This work of
adult fiction
includes adult language and experiences; you have been warned. No
offense to any person, living or dead, is intended.
Copyright
Arianne 2006
Day
One - Thursday Morning
She
was walking out the door when the telephone rang. Usually she would
have let the answerphone get it, but for some reason she felt as
though she should answer it now. She closed the door and walked back
across the flat to pick up the annoying instrument.
“Yes?” There was a pause
on the other end before a rather burly and
familiar voice came through the line.
“Is
that Olivia Aitkinson?” She smiled …memories.
“Yes,
it is. And you are …?” Olivia recognised the voice
but was
unable to resist winding the caller up a bit.
“Olivia,
it’s Davis Farley. I’ve had bloody hell locating
you!” She
laughed in spite of his call making her late for an appointment; it
was only the hairdresser after all, and she could have her hair
trimmed at any time. Davis Farley had been her senior Don during her
years at Oxford. He had also been a father figure once her own
father had passed away. She would never forget his getting her out
of seminar and breaking the news to her as gently as he could,
driving her from Oxford back to his home in Surrey after he had taken
the call announcing her father’s death. Her mother had called
him
from the States, unable to speak to Olivia herself because she knew
how her only child would take the news; in a word, she would be
devastated, and the woman could barely speak herself. Davis and his
wife Moira had stayed with Olivia constantly, even flying to the
States with her for the funeral. The couple had been her
parents’
closest friends during the years they had lived in England and were
her surrogate parents following her mum and dad’s return to
the
States.
“Well,
you’ve found me now …is Moira all
right?” His response was
entirely predictable. He seemed to be unaware that he and his wife
were aging and might conceivably have health problems of their own.
“Of
course she is, as am I. And whilst it’s been far too long
since
we’ve seen you, this call is business rather than
pleasure.”
“I
see. And what business might we have, Davis? Are you calling to
offer me a post?” He laughed; he had been attempting to lure
her
back to Oxford to teach since shortly following her graduation eight
years past with no success to date. Olivia did realise that in time
she most likely would return to an academic career, though she was
not yet ready for “The Cloisters,” as she referred
to the uni at
which she had spent five years of her life.
“Not
precisely, but I am calling with a name and number for you regarding
a temporary position. I believe it’s something you would find
quite intriguing, if you can tear yourself away from your writing for
a few months. I trust you have no objection to a few extra quid in
your pocket?” She laughed again …did anyone
have an
objection to a few extra quid? She had an advance from her
publisher, but typically for British publicists, it paid the bills
and little else; there was nothing left over for any sort of fun, not
even a night out with friends. Olivia was currently engaged in
writing her first book; there would be others, and she determined to
ensure that reality by making this volume a noteworthy first effort.
Her topic was the comparison of the democracy of the Roman Empire to
its derivatives as codified in the laws of both England and the
United States.
“I
could use a bit of extra dosh at the moment. What’s on
offer?”
“I’ve
had a bell from a film production company. The director is looking
for someone to teach his leading lady BBC English, a proper
English accent that is. The lady had a diction coach, but the bloke
was picked up for nicking a car two days ago, and he’s on Her
Majesty’s Pleasure. The dialect consultant for the film gave
him
my name, and when we spoke, I immediately thought of you. I do hope
that wasn’t inappropriate.” Olivia smiled at her
old Don’s
efforts on her behalf.
“No,
not at all. God knows, I could do with a bit extra. Give me the
name and number, and I’ll ring him tomorrow.” She
was reaching
for a pen and pad when Davis spoke again.
“Olivia,
you need to ring him immediately. The film is ready to begin
production, and they have to make a decision now. I know there are
two other candidates, but I’m quite sure that if you spoke
with the
man, you’d have the position. This is an American production
company, and it’s my understanding that they were paying the
man
you would replace a bit over £250 a week.” Olivia
caught her
breath …£250 a week? That was
a bloody fortune for
merely teaching someone an accent.
“Give
me his name and number. I’ll ring him straight
away.” She
scribbled the name and number on a pad, thanked Farley for his
consideration, and rang off. Shrugging out of her coat and tossing
it onto a chair, she went into her small kitchen and made a cup of
tea before calling the hairdresser’s and cancelling. As she
sat on
the small sofa, she sorted through what little she had read in the
London Times about the film Davis had mentioned.
It
was one of those American epics …an attempt at doing a
historical
piece about the Roman Empire; the director was Ridley Scott.
