Just Between Us

‘I used to be a beautician, you see,’ Sherry said as she dextrously brushed eye shadow onto Tara’s lids. ‘Mum was worried when I gave it up for drama school.’

‘You’re brilliant at make up,’ Tara said enthusiastically as she admired her newly-sultry eyes, dark and intense thanks to smoky shadows.

‘Thanks,’ Sherry said happily as she zipped up her bag of tricks.

Tara felt bad that she couldn’t say how Sherry was a marvellous actress too, but she hated hypocrisy.

Together, they braved the ballroom. A vast, high-ceilinged room decorated with giant swathes of purple velvet to go with the gilt and purple chairs, it was crammed with every sort of television and radio worker. Actors and presenters rubbed shoulders with writers and producers, all pretending to have a roaring good time because the show was being filmed, and all trotting out the standard remark: ‘It’s such an honour just to be here: being nominated/winning doesn’t matter.’ Which was rubbish because it was all about winning.

The ceremony itself was going to make up ninety-five per cent of the TV show, but nobody wanted to risk glaring sourly at a rival and ending up with that broadcast to the world. Or even worse, being included in the inevitable out-takes video which would change hands as soon as the show was over. So the whole place was awash with smiles.

Tara lost Sherry within seconds, as the actress spotted a camera crew and wove her way through the crowds, her shapely hips undulating sexily as she shimmied along. Marilyn Monroe was said to have deliberately had a quarter of an inch taken off the heel of one shoe to give her that sexy lilting walk. Sherry had clearly upped the ante and had taken off an entire inch on one side, leaving her with a hip movement that Tara reckoned a passing bishop would surely declare an occasion of sin.

Weaving her own way through the tables, Tara said hello here and there but didn’t stop. She’d worked in television one way or another for nine years and knew loads of the people here: if she stopped, she’d never make it up to her table in its much envied place at the front.

As she passed the Forsyth and Daughters table, she nodded at an old work-experience pal of hers who now wrote for the series.

‘Good luck,’ said Robbie encouragingly. ‘I hope you win.’

‘You too,’ said Tara. Which was true because she hoped he would win. It was unlikely though.

Robbie smiled weakly and Tara passed on, knowing there was nothing she could say to raise his spirits. Forsyth and Daughters was a five-year-old show about a family of female lorry drivers and not even ER’s Dr Luka Kovac, manfully wielding the cardiac paddles, would be able to bring it back to life. The scripts were tired, the storyline was exhausted and the only option in Tara’s opinion was to can the whole series. Robbie and his team hadn’t a snowball’s chance in Hell of winning anything, while the National Hospital team were hot favourites for a whole raft of awards.

A voice on the microphone was asking people to take their seats as Tara reached her place.

National Hospital, as befitting one of the nation’s hottest home-grown soaps, had two tables at the ceremony and, now that the empty bottles and the plates had been taken away, they looked bare and untidy with wine stains on the white tablecloths. The actors had been allocated a table close to the stage, while the writers and production people were behind them. There was nobody at the actors’ table because, as soon as the meal was officially over, they’d all rushed off to get their photos taken and to work the room. The writers, on the other hand, insisted that they didn’t believe in networking and sat getting dug into the wine and trying to out-do each other bitching about rival shows. The truth was that nobody was interested in taking pictures of writers, which galled them. They wrote the words, they created the canvas on which the actors shone, so why did nobody know who they were?

‘Did you hear the one about the bimbo who wanted to be in movies?’ muttered Tommy from the depths of his glass, as Tara slipped into her place beside him. Tommy was one of the show’s long-timers. ‘She went to Hollywood and slept with a writer.’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ murmured the assembled group, who’d heard it all before.

Isadora, who’d moved so she had a better view of the stage, was now sitting on Tara’s other side. Isadora was another one of the storyline editors, writers who shaped the way the show developed and came up with long-range plotlines. She and Tara worked closely together and were great friends.

‘You look nice,’ said Isadora. ‘Have you been beautifying yourself for your acceptance speech?’

Tara laughed. ‘Sherry did it. It’s good, isn’t it?’

‘Very.’ Isadora was impressed. ‘Can she do something for me? I need emergency work. All this red wine has my face looking like blue cheese.’

‘Crumbly?’ inquired Tommy.

‘No, heavily veined,’ Isadora replied tartly. ‘But still, my veins aren’t half as bad as yours, sweetie.’

‘Miaow,’ Tommy retorted.

The lights went down and there was a frantic dash as people raced back to their seats. The babble of conversation went down to a low hum while the audience waited for the show to begin.

