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Bantam • Modern fiction
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Chapter One
On the morning of her twenty-fifth birthday, Deirdre O'Dare received nine birthday cards, a small parcel, and a postcard from Montana, USA. The cards were from friends; the parcel - which contained a wisp of hand-painted silk chiffon and a book on the history of soap opera - was from her parents, and the postcard was from her on-off boyfriend, Rory McDonagh. There was no mention of her birthday on the postcard, which had a picture on the front of a horse racing through a desert. All it said on the back - in block capitals - was, WILD WEST . . . Love R. XXX. It was the first communication she'd had from him in weeks. Bastard. Deirdre arranged the birthday cards on her mantelpiece, tied the chiffon in her hair, and dumped the postcard in the bin. Then she made coffee, did her face, went down to the front entrance of the Georgian building where she had her flat, and pumped up her bicycle tyres.
When she opened the front door to wheel her bicycle through, she found herself face to face with a spectacular arrangement of white roses. Behind the roses was a delivery man, and behind the delivery man was an Interflora van with its engine still running.
'Howrya, love,' he said. 'Answer me this. Does someone by the name of Deirdre O'Dare live here?'
'Yes,' she said. 'That's me.'
'Well,' said the delivery man. 'These are for you, so.' He winked at her. 'You must be someone's brown-eyed girl, to quote Van the Man. I'd say there's near forty there altogether.'
She gathered the flowers in her arms. He had sent her favourite Vendella roses. 'Wow,' she said. 'Thanks. I suppose I'd better put them in water right away. They're beautiful.' The word was inadequate, she realized, as she ran back upstairs with the bouquet, tearing off the attached note. It read: Happy birthday. I find I'm obliged to take some time off from this epic. Brace yourself for a flying visit and look out that Agent Provocateur underwear. R.
She put the roses in a vase, tweaked at them rather ineffectually and then stood back to admire them. They floated on their long, elegant stems like ethereal meringues. Bastard, bastard, bastard, she thought. Bloody beautiful bastard. Bloody beautiful, generous, incorrigible bastard. Then she went back into the kitchen, took the postcard out of the bin, wiped coffee dregs off it, and slid it carefully between the pages of her diary. As she left her flat she found herself wondering when his time off was due to happen. She was a little mortified by the flutter of anticipation the thought produced in her.
* * *
Deirdre had allowed herself plenty of time to get to work for a change. It was going to be a busy morning for her. She had a voice-over assignment to get out of the way before getting back on her bike to cycle to the television studio where she worked almost full-time. Three years ago she had landed a plum role in RTE's weekly soap opera, Ardmore Grove. It was a seasonal soap which put out forty episodes a year, and Deirdre had notched up at least twenty each season, which wasn't a bad quota for a freelance actress. Amber, the character she played, had been involved in most of the more sensational storylines, and had inspired copy for numerous tabloid hacks. 'Sizzling' was the most common adjective used to describe her on-screen exploits, closely followed by 'steamy' and, in third place, 'troubled'. Poor Amber was constantly confronting disaster in her life. Sometimes Deirdre wondered if she hadn't been typecast.
It was raining now as she cycled through central Dublin gridlock, but she didn't mind getting wet. It was better than being stuck in a car listening to Time-saver Traffic and fuming over the fact that you should have taken the South Circular instead of going via the canal. She wove in and out of the traffic, pedalling fast. She was determined to reach the recording studio in Herbert Street as quickly as possible - not just to get out of the rain, but because she knew it was important to be punctual. Studio time cost the client money, and she was anxious to please this client. When she had first recorded a commercial for Heeney Holidays last autumn, the producer of the ad had professed himself so taken with her voice that he'd suggested an exclusivity deal to the client. Her agent had negotiated a deal which guaranteed her voice-over work with Heeney Holidays for a year, providing she did the honourable thing and turned down commercial work for any other holiday companies that might approach her. However, since that first session the style of the ads had changed dramatically. The new ones were a much harder sell - full of stresses and exclamation marks and over-the-top adjectives. She'd been hired originally to do a soft sell, and she knew her voice wasn't really right for these brasher commercials.
The previous day, when she'd been approached about the nine a.m. recording session, she'd hesitated. It was going to mean that getting to RTE for the usual nine-thirty rehearsal call would be impossible. But the advertising agency had told her that they needed the recordings by lunchtime today, and it was incumbent on her to be as accommodating as possible. Exclusivity meant a lot. The Ardmore Grove stage manager had been a sweetheart when she'd asked him about fitting in with her timing. 'You sneak in as near to ten as you can,' he'd said. 'Your scenes aren't scheduled to be rehearsed until around a quarter-past. Promise me you won't be any later, or you'll banjax the running order.'
