Constance

‘Angie?’ It was Rayner Ingram’s voice. Her head turned at once.

‘Coming,’ she called. ‘Con, you’ll definitely be there tonight, won’t you?’

Tonight was the wrap party, traditionally hosted by the production company. Connie knew about last-night parties more by reputation than recent direct experience.

‘Yes. Course I will.’

‘See you later, then. You’ve been an absolute star all this week. I couldn’t have got through it without you.’

Left alone, Connie sat down on an upturned box. There were more bats now, dipping for insects against the blackness of the trees. She could almost feel the week’s edgy camaraderie being stripped away from her, rolled up like the fake turf and tossed into the back of a truck. She would feel lonely here next week, when Angela and the others had gone. She had her work, of course. She had planned to make some more recordings of the gamelan gong for her orchestral library. There was Tuesday night’s music to look forward to, and she should think about asking some people to the house, fill it up with talk and lights once in a while. The string quartet, for example. She should find out which was their night off and make dinner for them and their partners.

This time tomorrow, Angela and Rayner and Tara and all the others would be halfway back to London.

Connie found that she was thinking about London as she rarely did, remembering the way that lights reflected in the river on winter’s evenings, the catty smell of privet after summer rain, the glittering masses of traffic and the stale, utterly specific whiff of the Underground. She kept the focus deliberately general, excluding places and people for as long as she could.

‘I’m going to need that box.’ The voice made her jump. She saw it was the rigger who had whistled at her.

‘All yours,’ Connie smiled at him as she got to her feet. She wasn’t sorry to have her train of thought interrupted. In any case it was time to head home to change for the wrap party.

There were more than forty people for dinner. They ate in the garden of the better hotel, under the lanterns slung in the branches of the trees.

‘This place is a bit of all right,’ one of the Australians shouted up the table. ‘You guys did well.’

‘Next time,’ Angela called back.

‘Holding you to that, ma’am. They’ve even got beer here.’ In the last-night surge of goodwill, the disagreements of the week morphed into jokes.

The actress emerged from her room to join the crew for dinner. Draped in a pashmina against a non-existent breeze she was telling everyone who would listen that she had lost nearly a stone and wouldn’t be coming back to Bali in a hurry.

Tara was wearing a dress that measured about twenty centimetres from neckline to hem. Simon Sheringham’s arm rested heavily along the back of her chair, and he regularly clicked his fingers at the waiters to ensure that their two glasses were kept filled. Marcus Atkins and the agency’s creative duo sat with their heads close together, planning how to make the best of the rest of the evening.

Rayner Ingram naturally took the head of the table. After a successful shoot everyone wanted their piece of the director, and there had been a scramble for the seats closest to him. Connie was relieved to see that he beckoned Angela to the place on his right. She was surprised, as she took her own seat near the other end, by the rigger darting into the next chair. He extended a large hand.

‘Hi. My name’s Ed.’

‘Connie Thorne.’

‘Boom Girl, somebody called you. What’s that about?’

She was entirely happy that he didn’t know. ‘Nothing. History. Let’s have a drink.’

‘Let’s make that our motto.’

The food came and they ate and drank under the lanterns.

Connie learned from Ed that he owned a ski lodge in Thredbo and only took on film work when he needed a cash injection.

‘You should come out. I’m heading back for the best of the ski season now.’

‘I can’t ski.’

He grinned. ‘No worries. I’ll teach you.’

You could go, Connie told herself. Ed’s blue shirt cuffs were rolled back and she noted that he had nice wrists. He seemed a good, dependable, practical sort of man.

Damn, she thought. Why can’t it happen?

That question did have an answer, but it wasn’t one she was prepared to listen to at this moment.

Glancing up the table she saw Angela’s and Rayner’s heads close together. They were deep in conversation. That was all right, then. For tonight at least.

People were already swaying off in search of further diversions. There were loud splashes and a lot of shouting and laughter from the swimming pool.

‘Think about it,’ Ed murmured. He took out a marker pen and wrote his email address on her bare arm. ‘It’s indelible ink, by the way.’

‘I will think about it,’ she promised, untruthfully.

Tara asked for the music to be turned up and began dancing, stretching out her hands to whoever came within reach. Simon Sheringham had a cigar and a balloon glass; Rayner was talking about the big feature he was soon to start work on. Someone had unwound a volleyball net on the lawn and several men were leaping and punching at the ball. Connie slipped away from the table and walked over the grass. She was hot and she had drunk more than she was used to, and it was soothing to drift in the dusk under the trees.

Someone rustled over the grass behind her.

‘There you are. I’ve been hunting for you.’ To her partial relief it was not Ed but Angela, and she was carrying a bottle and two glasses. ‘Shall we sit here?’

There was a secluded bench with a low light beside it that hollowed an egg-shape of lush greenery out of the darkness. They sat down and Connie obediently took the glass that Angela gave her. Angela kicked off her shoes and rested her head against the back of the bench.

‘I meant it, you know. About not surviving this week without you.’

‘You would have done,’ Connie laughed.

‘I don’t think so. Christ. Tara? Sheringham? And that other woman, you’d think no one in the history of the world has ever had the shits before this week. Sorry. Listen to me. I just needed a quick moan.’

‘It’s over now.’

‘Until the next one.’ They clinked their glasses and drank.

‘How is it with you and Rayner?’

Angela exhaled. ‘Oh. You noticed?’

‘Well. Yes. Probably no one else did, though.’

Angela’s smile was a sudden flash in the gloaming. ‘He’s amazing. We’ve been working together quite a lot, and we started seeing each other…it’s difficult because he’s still officially married to Rose and he’s very close to his kids, so we’re keeping the lid on it, especially on shoots, but in time I think we’ll be really good together. You know, he’s so special, such a talented director; that has to come first a lot of the time.’

Connie did her best to receive this information optimistically. Angela was elated now, probably because Rayner had given her a sign for later. She was revelling in the anticipation of him slipping into her room, locking the door behind him. Connie could remember what all that felt like, more or less. But the provisos sounded too ready, and they were ominous.

Not that I’m the one to judge, she thought.

Maybe Rayner Ingram will turn out to be loyal, tender, considerate and generous. And maybe he will be all of those things for Angela and no one else. And her friend was enviably happy tonight, Connie could feel the pulse of it in her. Somehow everything had turned round since the tense ending of the afternoon, and she should be able to bask in the moment without anyone spoiling it for her with sage advice. Angela wasn’t a child, or any kind of innocent.