postcards and alligators

In the crazy world of showbiz, anything can happen… or not!

Iwork in the film industry. When I mention this, people tend to assume that my job consists of vast amounts of glamour, huge earnings, and a leisurely working day spent rubbing shoulders with world-famous screen stars.

Nothing could be further from the truth. I occupy an extremely junior position, slightly lower on the scale than invisible. I am an assistant assistant’s general assistant, or, as my snooty big sister insists on putting it, the film world’s equivalent of a skivvy.

To be fair, I should mention that it is allegedly a job with prospects – or at least that was what they told me at the interview.

I foolishly repeated this to my sister, who snorted with disbelief and made unflattering comparisons with rowing boats which their owners refer to as yachts, and then added, for good measure, “The trouble with you, Katie, is that you’ll believe anything. You’re twenty-six – do grow up!”

I suppose that is one of the things that big sisters are for.

Still, I do like the job. I’m learning all the time, and no two days are the same. I meet lots of interesting people, a few immensely tedious people, and the occasional famous person.

As I move from project to project, I feel that I’m making definite progress, insofar as anyone who fetches, carries, answers the phone, takes messages and orders sandwiches can be said to be making progress.

I keep a diary, written with a fountain pen on thick cream paper, to record my progress. Usually it reads along the lines of Today I got everyone’ s orders of sandwiches right, and remembered the right brand of sweetener for the herb tea which[ insert name of semi-famous actress] wanted. She did not thank me.

I ought to have realised that it was a special day when I wrote in my diary Today I met Tom K inch–nice eyes, about 30, six foot, bit-part actor, helped me carry trays of coffee and cake in refreshments break during re-takes of crowd scenes.

It was a low-budget comedy-horror film. Tom was playing a role with a few lines – a vampire’s rather dim and doomed younger brother. In the film he came to a bad end, though – as he remarked when I was helping the stylists to get him ready for his final scene (wig, wild hair, long dark fingernails, fearsome teeth) – this could be a considerable boost for his acting career.

“I might even get a part in a TV hospital soap,” he joked.

“As the boy next door?” I asked, casting an eye over his horrendous appearance.

“I was thinking more of scary unconscious patient in A& E on a trolley, actually,” he said. “No lines to learn, and the camera lingers on you.”

I went with him to the studio set, holding doors open for him so that he wouldn’t damage his fingernails, which were still drying.

“Can I take you out to dinner?” he asked as we walked down the corridor. “Provided I don’t look like this?”

“As long as you absolutely promise not to turn up looking like a vampire,” I agreed cautiously.

“I don’t think I could manage cutlery with these fingernails,” he said.

The following Saturday evening he came and picked me up from my rather grotty shared house, and we went to a little restaurant where they served uncomplicated but delicious food.

We ate and laughed and swapped tales of our experiences of working in film, from the triumphant to the toecurling. He took me back to my rather grotty shared house, kissed me goodnight on the doorstep, and suggested that we ought to meet for lunch the next day.

Which we did. Then we went for a long walk in the country, and talked and talked.

A week or so later when the filming had finished, there was the usual wrap party for cast and crew. Afterwards I found myself wondering whether Tom would disappear once we were no longer working together. My big sister was already making comments about ships that pass in the night.

But Tom and I kept on seeing each other, and texting, and talking for hours on our mobiles, racking up huge bills.

Then suddenly I had a short email:

I held doors open for him to avoid damaging his drying fingernails

Got togo to back of beyond for film. Last-minute casting but will look good on CV. More soon. Love, Tom. P. S. It’ s not a vampire.

I treasured that Love, Tom, but the Moresoon didn’t materialise.

I sent him some long newsy emails describing days at work and the garden fete that my sister had insisted on dragging me to (“You could do with some country air and a chance to wind down”), but there were no replies.

After a few weeks I had to move from the grotty shared house because I was only gap-filling and renting a room while its usual occupant was away on a placement abroad. Once she came back I had to find somewhere else, but the grapevine had been kind to me and I had somewhere to go to that was a mile or so away.

As I sent Tom an email telling him my change of address, I tried not to think ruefully how much easier the move would have been with him there to help lift and carry.

“Chalk it up to experience and move on,” said my big sister bossily, when she rang one evening.

“I already have,” I said. “Moved, I mean. To a new address.”

“Well, I hope it’s better than the last one,” she said. “Mmm...” I said. A couple of weeks passed. I was working on a children’s film with puppets and guinea pigs, which kept me on my toes and stopped me thinking about Tom too much. Then suddenly, when I got back from work one evening, I found Tom sitting on the front garden wall of the house. He was tanned, and looked leaner and fitter than ever. His hair was longer and had some sun-bleached streaks in it. “Hello,” he said. “Where have you been?” I said, trying not to sound anxious.

“Long story,” he said. “Is there somewhere we can eat round here?”

“There’s a nice pizza place down the road,” I said.

“Perfect.” He smiled wryly. “Good British food at last. Let’s go. My treat.”