She'd promised.
She arrived at the recording studio with five minutes to spare. She padlocked her bike to the railings outside, ostentatiously ignoring an appreciative comment from a passing courier as she bent over the front wheel. Then she raced up the steps to the front door of the studio and rang the bell, shaking droplets of water from her hair. When the buzzer sounded she pushed open the door and dived in, out of the rain.
'Hi,' she said to the receptionist, who was scanning a desk diary with sleepy eyes.
'Oh - hi, Deirdre.' The girl got to her feet, yawning. 'Coffee?'
'It's made already? You're on the ball this morning, Emer.'
'Not really. Just thought I should have everything organized well in advance for the client from hell.'
Deirdre looked aghast. 'Oh no, Emer! The client's not going to be here?'
''Fraid so. We're talking too many cooks, this morning.'
Deirdre bit her lip. She knew that when the client sat in on a recording session, the gig took twice as long. Janine Heeney always came up with what she considered to be much better ideas than the experts from the agency whom she'd hired to make the commercial, and would insist not only on rewriting the script, but also on making Deirdre try hundreds of alternative ways of reading it. When the studio door finally shut on her, the 'creatives' would be tearing their hair out and screaming for a shot of whiskey.
'Hell,' said Deirdre. 'I've to be in RTE at ten-fifteen.'
'Can't you ring them and say you're running a bit late?'
'I've already called in a favour. I'll be toast if I'm any later. How long is the studio booked for?'
Emer checked the diary. 'Two hours.'
'Two hours? Shit! It shouldn't take anywhere near two hours. Ben faxed me the scripts yesterday evening. It's dead straightforward, Emer.'
'Yeah, but as soon as they knew Janine was showing up they booked an extra hour's studio time.'
Deirdre sat down on the big velour-upholstered couch in an attitude of despair. She looked at her watch. It was precisely nine o'clock. The doorbell sounded, and she and Emer exchanged looks of stoical resignation.
* * *
'Get her to do it again with more stress on the word "amazing".'
It was nearly ten o'clock. Deirdre was starting to sweat.
'Deirdre?' came a voice in her headphones. 'Janine would like you to try another read with a little more stress on the word "amazing".'
'Sure.' Deirdre tried to sound bright and obliging. Her sense of rising panic made it very difficult. She had spent the past half-hour tearing paper tissues to shreds, keeping her hands hidden under the table so that the client wouldn't notice her obvious distress. She knew if she didn't do something with her hands, the distress would start to show in her voice, and that would be disastrous.
The sound engineer and the people from the agency had been models of diplomacy. They'd taken on board the least outrageous of the client's ideas for 'improvements' to the script, toned down her more OTT suggestions, and experimented with at least half a dozen backing tracks before they came up with one that met with Janine Heeney's approval.
Deirdre cleared her throat for the umpteenth time that morning and waited for her cue from the sound engineer. She caught his look of sympathy as their eyes met, and the lush strains of the Hawaiian backing track swept into her ears.
'Tired of the treadmill?' she began. 'Weary of the weather? Sick of your schedule and ready for a rest? Don't let that dream holiday slip through your fingers! We at Heeney's guarantee amazing savings on our summer holiday deals - but don't delay! Take advantage of these staggering summer savings now - it's never too early to book your place in the sun! Check out our fabulous full-colour brochure. You'll be amazed at our deals - they're not just incredible - they're unbelievable! Whether it's night-life, shopping and craic you're after, adventure or sporting activities, or simply sun, sea and sand - whatever you want, you'll find it - between the covers of a Heeney Holidays brochure!'
She sat back in her chair and drew breath. There were so many words to get through that she'd had to take the read at a bit of a lick. 'How was that for time?' she asked.
'Bang on thirty seconds,' said the sound engineer.
Deirdre shot a look of polite enquiry in Janine Heeney's direction. The mastermind behind the Heeney Holidays advertising campaign was sitting on the big black couch in the control room with her legs crossed and her arms stretched out along the leather back. One smartly court-shod foot was jerking rhythmically to and fro, and the high-gloss Lycra tights stretched around her calves made Deirdre think of shiny, uncooked sausages. She transferred her attention to Janine's face. Glinting basilisk eyes looked out from the carefully applied mask of her make-up: her mouth was a thin red trap, and her earrings were the kind of clip-on flying saucers Deirdre despised.
'It sounded a bit rushed to me.' Janine's voice came through her cans. 'Get her to do it again, only in a more languorous kind of way. Can she hear me?'
'Yes, I can.' Deirdre snuck another peek at her watch, and then looked up again to meet Janine's supercilious gaze through the glass panel of the recording booth.
