Sam awoke to the insistent ring of the telephone, and automatically picked up the receiver. The recorded voice told her it was five o’clock in the morning, her pre-arranged wake-up call. She laid her head back on the pillow, trying to recall the events of the night. There’d been the party at the pool. And then she’d been out on the verandah with Brett, and they’d been about to go to bed together. God, how had she let that happen?

Suddenly it all came swimming back into her brain. The ecstasy pill. The overwhelming panic. The terrifying sense of imminent death as she lay in the dark. Then the hallucinations. The vision of the old woman from Fareham. The clarity of her voice. ‘We’re a team, you and I, dear,’ the old woman had said, ‘a team.’ Then the giant eye, getting bigger and bigger and finally swallowing her.

She shivered at the memory. How bizarre, she thought, what extraordinary tricks the mind can play when it’s tampered with. Then, after briefly cursing Brett Marsdon for his stupidity, she resolved not to dwell on the strangeness of it all, but to repair the damage instead.

She threw the light cotton doona aside and tentatively stood, surprised that she didn’t feel worse. Surely she should have a hideous hangover, but she wasn’t even tired. She went into the bathroom and turned the mirror lights on for a close inspection. How much sleep had she had, three hours, four? But her skin was tight and her eyes were clear. The after-effects appeared to be minimal, she thought thankfully.

 

‘G’day, Sam.’

‘Morning, Bob.’

The Landcruiser was parked out the front, and Bob Crawley was waiting in the open, hotel reception area. Bob was always punctual. As ‘personal chauffeur to the stars’, a term he intended incorporating in his brochures, Bob considered it his duty to provide top professional service.

He and Sam sat in the deserted lounge chatting amicably as they waited for Brett Marsdon. Bob was to drive the two actors to Mele Bay, the crew having left in their trucks and vans a full half hour earlier to set up. Simon Scanlon would arrive at location an hour and a half after the actors who, by then, would have been through the lengthy process of makeup, hair and wardrobe.

Morning call times were tightly scheduled, strictly adhered to, and any tardiness or inefficiency met with the disapproval of all. Not only did a late start put them behind schedule, but it meant they lost the best part of the day, for it was the clear morning light that was most effective on film. In fact, Simon and Kevin Hodgman, the director of photography, considered the early light so precious that they went to great pains to select which scenes and shots would be filmed first up.

‘Bit late, isn’t he?’ Bob Crawley said, finally breaking the silence and stating the obvious, but Sam didn’t reply. Their conversation had died down over the past quarter of an hour. They’d now been waiting twenty-five minutes, and she was angry. She didn’t want to take it out on poor Bob, however, so she strode up to the night clerk seated behind the reception desk and told him to go and knock on Mr Marsdon’s door.

‘And don’t stop until you’ve woken him up,’ she said grimly.

The clerk, a young islander called Henry, checked his list of wake-up calls and said that Mr Marsdon had already been woken up.

No, he hadn’t been woken up at all, Sam said, but Henry nodded emphatically and assured her that he had made the wake-up call himself.

‘Yes, I believe you,’ she replied with a touch of exasperation. ‘But, you see, he didn’t wake up, he slept through the call.’

Henry stared at her, pleasantly but blankly.

‘We need to wake him up!’ Sam desperately urged.

‘Ah.’ Henry smiled and nodded and picked up the phone.

‘No, no, that won’t do!’ She curbed her annoyance, but she wanted to scream; sometimes the islanders’ incomprehension of the concept of urgency was infuriating. ‘I want you to go to his door, and I want you to keep bashing on it until he wakes up.’ She thumped her fist on the desk by way of example.

Henry wanted to say that it wasn’t his job, that he was on reception duty. The early morning shift was his favourite, always easy, nothing to do. He didn’t want to walk all the way down the hill and then back up again. But if he rang through to William who was on security, it would take a long time – William was usually asleep. Henry sensed that the young woman was getting angry and he never liked being hassled, so he gave in.

It was a full fifteen minutes before he ambled back, and Sam was beginning to wish she’d sprinted down the hill herself.

‘Mista Marsdon is woken up now,’ he said.

‘Thank you.’ She tried to make her smile as gracious as possible.

Several minutes later, Brett raced breathlessly into the reception area doing up the buttons of his open-necked cotton shirt.

‘Sorry I’m late,’ he panted, ‘slept through the wake-up call. Just as well for Henry here, eh?’ He smiled at the clerk, and from behind his desk Henry returned the smile, glad that his trouble had been so appreciated.

