He Loves Me Not...He Loves Me Page 9

  And so, for the next hour, they ran the scene over and over again, until Daisy was blue in the face and Montana was, indeed, word perfect. Neither of them even noticed the time passing until Caroline came rushing to the door of the Winnebago to usher Montana back on to the set. They were finally ready for her.

  ‘Good luck!’ Daisy whispered. ‘You’ll be brilliant, I’m sure.’

  ‘Thanks, honey, I’ll need it,’ replied Montana, as both girls made their way towards the stables, picking their steps carefully, so as not to fall headlong over a pile of cables. ‘Say, maybe you could smuggle a couple of beers into my room tonight, to help me relax after the shitty day I’ve had?’ she whispered to Daisy, checking first that Caroline was well out of earshot.

  Daisy hesitated for a moment, a worrying doubt niggling at the back of her head, but then nodded her consent. ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ she replied. What the hell? After all, what harm could a few beers do Montana? This was Ireland, she reasoned; people put Guinness on their cornflakes, for God’s sake.

  Johnny greeted them at the entrance to the stable forecourt, ushering Montana on to a canvas chair with her name printed on it. She sat down obediently, looking straight ahead, as Jimmy D. was sitting right beside her. Neither one of them said a word or even acknowledged the presence of the other. Jimmy D. just stared furiously into space.

  ‘Trouble at the top,’ Johnny whispered to Daisy. ‘And it’s only day one!’

  ‘OK, people, we’re almost there!’ he bellowed into the megaphone in his hand.

  ‘What do you need me to do, Johnny?’ asked Daisy excitedly.

  ‘Easy,’ replied Johnny. ‘In this scene, Magnolia is saying goodbye to her favourite stallion whom she’s forced to sell to raise money, so all we need you to do is to make sure the horse goes into the stable for us. OK?’

  ‘Of course,’ Daisy replied, ‘but which horse are you planning to use?’

  ‘Jimmy D. wants to use that black one in the field outside. Looks perfect,’ said Johnny.

  ‘Godfather Part Three?’ said Daisy, alarmed. ‘But he can’t, he just can’t! Godfather Part Three hates being stabled, he’s unbelievably highly strung, he’ll bolt!’

  ‘Sorry, Daisy, the decision’s been made,’ said Johnny, cutting her short. ‘Can you get him in here right away, please, we’re going for a take.’

  Panicking inside, Daisy plucked up her courage and approached Jimmy D. ‘Look,’ she began, ‘couldn’t you use any other horse instead? There’s no way that Godfather Part Three will possibly—’

  ‘Bring me solutions, not problems,’ Jimmy D. barked at her. ‘Get that horse in here and get out of my sight!’

  Stunned at being spoken to like that, Daisy staggered outside. Paddy was twiddling away at his sound deck, having overheard the whole exchange on his headphones. ‘Don’t mind him, luv,’ he said, seeing how shaken she was. ‘If you saw his wife, you’d understand him being such a complete wanker.’

  Unknown to any of the crew, however, just at that moment, Mrs Flanagan was waddling across the marble hall to open the front door.

  ‘Holy suffering Jesus,’ she said, almost fainting when she saw who her visitor was. ‘It’s you! You look just like yourself, so ya do!’

  ‘Well, thank you, ma’am,’ replied the stranger, in a not-quite-perfect Southern drawl as he whipped off his sunglasses, ‘that is always mighty reassuring to hear.’

  ‘I’ve never met a real celebrity before,’ stammered Mrs Flanagan. ‘Only aul’ soap stars, and sure they’re ten a penny.’

  ‘Why, you mustn’t think of me as a celebrity,’ he replied, modestly. ‘I’m just the same as you, only better-looking and richer.’

  ‘Why are you talking in that funny voice? You didn’t sound like that in Space Bastards,’ Mrs Flanagan went on. ‘Have you the flu or something?’

  ‘Well, ma’am, I’m something of a method actor, you know. I like to immerse myself so completely in a role that I become whoever I’m playing for the duration of the shoot. I’m a perfectionist, can’t help myself. I just give myself entirely over to the character.’ Then, giving Mrs Flanagan the full mega-watt voltage of his cosmetically enhanced smile, he asked, ‘So what did you think of my performance in Space Bastards? Empire magazine gave me three stars out of a possible five, you know.’

