activity as he buzzed around checking camera angles, getting the lighting changed, demonstrating the special effects and bawling out the continuity girl. But very little actually seemed to get done.
Charles didn’t find many sympathetic characters among the cast. The Horror Film Specialist was surrounded by an admiring coterie of lesser horror film specialists and most of their conversation referred back to previous triumphs. (‘Do you remember that Dracula when your fang got stuck in the girl’s bra?’; or ‘I’ll never forget that girl who had hysterics during that human sacrifice’; or ‘Do you remember that take as the Werewolf when you forgot your line and said “Bow-Wow”?’) They all sat around, reminding each other of things they all remembered, each waiting his cue for the next reminiscence to be slotted in.
So Charles went off on his own most of the time. He sat in the Library (later to be the scene of the appallingly-written quarrel between Lord Archibald and Sir Rupert) and did the crossword or played patience.
On the Wednesday morning of the first week of the schedule he was sitting with the cards spread before him and feeling fairly secure. The film world still has an outdated generosity in its dealings with actors. The big-spending Hollywood myth retains its influence and the Zombie cast were well looked after by Steenway Productions, with cars organised to get them to and from the set. The early starts were a disadvantage, but Charles had minimised that by staying with Miles and Juliet and having the car pick him up at six. Then he could sleep through the drive and the laborious business of make-up. Quite cosy. And the money was good.
He also felt as secure as he could about Jacqui. The shock of the trip-wire incident had worn off and she was fairly well hidden. He’d wanted to send her off to some relative in the country, but she didn’t seem to have any family. In fact, when they went into it, it was amazing how few people Jacqui had to call on. No family, or at least none she kept in touch with, no girl-friends. The centre of her life had always been men, either one at a time or many. A lot of girls end up promiscuous, when all they’re looking for is friendship. Jacqui’s lack of other resources explained both her desolation when Steen seemed to have dropped her and her reliance on Charles. (Even her leaping into bed with him again. She needed to keep up her continuity of male companionship, and humbly thought she had nothing to offer but sex.)
Charles had considered parking her on Frances in Muswell Hill, but the incongruity of the thought of the two women together was too great. So in the end he had given her his keys to the room in Hereford Road. He felt fairly confident that Nigel Steen, or whoever was mounting the campaign against her, did not know of any tie-up with Charles Paris. Hereford Road was dangerously near Orme Gardens, but it was only a short-term solution while the film lasted. Jacqui was likely to stay in most of the time with her portable television; her pregnancy made her quite content to do so. Obviously she’d have to go out to the shops from time to time, but she’d had her hair dyed black on the Saturday, bought a new winter coat and a large pair of dark glasses. That should keep her safe. Charles could imagine Jacqui quite happy in her enforced confinement. Hers was not a demanding character, and so long as she felt some evidence of a man’s care (which living in Charles’ room would give her) she would not need more. When the Zombie had finished his walk, a more permanent method of protecting her for the next four months would have to be found.
They’d considered going to the police, but agreed that, after the embarrassing debacle of the inquest, further accusations from Jacqui against Nigel Steen would sound more like the ramblings of a paranoid than anything else. It was safer for her simply to go underground. Charles rang daily to check everything was all right.
So he felt secure as he sat looking over the rolling lawns of Bloomwater. To add to his pleasure, the patience came out. He was just laying the cards down for another game, when he heard the door open behind him. He turned and the girl who had just come in let out a little scream.
For a moment he couldn’t think what was worrying her, until he remembered his make-up. His own hair was hidden under a latex cap from which a few grey wisps straggled crazily. His eyes were red-rimmed and sagging, his nose a mass of pustules, and his teeth had been blacked out with enamel. The whole face had the unearthly green tinge of dead flesh, which Jean-Luc Roussel was convinced was the mark of a zombie.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Charles. ‘I’m afraid I do look rather a fright.’