Sam said nothing, but marched out to the Landcruiser, the other two following.

Bob had presumed that the actors would sit together in the back seat as they usually did. He respected their passion for their work. Sam and Mickey and Louis would always listen to each other’s lines, or discuss their characters and the scenes they were about to shoot. This time was different, however.

‘I’ll sit in the front with Bob,’ Sam said to Brett, ‘and you take the back seat.’ It was nothing short of an order. ‘You can get a bit more sleep on the drive out there.’ He looked terrible, she thought. His skin was puffy, his eyes bloodshot, and the bags underneath them made him look ten years older. What was the man doing to himself?

‘Great idea, thanks, Sam.’ Brett jumped into the back and lay down immediately.

His apology for being three-quarters of an hour late had been perfunctory to say the least, and he hadn’t registered her annoyance at all, both of which made Sam even more angry. She climbed into the car, Bob started the engine, and as they pulled away from the kerb, she leaned over the back seat.

‘You look bloody terrible, you know that,’ she said accusingly.

‘Sure, sure,’ he said as he closed his eyes. ‘They’ll fix it, don’t you worry, that’s what makeup artists are for. We’re going to be great today, you and me, Sam.’ And he was asleep in a matter of seconds.

Sam looked out the window at the dawn sky as they drove, the normally talkative Bob respecting her silence. She was probably getting into character, he thought. God, he loved working in show business.

Brett Marsdon appeared to have no recall of last night’s events, Sam thought. Not that she would have expected him to say anything in front of Bob, but surely she should have read some recognition in his eyes, in his general behaviour. It was a worry. A very big worry, she thought. Did they really have a junkie on their hands?

Bob drove fast, trying to pick up some of the time they’d lost, but they were still half an hour late when they arrived at Mele Bay, where the trucks and vans were all parked on the spit overlooking the mock township.

Maz raised a critical eyebrow as Sam and Brett stepped up into the makeup van reserved for the principal actors. Which one of them was responsible for the hold-up? she wondered as she studied them for the obvious signs. Of course, she should have guessed.

‘Come on, Brett,’ she said. He looked a mess. ‘Into the chair, you’re mine.’ Maz was the boss, and personally responsible for Samantha Lindsay’s hair and makeup, but, recognising Brett Marsdon as an urgent case, she gave a nod to Ralph, her second-in-command. She shoved Sam’s kit and makeup charts along the bench to him, muttering under her breath with a glance at Brett, ‘This could take a while.’

‘Sorry we’re late, Maz.’ Sam took the onus of apology upon herself. There was none forthcoming from Brett, who’d climbed into the makeup chair and was about to fall asleep.

‘No worries.’ Maz winked an assurance that she was well aware of the guilty party. ‘We’ll get you both done in time.’ And as she quickly cleansed, toned and prepared Brett’s face, she talked Ralph through Sam’s makeup and the requirements of the day.

Maz was a highly experienced makeup artist. A tough-talking, good-natured little woman in her mid-thirties, who worked hard and partied hard, she was well liked and respected by actors. She in turn liked and respected them, with the exception of a handful whom she considered spoilt brats, and Brett Marsdon appeared to be one of them. She hadn’t worked with him before, but she knew his kind.

She lifted back his eyelids and inserted the drops that would clear the redness. His kind were the insolent little shits who partied all night, then relied on makeup artists to undo the damage. She didn’t actually mind that part of it, she thought, laying the infused eyepads over his eyes to reduce the swelling. She rather enjoyed the challenge of restoring their looks for the camera, but when they were unapologetically late, and arrogant to boot, she wanted to belt the crap out of them. A late start meant she had to rush her work, and she bloody hated that.

To Maz, makeup was far more than a technical and artistic skill, it was a psychological affair. The relationship between makeup artist and actor was intimate. She started their day, both physically and mentally. She relaxed them with hot face towels, and refreshed their skin with toners before applying their makeup, she massaged their scalps before starting on their hair or their wigs. She liked to take her time. She listened when actors wanted to chat, and she was as silent as the grave when they didn’t. She gossiped when they wished and, if they sought her advice on personal problems, she told them exactly what they wanted to hear. Maz was very good at her job.