  Mrs Flanagan paused, considering. ‘I thought your bum was lovely in the shower scene,’ she replied as she escorted her new guest to his room.

  ‘And action!’ cried Johnny into his megaphone.

  ‘Oh, my precious love, my beautiful stallion, how on earth will I ever part with you?’ Montana intoned, word perfect this time. ‘It’s just breaking my poor Southern girl’s heart to think that my straitened financial circumstances are forcing me to sell you at the county fair!’

  ‘Cut and print!’ Jimmy D. called out, adding, ‘Better, Montana, better.’

  Montana said nothing, still smarting from the dressing-down he’d given her in front of the crew that morning.

  ‘OK, people,’ blared Johnny, ‘we’re moving out for the wide shot. Bring on the horse, quickly, let’s get this in the can and we can call it a wrap for today.’

  Daisy was outside, petrified. There was just no way on God’s earth that Godfather Part Three was going to go inside the stable for her.

  ‘Why are we doing this scene all over again, Johnny?’ she whispered hoarsely. ‘Haven’t we just done it perfectly?’

  ‘That was on a single close-up shot, Daisy,’ Johnny helpfully explained. ‘That means we only see Magnolia’s face, very tight. Now we need the same dialogue all over again except this time we film from further back, so the shot is much wider. In other words, we see who Magnolia’s talking to.’

  ‘So how does Jimmy D. decide which shot to use then?’ she asked. ‘Whichever one turns out best?’

  ‘That’s up to the editor to decide, when we get the film back to LA. If we ever get the film back to LA,’ he added. ‘Come on, Daisy, get the horse in here and let’s get this over with.’

  ‘But, Johnny—’ she began, but it was too late. Before she knew what was happening, they were calling the shot, both cameras and sound were rolling and waiting. There was nothing for it but to do her best, try and coax Godfather Part Three inside the stable and just hope he didn’t bolt for the hills. Gently, she tried to lead him by the bridle inside. But Godfather Part Three, already perturbed at all the unusual activity going on all around him, was having none of it. He started to whinny and jerk his head violently away from Daisy’s grasp.

  ‘We don’t have all day, get him inside!’ Johnny shouted impatiently, waiting at the stable’s half-door. Daisy hastily adjusted his blinkers in the hope that would do the trick. No joy. Godfather Part Three was sensing trouble and was having none of it. He was agitated now and was thrashing about, neighing and whinnying as he violently pawed the sawdust on the ground around the stable.

  There was nothing else for it, Daisy reasoned, she’d have to mount him and try to ride him inside herself. An experienced horsewoman, she’d normally have no difficulty in coaxing a reluctant thoroughbred into a stable, but Godfather Part Three was panicking now, frightened and out of control. Bravely, Daisy jumped on to his back but suddenly, at that moment, a loud bang like a shotgun exploded in the distance. It was only the Mini Metro backfiring as Lucasta drove up the driveway, fresh from her meeting with Steve, but it was enough to send Godfather Part Three over the edge. He reared up on his hind legs, violently pawing at the air, and then took off, galloping as far away from the stables as he could, with the terrified Daisy clinging on for dear life. In vain, she tried to grab on to the reins to slow him down, but the poor beast was beyond control now. On and on they went until Daisy saw the orchard wall, five feet high, looming closer and closer.

  ‘No, Godfather, NO!’ she screamed, to no avail. Over the wall they went, Godfather Part Three clearing it as easily as a national hunt show jumper, only clipping his hooves as he soared to safety. Daisy wasn’
t quite so fortunate, however. In mid-flight, she was thrown, banging her head off the wall and landing face-first in a dung heap thoughtfully placed just over the other side.

  I’m OK, she thought. At least I think I’m OK. She was shaking like a leaf from the shock of it all, but was still able to feel her legs, which was a good sign. Gingerly, she tried to stand up. She was a bit wobbly on her feet, but no bones broken, at least. And then she looked down. I don’t bloody believe this, she thought. From head to toe she was completely saturated in horse manure. It was in her hair, her teeth, all over her jeans and jumper and felt like it had seeped into just about every orifice.

  ‘Jaysus, you scared the life out of me,’ came a voice from behind. She turned round to see Paddy, breathless from having chased after her to see if she was OK. ‘You looked like Lester Piggott winning the Grand National there for a minute. Wish to Jaysus I’d had money on ya.’