Olivia’s degrees were in the classics and languages with
minor
studies in world politics from the Greek city-states and the Roman
Empire on through to the modern age. She spoke both Latin and Greek,
could toss in her knowledge of Italian, Spanish, and German for good
measure; her accents were flawless in those languages, and having
been raised literally at Court, her English accent and diction were
royal in every sense of the word. What she could not fathom was why
in bloody hell the film’s director wanted his cast speaking
proper
English, i.e., a British, upper class accent for a film about ancient
Rome. It made no sense whatever in the historical perspective, yet
every film she had ever seen about that time period had the actors
speaking with a British accent. There was no accounting for what
Hollywood found attractive or marketable. Perhaps the American
public fancied an English accent or thought it somehow exotic. God
only knows what Americans fancied. She’d certainly never been
able
to sort it out and doubted anyone else had either.
Olivia
was a woman with a foot in two worlds. Her parents were American. Her
father had been a diplomat, posted to Her Majesty’s Court as
Principal Liaison between the Court and the President of the United
States. She had been born, raised, and educated in England, was a
graduate of the King’s School at Ely, and had taken her
degrees at
Oxford. Her parents had returned to America when her father retired
from diplomatic service; she had remained in England until leaving
Ely. She’d taken a year off between completing Sixth Form at
Ely
and her entry to Oxford and spent that time in New York with her
parents before returning to England. Although holding dual
citizenship until her 21st birthday –
her right, having
been born of American parents whilst living on English soil –
and
on attaining her majority had renounced her American citizenship and
retained the British. She had grown up in England and was, quite
simply, an Englishwoman; she simply happened to have American
parents. Like many British, Olivia found many Americans to be brash
and loud and preferred the slower pace and gentility of England. She
visited America each year for a month to spend time with her widowed
mother, followed by her mother’s accompanying her on her
return to
England for a month to renew old acquaintances. Two years past her
mother had ceased asking if Olivia would come to the States to live.
Clearly, that would not happen, and her mother had finally accepted
that reality.
Olivia
the academic …what of Olivia the woman? What indeed, she
pondered
on occasion. At the personal level, she was reserved and perhaps a
bit aloof, qualities that seemed to make her irresistible to American
men. In contrast, she had found a number of the American men she had
met whilst visiting her mother to be overbearing and somewhat less
than well educated – at least by her standard of
well-educated –
but perhaps she shouldn’t judge New Yorkers by British
standards. Here in England she’d had her fair share of
suitors over the years,
but as few men were interested in bookish women, they had fallen by
the wayside as time passed. She dated occasionally, usually men she
met at lectures and seminars but had yet to meet one with whom she
felt sufficient connection to maintain a serious, long-term liaison. At
present, she was involved in bit of a fling with a classics
professor from Cambridge, but he was becoming possessive of her time
and person; his feelings for her were clearly of a more serious bent
than were hers for him. It would end soon, as he was unwilling to
continue the relationship unless she would marry him. Yes, she cared
for him but not enough to marry; that was a step she would not take
unless and until she found a man willing to give her the intellectual
and personal freedom she valued so highly. She would miss the easy
and relatively satisfying sexual relationship they had fallen into
but would certainly survive until someone else happened along.
Men
happening into Olivia’s life was rather a constant; there
seemed
always to be one about in the event she might be interested. She was
a treat for the eyes. At five-feet ten-inches tall, she was taller
than the average Englishwoman, slender and fine-boned, with porcelain
skin and almost waist-length hair the blue-black shade of a
raven’s
wing. Her eyes were possibly her most striking feature, being an
interesting shade of not quite green and not quite blue
…their
colour shifted with the lighting, the colour of her clothing, and her
mood. Unlike many striking women, whilst Olivia was aware that she
was attractive, she did not dote on her appearance. She rarely used
cosmetics other than a bit of lip gloss and dressed simply; slacks
and a simply cut shirt with a jumper and coat in cold weather suited
her very well. She had been approached on several occasions to do
fashion modelling but was uninterested. She had enough money to live
on and found the notion of selling herself to the fashion industry
distasteful.
Olivia
took her tea into the lounge, settled on the couch, and dialled the
number Davis had given her. She was a bit surprised when a voice
with a Scottish burr answered; she had expected a secretary to pick
up and ask she leave a message for a return call later in the day or
evening.
“Ridley
here.”
“Umm,
yes. This is Olivia Aitkinson. Professor Davis Farley gave me your
number and indicated you’re seeking a dialogue coach for one
of
your actors.” He didn’t sound in the least
surprised to hear
from her.