And then pricks like Brett Marsdon came along and buggered things up, she thought, gently patting the elasticising cream in with the tips of her fingers and watching the skin tighten as she did so. Selfish little shits who arrived late, forced her to rush her work and thereby stuffed up her day. She invariably got them on set looking perfect and with no halt to production time, but she was never thanked for it. And on the rare occasion when it was an impossible task and the director and crew were kept waiting, the cry was always the same. ‘What the hell’s going on with hair and makeup?’

Once the puffiness was reduced enough to apply makeup, she started under Brett’s eyes with the masking stick. She was on the downhill run. Clever masking, a special base, intricate use of highlights and shaders, the rest was easy. She’d have him ready on time, and she’d do it with good grace, but she didn’t like Brett Marsdon.

It was all very well to be a party person, Maz thought – Christ alive, she was one herself, she could pop e’s and snort coke with the best of them – but actors had to be careful. And if they couldn’t be careful, they could at least arrive on bloody time and be grateful when she undid the bloody damage.

‘Fantastic!’ Brett grinned into the mirror. ‘Absolutely fantastic!’ And Maz had the distinct impression that the compliment was directed at himself, not her.

‘Can we have Mr Marsdon on set, please.’ Even as the first assistant director’s voice crackled over the two-way radio set, the makeup van door opened and the second AD popped his head in. ‘They’re ready to go,’ he said.

The second disappeared and Brett bounced out of the chair, revitalised. ‘Thanks, babe,’ he said, ‘you’ve done a great job.’

‘My pleasure.’ He hadn’t even bothered to remember her name, she thought.

Sam was already waiting on set when Brett arrived. They were filming at Mamma Black’s, and she was sitting beside the boathouse in a director’s chair, script in hand, the extras who had been brought out in the mini-bus milling around drinking mugs of tea.

Brett leapt in front of her and struck a pose. ‘Looking good,’ he said, flashing his perfect smile, teeth gleaming in the crisp early light, ‘what did I tell you?’

‘Looking very good,’ she agreed. ‘Maz is a genius.’

‘Looking good yourself, Sam.’ He stepped back and appraised her admiringly. He hadn’t paid any attention to her when he’d been sitting in the adjacent makeup chair – he’d been too busy drifting off to sleep – and he hadn’t even heard her leave the van. He’d seen her as Sarah Blackston before, when he’d watched the filming at Undine Bay, but this was a different Sarah entirely. Her hair was blonder, bleached nearly white by the sun, and her skin was tanned and healthy. Gone was the restricted, demure woman he’d watched in the scene with the husband and the plantation owner. This woman was a free spirit, a very part of the environment that surrounded her.

The montage depicting Sarah’s transformation had been filmed before his arrival and Brett was looking at the Sarah Blackston who had become Mamma Black, saviour to the local people and valuable ally to the American forces. He was most impressed.

‘You’re looking better than good, you’re looking fan-bloody-tastic!’ he said, with an attempt at an Australian accent that was so awful Sam laughed.

‘Action,’ Simon called five minutes later.

‘So you’re Mamma Black.’

Sarah was in the boathouse. Having lifted up the second of the large shutters, she was wedging the rod into the window ledge when she heard the voice in the street, and turned to see the lieutenant watching her.

‘Yes.’

Wily Halliday looked the young Englishwoman up and down. ‘You’re not what I expected.’

Sarah found the man’s manner impudent. ‘Really?’ she replied archly. ‘And what exactly did you expect?’

‘Well, someone older, for a start.’ Again he looked her up and down, taking in the lithe brown arms and slim body, his eyes resting momentarily upon the pert breasts evident beneath the light, sleeveless shirt. ‘Someone … I don’t know … bigger, I guess.’ He grinned suggestively. ‘Hell, Mamma Black, what was I supposed to expect?’

‘Cut!’ Simon called. He took Brett aside. ‘Less lascivious, mate,’ he said quietly.

‘How do you mean?’ Brett was on the defensive in an instant. He hadn’t been playing it lasciviously at all, he thought.

‘I mean that he’s not on the make. He’s not undressing her with his eyes, he’s simply surprised and he’s honest about it.’

‘But he lusts after her,’ Brett countered. ‘Shit, man, look at her! What guy wouldn’t?’

Simon heaved an inward sigh. Brett Marsdon was going to be trouble, but he always placated his actors. ‘Yeah, I’m sure he does, but let’s keep that hidden for a while, shall we? Let’s just play it simple for starters. Genuine surprise, genuine admiration.’ He smiled encouragingly. ‘Okay?’