Tom leaned on the gatepost and waited while I nipped into the house to freshen up and change. There was actually some post for me on the windowsill in the hall, a letter-sized envelope addressed in handwriting I didn’t recognise, with a first-class stamp and a postmark that was too faint to read. I shoved it in my bag to read later.

I shed the dark clothes I habitually wore to work and put on a long, floaty flower-patterned dress that was just right for a hot summer evening, and probably for a hot pizza parlour as well.

“Wow,” said Tom, when I came back out. “You look terrific – love the dress.”

“So tell me what you’ve been doing,” I said, side-stepping the compliment.

“I’ve been in Peru,” he said. “Wait till we’ve settled down with a glass of wine, and I’ll tell you the whole story.”

Once we’d found a table shaded by an umbrella in the small walled garden of the pizza parlour and had glasses of a rather classy red in front of us, and after we’d ordered pizzas, side-salads and a dish of olives, Tom took a deep breath. “It’s like this…” “Surprise me,” I said. “I haven’t got to that bit yet,” he said. I took a few sips of wine. “Well?” “I have a friend from way back who’s

just starting to make his name as a director. He’d got funding to make a low-budget film partly set in Peru, and when the production was greenlit, he had to leave as soon as possible. He offered me a part on the understanding that I’d heft equipment about and generally help out.

“It was too good a chance to miss, but I had to rush about arranging vaccinations and a visa and getting myself up to speed with the script. I’m sorry I only sent you that short email, but I didn’t have time to do anything else. Then when we got to Peru we were staying in places that had never heard of email. And as to why I didn’t phone – well, most of the time there wasn’t a signal, and anyway my phone got eaten by an alligator.” “What – ?” “I managed to drop it in a river, so it probably got eaten by an alligator.” “You could have sent me a postcard.” “Ah. I was coming to that. Have you, in fact, received a postcard from me?” “No.” “Thank goodness,” he said, heaving a sigh of relief. “I’ve moved,” I said. “I know that now,” he said. “When I got back to this country, I sorted out my email, and I found your change-of-address message, so I knew where to find you this evening. But I sent the postcard to your previous address. It must have got lost in the post,” he added, looking faintly embarrassed.

“Just a minute,” I said, as our pizzas arrived. “What aren’t you telling me?”

“Can it wait till after we’ve eaten?” he asked brightly. “No,” I said. “I don’t expect you’ll ever get my postcard,” he said, pouring me another glass of wine. “It’s probably somewhere in Antarctica now.” “So tell me what you wrote on it.” “Nothing much. Just a few words.” “Which were?” “There’s something you should know. I was drunk when I wrote it. We’d just finished filming and went out to celebrate.

Someone had added a plaintive PS Why doesn’t this happen to me?

I wasn’t falling-over and picking-a-fight drunk, you understand, just sort of garrulous and unguarded and –” “Tired and emotional?” I suggested. “Mm, possibly. I was certainly tired – we were all shattered – and possibly I was a bit emotional, and far from home.”

“In that case, you’re in luck,” I said. “The only mail I’ve had for weeks is this, and it arrived today.” I hoicked out the envelope I’d thrown into my bag.

“That certainly isn’t it,” he said, in a relieved tone.

“I might as well see what it is,” I said, tearing the envelope open. I pulled out a folded sheet of writing paper and a picture postcard of Machu Picchu fell from it. Tom groaned sheepishly and put his head in his hands. I read the accompanying note first: This arrived after you left, and we thought you’ d like it sent on under plain cover. Lovefrom…

They’d all signed the note, which meant, of course, that they’d all also read the postcard, whatever it said (and I hadn’t turned it over to look yet). Furthermore, someone had added a plaintive PS at the bottom of the note. Why doesn’ t this ever happen tome? I looked from the picture of Machu Picchu to Tom, who was watching me through his fingers.

“You don’t have to turn it over,” he said. “Yes, I do,” I said. I’d looked long enough at Peru’s most iconic site. I turned the postcard over.

The writing did not look much like Tom’s – it was wobbly and uncertain rather than precise and neat. I looked at the message space on the postcard – there were, as Tom had said, just a few words on it. The first two were written in large wobbly capitals and said, MARRYME. “I was drunk,” said Tom. Then it said Love, Tom in smaller wobbly letters.

“I’m sorry,” said Tom. “I really thought that had got well and truly lost.”

“So you didn’t mean it?” I asked.

“Of course I did,” he said. “But there’s such a thing as time and place. And possibly I was being a bit previous. For goodness’ sake, eat your pizza.” “And you,” I said. We ate in a reflective silence. Then we had ice cream and coffee. “Any thoughts?” asked Tom. “This is really good coffee.” “I meant, about the postcard.” “Good view of Machu Picchu.” “I meant the other side.” “Ah.” “Well? Will you marry me?” Yes, of course I would. There were cheers and applause from the surrounding diners.

For our honeymoon we’re going to a delightful small hotel in Cornwall – no alligators and excellent wi-fi reception.