“Yes,
I am. Professor Farley felt your qualifications might be what I need
in a dialogue coach for the leading lady in a film already into
production. Her dialogue coach was arrested for theft of an
automobile, and I need someone immediately. Would you be able to
come for an interview? Possibly tomorrow morning or in the early
afternoon?” Olivia waited a moment before responding; no need
to
appear too eager, was there?
“Yes,
I believe I could rearrange my calendar to accommodate that, but
first I have a few questions.”
“I
expected you would. Get on with them.” Whilst his directness
surprised her, she did not find it unpleasant. She was rather direct
herself.
“I
will be straight up with you, Mr. Scott. The sole reason I’ve
called you is because I’m in a bit of bother regarding my
finances. I’m writing a book, and though I have an advance
from my
publisher, that sum barely covers expenses. I’m bored with
living
on bangers and mash.” He laughed. “Before I risk
wasting both
your time and my own, may I ask what wage you have in mind?”
“I
was paying the last coach £250 per week. Given that this is
short notice and the job is short-term, I’m willing to make
it £300
per week for the next two months. If the actress requires your
assistance throughout the production, the remuneration would be the
same; however, in that last event, there would be some travel
involved. Of course, all your expenses would be covered. Would that
be acceptable?”
“Quite.
However, I must have my evenings free to continue working on my
book, as I do have deadlines to meet. I’m sure you
understand.’
“I
do. You would be taking quite a bit of concern off my mind, and
I’m
willing to make that accommodation.”
“Thank
you. Now, would you briefly describe my duties? I don’t know
if
your actress is American or Latvian, and if I’m expected to
teach
someone for whom English is not a native language, there’s a
good
bit more work to be done than if she does speak English.”
“She’s
European – Scandinavian extraction, if memory serves - and
though
she speaks English perfectly, she’s having a bloody awful
time
getting down the accent I need. Professor Farley seems convinced
that if she were to spend her time between takes working with you,
possibly the occasional hour in the evenings or on weekends, that you
would be able to get her diction to an acceptable level in a rather
short amount of time. Of course, you would be required on set each
day to go over lines with her to insure her accent is correct. Would
that cut too deeply into your time for your writing?”
“Probably
not, as I’m a bit ahead of schedule, and I operate on little
sleep. What time tomorrow would be convenient for you? I could probably
be
there – wherever there is - by half-two, if that’s
acceptable?”
“Two-thirty
is fine. I’ll arrange a late lunch, and we can meet then. Let
me
give you directions. Be sure to bring your passport for purposes of
identification.” Olivia took careful notes as the location
was in
Bourne Woods near Farnham, in Surrey south and west of London. Scott
advised he would notify set security she would be arriving around two
and direct them to bring her to wherever he might be at the time. She
advised that she would bring a copy of her Curriculum Vitae with
her for his perusal and rang off. Sipping her tea, she smiled and
shook her head. One never knew from what direction a windfall might
appear.
Day
Two - Friday
Olivia
had wakened early to a cold and blustery day with a hint of very wet
snow in the air. It had rained throughout the London area and down
into Surrey the day before. She planned on leaving early to insure
that she neither got lost nor was made late by road conditions. Scott
had warned her that the set was deep in the woods, and the last
few miles of the road into the set was unpaved; it likely had become
a muddy bog since early Thursday. Loverly. Like many Londoners,
Olivia did not own a car and utilised public transport exclusively.
Unlike many city dwellers in England, she did have a driving licence
and set off at ten to hire a car for the drive to Surrey.
She
collected the car at Gatwick Airport, obtained a map, and took it to
the coffee bar. She settled at a table with a yellow marker in hand
and carefully outlined the route per the directions given her the day
before. She would take the M25 from Gatwick to the M3 and exit that
onto A331; stay on A331 to A31 and on the A31 to the Farnham By Pass.
She would have to rely on Scott’s directions once she left
the
Farnham By Pass. The distance from Gatwick to Farnham was about 30
miles, and it appeared to be an additional ten miles or so on to
Bourne Woods. Best get going if she wasn’t to be late. After
stopping to get a take-away cup of coffee, she trudged to the car
park, located the vehicle, and took off for Farnham.
When
she stopped at the petrol station on her way out of the rental
agency, she decided that if Scott hired her he would be paying not
only the car hire fee for the duration of her contract but the petrol
bill as well. Her motive in taking this assignment was to set a bit
of money aside, not spend all of it on car hire and petrol fees. The
price of petrol in England had always been dear, but since the
Americans’ war with Iraq in the early 1990s, the cost had
gone to
the moon. She had rented a Corsa ECO 1.0 Twinport; that would cost
her £282 for two weeks if she kept it. Her taking this
assignment - should it be offered - would be entirely contingent on
Scott’s bearing the cost of the car and petrol for the
duration.
