One Night Only

  Sue Welfare

  One Night Only

  Dedication

  To my family and

  friends – you know

  who you are.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Slowly – almost unnoticed at first – the lights in…

  One

  ‘I just wanted to tell you, Miss Redford – may…

  Two

  Natalia, Roots resident researcher and the person assigned to liaise…

  Three

  ‘You’ll be fine, Helen,’ snapped Charlotte. ‘For God’s sake just…

  Four

  ‘Helen? You’re awake, aren’t you?’ Bon said, rolling over onto…

  Five

  ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen the Carlton Rooms this…

  Six

  ‘Okay, so if you could just tell us again how…

  Seven

  ‘Come on, come on, can you get yourself up here,…

  Eight

  A little knot of people had gathered on the pavement…

  Nine

  Backstage at the Carlton Rooms Helen tucked the business card…

  Ten

  In the storeroom at the back of the toy shop…

  Eleven

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I’m sure you’ll agree that we’ve had…

  Twelve

  In the storeroom behind Finton’s Finest Toys, Natalia, Harry and…

  Thirteen

  Leon Downey was far looser with his money than with…

  Fourteen

  Harry and Helen were waiting in the storeroom for Natalia…

  Fifteen

  On the short drive back from the Billingsfield Arms Hotel…

  Sixteen

  Helen wished more than anything that they were heading back…

  Seventeen

  ‘Are you sure about this?’ asked Harry as Helen lifted…

  Eighteen

  At number thirty-six Victoria Street, Helen, Natalia, Felix and the…

  Nineteen

  ‘Is that you, Charlotte?’ Helen could hear breathing at the…

  Twenty

  Helen perched on the edge of the queen-sized bed in…

  Twenty-One

  Helen sat down at the dressing table and poured herself…

  Twenty-Two

  Natalia, just out of camera shot, glanced down at her…

  Extra scenes and commentary from Sue

  Extract from Sue Welfare’s The Surprise Party

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Other Books By Sue Welfare

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  PROLOGUE

  Now

  Slowly – almost unnoticed at first – the lights in the theatre began to dim. Tucked out of sight in the wings Helen could sense the growing anticipation and expectation in the audience. The seconds ticked by. Part of the magic of good showmanship is to make an audience wait, to hold them there a few seconds longer than feels quite comfortable, so that every eye is focused on stage. That growing sense of what is about to happen pushes aside all the thoughts about the drive there, the queue to get in, the day they had had before the show began and so Helen waited.

  In the auditorium someone coughed; there were the sounds of people settling back in their seats, their conversation changing from a noisy cheerful babble to an altogether lower, denser hum. There was a crackle of excitement in the air, an electric charge as tangible as a coming storm. It made Helen’s skin prickle.

  ‘Okay, Miss Redford?’ mouthed the assistant stage manager, giving Helen the thumbs up. She smiled and nodded, all the while aware of every breath, every movement, every sound around her.

  As the music began to play Helen closed her eyes, making an effort to control the panic that bubbled up inside. There was a peculiar fluttering fear that started somewhere down low in the pit of her stomach and rose up into her throat, closing it down, stealing her breath away and making her heart race. She knew that once she was out on stage it would be fine, but for now the panic crowded in on her, making her tremble, making the sound of her pulse ricochet around inside her skull like a drumroll. Deep breaths, calm thoughts; any second now the curtains would open and everything would be all right.

  In the auditorium beyond the curtains the audience was still and quiet now. The hairs on the back of her neck rose.

  ‘Miss Redford?’ someone whispered. Helen opened her eyes and looked up. One of the crew adjusted the radio mike onto the front of her dress and leaning closer flicked it on before tucking the wire down in amongst the embroidery. One of the spotlights reflected in the facets of the jewellery she was wearing, projecting a great arc of rainbows into the wings. It felt like an omen.

  Helen smiled her thanks and she pressed her lips together, blotting her lipstick, and then ran a hand back over her hair checking it was all in place, her heart still racing, anxiety edging out all sensible thoughts.

