Blood at the Premiere: A Day One Undead Adventure (2 page)

From one danger to the next and if the press pack and public were bad, in here is worse. Far worse. Faces she knows who don’t bother to hide their judgement. Established actors, directors and producers who turn to see who is coming in only to roll eyes and quickly look away. It’s only Henrietta Swallow.

Fuckers.
She smiles round the room taking in the mixed bunch of self-righteous pious middle men and women who believe they hold the collective power of the British film and television industry. That collective power is profound but not as much as they hope. Straight to DVD movies or arthouse flicks that win awards but not audiences, and the pull Henrietta has is still greater than they. They need that glamour to draw the attention, and she needs them to need her. Each has a part in the creation of the mystique. Without her the paparazzi will be fewer in number. The flashes of lights will be slower and the cheers quieter. The magazines will not take such an interest and the buzz will not be created.

Supply and demand. The basic principles of business. Advertise your product and bring in the glamour and glitz to showcase the best of our kind that all flock to pay homage to the dire shit produced on a shoestring budget and a film full of long shots of bleak countryside and people drinking tea in cafés while staring at rain-spattered windows.

This is what Henrietta does. This is who she is, but this is not who she wants to be now. She is older, wiser and very fucking hungry to achieve what she wants before the looks fade and the wrinkles show through the thick make-up.

A few nod in greeting with shallow smiles done for the benefit of agents and financiers, and the years show true in her eyes that hide the irritation behind a mask of jovial mischief that must be incrementally eased away if she is to gain the roles she so wishes.

Subtle changes that reflect a passage of time and it comes down to sophisticated variables that she hopes will eventually be absorbed. The amount of flesh she used to show is still the same but it’s revealed differently now. Her cleavage is still there but the material that covers it is refined, not that they ever notice the dress. The legs are still as long but the hem and the shoes show a maturity in their elegance. Her hair is softer and the make-up is just that little bit less harsh and dark than it used to be.

‘Henrietta, how nice.’ A wide toothy grin showing another set of bleached teeth behind a smooth Botoxed face.

‘Hi.’ She grins back, flashing her eyes as the man turns away to seek someone more serious to schmooze with, but a hand on her back turns her round to another gleaming smile looming close to speak quietly.

‘Still celibate?’

‘I am.’ She laughs that posh giggle with a flick of her gaze to the right to break the contact being held. It’s just banter but the hunger within the joke hangs in the air. The producer smiles wolfishly and winks with the remembered promise he made to provide work should the vow ever wish to be broken.

‘Shame.’ The producer laughs it off. He was joking and they know each other so no offence can be taken. ‘Call me. I’ll help you find yourself,’ he says, holding his thumb and finger to his face before turning to project his predation to someone more willing to yield.

The celibacy came about when Jodie Marsh said she was doing it. Henrietta had already been married twice and was aiming for the third to compete with Jordan’s next marriage when Jodie said she was giving up sex until the right man came along. A day later and after a frantic meeting with her agent and publicist, Henrietta appeared in a double-page tabloid spread telling the world she, too, was choosing celibacy. She explained earnestly, as shown in the well-managed, high-gloss photos, that unlike Jodie she was not doing it for Mr Right as that still meant men had an element of control over her life. She was doing it for all women everywhere and to
find herself as a woman and to learn to love herself despite the demons inside.

Henrietta scans the room and spots the bar where she knows her kinfolk will be gathered. Herding with them offers safety in numbers and friendly faces she knows well, but it will not aid the new direction of her intended journey. The ranks within the industry are clear and to move from one to the other takes dedication and the awareness of a starving, psychotic hawk.

The crowd shifts and she sees them. The other
reality television personalities
. A title worthy of an award but that’s what they are. The beautiful and the extrovert. Tattoos everywhere. Perfect hairstyles and toned bodies that give a touch of physical aesthetic to the otherwise ugly back-room masses that dominate the room.

No, no, no. Not yet.
She scans harder searching the faces for an alternative, but the offerings are awful. A gaggle of editors standing next to a group of scriptwriters. Financiers showing gold cufflinks and diamond watches that talk of returns and spreadsheets.

