Chapter 13

Maria and I left for the airport after an early lunch on Sunday, leaving Sandy alone in the apartment doing college work.

“I’m worried about her,” I said as we pulled away from the kerb.

“Why specifically?” she replied.

“Even with the scooter, she won’t leave home without one of us with her,” I said, “it’s like she’s expecting to be attacked again.”

“I don’t think she’s expecting it,” Maria replied, “I think she’s just afraid it might happen again. We’ll be seeing her therapist while you’re away, I’ll mention it.”

She didn’t stay to see me off into the security area, but rather, dropped me off as close to the airport terminal building as we could get and kissed my cheek goodbye as I got out of the car.

“You’re a good man, David Barker, thank you,” she said quietly.

“All I am is an English schoolboy who tries to do his best,” I replied.

“Well, your best is exceptionally good indeed,” she answered, “we’ll see you when you get back.”

I turned then and walked towards the terminal doors, looking back as I reached them to see her still there, looking at me. I waved and walked inside.

There was no queue at the United desk, so I quickly collected my ticket and walked across the check-in hall to the desk dealing with the flight to Minneapolis St Paul. I might finally get to see the mighty Mississippi from closer than seven miles high.

The check-in agent was pleasant and allocated me seat 4A right at the front of first-class by the entry door. She also told me that I was the only passenger booked in that class on the flight and gave me the same seat on the forward flight to Vancouver for which I thanked her and walked through to security.

I was in terminal C, which was United’s own terminal, and soon found a coffee house that, thankfully wasn’t Starbucks and sat down with my drink at the last remaining empty table.

I’d been there about five minutes when a soft, female voice interrupted my thoughts.

“Excuse me, are these seats taken?” she asked.

“No, please, take them,” I replied.

“Oh,” she said, a surprised note in her voice, “you’re English.”

“Yes,” I replied, “but tell me, how did you guess?”

“Your accent,” she answered.

I looked up and saw her for the first time, she was, I would guess about thirteen, and she was looking at me strangely.

“You’re somebody famous, aren’t you?” she asked softly.

“Well, my sister describes me as a legend in my own lunchtime,” I responded, “but I don’t think I’m famous, I’m just me.”

“But I know your face,” she said, “I know...”

I held my hand up.

“If you’re going to say Greg Paradise,” I warned, “don’t”

“Oh,” she replied, “I was going to, you look like him.”

“That’s because I played him in a film, and he’s been plaguing me ever since. I’m David.”

“I’m Caroline,” she answered and held out her hand.

We were joined moments later, by a woman who looked like an older version of Caroline, I assumed that she was her mother.

Caroline confirmed this a few seconds later when she introduced her as her ‘Mom’ Helen.

Helen and I shook hands, and I went back to my coffee, while they started on their coffee and doughnuts.

Once I finished my coffee, I said goodbye to Helen and Caroline and wandered over to the bookshop to find something to read on the plane, then wandered through to the gate for my flight.

I’d picked up a Clive Cussler, not really my kind of thing, but easy to read, I wouldn’t miss it much if I lost it and I settled down to wait.

I’d read about twenty pages when I was aware of a presence, it was Caroline.

“Hello again,” I said with a smile, “are you flying to Minneapolis as well?”

“Yes,” she replied, “we live there. Well, we live in St. Paul. Why are you going there?”

“To catch a plane to Vancouver in Canada.”

“Oh, cool,” she said, “are you making a film there?”

“Not exactly, we start filming a TV show there in December,” I replied, “I’m going up for a week for costume fittings.”

“It must be exciting,” she said, “being a film star.”

“Can you keep a secret?” I asked.

She nodded.

“Cross your heart?”

She made the appropriate gesture.

“It’s actually really, really boring,” I said quietly, “but don’t tell anyone.”

“But how can it be boring, all the stories in the papers?” she complained.

“It’s like this,” I began, “you get to work a six in the morning, spend two to three hours in make-up and costume, then you spend an hour rehearsing the scene. Ten minutes filming it. Then you sit around and wait for three hours while they set up the next scene, an hour rehearsing that, then ten minutes filming it. Sometimes you get to repeat the process a third time. Then you spend an hour getting the make-up off, change into your own clothes and then you go home. Then you spend the evening learning lines for the next day, go to bed, get up the next day and do the whole thing all over again. It’s a great life.”