Brett shrugged. ‘Okay.’ But he wasn’t very happy. This was the scene where the stars of the movie first met. Surely there should be sparks. Instant chemistry, that’s what it was all about.

They started again and the scene progressed.

‘No offence intended, ma’am, I assure you.’ Wily apologised in earnest, realising that she’d found him too forthright.

‘None taken, Lieutenant …?’ She waited for him to introduce himself.

‘Lieutenant Wily Halliday, at your service, ma’am.’

His smile was disarming as he saluted, and Sarah smiled back, realising that she’d overreacted. The young lieutenant might be brash but he meant no harm. She started levering up the next shutter.

‘Let me give you a hand.’ He took the rod from her.

‘Thank you, Lieutenant. Wily … that’s short for William, is it?’ she asked, keen to make up for her brusqueness.

‘Nope. I was named after Wily Post.’ It was a proud announcement, and when he’d wedged the rod into the window ledge he stood waiting for her to be impressed. But there was no reaction at all. ‘You’ve never heard of Wily Post?’ he asked incredulously.

‘Sorry.’

‘One of America’s great heroes. Pioneer aviator. Created airmail routes from Alaska to Florida.’

‘Ah.’ She nodded.

‘First man to fly solo around the world, seven days, eighteen hours and forty-nine minutes. He was my dad’s best friend at school.’ He grinned with inordinate pride. ‘Wily Post was the reason I became a pilot.’

‘Cut!’ Simon called. Once again he took Brett aside. ‘You’re laying it on a bit thick, mate,’ he said.

‘Laying what on thick?’ Brett was bewildered.

‘The charm,’ Simon said as gently as he could, although he wanted to throttle the man. Marsdon wasn’t relating to Sam at all, he was simply pulling out every trick in the book. From the sparkling eyes to the million-dollar smile, he looked like a toothpaste commercial. ‘Like I said, mate, he’s not trying to score, he’s genuinely proud of being named after Wily Post.’

This time Brett was more than defensive, he was rebellious. ‘I wasn’t playing him like he’s trying to score, Simon! I was playing the character for what he is. He’s a hero, man! And what the fuck’s wrong with a bit of charm anyway?’ And why the fuck was Simon Scanlon considered such a crash-hot director? he thought. Jesus, what does he want from me? I’m a number one box-office star, I’ve been hired for my onscreen charisma, and he’s asking me to act like a wimp.

But Brett could feel the beads of sweat forming at his temples. He remembered how impressed he’d been as he’d watched the other actors at Undine Bay. He’d told himself not to rely on the old charm. Was Scanlon right? Was that what he was doing, just playing the star? He hadn’t intended to, he’d been giving it his best shot. He was getting jumpy. Careful, he told himself, don’t let the paranoia set in.

It was just as he’d feared, Simon thought, Marsdon could no longer act without his tricks. It was why he’d fought against the man’s casting from the outset. Brett Marsdon was basically a good actor, Simon knew it. Indeed in his early films, when he’d been little more than a teenager, he’d displayed an extraordinary natural talent. But for the past several years his box-office successes had been realised on the strength of his good looks and personality. So much so that his tricks had now become second nature, the man wasn’t even aware of his mannerisms. Or was he? Simon wondered. Beneath the actor’s belligerence, he had recognised a strong sense of insecurity. Brett Marsdon was afraid. Was he doubting himself?

Very patiently, Simon started to spell out the character of Wily Halliday as he saw him.

‘Wily’s not a hero, Brett. Not yet. And even when he does become a hero, it’s only through his actions, there’s nothing inherently heroic about him as a man. And he certainly doesn’t see himself as hero.’ Brett was sulking, it wasn’t getting through. ‘Look, mate, you’re right,’ Simon said trying to bolster the actor’s confidence. ‘You’re dead bloody right, he’s charming. But it’s the sort of charm that comes from within. Wily’s not trying to sell himself.’

It wasn’t working at all. Brett’s sulky pout had now become a baleful glare. He hadn’t been trying to sell himself, for God’s sake. Fuck you, Scanlon, he thought.

The man had closed off completely, Simon realised. He switched to another tack.

‘I tell you what,’ he suggested, ‘let’s try a bit of improvisation. No cameras, just you and Sam.’ Perhaps Sam could get through to him, he thought. Marsdon obviously couldn’t, or wouldn’t, take direction. Not from him anyway. An instinctive approach might prove more productive.

