Constance by Rosie Thomas Page A

panels.
    ‘Roxy, I know ye’re there.’
    ‘I’m busy.’
    ‘What in the name of feck were ye doin’ with Kemal’s bike?’
    ‘I borrowed it.’
    ‘What was it, a death-wish?’
    ‘Go away.’
    ‘Listen, all right. I’m just askin’ about the job.’
    ‘I got the job.’
    He whistled. ‘Did you so? It’s good work, that. There’s good money in it. Easy work too, lap dancing. Waftin’ yerself around in front of a few boozed-up City boys.’ She heard his chuckle through the door.
    ‘Dylan, I’ll see you tomorrow, maybe.’
    ‘Yeah, right enough. See yer, Roxy.’
    Dylan needed to make himself different too, she thought. He didn’t know it, though. That was the difference between the two of them.
    ‘That’s it, people. We’re all through. Good work. Thanks very much everyone.’
    The first assistant scissored his arms in the air and Tara flopped back in her seat with a trill of satisfaction. The last shot for the third of the online-bank commercials was in the bag.
    The middle-aged cellist in the string quartet gently put aside her instrument. Connie saw that there was sweat beaded around her hairline, and the bow-ties and starched shirts of the violin and viola players had gone shapeless in the humidity. She thanked them for their hours of work, playing the same few bars of music for the commercial over andover in the afternoon’s heat, and paid them their money. The violinist carefully counted it.
    ‘We should be thanking you,’ he said formally. He was German. ‘If there is any more work of the same type, please be kind enough to think of us.’
    ‘Of course I will,’ Connie said warmly as they all shook hands. She couldn’t imagine the likely circumstances, though.
    She wasn’t sorry that the week to come would not be as ripe with crisis as the one that was just past. The main actress had barely recovered from her stomach upset, and her enfeebled state had led to rescheduling and hours of overage costs which Angela had had to negotiate with Tara. Relations had become strained.
    Then the agency and client teams had both shown remarkable and competitive stamina when it came to after-hours partying. The mornings-after had been difficult. One of the Australian crew members had entertained a woman in his room and had been outraged to discover the next morning that his wallet, laptop and MP3 player had vanished with her into the night. Connie had been called on to act as go-between with the local police when the stolen property wasn’t instantly recovered.
    ‘What did he expect?’ Angela sighed to her in private. ‘Tarts with hearts of gold only exist in the movies, you’d think he’d know that.’
    The musicians hurried with their instruments to the waiting bus. Their evening job was playing light classical pops in the main dining room of the most expensive hotel in Jimbaran, and they would have to go straight there from the set.
    Still in his costume, the handsome actor’s stunt double strolled ahead of Connie as she made her way to the service tent. She absently admired the smooth, oiled breadth of his shoulders and the way his bare torso tapered to the waistof his breeches, and then laughed at herself. One of the riggers whistled at her as he hoisted a grip stand towards the waiting trucks. In the service tent itself the Balinese catering team were packing away chairs and folding down the tables. Angela was standing there with her knuckles tight around a cup of coffee. She looked as if she hadn’t slept for a week.
    Probably, Connie reflected, she actually hadn’t.
    ‘Well done,’ Connie said to her.
    Kadek Wuruk stuck his head into the tent. ‘Hello, Ibu ,’ he beamed. ‘Kitchen closed, end of shooting, but you like drink maybe?’
    ‘Yes please, Kadek.’
    ‘Could you take a beer to Mr Ingram, too?’ Angela called after him. Rayner Ingram had been absorbed in his creative cocoon all week long, and had taken no note of the problems besetting the shoot. ‘He’s pretty