Fuck it.
She looks over at the bar with a wince.
The second they see me they’ll shout my name so loud it’ll have everyone else in the room looking over. Come on, Henri. Find someone else. Not the editors; they’ll just stare at my tits. Not the scriptwriters, either; they’re nice enough but they hold no power. Bollocks. I’m almost at the bar but I can’t veer off now unless I have somewhere to go. Which one? Which group?

Privately educated but common enough to hold a conversation with anyone, but now is the time for those conversations to count.

There. Oh shit. He’s here. He is actually here.
A flutter in her stomach and she veers off like an embarrassed sibling praying her drunk family don’t see her.

Okay. You’ve practised this. Ease the cheeky smile down to a friendly expression of greeting and watch the language. For fuck’s sake watch the language.

The group she aims for see her coming, but the target has his back turned, engaged in a deep conversation with another man.
Turn round, you fucker. Turn round and see me coming.
You can’t miss Henrietta Swallow when she walks through a crowd with her white teeth glinting and the black dress clinging to her enormous breasts.

Right, Henrietta, be serious. Hold eye contact. Think before you speak and for fuck’s sake don’t swear. And don’t flirt, either. This is not the time for flirting. Or swearing. Please don’t swear.

Oh fuck. He’s turned round but he’s not looking at my tits. Is he gay? Shit. I’m out of my depth. Abort. Abort. Too late. Wank it, I’m committed now. Right, see it through. Come on, Henrietta, you can do this. Show the serious, intelligent side and for fuck’s sake don’t flirt or swear. It won’t work. I’ll humiliate myself. Don’t do it. Just smile and walk past. Go to the bar and get drunk with the other reality television personalities. Why do this to yourself?

I need this, that’s why. I need the acceptance of maturity so I don’t get relegated to that woman who used to get her tits out copying everything the other two did. Just be serious and do not fucking swear.

‘You know they’re desperate for publicity when Jordan is invited,’ a scrawny old woman with a silk scarf quips drily.
Jordan? Seriously? You rancid old haggard whore.
Thinking fast, Henrietta works the options and subsequent consequences but she was too close and the comment was too loud for her to feasibly pretend she didn’t hear it. To confront the woman risks embarrassment but to delay and do nothing is a fate far worse.

‘And even more desperate when they book me instead,’ Henrietta says, laughing easily. ‘Jordan is the other one.’

‘The other one?’ The rancid old haggard whore lifts an eyebrow. ‘I thought that awful Marsh girl was the other one.’

That’s because you’re as old as dinosaur shit.
‘It’s an easy mistake to make. I’m Henrietta Swallow.’

‘It’s those awful things,’ the rancid old haggard whore says, staring unashamedly at Henrietta’s cleavage. ‘Aren’t they just so terribly heavy and cumbersome?’

Yep but yours are swinging next to your knees, you disgusting bitch.
‘Oh you know,’ Henrietta laughs again, winking at one of the men staring at her then inwardly cursing for forgetting she wasn’t meant to be flirting. ‘It’s somewhere to rest my book when I read.’

‘Do you then?’ the woman fires back with rapier-like speed.

Oh my fucking god! Leave me alone, you evil dragon.

‘I do apologise,’ the woman says with sudden sincerity. ‘Perhaps I should have asked
can you
, not
do you
?’ The space around the group becomes a short-lived vacuum as the air is sucked out by three other people all drawing a sharp intake of air.

An image of a clenched fist smashing into the woman’s face fills Henrietta’s mind but he is standing right there, watching, waiting and listening with interest. Comments like this had never hurt Henrietta before. She knew what she was and accepted the judgement but right now, at this very second, it’s the last thing she needs and she wracks her brain for a suitable reply while still weighing the options of being humorous, cutting, humble or even bitchy. There is too much at stake, though, and only one response will suit to prepare the path ahead.

‘I am sorry you feel the need to say that,’ Henrietta says in that educated voice with a respectful nod before turning to the man she so desperately needs to impress.

‘HENRIETTA, YOU FUCKING SLAG!’

Fuck arse and shit.
This time she does pretend not to notice and smiles at the bearded man.

‘OI OI, SWALLOW…WANT SOME CHARLIE?’

‘Hello, Dolan,’ she says, holding her hand out.

‘HENRI? HENRI? WHO’S THE BEARDY?’

