‘It is lovely,’ admitted Laura.
‘There you are then,’ said Terry. ‘Carolyn can wear this and you can give the Westwood abomination to Andrea. It’ll cover up her flabby forearms.’
Carolyn laughed out loud. ‘You’re such a bitch,’ she said.
‘That’s as may be, but at least I’m your bitch,’ said Terry.
Carolyn kissed him on the cheek. ‘I love you,’ she said.
‘Oh, be still, my beating heart,’ he said, wafting his hand in front of his face.
Harry popped his head around the door. ‘Miss Castle, Mr Harrington’s ready.’
‘Her master’s voice,’ said Terry. He folded the dress over his arm. ‘I’ll put this in your room,’ he said. ‘And I’ll pick out some jewellery.’
‘You’re going to make someone a wonderful wife,’ laughed Carolyn. She followed Harry down the corridor and through a set of soundproofed double doors. There was a sign above saying ‘Studio’ and a red light that came on when they were filming.
The studio was the size of a large warehouse with more than a dozen sets built next to each other. It appeared to have been constructed haphazardly so that the door from her bedroom led through to her office and that, in turn, led through to a wine bar. All the walls were moveable to allow the camera to film from any angle and the flooring was dotted with taped crosses so the actors could hit their marks. Rags To Riches was a show renowned for its glamour and glitz but there was nothing at all glamorous about the sets.
Frank was already sitting behind the camera, his young assistant standing at his shoulder. The bed had been moved and the camera was placed where the head of the bed had been so it would have Seb’s viewpoint. Harrington was sitting with Lucy, the script supervisor, facing two monitors, one in colour and one black and white. There was a canvas sheet on an aluminium frame over the top of the screens to cut down on the glare from the overhead lights.
Carolyn had to be careful where she walked as the floor was criss-crossed with thick black cables from the various floor-mounted lights.
Harrington got up from his folding chair and hurried over to her. ‘Everything okay with the lines?’ he asked.
‘I think you’ve cut more than you should, but sure, it’s not brain surgery. I’ll be fine.’ She looked around the set. ‘Where’s Seb?’
‘We don’t need him yet, or Andrea,’ said Harrington. ‘We’ll be in tight close-up all the time and there’s no overlap on the dialogue. I’ll use Harry to give you the eyeline and he can do Seb’s dialogue for you if you like.’
Carolyn nodded. She could do the scene with a monkey, if necessary. The camera would be on her and only her which, in all honesty, was what every actor wanted.
‘We’ll do the shooting first, then the full close-up, and by then we’ll put Harry in Seb’s robe and do a couple of over the shoulder shots. To be honest, the master shot we got last night was so good we’ll use that most of the time.’
Rick, the boom operator, waddled over. He was a portly Yorkshireman with swept-back grey hair and a thick moustache that had stayed black. He was holding the boom, at the end of which was a Zeppelin-shaped microphone. When she had first started working as an actress, Carolyn had assumed the boom operator was at the bottom of the food chain, but over the years she had come to realise it was one of the toughest jobs on the crew. It was physically demanding and required a lot of upper body strength. There was also a lot of skill involved, holding the microphone close enough to pick up the sound but never so close as to encroach into the shot. A clumsy boom operator could ruin a shot, but Rick was a true professional, one of the best in the business. ‘Morning,’ he said, and nodded. That was pretty much the sum total of Rick’s conversation during the day. A gruff ‘Morning’ or ‘Afternoon’ and a “Goodnight’ at the end of the day.
A cable trailed from the boom across the floor to where Dougie McLean, the sound man, sat on a folding chair with a set of bulbous headphones on. One of Dougie’s female assistants walked over to Carolyn, smiled, and began to attach a radio mic, concealing it under her dress and feeding a wire through to the transmitter that she clipped to the back of Carolyn’s dress. When she’d finished, the assistant flashed Dougie a thumbs-up. ‘Give me a level, darling,’ Dougie called over to Carolyn.
‘Mary had a little lamb, it’s fleece as white as snow, and everywhere that Mary went the lamb went as well, because unlike men lambs are loyal…’
‘That’s fine,’ said Dougie.
Harrington walked over and stood to the left of the camera, holding a set of pale green script sheets.
‘Everything okay, Frank?’ Harrington asked.
‘Ready when you are,’ said Frank, staring at the viewfinder.
They spent the next hour filming Carolyn’s close-ups, then Harry put on a bathrobe and sat slightly in front of the camera so his shoulder was in the shot and they did all the lines again.
When they’d finished, Harrington looked at his watch. ‘If everyone’s okay, I’d like to get straight on to the gun.’
‘Fine by me,’ said Dougie, nodding.
‘Full steam ahead,’ agreed Frank.
‘Excellent,’ said Harrington. He stood up, removed his headset and went over to Carolyn. ‘Do you need another practice session with the gun?’ he asked.
‘I’ll be fine,’ she said. ‘Point and pull the trigger.’
‘And try not to flinch,’ said Harrington. ‘We’ll be on you from the waist up for the first shot so we’ll see your face. Then we’ll do a cutaway on just the gun. But for the first one, a sly smile would be good. And try not to blink.’
‘I know, the Michael Caine school of acting. Never blink.’
‘Yeah, that and talking in a dull monotone always did the trick for him.’ He waved Danny Brett over.
The armourer brought his metal case with him and placed it on the floor in front of Carolyn before kneeling down and opening it. He took out the gun, keeping the barrel pointed to the floor, and placed it in her hand. ‘All right?’ he said.
‘Perfect,’ she said. ‘I don’t suppose you could get me one that fires real bullets?’
Danny grinned. ‘I think you could probably get one for five hundred in most pubs in South London,’ he said. ‘You got people you want to shoot?’
‘Just the one,’ said Carolyn.
Danny winked at her and stepped out of the shot.
Harrington was back in his seat with his headphones on. The microphone boom swept over her head and then stabilized. ‘Sound okay?’ he shouted.
‘Rolling,’ called back Dougie.
‘Okay,’ said Harrington. ‘And action!’
Andrea was already in character, wide-eyed and scared on the bed. Seb was still grinning over at one of the grips but as soon as Harrington shouted he grabbed the duvet as he had done last time they had shot the scene.
Andrea hesitated for two beats, then started to speak, her voice shaking. ‘Please, Diana, I just want to go home.’
‘Of course you do, babe. Just let me shoot my lying, scheming bastard husband and then you can be on your way.’ A mobile phone burst into life somewhere behind her. A Lady Gaga song.
‘For fuck’s sake, who’s left their bloody mobile on?’ screamed Dougie.
‘Cut!’ shouted Harrington.
‘Sorry, sorry, sorry,’ said a red-faced man with shoulder-length hair who was standing at the far side of the set by the refreshments table. He fumbled in his leather jacket and pulled out his phone.
‘I might have known,’ shouted Dougie. ‘A fucking writer. Why do we allow them on set?’
‘Really, I thought I’d switched it off,’ said the writer. His name was Jeff Thompson and he was a recent addition to the writing staff, a veteran of Coronation Street and Holby City. Carolyn had chatted to him during the last read-through and he was a nice enough guy, though he had a habit of looking down at her breasts which she found a little disconcerting.
Harrington stood up. ‘Well, make sure it’s off now,’ he said. ‘Okay, everyone, let’s start again. And if anyone else has a phone, for God’s sake make sure it’s off.’ He sat down again. ‘Ready. Action!”