  The technician grinned. ‘You look fabulous,’ he whispered. Her smile held. On the far side of the stage, behind a cameraman, Arthur, her agent, raised a hand in salute, his fingers crossed. He winked at her.

  A moment later and the music changed to the signature tune for Cannon Square and as the curtains slowly opened, the deep inviting voice of the theatre’s resident compere rolled out over the PA.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to this evening’s show. Tonight, for one night only, we would like you put your hands together and give a great big Carlton Rooms welcome to star of stage, screen and television, our very own homespun diva, Miss Helen Redford!’ His voice rose to a crescendo in the darkness.

  It was as if someone had thrown a switch. From the auditorium came a sound like heavy rain and then thunder as people clapped, cheered and stamped their feet, the sound filling the theatre, a sound so loud that Helen could feel it pressing on her chest as much as she could hear the noise. The assistant stage manager waved her on and as Helen stepped out into the glare of the spotlight the volume of the applause rose.

  She waited for the noise to ebb and then smiled out into the expectant darkness.

  ‘Well, hello there,’ she said, pulling up the stool that was there waiting for her centre stage. ‘It’s been a long time coming but it’s great to be back here at the Carlton Rooms. I don’t want to think about how many years it’s been since I stood right here on this stage. I’ve been away too long.’ And as she spoke the audience roared its appreciation and Helen’s nerves melted away like snow in sunshine.

  ONE

  Last Year

  ‘I just wanted to tell you, Miss Redford – may I call you Helen? – how absolutely delighted we are to have you on board for next season’s TV show. It’s a real honour – I mean really. Now, before we run through a few details, would you like a drink? Tea. We’ve got green if you prefer? Or coffee, mineral water? We’ve got still or sparkling, haven’t we, Jamie?’

  Ruth Long, the executive producer of Roots, glanced across at her assistant, and then tried out a smile; an expression that didn’t sit at all well on her plump, rather earnest, face. She had a face made for documentary television, her plain meaty features framed by unnaturally black hair cut into an asymmetric bob so straight and so unmoving that Helen wouldn’t have been at all surprised to discover that it sat on a dummy head beside Ruth’s bed at night. Certainly it didn’t so much as ripple while Ruth made a show of being hospitable.

  Jamie, her assistant, stood to one side of the office, skittering in and out of Helen’s peripheral vision as he fiddled with his hair.

  ‘Actually it was Jamie who suggested you for our programme – wasn’t it, Jamie? He’s got such an eye for a story, it’s a re
al talent,’ Ruth said fondly. ‘And as he pointed out at our last planning meeting you truly are an icon.’

  Helen smiled while her agent, Arthur, leant back in his bucket seat steepling his fingers, and with a sly smile said, ‘Time was when people broke out the champagne when they signed an icon; a nice bottle of chilled Krug to seal the deal. Lunch at the Ivy, or the Groucho –’

  For the briefest of instants Ruth looked thrown. ‘Ah, yes, right,’ she said. ‘I’m most terribly sorry – we just thought – I mean –’ she glanced at Helen, and then more pointedly at Jamie.

  ‘You shouldn’t believe everything you read in the tabloids, Ruth,’ said Arthur. ‘Make mine still, will you? Slice of lime would be nice.’

  Helen looked at up at Jamie and smiled. ‘Actually I’d love a cup of tea and what Arthur is trying to say is that I’m not a drunk and never have been, so the clause in the contract about needing a regular sobriety test –’

  ‘To be honest, Ruth,’ said Arthur, all shark’s teeth and diamond-hard bonhomie, ‘Helen and I were a teensy-weensy bit thrown by that. It could be interpreted in all kinds of ways – as an infringement on our civil liberties for a start – and just a little too American for our tastes.’