The
weather worsened as she drove, and by the time she reached the turn
off to the film set, the road was a mass of slick, deep mud. Rolling
her eyes, she thought, ‘Please, dear God, do NOT let me skid
off
the bloody road or get stuck in this wilderness.’ She made it
without incident, and at half-one, she saw the barricades and the
security check point where she was to report. The guard walked up to
the car as she ran down the window.
“Cheers. I’m Olivia
Aitkinson. I’m expected by Mr. Scott.” The guard
checked his list, nodded, gave her directions onto the set, and told
her where to park, adding that she could ask anyone she saw for
directions to Mr. Scott’s current location. Within 15
minutes, she
was parked and out of the car, hiking through the muck to the caravan
identified as Scott’s. Knocking on the door, she was annoyed
to
have no answer. She turned and looked about for someone who might
know where to the find the man. A rather scruffy looking man in
hideous garb covered in gore and with a fake arrow through his neck
–
which looked far too realistic for Olivia’s comfort
– gave her
directions. She looked about, having no idea as to where he was
directing her, and he took pity on her, telling her to come along;
he’d take her to Scott.
At
precisely two o’clock, the man who had come to her aid
stopped
about ten feet from a group of people obviously in the midst of a
heated discussion and gestured at one of them.
“He’s
the bloke with the red jumper and balaclava, Love. He’s a
right
nice sort. Just walk right up and tell him who you are.” She
thanked him as he turned to go then looked over at the group. The
man identified to her as Scott was listening calmly as a second and
younger man wearing what appeared to be wolf pelts over the cuirass
and tunic of a Roman soldier swore vehemently, his words carrying to
her ears.
“Bloody
hell, Ridley. He’d never fucking say that, and
there’s no
fucking way I’m going to!” Scott put one hand on
the younger
man’s shoulder and answered calmly.
“Russell,
go to your caravan and think on it. I have an appointment to
interview a possible dialect coach for Connie; you have at least an
hour to come up with something better if you think you can, and
we’ll
discuss your suggestions after my meeting.” The younger man
scowled and turned, walking past Olivia without seeing her and almost
knocked her off the path before he registered there was another
person in the immediate vicinity. He glanced at her, muttered a
brief, “So sorry,” and kept going after extending
his hand to
catch hers and keep her from a tumble. She wondered who in bloody
hell he was and what had caused his outburst. Scott turned to watch
the man walk away and saw Olivia standing in the muck. He approached
her, stopping several feet away, well outside her personal space; she
appreciated that courtesy. He smiled.
“Olivia
Aitkinson?” She nodded as he extended his hand, and she took
it. It was a nice firm handshake without crushing the bones of her
slender fingers. “I’m Ridley Scott. Thank you for
trekking all
the way out here in this miserable weather.”
“That
last five miles in the mud was a bit of a challenge. I don’t
own a
car and rarely drive, so it was interesting.” He laughed, and
she
relaxed a bit.
“I
can well imagine. Come on. Let’s get out of the cold. My
caravan’s just over here.” She fell into step
beside him, and
they walked the 50 or so feet to the door; he held it open, and she
stepped inside to the blessed warmth. He closed the door and turned
to her. “Have a seat. Would you like a cup of tea? Coffee
perhaps?”
“Tea
would be lovely, thanks. Black, without.” He smiled; her
accent
was perfect. If she could manage to impart that to Connie,
he’d be
willing to pay whatever she asked even if it was twice the amount
he’d quoted her the previous day.
“Earl
Gray? Darjeeling? Breakfast?”
“Earl
Gray, please. It’s my favourite.” He put on the
kettle and
pulled two mugs from the cupboard, setting them beside a teapot into
which he carefully measured tea leaves, then returned to sit in the
chair across from her own.
“Okay,
Professor Aitkinson, ….” She stopped him in
mid-sentence.
“Olivia,
please. I rarely stand on ceremony.” She pulled her CV from
her
over-the-shoulder combination briefcase-cum-handbag and handed it to
him. He glanced at it only to place it on the low table between
them.
