A Sprinkle of Sabotage by Fiona Leitch (bill gates book recommendations TXT) 📗

‘Flipping ’eck, this is boring,’ said Debbie, yawning. Tony tugged at the crotch of his trousers. Some crew members want around and turned off the big spotlights to stop them overheating. And then they all just stood there waiting too, chatting, and I got the impression that all this hanging around wasn’t an unusual occurrence.

‘Blow this for a game of soldiers,’ I grumbled, heading for a chair by the fireplace. The gangly footman looked scandalised, until most of the other extras followed suit, finding themselves somewhere more comfortable to sit or stand. Tony pulled a chair across the room, earning a glare from one of the cushion-fluffing crew members but ignoring it. He positioned it next to mine and motioned for Debbie to sit in it, then perched himself on the arm of my chair, lowering his tightly-clad nether regions slowly down until they were almost level with my eyes. I carefully turned away.

The crew started to look at watches and phones. There were mutterings and discussions. Maybe this amount of waiting wasn’t normal. I watched a group of them by the camera, and it looked like they’d just nominated a junior crew member to go and find out what was happening when Lucy the first AD came rushing back in.

‘Sorry, everyone, let’s break for lunch,’ she said, and turned to leave. One of the camera crew called out to her amidst a chorus of groans.

‘What’s happening, Luce?’

‘Nothing. Faith’s just had a little bit of an accident…’

Chapter Three

Of course my ears pricked up at her words. To my mind ‘a little bit of an accident’ was quite often code for ‘flipping great disaster’, especially when spoken in the tone of voice and accompanied by the facial expression currently being employed by Lucy. I followed Tony and Debbie out of the room, wondering what type of ‘accident’ could have put the kibosh on the morning’s filming.

‘Let’s get something to eat,’ suggested Tony. Food always sounds like a good idea to me, although when someone else is cooking it doesn’t always live up to my standards. Shame they didn’t hire me to do the catering, I thought. My cooking is always going to be better than my acting. I wondered if Polvarrow’s kitchens were in a better and more hygienic state than on my last visit.

But I didn’t get the chance to find out because we were directed outside to an area by the old coach house where a classic Airstream motorhome was parked – one of those really long silver bullet-shaped retro caravan things, pure 1950s Americana. Of course, I thought, remembering one of my fellow catering students. He’d told me that when he graduated he was going to set up his own mobile catering business specialising in film and TV shoots, because they don’t always shoot at locations with kitchen facilities; certainly not ones capable of cooking for a large number of people, all day, for days at a time. The facilities I remembered here definitely would have struggled to cope. A flap in the side of the caravan was open, forming a counter, and inside I could see a fantastic custom-made kitchen. Lining the counter were trays of pasta, another of sausages and burgers, tofu, rice, vegetables – it looked like there was something to suit all diets, no matter how faddy, in this hot buffet. Further along the counter were trays of salads and filled sandwiches. The radio was playing loudly and the chef, an olive-skinned guy in his thirties, was singing along to it, either completely unaware or just unbothered by the queue forming outside. He turned around, still singing, holding a tray of the most delicious-smelling curry and added it to the buffet. Then he plonked down a big pile of plates and smiled at the line of hungry film people.

‘Buon appetito!’ he said. ‘Grub up!’

The food looked and smelt fabulous, and I definitely liked the look of that curry. But there was a long queue of people ahead of us and I knew we were in for quite a wait as they all helped themselves.

‘Hmm…’ I murmured quietly to myself, but not quietly enough because Tony looked at me sharply.

‘I know that ‘hmm’,’ he said. ‘What you thinking?’

‘I’m just thinking I might have a little wander around…’

My little wander around took me across the gravelled yard, back towards the bench where Tony and I had earlier had hysterics. There were several people gathered around the large trailer that he’d pointed out to me as being Faith Mackenzie’s on-set home. I recognised her co-star, Jeremy Mayhew, whom I was used to seeing in gritty contemporary dramas where he was invariably clad in jeans and a leather jacket. He was well-built and stocky, and he looked weird in breeches and knee-high riding boots, although at least his shirt was less frilly than Tony’s (I supposed that too many frills would detract from his character’s evil nature). I’d seen him in a repeat of a ludicrous cop show from the Eighties once and he’d been pretty hot in his younger days, but years of heavy drinking had led to the tell-tale red-veined cheeks and nose of an alcoholic. He was still kind of attractive in a craggy-faced, hedonistic way – like the sort of bloke who could show you a good time, as long as you were happy with debauchery and a kebab rather than dinner and a night at the opera.

Next to him was a younger man, who was tall and slim and wearing a baseball cap. I guessed he was around my age (forties), but he had a youthful air about him, and the superhero T-shirt and black-rimmed glasses he was wearing made him look like a fairly typical film nerd. Going by the way the people around him deferred to him, though, he had to be someone important. Lucy was also amongst the group, and every now and then she would turn round and make sure that no one