  On the far side of the desk Ruth Long tried to wave the words away like a bad smell. ‘It’s standard in all our contracts these days, Miss Redford. Helen – you’re happy for me to call you Helen? It’s our insurers who insist on it. Let’s be candid, shall we?’ Ruth leant forward as if to imply she was sharing a confidence. ‘We occasionally have people on the show with, what shall we say – issues? It’s the nature of the beast. Stardom, fame – I don’t have to tell you the price those things exact on a person. And you’re right, it is a very American concept but so far we’ve sold every series of Roots into the States and we’ve got a really good co-production deal going this series, and our American cousins are very hot on that kind of thing.

  ‘You have to see it from our point of view, Helen. We just want to make sure that if we invest in all the research, the travel, the hoopla, that our guests will be able to string a sentence together when it comes to filming. Everything’s tight round here and everywhere else these days: tight budget, tighter schedule; last thing we want is a tight guest, if you follow me –’ She laughed at her own joke.

  Arthur eyed up the tiny glass of water he had been given. ‘And so you’re telling me that you breath-tested Bishop what’s-his-name and that civil rights guy?’

  Ruth’s smile held. ‘We just want the option, that’s all, Arthur. Of course we don’t always exercise it. But, for example, we took Lena Paige, series two, show six, all around the world looking for her mother and father – St Kitts to find her mother, New Zealand to track down her father. I don’t know whether you saw it, Helen, but it made the most sensational television – not a dry eye in the house. It was nominated for a TV Times Peoples’ Choice award, a Bafta – I’ll get James to get you the DVD – anyway, her dad was some sort of fighter pilot and then he emigrated and left them all behind. It was all very emotional, but I wouldn’t be letting any cats out of any bags telling you that Lena comes with a certain amount of history. Rehab, hospitalisation – lots and lots of counselling over the years. And of course the whole weight problem.

  ‘Anyway, while I don’t wish to be indiscreet, it was touch and go at some points, I can tell you. We had to have her sedated in Auckland. So, what I’m saying here, Helen, is once bitten twice shy. We need to know, come show time, that we’ll get something we can use. A lot of this stuff is highly charged and we understand that people always come with baggage. It’s what gives the show its appeal. Digging deep, shaking the dust off, getting down to the heart of our guest – however you like to express it.

  ‘So that’s why the clause is in there – we reserve the right to test all our guests because by its very nature our show focuses on a lot of –’ Ruth paused, as if searching around for the right word.

  ‘Icons,’ suggested Jamie, handing Helen a cup of tea.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Ruth, pushing her designer glasses up onto the bridge of her nose. ‘And you don’t get to be an icon by living the quiet life.’

  ‘When that bloody woman said icon she meant washed-up has-been, didn’t she?’ said Helen. She was pacing up and down in her kitchen. The sun was streaming in through the windows, picking out Arthur, who was sitting inscrutable as Buddha, at the long refectory table. He was cradling a mug of coffee. Helen was too agitated to sit down.

  ‘You could see it on her smug little face. Icon, my arse. And she more or less came right out and accused me of being an alcoholic.’

  ‘But you’re not and it’s still the most fabulous offer,’ said Arthur, rolling a cigar between his fingers like a plump carrot. Helen didn’t like him smoking in the house so he made do with sniffing it instead. ‘And it’s a real coup coming out of the blue like that. Roots is mainstream prime time. Right up there in the ratings and the public consciousness. I know people who would give their right arm for a shot at it. I mean this offer came in right out of left field –’ he mimed.

  ‘Okay, okay, I get it, Arthur. Right arm, left field, I should be grateful, eager and excited.’

  Arthur nodded. ‘And then some. We could hang all sorts of things on the back of this. I’ve been working on an idea –’

  ‘He saw me, you know,’ said Helen. ‘That boy, Jamie, the one she keeps as a pet? He told me when he was showing me where the loo was. He saw me shopping in Waitrose in Swaffham when he came home to visit his mother at Easter. He said he thought I was dead. Dead!’

  ‘He’s a producer.’

  Helen threw herself onto the sofa under the window. ‘He doesn’t look old enough to have produced anything that doesn’t involve glue and sticky-backed plastic.’