Brett continued to glare, so Simon slung an arm around his shoulder. ‘Come on, mate,’ he said, ‘relax and give it a burl,’ and Brett reluctantly allowed himself to be led back to the boathouse. ‘You blokes take a break for a while,’ Simon said to Kevin, ‘we’re going to do a bit of impro,’ and the director of photography and his team disappeared for a coffee.

‘Right,’ Simon instructed, ‘a different scenario. We’ll take it from where you introduce yourself, Brett. Sam, you take the piss out of him about being called Wily, and Brett you convince her it’s your real name.’

Sam nodded, she enjoyed improvisation, but Brett didn’t look too sure. He wasn’t accustomed to working without a script.

‘I don’t want you to stay in character,’ Simon told them. ‘I want you to go whichever way you want, do whatever you like, say whatever comes into your head, I’m just after interaction.’ He gave Sam a meaningful look, which she instantly understood. Simon wanted her to push Brett, perhaps even to unnerve him, anything to elicit an instinctive response.

Brett looked at Sam. Did she approve of this bullshit? But she smiled encouragingly. ‘Come on, Brett, have a go,’ she said, ‘it’s fun.’

‘In your own time,’ Simon called.

‘Lieutenant Wily Halliday, at your service, ma’am.’ Brett wasn’t sure how to start the ball rolling, so he stuck to the script.

Sam looked him up and down, then raised a scornful eyebrow. ‘Wily?’ she said. ‘That’s apt.’

‘How do you mean?’ He was confused. Sam didn’t look like Sarah Blackston any more. She didn’t look like Sam either. She was brassy and brazen and provocative.

‘It suits you,’ she said. ‘Wily, as in cunning. Wily, as in crafty.’ Her smile was wicked. ‘It’s a very good nickname.’

‘It’s not a nickname,’ he protested. He was more than confused, he was well and truly out of his depth.

‘Really? Pity. I found it attractive.’

‘In what way?’ He couldn’t think of what to say.

‘Well, you’re trying to chat me up, aren’t you?’ She grinned seductively and he couldn’t take his eyes off her. ‘You’re trying to get into my knickers, Wily Halliday.’ She put her hand on his shoulder and gently trailed her fingers down his chest. ‘I’d say that makes you one wily bastard, wouldn’t you?’ And the tip of her tongue slid lazily across her upper lip.

Christ, she was coming on strong, he thought, and the memory of the previous night returned. He recalled the excitement he’d felt when they’d been on the verge of making love. Jesus, but she’d turned him on. Then she’d had that bad trip and he’d gone back to his bungalow. He’d felt pretty jumpy so he’d smoked a joint to calm down and then he’d hit the wall.

Brett hadn’t thought about last night’s events all morning, apart from a vague sense of relief that Sam was fine. So, she’d had a bad trip, so what? Everyone had a bad trip now and then. But here she was, coming on to him so strong, and it all flooded back.

He tried to concentrate on the improvisation. ‘Wily’s not a nickname,’ he said. Her other hand was on his chest now. Her mouth, lips parted, was coming closer, and he couldn’t drag his eyes from hers. ‘Wily’s who I am.’

‘Wily is who you are?’ she whispered, and she started to unbutton his shirt.

‘Wily Post,’ he said, mesmerised.

‘Wily what?’ She stopped and drew back, surprised.

‘I was named after Wily Post.’

‘Who the fuck’s Wily Post?’

The vulgarity shocked him. And her eyes were cold. No longer bent on seduction, she was mocking him now.

‘Wily Post was one of America’s great heroes.’ Brett had no option but to return to the script, he was completely rattled. ‘First man to fly solo around the world. And my father went to school with him.’

‘Cut!’ Simon called. ‘Well done, you two. Thanks, Sam.’ He kissed her cheek, but the gentle pressure of his fingers on her shoulder was a far greater expression of his gratitude. ‘Good on you, Brett,’ he said giving him a hearty pat on the back, ‘that was great.’

What was? Brett wondered. He hadn’t done anything. But Simon’s praise had a profound effect on him and, his belligerence now forgotten, he beamed like a child being congratulated by a favourite teacher.

‘We’ll do a dry run,’ Simon said. ‘No cameras. Go from the top of the scene. And take it from Sam, Brett. Relate to her, she’ll give you everything.’ Another look, which Sam acknowledged with an imperceptible nod, assured Simon that she would.

They ran the scene twice and Brett was starting to relax. Without the pressure of the cameras he was happy to concentrate on reacting purely to Sam’s performance.