‘Oh, that’s all right. I just wasn’t expecting it.’ The girl looked about sixteen and recently aware of her considerable attractions. Her black hair was swept back in the careless style that only the most expensive hairdressing can give. She was wearing check trousers and a red polo-necked sweater that accentuated the perfect roundness of her bra-less small breasts. For the first time in over a month Charles felt certain that he hadn’t lost interest in sex.
‘I take it you’re in the film,’ said the girl.
‘No, I always look like this. You’re making fun of my natural affliction.’
The girl was checked for a moment, then laughed. ‘That’s not fair. Who are you?’
‘I am Tick, the deformed coachman,’ he said in his First Witch voice (‘Macabre in the extreme’ — Plays and Players). She laughed again. Obviously she was still at an age to be amused by funny voices. Charles felt distinctly inclined to show off. ‘No, who are you really?’ she asked.
‘Charles Paris.’
‘Oh, I think I’ve heard of you;’ she said, polite but uncertain. Ooh, just a minute. Were you ever at the Royal Shakespeare Company at Stratford?’
‘Yes, a long time ago.’
‘About seven years?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you play Cassius in Julius Caesar?’
‘Yes.’
‘Ooh. I thought you were marvellous. We went in a school trip. We all got quite silly about you.’
‘Oh,’ said Charles, in what stage directions describe as a self-deprecating manner. This was all rather playing into his hands. Seeds sown unknowingly long ago. Cast your bread upon the waters, and it will come back buttered. ‘Who are you then?’
‘I’m Felicity Newman. I live here. Daddy owns this place.’ (The ‘Daddy’ caught the slight quack of an English girls’ public school. It was a sound Charles had always found exciting.) ‘I’m fascinated by all this filming. Somebody’s going to show me round, a friend of Daddy’s. I want to work in films.’
‘With your looks I should think you’d stand a very good chance.’
‘No, silly.’ She was still sufficiently girlish to blush at the formula compliment. ‘Not that side of films. The production side. I’m doing a secretarial course and want to get in that way. Daddy knows quite a lot of people in the cinema.
Yes. Charles felt sure that Daddy could pull the odd string on his daughter’s behalf. Sir Lionel Newman put a great deal of money into film production. Charles even had a feeling that he was a major shareholder in Steenway Productions. ‘And how come you’re not doing your secretarial course today?’ he asked in the Morningside accent which he had drummed into the cast of his production of The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie (‘Slow-moving’ — Evening Argus).
She giggled. ‘Oh, I just took the day off. How do you do that Scottish accent?’
She was easily impressed, but Charles felt like indulging himself in a little tour de force. He went through his entire gamut of the accents of Scotland, from his Hebridean fisherman through to the harsh tones of Glasgow. Indeed, he was in full flood in his Detective-Sergeant McWhirter voice, to an accompaniment of giggles from Felicity, when he heard a voice behind him. ‘Ah, there you are.’
He stopped in mid-flow and turned to see Nigel Steen standing in the doorway. Steen looked annoyed, but it was difficult to tell whether or not he had recognised the voice. ‘Felicity. I’m sorry to have kept you. Shall we start our tour?’
‘Yes. Certainly, Nigel.’ She was suddenly downcast, obviously sharing the world’s lack of enthusiasm for Marius Steen’s son. ‘Do you know Charles Paris?’ she asked.
‘No, I don’t think we’ve met,’ said Nigel Steen, and he looked at Charles intently.
The scenes to be shot were rescheduled and Charles didn’t in fact do anything that day. When this truth, which had been apparent from early morning, was finally recognised by Jean-Luc Roussel and Charles was released, it was about five o’clock. In a state of some exasperation, he was about to organise his car back to Pangbourne, when Felicity appeared round the corner of one of the make-up caravans. ‘Hello,’ she said brightly, ‘do you fancy a drink?’
It was exactly what Charles did fancy (or at least part of what he fancied), so he said so. ‘Come on,’ said Felicity, and led him round the back of the house and through a herb-garden into a large modern kitchen. ‘This is the