  She couldn’t reply, her mouth felt like it was full of dung. Paddy looked her up and down, taking in her appearance. ‘So, you’re in showbiz for the glamour then, are you, luv?’ he asked, without batting an eye.

  At just about the same time, the newly arrived stranger back at the Hall finally found himself alone in the Mauve Suite, which was to be his for the duration of the shoot. It had been something of a trial getting the ever-inquisitive Mrs Flanagan to leave him in peace, but after signing around a dozen autographs for her to give each of her nieces and nephews, posing for a few photos she insisted on taking and answering irritating questions like: ‘How do you learn all them lines?’ finally, he got to be alone.

  The room was truly grim, he thought, but then he’d been used to being quartered in five-star, Philippe Starck-designed luxury for the past few years. However, he found himself casting his mind back to his first major movie role, when he’d played a prisoner on death row, wrongly accused of murder. (Cell Block Redemption it had been called; Empire magazine had awarded him four stars out of a possible five for his performance, he fondly recalled. It had launched his career.) In preparation for that part, he’d asked to live in a prison cell whilst filming and Warner Brothers had kindly obliged, building a custom-made cell for him on an empty back lot beside the car-park (and probably delighted not to have to shell out half the movie’s budget on housing a budding star in the Beverly Hills Hotel).

  Maybe it was just a hunch, but he really felt that this role could do something pretty amazing for his career. And it needed to. His most recent release, a musical based on the movie Waterworld, had bombed at the box office, oddly enough. Brent Charleston was a terrific part, one of the greats; this could be his own personal Hamlet, he thought. So why not stick it out in this rat hole of a house, as the character would, finish the shoot and then head back to his villa in the Hollywood Hills and wait till the Oscar nominations rolled in?

  Great idea, he thought, undressing and slipping a towel around his waist as he headed for his bathroom.

  Paddy had been terrific. He’d helped Daisy, still a bit shaken, all the way back to the Hall and had even managed to crack a smile out of her, regaling her with stories about Courteney Cox Arquette on the set of Screech III and the time the crew had substituted full fat milk for low fat when she was doing a breakfast scene and her reaction when she discovered what she’d been drinking. In spite of herself, Daisy giggled, leaning on him for support. When he’d safely deposited her at the front door, Paddy headed back to the set, to see if filming was entirely abandoned for the day.

  ‘Might see ya for a few scoops later, then?’ was his parting shot as he disappeared in the direction of the stables.

  Finally alone, Daisy hauled her battered, bruised, dung-stained body up all four flights of the great oak staircase and into the family bathroom beside Portia’s office.

  ‘AGHHHH!’ she screamed at the top of her voice, seeing a naked man’s body sitting in the bath.

  ‘HOLY SHIT!’ he roared, on seeing the Yeti standing in front of him, dripping dung. In one swift movement, he was out of the bath with a towel wrapped around him. ‘Who the hell are you?’ he demanded. ‘And what the hell are you doing in here? Get out before I throw your stinking butt out of the window!’

  ‘I might very well ask you the same question—’ Daisy began, but then broke off as the penny slowly began to drop. ‘Oh my God,’ she began, ‘I do not believe it . . . I just don’t believe it . . . You’re . . . you’re . . . You must have arrived when we were . . . I don’t believe it! It’s you!’

  ‘Guy van der Post, at your service. And who might you be?’

  ‘I’m . . . well, you see . . . I sort of . . . Oh Jesus, I don’t believe I’m actually talking to you, in the flesh! But what are you doing in here? Your room has an ensuite bathroom.’

  ‘It is correct to say that there is a bathroom off my bedroom, but one without a modern amenity such as running water,’ snapped Guy, at the end of his tether, but still managing to keep his Southern accent up.

  ‘But didn’t Mrs Flanagan explain to you how the plumbing works?’ stammered Daisy, as she squelched from one foot to the other. ‘There’s a lump hammer beside your bed and you have to bash the water pipes in the bathroom with it a couple of times to get it going, but then it works just fine . . .’ She trailed off, realizing that here she was, talking to one of the biggest movie stars in the world about lump hammers and water pipes whilst stinking of horse shit.