‘We’re ready to roll,’ Simon announced and, whilst makeup was called in for touch-ups, he took Kevin aside for a quiet discussion which no-one heard. Then as Kevin left, he called Sam over to him.

Brett watched Simon Scanlon, his arm around Sam, the two of them in intense conversation. Thank God for that, he thought, his paranoia no longer a threat, Sam was getting notes from the director too, he wasn’t the only one.

‘It’s not working,’ Sam said.

‘It is, believe me, he’s relaxing by the minute.’

He’s relaxing, Sam thought, what about me? ‘But he can’t keep taking the lead from me, it’s unbalancing the scene.’ Surely Simon could see that, she thought. She wished that Nick Parslow was there; Nick certainly wouldn’t allow his script to be so wrongly interpreted, she thought. But Nick had gone to Brisbane to meet some obscure research person who had flown out from England. Today of all days! Damn it, Sam thought, it wasn’t a researcher she needed, it was an ally.

Sam’s survival instincts had come into play. Her own performance was being undermined. She was bolstering Brett’s inadequacies at Simon’s request, and it wasn’t fair of him to ask it of her. ‘I’m trying to give him too much when I should be holding back. I keep coming out of character.’

‘I know, I know,’ Simon said quite happily.

‘Well, bugger that.’ Sam was irritated. She felt suddenly exhausted and fed up, and she wanted to hit Simon Scanlon.

‘Sam, listen to me.’ His arm was around her, his fingers gripping her shoulder. ‘We’re not rolling film, we’re doing a dry run, I just want to see how he reacts to the camera.’

She stared at him. So the whole thing was a setup? In her tiredness, she was confused. But the old Svengali gleam was in Simon’s eyes and she found herself, as always, intrigued. When Simon Scanlon was fired up there was a madness about him that was mesmeric.

‘No-one’s going to ruin your performance, Sam,’ he said. ‘No-one! But if we can’t find a truthful balance with Brett we’re in deep shit, and you’re the only one who can get it out of him.’

‘And after the dry run?’ She was still bewildered by his tactics. Was she supposed to alter her performance in the instant he decided to roll film?

‘Relax, we’re not shooting this scene at all today.’ He gave a casual shrug in response to her surprise. ‘We’ve lost the early light anyway. We’ll reschedule it for first up tomorrow.’

The pressure suddenly off, Sam felt a mixture of relief and fatigue, but she still wasn’t sure about Simon’s overall plan.

‘I’m going to call a break after this run and we’ll set up for the scene with you and Brett and Mickey.’ He could see she was tired and confused. ‘Everything’ll be fine, trust me, Sam,’ he assured her, and she had no option to do otherwise.

Maz had completed touching up Brett’s makeup and was standing by to do Sam’s, but she made an announcement instead.

‘I want Sam in the van,’ she said to Simon, ‘we need more than touch-ups.’ Sam needed the full overhaul, Maz thought, she looked buggered.

‘Touch-ups’ll be fine,’ Simon said.

Maz, who never feared fronting directors, was about to argue, but Simon muttered in her ear. ‘We won’t be using any of these takes.’

‘Oh. Okay.’ She shrugged, but she was puzzled. Why were they rolling film if they weren’t going to use it? Sheer bloody waste, in her opinion. Still, it wasn’t her place to say anything.

‘Action!’

It was as Simon had suspected. Once they were rolling, or once Brett assumed they were rolling, he again couldn’t resist acting for the camera. His performance was certainly more truthful than it had been at the outset, but he was still trying to make an impact. Marsdon was fixated upon the fact that this was his first appearance in the film, Simon realised, and more importantly that it was the scene where he first met Sarah Blackston. How could he make the man realise that his own charisma and the chemistry between the two of them was already there, that there was no need to work at it?

‘Cut!’ he called. ‘That’s it for Mamma Black’s,’ he announced. ‘Take a break everyone whilst we set up for the scene at Reid’s.’

Maz was at his side in a second. ‘I’ll need a good hour and a half for Sam,’ she said.

‘No worries.’

Whilst Sam was whisked away to the principals’ makeup van, Simon and Kevin walked towards the nearby set of Reid’s Hotel.

‘But Simon …’ Brett followed them.

Simon stopped. ‘What’s up, Brett?’

‘We haven’t finished the scene.’ How could they call a halt after only a few takes? he thought. ‘What about the reverse shots?’ he asked. ‘What about the closeups? When are we going to …?’