‘Henrietta,’ Dolan says, shaking her hand while his eyes flick over her shoulder towards the bar and the shouts getting louder.

‘Did you get my proposal?’ she asks, feeling the first rare flush of shame creeping up her cheeks.

‘OI, SWALLOW? GET YER TITS OVER HERE FOR SOME SHOTS BEFORE THIS FILM STARTS…’

Dolan inhales while nodding and she spots the apologetic look flicker across his face as the precursor to the answer.

‘My piece on the sex workers was good,’ she rushes in before he can speak. ‘The whole immigration angle of forced sex workers…’

‘HENRIETTA, LAST CHANCE…YOU WANT A LINE OR NOT?’

‘HENRIETTA, YOU TAKING COCK YET?’

‘It was good,’ Dolan admits honestly. ‘Very well researched and a good approach to the fairness of the subject from all concerned. The mood, the interviews, the way you portrayed yourself and the…’

‘SWALLOW? STOP CHATTING THAT BLOKE UP AND GET OVER HERE.’

‘…editing all created a highly engaging account.’

‘I did the research myself,’ she says, looking up at his deeply serious face with imploring eyes.

‘Did you?’ Dolan asks with a tilt of the head.

‘Really,’ she says, stepping closer and feeling the elasticated bond holding her to the shouting morons at the bar growing weaker by the second. ‘I was involved from the beginning. That girl, the one from Afghan? You remember her? I interviewed her in the back of the car?’

‘Yes, of course,’ Dolan says, showing genuine interest.

‘I found her,’ Henrietta says, speaking to this man and only to him.

‘HENRIETTA FUCKING SWALLOW! ARE YOU COMING FOR SHOTS OR WHAT?’

‘She wasn’t going to talk to us but I met her about four or five times to earn her trust.’

‘Serious journalism,’ Dolan comments, staring down into her now very serious blue eyes. ‘But if I may offer some critique?’

Oh my god yes. Critique means he’s interested.
‘Of course, please say what you think.’

‘I would have centred the whole story on her. She would have been the main subject to cover the human trafficking through to the end result of forced prostitution. I understand that would have taken longer but the end result would have been far more impactful You still gained good exposure but somewhat watered down the seriousness by having so many subjects that the viewer could not connect with. One person. One story. The others would have been added and filtered to show the
scale
of the problem.’

‘That’s brilliant,’ she whispers, blinking slowly and cursing herself for not having thought of that approach. ‘The budget was tiny, though.’

‘Yes, I heard you produced on a tight finance package, and if I may add something else,’ he says seriously as she leans forward an inch. ‘Jodie’s was better.’

‘Better?’ she says with a glare that she forcibly morphs into an accepting smile. ‘Yes, of course. I respect your opinion but if I worked with you I could…’

‘SWALLOW?’

‘DOES SHE THEN?’

A roar of laughter follows the voices and Henrietta ignores the many faces of the crowd looking over at her.

She holds the serious expression, sensing the first tendrils of something bordering mutual respect are starting to stretch weakly between her and the Channel Four head of factual programming. That he is even here can only be because of the investment fund given by that channel and the requirement for him to fulfil a quota of public engagements.

‘Dolan, I am serious about the proposals. Women in public services could be an amazing avenue to explore.’ She smiles inwardly at getting the line she practised so many times delivered to someone so influential and important. ‘Channel Four are the right people to be involved. Anyone else will seek the humorous side. Channel Five would just exploit the issues and…’

‘I’m not so sure about that subject,’ Dolan says, cutting across but not unkindly.

‘Women soldiers are on the front line now. How do they retain individuality of being feminine in such a male-dominated environment? Are they even trusted by the male soldiers? What about those that have been injured? With my background in bodybuilding I could really show how they regained their health and fitness while retaining their femininity…’

‘Fuck me, Henri. What the fuck you doing over here? Alright, mate. I’m Bennie, nice to meet ya,’ Bennie stumbles into the conversation grinning wildly and shoving a pumping hand at Dolan. ‘Big tits boring you, is she?’ he asks with a laugh that is too loud and too long. ‘Henri, you coming for some shots then or what? Here, hang on. Ain’t you that actor from
Emmerdale
? That farmer or sommit?’