“As
you like …call me Ridley. So, Olivia, here’s what
I need. My
leading lady is usually good with accents, but the dialogue coach we
hired just could not connect with her. I was about to terminate him,
but he saved me the trouble. I thought we might chat a bit; that
would give me an opportunity to determine whether or not your accent
is precisely what I need. If so, I’m truly not that
interested in
your academic qualifications, though Professor Farley assures me they
are exceptional. Should I retain your services, your duties would
consist primarily of engaging Connie – Ms. Nielsen
– in
conversation to the greatest possible degree, evaluating her ability
to mimic your accent, and coaching her, as you deem necessary. You
would read lines with her and – occasionally – with
Mr. Crowe,
the leading man. He’s Australian, but quite good at the
accent we
need, so you would need to instruct her in the proper inflections for
use in responding to his lines. Connie and Russell get on well, so
it’s likely he can help you keep her on point.”
He
got up as the kettle whistled, set the tea to steep, and waited.
Checking his watch for the time, he picked up the pot in one hand and
their cups in the other. He returned, placing the lot on the table. He
sat back and studied her for a long moment. “Is that
something
you would be willing to do, should I retain your services?”
For
£300 a week, Olivia would likely have been willing to sell
her
first-born male child, assuming she had one. Still, it was best not
to appear overly eager. She furrowed her brow, giving the appearance
of considering his offer.
“Yes,
I think I could manage. If Ms. Nielsen has a good ear and your actor
has an acceptable accent, the two of us should be able to bring her
along quite nicely. However, there is the matter of transport. If I
do this, I’ll need to be compensated for car hire and petrol
for
the duration, above and beyond the fee you’ve quoted
me.” Scott
raised an eyebrow at her before speaking.
“Good. The care and petrol can be
managed. But perhaps I should warn you
that Mr. Crowe is more than a bit outspoken and has been known to
display a bit of temper on occasion. He can be rather intimidating.
Would that put you off?” Olivia smiled.
“Not
likely. I had five years at Oxford. If I could survive the dons
there, I doubt your Mr. Crowe would prove too intimidating.”
Scott
found her answer amusing.
“Perhaps,
but you’ve not yet met him.” Olivia left the set
two hours
later, having met her student and liking her immediately, a copy of
her contract firmly in hand, complete with a clause stipulating
provision of both the hired car and petrol expenses, as well as
lodgings for the duration. She was to report to work at seven on the
following Monday morning.
Ms.
Nielsen, Connie, as she insisted on being called, seemed a delightful
woman and eager to get on with her diction lessons; she had been more
than a bit frustrated at the lack of progress she’d made with
the
original coach and seemed both relieved and encouraged by the time
Olivia had left her that afternoon. Olivia thought it rather strange
that Connie, as had Scott at interview, had warned her about her
co-star’s manner (or ‘temper,’ as Connie
called it), cautioning
Olivia not to take his blustering to heart and insisting that he was
truly a delightful and thoroughly professional man. Olivia had
replied that she’d likely dealt with more difficult
personalities,
and Connie had chuckled. “We’ll see,” had
been her parting
shot before wishing Olivia a good weekend and saying she looked
forward to beginning work on Monday.
Day
Three - Monday, Seven in the Morning
Pursuant
to Scott’s instruction, Olivia arrived on set sharply at
seven; the
boot of her hired car contained her laptop computer so that she might
work on her book in her free time and a suitcase with sufficient
clothing for the week. Scott had arranged for her lodgings in a
small hotel in Farnham during the week. She would return to London
each Friday evening, returning on Sunday evenings in order to avoid
the drive on Monday mornings.
As
Olivia walked toward Scott’s caravan and rounded the corner
of
half-a-dozen of them in a neat row, she pulled abreast of one with an
Australian flag flying above the door and smiled. That one must be
for the film’s ‘star,’ and she wondered
about the man. Just as
she drew even with the door, it burst open, and the man barrelled
down the three steps to the ground, hitting Olivia full force before
he could stop his forward momentum. Though of a similar height, the
man likely had 60 to 70 pounds on her, and the force of his body
propelled her backward, off the narrow walkway. She landed on her
bum in the mud and dead leaves beside the walk. She only just
managed not to fall flat on her back by throwing her hands behind her
and breaking her fall so that only her bum and legs landed in the
muck, though her hands sank immediately up to her wrists in the mire.
She sat there, sputtering, her eyes shooting sparks at the man. He
seemed to pay no mind whatever to where he was going, much less to
anyone who might happen to be on the same path as himself. His face
registered as much shock as hers did anger, and he immediately knelt
beside her in the mud, pulling one of her hands out of the slime with
a slurping sound as he hastily apologised.