'You see, Deirdre - we're talking about holidays here. We're talking about escaping from the stresses and strains of ordinary life and relaxing - do you know what I mean?'
Deirdre could relate to that. 'Yes, I do,' she said.
'So could you take it a bit easier, please? We're not going on our holidays on an express train, you know.'
Deirdre gritted her teeth and forced a laugh. 'I've gottcha, Janine,' she said. 'But it's difficult to get through the script without sounding a little pacy. There are a lot of words to get through. Do you think we might cut some of the copy? Then I could manage a more laid-back delivery.'
'What do you think, Janine?' The agency copy-writer looked from Deirdre to the client. 'Deirdre has a point, you know. There's a lot to get through in thirty seconds - it can't help sounding a bit rushed. I know you're keen on keeping the superlatives, but are they all strictly necessary? Those two adjectives you suggested - unbelievable and incredible - are - um - well, they're actually tautological, you know. Maybe we could lose that particular line? Then we'd have plenty of time.'
Deirdre could tell by Janine's face that she didn't have a clue what the word 'tautological' meant.
'No,' Janine said dogmatically. 'Every word is important. It just needs an air of relaxation. Can't you make your voice sound more relaxed? It's your job, after all.'
'Sure.' Deirdre would agree to anything at this stage just to get out of there. 'I'll give it a go.'
* * *
'I think Deirdre's a bit pressed for time, Janine,' said the sound engineer after ten more takes.
Deirdre was nearly crying. It was now half past ten. She was in deep shit.
'She's paid to be here, isn't she?' came the terse response. 'We'll just have to carry on until she gets it right. Let me hear that last one again.'
The Hawaiian music started again. 'Tired of the treadmill?' Deirdre heard herself say for the hundredth time that morning. 'Weary of the weather? Sick of your schedule and ready for a rest?' Yes, yes, yes! screamed a voice in her head. The answer's yes to all those questions!
The Hawaiian music came to its pingy end and a silence fell. The faces of all the participants of this charade looked grey, apart from Janine's. She was wearing a thoughtful expression. 'You know, Ben - maybe you're right about that line. Maybe "unbelievable" and "incredible" is just a teeny bit tautological - although I don't think most people would have enough cop-on to notice it, really. But maybe it's a good idea to have a listen back to one of the earlier reads.'
'How far back are you talking, Janine?'
'Oh - back to a read which didn't include that tautological line.'
'But you put that line in at the third read, Janine - right back at the beginning of the session,' said Ben. Deirdre could tell that he was trying hard to keep the edge out of his voice.
'Yes - I know I did.' There wasn't a trace of apology in her tone. 'We'll go back to the first two, shall we? And see if they're a bit more relaxed-sounding?'
It was obvious from Ben's demeanour that he wanted to turn round to Janine Heeney and bash her skull in. 'OK, Simon,' he said to the sound engineer. 'Let's listen back to takes one and two.'
Simon complied. The secret language of looks between him, Deirdre, Ben and the producer was becoming more meaningful with malevolence towards Ms Janine Heeney by the second.
'Tired of the treadmill?' they heard again. 'Weary of the weather? Sick of your schedule and ready for a rest? Don't let that dream holiday slip through your fingers! We at Heeney's . . . blah blah blah . . .' Deirdre couldn't listen any more. She could have been talking ancient Egyptian as far as she was concerned.
'Mm,' said Janine, after a beat. 'That's not bad. It's certainly more relaxed, isn't it? Let's have a listen to number two.'
The second take was played back. 'That's the one!' said Janine brightly. 'Good work, everybody! It's a wrap. Isn't that how they put it in television parlance, Deirdre?' She contorted her face into what was presumably an attempt at a sunny smile.
Deirdre wondered how Janine Heeney could be so apparently oblivious to the fact that every single person in that studio wanted to see her dead. She tore the cans off her head, grabbed her backpack, and swung through the door of the recording booth, resisting the impulse to aim a sharp kick at Janine's shiny shin.
'Gotta dash,' she muttered. There was no time for pleasantries.
'Deirdre - you need to fill out your paperwork!' The agency producer waved a form at her.
'Oh, hell, Matthew - could you just stick it in the post for me?'
He sensed her urgency. 'Sure. Good luck. And Deirdre?'
She turned to him as she went to open the studio door. 'Yes?'
'Thanks.' She knew it came from the heart.
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© Transworld Publishers |
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More Information
Publication Date: 01/02/2000 • 496 pages • 178 x 106 mm
• ISBN: 0553812467
Territory: UK C/Wealth EUexCAN +ROI |
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