‘I do know that there’s a big writers’ meeting the week after next and the network’s people will be there. That usually means there’s something big on the way.’
‘Yeah, it’s next Wednesday.’
‘How do you know that?’
She tapped the side of her nose. ‘I have my contacts,’ she said.
‘I knew it was Wednesday but I’m not in on it.’
‘Who is?’
‘The writers. Head of Drama. That’s Sally. There’s Lisa, Deputy Head of Drama. Sinead’s going. A few of the network producers. Nick, Francesca and Karen. And that new kid on the block, the one who always wears a sharp suit and smells of eucalyptus. What’s his name? Martin?’
‘But no directors?’
Harrington laughed again. ‘I told you. We’re just hired hands. I kid you not, Carolyn, they could replace every one of the directors on this show within an hour. There are people out there who would kill to direct this show and a lot of them would do it for free. You think actors have it tough? Directors really are treated like shit.’
‘Is it normal to keep you in the dark, then?’
‘Not normal, no.’
‘And what about Paul? Will he be there?’
‘That, I’m not sure about.’
‘Doesn’t that worry you?’
‘What?’
Carolyn sighed. ‘That they’re cutting Paul out of the loop. It’s like a bloody coup, Jake. It used to be that Paul ran everything. Now the network is pulling the strings.’
‘The network loves you, Carolyn. They’re huge fans. If anything, it will probably be good news for you.’
‘We’ll see,’ said Carolyn. She frowned. ‘Why is Sinead going to be there? She’s casting director.’
Harrington shrugged. ‘Like I said, they tell me nothing. What are you worried about?’
‘Maybe they’re planning a plane crash to kill us all off and bring in new blood.’
‘I doubt they’d have the budget for that.’
‘Maybe a car crash, then. Or a killer bug. And they need Sinead to put together a new cast.’ She sighed. ‘Oh, I don’t know. I just get the feeling that there’s something going on and nobody will tell me.’
‘I hear that,’ said Harrington. ‘But like I said, you’re a star, Carolyn. They don’t get rid of stars.’
CHAPTER 10
There were a dozen photographers huddled around the gate at the entrance to the grounds of the country house hotel and flashes went off as the Mercedes drove by. ‘Why do they bother?’ asked Harrington.
‘Because they might get lucky and catch an actor smoking a joint or picking their nose,’ said Carolyn.
‘That bad?’
‘Worse than that, Jake. A thousand times worse. What they want is a reaction. Sometimes they’ll shout out the most obscene stuff, just to get a reaction. That’s why every now and then someone will snap and take a swing at them.’
‘You haven’t though?’
‘You can’t because the picture of you screaming at them is the one that’ll be on all the front pages. You just have to grin and bear it.’ She smiled ruefully. ‘Besides, if there’s one thing worse than being pursued by the paparazzi, it’s being ignored by them.’
The Mercedes pulled up in front of the hotel. The driver got out and hurried around to open the door for Carolyn. As she got out, two pretty girls in short skirts and impossibly high heels tottered over. They both had tight tops with sashes across their chests with SOAP OPERA DIGEST across them. One of them presented her with a small bouquet and they escorted her into the hallway. To the left, a large banner had been set up and to the right was a bald photographer in a black suit who winked at her. ‘Miss Castle,’ he said. ‘Big fan.’
Carolyn took off her coat and gave it to one of the girls, then posed for half a dozen photographs, then waved for Harrington to join her. Standing next to the photographer was a young woman with a clipboard. She smiled at Carolyn and nodded at the dress. ‘Stella McCartney,’ said Carolyn, and the woman scribbled on her clipboard. She looked up again and smiled at Harrington. ‘And who are you?’ she asked.
‘Me? Nobody.’
Carolyn slipped her arm through his. ‘Jake Harrington,’ she said. ‘He’s a fabulous director and we all love working with him.’
‘And your new boyfriend?’
Carolyn laughed. ‘My director,’ she said. She smiled as the photographer took a few more pictures, then led Harrington away from the banner towards the main ballroom.
‘I don’t know how you put up with it,’ said Harrington.
‘With what?’
‘Being photographed all the time. I’d hate it.’
‘That’s funny, you being a director and all,’ said Carolyn. ‘That’s your job, taking pictures of people.’
‘My job is to let actors tell a story,’ said Harrington. ‘The paparazzi are more like peeping toms, sticking their noses where they’re not wanted.’
Carolyn gestured at the banner, where another actress was being photographed. ‘That’s not paparazzi,’ she said. ‘That’s part of the game. You come to somewhere like this and you get photographed and the photographs go out to the papers and the magazines. The magazine sells, my profile is raised and Stella McCartney gets free publicity. Everyone wins.’
‘Well, it would do my head in. I prefer the fact the girl back there didn’t know me from Adam.’
They stopped at the entrance to the ballroom. A large seating plan had been set up on an easel and it was flanked by two pretty blondes. There were twenty-five circular tables each seating sixteen. The tables were identified with the name of the various shows and production companies. The tables closest to the main stage were taken by the BBC, ITV, Channel 4 and Sky. Behind them were the tables of Coronation Street, EastEnders, Doctors, Holby City and the rest of the popular soaps. The Rags To Riches table was off to the right, closest to the kitchen. Carolyn frowned as she studied the seating plan. Hands seized her by the shoulder. ‘How’s my favourite actress?’ asked Paul Day, looming over her.
‘Wondering why all these reality shows are here,’ she said, pointing at a table marked The Only Way Is Essex and another labeled Made In Chelsea. ‘Since when are reality shows classed as drama?’
‘They’ve a new category this year,’ said the producer. ‘Reality and Constructed Factual.’
‘What the hell is Reality and Constructed Factual?’ asked Carolyn.
‘The future of entertainment, darling,’ said Day. ‘You take suntanned bimbos in tight dresses and you give them lines to shout and wine to drink. Costs next to nothing to make and the punters love it.’ He released his grip on her shoulders. ‘Come on, let’s grab our seats.’
Day, Carolyn and Harrington walked into the ballroom. There were huge posters on the walls, blown-up photographs of the shows that had been nominated, and at the back of the room a stage with two podiums and, behind them, a large viewing screen.
Carolyn had to walk by the Coronation Street and EastEnders tables and she had to air-kiss at least a dozen people. She knew most of the actors though there were a few younger cast members she hadn’t met before. Most knew she was being given a lifetime achievement award and wanted to congratulate her. It was the only award that had been announced in advance.
Seb and Andrea were already at the Rags To Riches table, along with Phillippa Lansdale, the director who was due to take over after Harrington’s episodes had wrapped. Carolyn had worked with Phillippa before and liked the woman. She was in her early thirties, anorexically thin and, like Carolyn, a confirmed smoker. She stood up and hugged Carolyn. ‘So we’re working together week after next,’ she said, brushing her dyed blonde hair over one ear.
‘I’m looking forward to it,’ said Carolyn. Day gave Phillippa a bear hug and then sat down, facing the stage. Carolyn sat next to him. Seb was sitting next to a pneumatic blonde model with vacant eyes, one of half a dozen that he used whenever he needed to prove to the world that he was a red-blooded heterosexual male. Carolyn had met her before but couldn’t quite remember her name — Mandy, or Sandy, or Candy or something similar. She had red-painted fingernails that were at least an inch long and lips that had clearly been pumped full of collagen. Andrea was sitting next to her long-time boyfriend, Charlie Russell, a good-looking Scot who managed his family’s multi-million pound trust. He was devoted to Andrea and always had a lop-sided grin on his face when he was around her.