‘Oh I’m not using any of this morning’s stuff, mate.’ Brett’s jaw gaped. Why on earth not? he wondered. ‘We’ve lost the early light,’ Simon explained, ‘and it’s such an important scene, I want you both looking good. Not to worry,’ he smiled, ‘we’ll shoot the whole thing first up tomorrow. Damn good rehearsal though, Brett, well done.’ Another pat on the back, and Brett was left standing there, bewildered. Was Simon mad at him, he wondered briefly. But no, the director seemed quite happy. Strange guy, Brett thought.

As they walked to the Reid’s set, Simon told Kevin his plans. Tomorrow they would reverse the tactic, he said. They would tell Brett they were not rolling film, that they were using the cameras simply to set up angles and shots. Then they would roll without Marsdon knowing it.

‘Any trick we can use, Kev.’

‘Fine by me.’

Kevin Hodgman was a man of few words who lived his life through a camera lens. Everything that caught his attention – a face in a crowd, a bird in flight, a reflection on water – constituted ‘a great shot’. Over their respective twenty-year careers, he and Simon Scanlon had worked together many times, and he’d often seen Simon resort to tricks when he couldn’t get a performance out of an actor through the force of his own inspiration. Somehow he always managed to make it work, and Kevin had no reason to believe that this time would be any different. But he could tell that Simon was worried.

‘She’ll be jake, Simon,’ he said comfortingly.

Ralph had just finished Mickey Robertson’s makeup when Maz and Sam arrived back at the van.

‘G’day, Sammy, how’s it going?’ Mickey leaned lazily back in the chair.

‘Fine. Hello, Elizabeth, I didn’t know you were called today.’

Elizabeth was seated nearby. ‘I’m not,’ she said. ‘Mickey asked me if I’d like to come out and watch the filming.’ She and Mickey exchanged a smile that spoke multitudes.

Sam had noticed the two of them huddled together at the party last night. Well, they’d obviously had a good time, she thought, I’m glad somebody did. She plopped, exhausted, into Maz’s makeup chair.

‘I’m looking forward to seeing the experts at work.’ Elizabeth’s pretty brown face beamed unashamed pleasure as she leaned forward and took Mickey’s hand. She’d been delighted last night when he’d asked her how to say ‘I find you sexy’ in Bislama. She’d set her sights on him a week ago and she’d wondered what had taken him so long.

‘Everyone out, please,’ Maz broke up the chat. ‘Brett’ll be here for touch-ups, we need both chairs.’

‘Maz the Militant,’ Mickey said, but he obediently rose, stooping as he did, his lanky frame too tall for the van. ‘Come on, Liz, let’s get a cup of tea.’

‘You can grab a quick cuppa too if you like, Ralph,’ Maz said.

The offer was casual, but Ralph knew she wanted him out of the van for a moment. He closed the door behind him.

‘You’ve hit the wall, haven’t you,’ Maz said to Sam as she poured a glass of water. Then she delved into what she referred to as ‘the help kit’, her stash of remedies and drugs, many of which were illegal without a prescription.

So that was why she’d felt so suddenly exhausted, Sam realised. Of course! It hadn’t been simply lack of sleep catching up with her. She’d wondered why she’d felt so good this morning, why she hadn’t looked hungover, and why she hadn’t felt tired after a fair bit of booze and only several hours’ sleep. The bad trip might have passed, but the pill had still been working. Now the effects had worn off and she’d crashed.

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘you’re right, I’ve hit the wall.’

‘Drink this,’ Maz handed her an ugly-looking concoction in a glass.

‘What the hell is it?’

‘A bit of everything, but basically a massive dose of vitamin B.’

The mixture had a surprisingly instant effect. ‘Wow,’ Sam said as she felt her eyes spring open.

‘Good stuff, eh? Maz’s miracle cure. Lie back, we’ve got time to go from the top.’ She tilted the chair and started cleansing Sam’s face.

They were silent for a while, Sam relaxing under Maz’s expert ministrations.

‘I took an ecstasy pill,’ she finally admitted. Maz hadn’t asked for any explanation, but given all the extra work inflicted upon her, Sam felt that she was owed one.

‘Thought so,’ Maz said, placing the cool, soothing pads over Sam’s eyes. ‘And you’re not used to them, right?’

Sam shook her head.

There was a tap at the door, Ralph being tactful. He popped his head in. ‘All clear?’