  ‘He’s won awards, apparently,’ said Arthur wistfully, staring at his cigar.

  ‘For what? The tidiest desk? Best guinea pig in show?’

  ‘Most promising newcomer, and some sort of arty short on Channel 4. He’s the next big thing apparently.’

  Helen laughed. ‘And we all know how that works out, don’t we? I remember a time when I was the next big thing.’

  ‘And it could you be again, sweetie. Remember June Whitfield in AbFab? You know Lena Paige who Ruth was talking about got a part in the last Bruce Willis film on the back of her being in Roots.’

  Helen raised her eyebrows.

  ‘Okay, okay,’ said Arthur, ‘So she got shot during the opening titles. But at least it was work. Second bite of the cherry. Look, Helen, speaking as your friend, you know that if you don’t want to do the show then it’s fine by me – it’s not too late to pull out, we’re not committed, nothing’s signed yet. But as your agent I’m telling you, you’d be bloody mad to turn it down. A whole hour on prime time TV? All about you? Jesus, what’s not to like?’

  ‘I know what you’re saying, Arthur, but I’m not the kind of person who washes their dirty linen in public. I never have been. You know that.’

  Arthur sighed. ‘Yes, but when you look at what else is on offer, it’s a chance in a million.’

  ‘So what else is on offer?’

  ‘Pantomime somewhere out in the boondocks. I could probably get you a cameo on Holby City as a down-and-out.’

  ‘Is that chap Nettles still murdering people? Didn’t their producer say that I’d make a great corpse?’

  ‘There are always voice-overs,’ continued Arthur.

  ‘Funeral expenses insurance and female incontinence pads. I don’t think so,’ Helen said, taking a long pull on her fruit juice. ‘I’d like some real work.’

  ‘There’s not just those. I mean the yoghurt thing was fun, you said so yourself.’

  ‘I was a Friesian cow.’

  ‘I know, and they loved you, sweetie, you know they did. And they’re keen to use you again, so they’re always an option. We’ve already had this conversation, petal. Getting yourself onto Roots is a genuine opportunity, and it’s the first
really exciting one that’s come along in a long while. We both know that. It could be the first step on the road back home, and let’s be honest: it’s either this or the bush tucker route.’

  ‘No!’ Helen said emphatically.

  ‘It can be the way into the nation’s heart. Look at Christopher Biggins. And you were right up there with the best of them, Helen, don’t ever forget that – remember they had an item on News at Ten when you retired?’

  ‘Retired? You make it sound like I had a choice, Arthur. If you remember, the writers blew me up in a gas explosion in a specially extended episode. That woman who comes on News at Ten did a segment about faulty boilers on the back of it.’

  ‘Jammed the phone lines,’ said Arthur, philosophically, sniffing his cigar. ‘People wrote in to the papers. And don’t forget the six weeks on life support. The whole nation was totally gripped. People cared, Helen. They really cared. When they finally turned your machine off the whole country mourned.’

  ‘Don’t tell me, Arthur. I was the one with a tube stuck up my nose and that bloody machine pinging all the time. You know it took wardrobe hours to do me up like that? So yes, Arthur. I understand. Once upon a time I used to be big.’ Helen looked heavenwards. ‘And no, before you ask again: no, no bush tucker. I couldn’t stand it. No moisturiser, surrounded by self-pitying whiners, has-beens and hyperactive third-raters, the self-obsessed and actors who should be in therapy. And I’m not eating anything that moves.’

  ‘Which reminds me,’ said Arthur. ‘Where exactly is the boy wonder today?’

  She raised an eyebrow. ‘Bon? He’s downstairs working out in the gym, I think. And if you’re going to be nasty about him then you can leave now, Arthur. I don’t have to justify my taste in men to you of all people.’

  ‘Just as well really, isn’t it,’ murmured Arthur.

  It was an old battle; the lines were well drawn. Helen chose to ignore him. ‘He’s good for me.’