“Bloody
hell! I’m terribly sorry …didn’t even
see you …preoccupied
with going over the moves for the scene. Jesus! You’re all
over
mud, aren’t you?” He rocked back on his heels and
gave her a
somewhat bemused grin before standing and holding his hand out to
assist her to her feet. She glared at him, and if she’d had
laser
vision, he’d have been burnt to a nice crisp. After allowing
the
man to pull her to her feet, she jerked her hand away as if his was a
contaminated object.
“What
in bloody hell is the matter with you? I’ve seen you twice,
and on
both regrettable occasions you’ve managed to knock me off the
path
into the mud! Do you ever look where
you’re going, or are
you so infatuated with yourself that you’ve not yet realised
there
may be other people inhabiting the planet?” She was furious
and
would have gone on blistering his ears but for the fact that the mud
had seeped through her woollen slacks, and she now had the distinct
impression that she had mud in her knickers as well. Fortunately
she’d not stopped at the hotel on her way to the set that
morning,
and her kit was in the boot of the hired car. If she could find
someone to permit her the use of their caravan, she could shower and
change and hopefully not be late to meet Connie as scheduled at
eight. Noting a small smile was now playing at the corners of his
mouth, she stomped her foot at the man.
“Damn
you! Now I have to find somewhere to shower and change clothes
before I’m late for my appointment.” He actually
had the
temerity to smile at her and motioned toward the still-open door of
his caravan.
“Don’t
get your knickers in a twist, Love. You can use my caravan
…I’ll
be gone for hours. Where are your clothes? Do you always take
extras when you go on appointments?” Had her mother not
raised
Olivia to be a lady in all situations, she would likely have slapped
him silly. As it was, she ground out the words, almost spitting them
at him.
“My
clothes are in my kit in the boot of my hired car, in the car park at
the end of the path. Now if you would be so kind as to get out of my
way, I’ll collect it and be on my way. I’m quite
sure Ms.
Nielsen will permit me to use the shower in her caravan.” He
grinned at her again and taking one muddy hand, propelled her up the
steps and into his caravan, pushing her well inside.
“Well,
now, I’m sure she would, but she’s not arrived yet
and likely
won’t be until time for her appointment with you.
She’s not in
any of the scenes today, so her only reason for coming out at all is
for her lessons with you. I take it you’re her new diction
coach?” Olivia nodded, wondering if there was another
caravan, any
bloody caravan, that might be available to her other than his. He
seemed to be reading her mind.
“Sorry,
Love, it’s my caravan or squish around with mud in your
knickers
until Connie gets here …and she’s often late on
Mondays. Come on,
there are plenty of clean towels, and I didn’t leave any
germs in
the bath to attack you. Go have a wash and change clothes. As
I’m
running early, I’ll make you a cuppa while you’re
in the shower. You look as if you could use one.” Damn the
man! Even though she
was entirely sure she was as safe in his caravan as a nun in
cloisters, he was the last person on earth to whom she wished to be
indebted at this point. She was about to protest again when he held
out his hand, palm up, and wiggled his fingers at her. And what was
that? Some sort of Australian sign language? She looked at him
blankly.
“Your
keys, Love. Hop in the shower, and I’ll get your kit. Yours
will
be the only car in the car park that I won’t recognise, and
I’ll
slip the kit just inside the bedroom door for you. Now go!
You’re
a right mess, aren’t you?” He laughed as he took
the keys from
her now limp fingers and pushed her through the door into a small
bedroom, closing it behind her. She stood there, sputtering, totally
nonplussed. He’d still not bothered to introduce himself; it
was
as though he presumed the entire world knew who he was, and he was
unbearably bossy. Still, it didn’t appear anyone else had a
shower
available so early in the day, so she might as well take him up on
his offer. The mud had now soaked completely through her slacks and
was creeping up the crack of her arse; she was thoroughly and
completely wet, cold, and miserable.
“Towels
are in the pantry behind the door of the bath. Help
yourself.” His voice boomed in the close quarters of the
caravan and seemed to
reverberate in the small bedroom where she stood, dripping clots of
mud onto the carpet. Shaking her head, she crossed the room to the
bath and slipped in, locking the door firmly behind herself. Arrogant
arse that the man was, if she didn’t lock him out,
he’d
likely barge in and offer to wash her back.