  Ever since she first heard that Guy van der Post was coming to stay at the Hall, she’d dreamt about their first meeting, imagining their eyes gazing longingly at each other from across a crowded room, or, in one of her wilder flights of fancy, that he swept her to safety after she was thrown from her horse, scooping her up effortlessly into his manly grip.

  ‘I don’t mean to be rude, ma’am,’ drawled Guy, by now completely overpowered by the smell, ‘but if you don’t wash yourself soon, that’s gonna harden.’

  Chapter Nine

  PORTIA COULDN’T BELIEVE it. She just couldn’t believe the transformation. Never one to pamper herself, she’d been in heaven all afternoon as Serge fussed round her, primping and preening at her hair and make-up, all the while filling her in on the latest gossip from the world of movies. (‘Now I don’t wanna say anything that’ll get me into trouble or anything, but you just make a sentence out of these words for me, honey. Certain A list movie star . . . dead gerbil . . . rumours all true.’) However, in between telling tales out of school, he’d worked nothing short of a miracle. In the space of a few short hours, he’d ruthlessly chopped her lank, mousy brown hair and then run easy-meche blonde highlights through it; given her a facial, plucked her eyebrows, waxed her legs (she thought she was having her legs amputated, the pain was so acute), polished her fingernails and, the pièce de résistance, applied make-up to her face, the first time since her debutante ball that she’d worn any.

  ‘Well, look at you, honey!’ he said, whipping off the plastic gown he’d covered her with. ‘Andrew will just want to hurl you over the back of his mother’s feng shuied cream sofa and have you right there and then, baby!’

  Portia took a long look at herself in the mirror. She couldn’t believe it. Serge had taken about ten years off her. Her hair was shining, cut into a perfectly executed, shoulder-length shaggy bob, and the light blonde highlights completely flattered her skin tone as they caught the light. Her make-up was so natural, you wouldn’t think she was wearing any, except that her skin looked healthy and glowing. In short, she looked and felt a million dollars.

  ‘Honey, it’s the biggest transformation since Ashtanga yoga came into Madonna’s life,’ said Serge, delighted with his handiwork.

  ‘Oh Serge, I really don’t know how to thank you . . .’ she began.

  ‘Honey, save it,’ he replied, dismissing her heartfelt gratitude with a wave of his hand. ‘You can pay me back by fixing me up with one of Andrew’s chums, lucky bastard whoever he may be. I want someone tall, dark, sophisticated and independently wealthy, that’s not too much to ask, is it? I know
this is Ireland and everything, but there must be some guys out there who’ve derooted the potatoes from their ears and are up for action,’ he went on, keenly examining Portia’s reflection in the mirror as though checking for last-minute blemishes on a work of art.

  ‘I’ll do my very best, Serge,’ she laughed, feeling better about herself than she’d done in ages.

  ‘And make sure you score!’ he called after her as she skipped down the steps of the make-up truck. ‘I’ll need a blow-by-blow account of every teensy little detail tomorrow! Only the unedited version for me, thanks!’

  Portia grinned and waved back at him as she headed back to the Hall, silently blessing him for making her feel so special, if only for a few hours.

  The feeling didn’t last for very long. No sooner had Portia crossed the threshold of the Hall door, which seemed to be permanently open these days, than Daisy accosted her, hurriedly blurting out her tale of woe.

  ‘Darling, you mustn’t take it to heart,’ Portia counselled wisely as they walked upstairs together and down the long corridor that led to her bedroom. ‘It wasn’t your fault, you know. Whether you’re a movie star or not, accidents will happen.’

  ‘But you should have seen me, Portia,’ wailed Daisy, plonking herself on her sister’s huge wooden four-poster bed. ‘I was like the abominable snowman except I was covered in horse dung. All he could see of me were the whites of my eyes. It’s taken me the guts of three hours just to clean myself up.’

  ‘You still whiff a bit though,’ replied Portia as she searched through her wardrobe, frantically looking for something to wear that didn’t look like she’d bought it in a charity shop.

  It was typical of Daisy to be so absorbed in her own drama that she never even noticed Portia’s changed appearance. Not that Portia minded really, but some small acknowledgement of her radically altered new look would have gone a long way.

  ‘And the worst is yet to come,’ Daisy went on. ‘They’re all downstairs in the Long Gallery having sherry before dinner. You’ve got to come with me and give me some moral support. I need you,’ she implored, her blue eyes like saucers.