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 twoglasses 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
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 twoglasses 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
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