She
emerged from the shower five minutes later and wrapped herself in a
large towel, then quietly unlocked the door and peeked out into the
bedroom. No sign of him, but her kit was sitting just inside the
door as the man had promised. She darted across the room, grabbed
it, and ducked back into the bath, locking the door again. She
pulled clean clothing from the bag, along with her toiletries, and
dressed quickly, then opened the door to let the steam out of the
room. At least she didn’t have to bother with drying her
hair. She’d found a large clip like the one she used at home
to pull her
hair atop her head when she had a quick wash and thus avoided having
it get wet after shampooing it the night before. She knew bloody
well the clip wasn’t his but didn’t even want to
think on the
woman who had obviously left it in the actor’s bath. What
sort
must she be to have left something so personal where another might
find it? She truly did not want to know and hoped that whomever the
woman might be, she would never meet her.
By
the time she emerged from his bedroom with her muddy clothing in
hand, he was pouring tea into two mugs. He looked up to see the
clothing in her hand and put down the teapot, turning to a small
pantry in the kitchen area. He pulled out a roll of plastic bags,
tore one off, and tossed it to her. She caught it, dropped her muddy
clothing on the carpet, and looked at him as she opened it. He
raised one eyebrow as the bundle hit the carpet and grinned at her
again.
“It’s
a good job I’m not responsible for keeping this place clean,
what
with your dropping your muddy togs on the carpet.” She glared
at
him again. The man was insufferable.
“I
cannot – in my wildest imagination – imagine your
lifting a hand
to pick up after yourself or anyone else, much less deigning to tidy
up this place.” The room was littered with ashtrays, script
pages,
books, discarded clothing, and CDs, flung helter-skelter about the
lounge room. His smile disappeared in an instant; he picked up one
mug, walked toward her, and slammed it down on the table in front of
the couch, sloshing tea over the tabletop.
“Your
tea is ready. Connie’s caravan is the third on the left from
this
one. I have a meeting. Lock the door when you leave.” He
stalked
out the door, slamming it so hard that the entire caravan shook. Olivia
left the cup in the puddle of sloshed over tea, retrieved her
case and the bag that now held her soiled clothes, walked out the
door, and pulled it closed behind her. She didn’t bother
locking
it.
Day
Three, continued - Monday, Seven forty-three in the Morning
After
leaving Crowe’s (that was how she thought of him, not caring
even
to acknowledge that he had a Christian name) caravan, she had taken
her dirty clothes and popped them into the boot of her car along with
her case. As she started back toward the path, a chauffeur driven
car pulled into the car park, and Connie Nielsen emerged.
“Olivia!
Good morning. I hope you had a good weekend.” Her smile of
welcome was so warm that Olivia immediately forgot her anger and
smiled in return.
“It
was lovely, thanks, and yours?”
“Terrific.
My man flew in from the States and didn’t leave until I did
this
morning. He’s on a flight home today. So, I’m
feeling very well
loved and ready to handle anything.” They laughed as women do
when
discussing such things and walked companionably along the path toward
Connie’s caravan where she unlocked the door and held it open
for
Olivia. As she closed the door after them, she motioned Olivia to a
seat and went to the kitchen area to start a pot of coffee, then
looked suddenly at Olivia.
“I
forgot …you’re British; would you prefer
tea?”
Olivia
shook her head in the negative. “I’ve had my
morning cup; coffee
is fine for the rest of the day.” Connie joined her in the
lounge
area, and they chatted as the coffee perked. Leaning forward and
taking off her wellies, she looked at Olivia.
“So,
tell me. Is there a man in your life, or do you spend all your time
thinking and writing?”
Olivia
sighed and shrugged. “There’s been a man for some
time now, but
he’s pressing for marriage. Though I’m quite fond
of him, he
just isn’t ‘the One,’ if you know what I
mean. I suppose I’ll
break it off soon; it’s unfair to string him along when he
wants
marriage and a family, and though I want those things as well, I
don’t want them with him. The relationship has run its
course.” Connie nodded in understanding as she spoke.
“Have
you noticed that in recent times, it seems to be the men pressing us
for marriage instead of us pressing them? Sort of like
they’ve
gotten more interested as we’ve become more independent and
less
needy in terms of support.” Olivia pulled a face, then
laughed.
“Absolutely!
It seems the less we need them, the more desirable we’ve
become. I never thought I’d live to see this day
arrive.” They laughed
again. Hearing the coffee pot stop its chugging, Connie stood and
went to the kitchen. She pulled mugs from the pantry and turned back
to Olivia, her brows raised in the obvious question.