Watching the monitors to the side of the stage, Tara and Isadora could see what the cameras saw. The lenses panned across the room, coming to rest on the big male stars of the day and on the most beautiful of the women, all of whom had nearly killed themselves to wear the most talked about gown of the evening. Slit-to-the-navel, slit-to-the-thigh and slit-in-both-directions dresses were par for the course at these events. The more famous stars didn’t bare as much, while the wannabes craved attention and tended to look as if they hadn’t enough money to pay for a whole dress.

‘Leather is big this year,’ Isadora commented, glancing around. ‘Look at that woman from that kids’ Saturday morning show. That’s not a dress; that’s a python-skin bikini with a see-through overdress.’

‘I dunno why they call it an overdress,’ muttered Tommy. ‘Doesn’t look like overdressing to me.’

‘She’d better be careful,’ Isadora continued. ‘She won’t be the darling of the exhausted early morning mums and dads if she wears that type of hot little outfit. They want blue jeans, wacky sweaters, spiky hair and overall purity for their Saturday morning televisual babysitters.’

Silence reigned for a brief moment until the awards’ theme music blasted out over the sound system and the show began. Finally, the nerves began to get to Tara. This was an important evening for her. She’d been working on National Hospital for three years and in April, she’d been promoted to storyline editor. The youngest person ever to get the job, Tara had had a lot to prove. But she’d done it. Thanks in no small part to her input, the scripts since then had been ratings grabbers. The critics loved the show, the production company loved the show, now, it was time to see if the people who gave out the prestigious Soap of the Year award loved it too. They’d been nominated for the past three years but had been narrowly beaten by Ardmore Grove, their nearest rival, every time. If only tonight was the night to claim the prize for National Hospital. Tara felt sick with the anxiety of it all.

Across the table, Aaron, the show’s director, sat with his beautiful blonde wife. Tara thought of Finn sitting at home waiting for her phone call. Her nerves wouldn’t have been nearly as bad if Finn had been beside her, his hand holding hers comfortingly. But only people like Aaron were considered important enough to get two invites to the ceremony.

Onstage, clips were being shown of the best animated films. Tara glanced at her watch. Twenty minutes gone. Although the show wasn’t live, it would still run pretty much to time. The soap category was in the first hour but there was ages to go.

The veteran Irish actor on stage was slowly opening the purple envelope for the animation award. He read it out and a table at the back of the ballroom erupted with squeals of joy. Everybody at the National Hospital tables smiled. The whole ballroom smiled. They were on camera, after all.

Three more awards trundled by. Winners gravely thanked everyone from their kindergarten teacher to their Pilates coach. The only excitement was when the forty-something Best Actress gave rather an over-enthusiastic kiss to the teenage boy band member presenting her with the award. The audience applauded with delight. At last, somebody behaving badly.

‘Give him another Frenchie,’ yelled a drunk at the back of the room.

‘That’s one comment for the cutting room floor,’ Tara grinned.

‘Were there tongues involved?’ demanded Isadora eagerly.

‘Not on his part,’ Aaron said. ‘The poor guy looked scared out of his head.’

‘He should be,’ Tommy pointed out. ‘She eats boys like him for brekkie.’

‘Don’t be ageist,’ snapped Isadora, who was feeling sensitive about arriving at the big four-oh herself. ‘Just because she’s over forty, she’s not a figure of fun, you know. It’s perfectly allowable to snog younger men. You’re no spring chicken yourself, Tommy, and I bet you wouldn’t say no to a big kiss from a teenage starlet.’

‘Now, children,’ remonstrated Aaron calmly, ‘let’s not fight. We have to look like we’re happy. Save the fighting for the studio.’

Everyone grinned. Tempers often got frayed when they were under pressure at work.

‘After the break, we’ll be seeing who’s the Radio Presenter of the Year, who’s the Best Actor, and, which soap has won the Best Soap,’ said the MC suavely. The crowd applauded obediently.

The lights went up and the MC added that there’d be a fifteen minute break. Hands went into the air immediately, waving for wine waiters.

Tara thought the break would never end but it did. The Radio Personality of the Year, late-night talk show host Mac Levine, made a very funny speech.

Isadora squeezed Tara’s hand under the table so nobody would see how anxious they were.

‘Isn’t this wonderful?’ Isadora said between teeth clenched into a false smile.

‘Wonderful.’ Tara clenched back. ‘Will he ever hurry up before I die.’

And then it was their turn.

A glamorous female singer read out the nominations for Best Soap. There wasn’t a sound at their table as clips of the various shows were played. Tara closed her eyes in supplication and then realised how strange and desperate she’d look on film, so she opened them again. The clips were finished and the singer was taking forever to open the envelope. Tara watched French-manicured talons struggling with the paper in agonising slow motion. She could feel her heart rate slowing down to comatose level, please, please let it be us.

‘The winner is…National Hospital.’