“Ugh,” she said, “when you put it like that, why do you do it?”

“I’m only in it for the money,” I said, “well that and the girls.”

I gave her my best cheeky smile.

Helen joined us just after that and the three of us sat and chatted. Caroline wanted to be a lawyer when she grew up, so I told her about my sister wanting to be a doctor.

Eventually, our flight was called and being the only first-class passenger, I got on first, took my seat, and buckled on my seat belt. Caroline gave me a little wave as she and her mother passed, and I took my book out of my carry-on bag before I placed the bag in the overhead locker. I settled down to what I assumed would be a good three-hour read. We got the usual safety talk as we pushed back, and I found myself wondering why, when we were taking under three hours to fly, and it was all over dry land, we needed to know where our life preserver was situated. I’d rather be told where the parachutes are.

Still, thankfully, we didn’t need either safety device and we touched down at Minneapolis-St Paul airport seventeen minutes ahead of schedule. Just as I’d been first on, I was the first passenger off the plane. I followed the transit signs and found the gate for my onward flight. By the time I reached there, I had a little over an hour to wait.

I pulled out my laptop and caught up on my emails, not difficult, since of the six I’d received, four were for penis enlargement, one from a retired Nigerian Colonel and the fourth from my sister asking me to bring her something nice back from Vancouver. It had been announced a couple of months earlier that Vancouver would host the 2010 Winter Olympics, and she wanted me to get her something to do with that.

I dozed off soon after take-off on the flight to Vancouver, and woke up about half an hour before landing, just in time to eat the meal the airline provided. We landed at a time that my body thought was just before nine pm and the local clock told me was just before six.

A driver was waiting for me when I’d cleared customs and immigration, and he led me out to a minibus emblazoned with the studio name.

His name according to the name badge he wore was Gianprakash, but he suggested I call him Jimmy.

On the way to the hotel, he explained that he’d be my driver for the week he’d pick me up each day at eight and bring me back after the day was finished.

I thanked him when he dropped me off at the hotel and promised to be waiting outside for him the following morning at eight.

After settling in my room, I was hungry, and decided the best thing to do was to eat locally. I wandered down to the Dockside Restaurant on the ground floor and got a table over by the windows overlooking the patio, with a view of the city across False Creek, and the yachts in the harbour.

The dinner was nothing special, and grossly overpriced, so I decided early on that I’d eat out in future. I wasn’t eating overpriced food even if the studio were picking up the bill. I also decided that I wasn’t going to follow the American practice of adding ridiculous amounts to the bill just to reward someone for doing the job they were already being paid to do.

The waiter, who was surly throughout looked decidedly unhappy when he realised that I’d crossed through the ‘tip’ area on the chit.

At least the bed was comfortable and the view from the window was pleasant.

I was up at six the following morning and, after a shower and getting dressed, I checked my emails, I had none and was waiting when Jimmy pulled up outside the hotel at precisely eight am. It was only a fifteen-minute drive to the studio, and he pulled up outside an office block, rather than one of the sound stages. I walked inside and approached the reception desk.

“Good morning,” the girl behind the counter intoned, “how may I be of service?”

She looked and sounded like she was about thirteen.

“I’m David J. Barker, I’m here for the make-up and costume tests,” I explained.

She looked down at a list she had on her desktop.

“Ah yes,” she said, “here you are. Could you just sign in please?”

She indicated a large sheet of NCR paper with printing on it.

I filled my details on the top line and she tore a strip off the top sheet, folded it, placed it in a plastic badge holder and handed it to me.

“Please wear this at all times when on the premises. It’s good for the week, so please retain it when you leave this evening.”

Her tone gave me the impression that something unspeakable would happen to me if she had to issue another one.

“Thank you,” I said, “where do I go?”

“If you would like to take a seat, someone will be with you shortly.”

I took a seat and soon realised that in the film industry, shortly can be anything from a few seconds up to several hours.

Eventually after more than twenty minutes, and the arrival of four more people, a harassed looking young man in his early twenties appeared, walked over to where we were all sat studiously pretending that the others weren’t there.