“Two
lumps and a bit of cream, if you have it.” Connie brought the
mugs
to the lounge and handed one to Olivia, sipping her own as she sat on
the far end of the small couch.
“So,
what’s the agenda? Do we start by just talking and my trying
to
emulate your accent? Do we read my lines, what?”
“I
think perhaps the best thing would be to just chat for a bit and let
you get accustomed to the manner in which an English woman intones
her speech. Once you get the cadence, you should progress rapidly.
Later on we’ll progress to reading your lines, and
I’ll correct
your inflection as appropriate.”
“So,
we just talk? Anything in particular that’s near and dear to
your
heart?” Olivia laughed and shook her head.
“Not
at present. Pick whatever you like, and we’ll just chat as if
we
were mates. What suits you?”
“Men
…what else?” At that, both women laughed aloud.
After all, what
better topic was there for getting two women to relax enough to talk
in a companionable manner?
“All
right. As you brought up the topic, you start.”
Connie
nodded. “Russell.”
“Pardon
me?”
“Russell
…you know, big guy, dark hair, bearded, often seen wearing
wolf
pelts? That Russell.” Olivia frowned, and
Connie pounced
on her grimace. .
“Should
I take that frown to mean that he’s not your favourite person
today?”
“I
can scarcely stand to be within shouting distance of him.
He’s the
most intensely annoying man it’s ever been my misfortune to
meet.” Connie raised one eyebrow.
“Ouch!
What’s he done to piss you off so quickly?” Olivia
told her of
their first encounter on the path the preceding Friday, then
recounted the incident of that morning. Her tirade went on for at
least ten minutes before she stopped, describing the behaviour she
considered his most egregious last.
“And
as of this moment, he hasn’t had the courtesy to introduce
himself. He appears to think that every woman on the planet should know
his
name and fall into a swoon when he condescends to look at
them.”
“Ohh,
double ouch!” Connie giggled. “I’m
getting the feeling you
don’t much like him.” Olivia sighed and put her mug
on the
table.
“I
don’t know. Perhaps I’m just unaccustomed to his
sort.”
“And
what is his sort?” What indeed? Olivia thought on that for a
moment before responding.
“My
perception is that he’s precisely like so many of the
Colonials
I’ve met over the years …brash, loud, arrogant,
and with an
unbearable sense of entitlement. Australian men are worse than the
American men I’ve met, and I’m not particularly
fond of either. I suppose I’m unaccustomed to their somewhat
extreme joie de
vivre. I’ve grown up with Englishmen and prefer
their
reticence. I feel sure it’s a cultural matter rather than an
entirely personal issue. The truth is that I’ve not met that
many
American or Australian men, and the ones I have seem to be extremely
pushy. Of course, given that the only American men I’ve met
have
been from New York and, with the exception of Crowe, all the
Australians have apparently been bush rangers. Perhaps I’ve
not
met a fair sampling on which to base an opinion.” Connie
inclined
her head and appeared to give Olivia’s comments a bit of
thought.
“Perhaps
the ones you’ve met have been intimidated by you. Ever give
that
any consideration? It’s been my experience that when a man
meets
an exceptionally well educated woman – one who is pretty,
well
bred, and poised into the bargain – and you meet all three
criteria, they sometimes overreact because they’re trying to
compensate for what they believe to be their own
inadequacies.”
“Are
we still discussing Crowe? Yes? Feelings of inadequacy? I think
not. What I do wonder is how his wife and family tolerate him.
I’d
give him the gate within six weeks!” Connie’s
eyebrows shot
skyward; this woman truly didn’t know anything about her, at
times,
infamous co-star, or if she did she was doing a damned good job of
disguising it.
“He
isn’t married, Olivia.”
“Small
wonder.” Olivia was beginning to feel that she might be
putting
herself on very thin ice, as it was clear that Connie did like the
man, as well as respecting him for his talent. There was simply no
explaining what others found intriguing, was there? Best to move on
to another, possibly less potentially volatile, topic.
“Connie,
might we talk about men other than Crowe? It’s clear you like
and
respect him, and I’ve no problem with that. Our perspectives
are
vastly different as are our experiences of him, and I don’t
wish to
begin our relationship with a disagreement over a man who means
nothing to me.”
Connie
nodded. “Olivia, you don’t have to pretend to like
him for my
sake. It took me a few weeks to get used to him, and yes, I do like
him, but there isn’t any reason for you to do so. So, want to
hear
about my man?” Olivia nodded; tolerating Crowe
wouldn’t be the
first time she’d been polite to someone she didn’t
care for.
