somebody behaving badly.

‘Give him another Frenchie,’ yelled a drunk at the back of the room.

‘That’s one comment for the cutting room floor,’ Tara grinned.

‘Were there tongues involved?’ demanded Isadora eagerly.

‘Not on his part,’ Aaron said. ‘The poor guy looked scared out of his head.’

‘He should be,’ Tommy pointed out. ‘She eats boys like him for brekkie.’

‘Don’t be ageist,’ snapped Isadora, who was feeling sensitive about arriving at the big four-oh herself. ‘Just because she’s over forty, she’s not a figure of fun, you know. It’s perfectly allowable to snog younger men. You’re no spring chicken yourself, Tommy, and I bet you wouldn’t say no to a big kiss from a teenage starlet.’

‘Now, children,’ remonstrated Aaron calmly, ‘let’s not fight. We have to look like we’re happy. Save the fighting for the studio.’

Everyone grinned. Tempers often got frayed when they were under pressure at work.

‘After the break, we’ll be seeing who’s the Radio Presenter of the Year, who’s the Best Actor, and, which soap has won the Best Soap,’ said the MC suavely. The crowd applauded obediently.

The lights went up and the MC added that there’d be a fifteen minute break. Hands went into the air immediately, waving for wine waiters.

Tara thought the break would never end but it did. The Radio Personality of the Year, late-night talk show host Mac Levine, made a very funny speech.

Isadora squeezed Tara’s hand under the table so nobody would see how anxious they were.

‘Isn’t this wonderful?’ Isadora said between teeth clenched into a false smile.

‘Wonderful.’ Tara clenched back. ‘Will he ever hurry up before I die.’

And then it was their turn.

A glamorous female singer read out the nominations for Best Soap. There wasn’t a sound at their table as clips of the various shows were played. Tara closed her eyes in supplication and then realised how strange and desperate she’d look on film, so she opened them again. The clips were finished and the singer was taking forever to open the envelope. Tara watched French-manicured talons struggling with the paper in agonising slow motion. She could feel her heart rate slowing down to comatose level, please, please let it be us.

‘The winner is… National Hospital .’

‘We’ve won!!’ shrieked everybody with one voice. ‘We’ve won.’

Screaming with delight, the occupants of both tables stood up and hugged each other. Tara could barely see with the tears in her eyes.

‘Oh, Isadora, we’ve won, I can’t believe it,’ she sobbed.

‘Come on, Tara, get your butt over here,’ said Aaron, his voice cracking. ‘We’ve got to go up and take the prize.’

‘What, me?’ said Tara, shocked.

‘Yes, you and Isadora,’ he said. ‘We can’t have everyone on the stage, but you’ve both got to go up, you’ve both worked so hard this year.’

Isadora was off like a shot while Tara stumbled over to Aaron. He put an arm around her waist. ‘This is your year, Tara.’

‘But what about Tommy and everyone else…?’ gasped Tara, trying to wipe the tears from her face.

‘This is your year, kid,’ repeated Aaron. ‘Enjoy it.’ The entire table of actors and Isadora were already on the stage with the executive producer when Aaron and Tara made it up there.

‘Thank you so much!’ squealed Sherry, elbows together, boobs shoved up for the cameras. ‘Thank you for loving us.’

She was subtly shoved out of the way by the show’s female lead, Allegra Armstrong, a deceptively fragile-looking brunette.

‘You have no idea what this means to all of us at National Hospital ,’ Allegra said warmly, ‘we’ve worked so hard for this and want to say thanks to all our fans.’

The audience applauded. Allegra was a genuinely loved star and her portrayal of a brilliant surgeon on the show had already garnered her many awards.

‘Also, we’ve got to say thanks to all the wonderful writers without whom we wouldn’t have a show,’ added heartthrob, Stephen Valli, who played hunky Dr McCambridge. Stephen Valli had also won many awards, at least half of which were for sexiest TV star and the man most women would like to wake up next to. He reached back and put one arm around Isadora and the other round Tara, who blushed. She stared blindly out at the audience. The fierce stage lights meant she could see nothing but darkness and yet she knew that everyone was looking up at the team, and her. It was a strange feeling.

Through the haze, she heard another interval being called.

‘Congratulations!’ shrieked everyone as the National Hospital team clambered off stage.

‘My name is Jill McDonnell, I’m with the Sentinel. How does it feel to be part of the team responsible for the best soap?’ said a woman, suddenly appearing in front of Tara and thrusting a tiny tape recorder in her face.

Tara stumbled on her high heels and had to cling onto Aaron’s jacket to stay upright.

‘Wonderful,’ she bleated, not able to think of anything else to say for the first time in her life.

‘Could I set up an interview with you?’

Tara smiled shakily. So this was fame. ‘Sure,’ she said. ‘Phone the office tomorrow and we can fix a time.’

At the table, there were more hugs and champagne appeared.

‘I must phone Finn,’ Tara said tearfully, feeling the shock waves of emotion finally wash over her. It was still the interval, so she hurried out of the room to find a quiet corner.

The home phone rang out endlessly again and she tried the mobile.

‘I’m in the pub with Derry and the lads,’ Finn yelled. ‘I couldn’t cope with sitting at home and not knowing,’ he said.

‘We won!’ said Tara, half-laughing, half-crying.

‘Oh my love,’ shouted Finn, thrilled. ‘Congratulations! I’m so proud of you.’

The final segment of the show was about to begin and Tara rushed back into the ballroom. A tall man with flashing eyes and a wild beard, like a movie version of an old Testament prophet, laid a hand on her arm to speak to her. Tara instantly recognised Mike Hammond, a mega successful producer originally from Galway who’d just worked on a season of Oscar Wilde’s plays for the HBO television network in the States.

He never even went to bashes like this; he’d be more at home at the Oscars or the Emmys.

‘Congratulations,’ he said in a soft Californian-Galway burr. ‘I’m Mike Hammond.’

‘I know. Tara Miller.’ She extended her hand. As if there was anybody there who didn’t know who he was.

‘I hear on the grapevine you’re one of the main reasons why National Hospital won the award,’ he continued.

Tara’s eyes were like saucers. Not only did Mike Hammond know who she was, but he’d heard good things about her.

‘That’s not exactly true,’ she said. ‘We work as a team. I’m just part of it. There are a lot of contributing writers and a large team of storyline people. You know that writing on that scale has to be team work or the whole thing self-destructs with a clash of egos.’

‘Modest too,’ commented Mike. ‘We should have lunch sometime.’

He reached into his inside pocket and removed a card on which he scribbled a number. ‘That’s my cellphone number. I’m going to be in the US for a few months but phone me, say in March. We can shoot the breeze, talk about forthcoming projects, whatever.’