‘Yep,’ Maz said. Ralph had Brett Marsdon in tow, and she looked shrewdly at the American as he stepped up into the van. She knew damn well where Sam’s e had come from. The little prick, she thought.

Fifteen minutes later, her makeup fully restored, her body and mind revitalised by Maz’s ‘miracle cure’, Sam sat with Mickey and Brett in the Reid’s set awaiting Simon’s call of ‘action’.

‘Wily Post, eh?’ Hugh was impressed.

‘Yes, sir.’ Wily flashed a smile at Sarah, pleased that Dr Blackston knew of Wily Post’s fame.

‘Thank goodness, Hugh.’ Sarah laughed. ‘You’ve saved the Blackston name. When Lieutenant Halliday first introduced himself to me I had no idea who Wily Post was.’

‘One of the greatest aviators the world’s ever known, my dear.’

Hugh Blackston had recently returned to Vila after a month’s absence, and the three of them were sitting in the lounge at Reid’s Hotel, Sarah having introduced the American to her husband.

Hugh turned to Wily with a smile. ‘So your destiny was preordained, Lieutenant. Given a name like that, you were of course duty bound to become a pilot.’

‘I guess I was, sir.’ Wily grinned, he liked the doctor.

Hugh had taken an instinctive liking to the young pilot too, it was difficult not to, he was so ingenuous. But he rather wished the fellow wouldn’t call him ‘sir’; there would, after all, be little more than ten years’ difference in their ages. He decided to nip it in the bud.

‘Shall we dispense with the “sir”, Lieutenant?’

Wily was nonplussed. Had he caused offence? He’d intended only respect. The guy was a doctor and a reverend one at that.

Hugh realised that the young man thought he’d offended him, and he laughed out loud. ‘Good heavens, man, you make me feel so old!’

The scene was progressing beautifully and Simon couldn’t have been happier. Brett was relaxed. No longer set upon making a personal impact, he was responding to Mickey and a relationship was developing between the two men. A relationship that Brett himself wasn’t fully aware of, Simon thought, just as Wily Halliday wouldn’t be. The subtleties of the scene lay in Mickey’s performance. The older man was studying the Lieutenant’s good looks, aware that the young man was the same age as his wife. He was aware, too, that his wife had developed a friendship with this man, as she had with many of the military with whom she worked. Hugh Blackston trusted his wife implicitly, and felt like a traitor as he pondered his misgivings.

‘Time to go, my dear.’ Hugh rose from the table. They’d been there for some time, discussing Sarah’s work with the military, and the indispensable place Mamma Black’s now served in Vila. Hugh was proud of his wife, and ashamed of the feelings he wrestled with. ‘Perhaps, Lieutenant, you might care to join us for dinner?’

‘What an excellent suggestion, Hugh.’ Sarah smiled from her husband to Wily and back again.

‘I’d be honoured, Dr Blackston,’ Wily said.

‘Shall we make it Hugh?’

‘Cut,’ Simon called.

 

‘Brett’s responding to Mickey like there’s no tomorrow,’ Simon said to Sam on the way back to the hotel. He’d suggested she go with him in his Suzuki hire car instead of travelling in the Landcruiser with Bob Crawley and the others. She’d had a feeling she knew why: he wanted to talk about Brett. She’d been right.

‘Yes, he is,’ she agreed, ‘but then Mickey’s so easy to respond to …’

But Simon wasn’t listening. ‘The first scene between you two is the worry. In fact the whole relationship between Sarah and Wily’ll be a worry if we can’t break through this Hollywood star syndrome shit. Has he got the hots for you?’

The question had come out of nowhere and she looked at him in astonishment. But he was concentrating on the rough, rutted road and simply waiting for her answer.

Sam knew Simon Scanlon well enough now not to find him offensive. Every personal intrusion was for the good of the movie, she’d discovered, so she decided to be honest.

‘He tried to chat me up last night,’ she admitted, ‘but I don’t know how serious it was. He was a bit grog-affected. We both were.’ She made no mention of drugs.

‘Yes, he fancies you all right, I could see that in the impro this morning. Which of course could work to our advantage.’

The slits of his eyes were still focussed on the road, but Sam could tell his brain was working overtime. She didn’t know whether to feel outraged or not.

‘Are you asking me to sleep with him for the sake of the movie?’

‘Well, stranger things have happened.’ Simon shrugged. Then he turned to meet her eyes, which were wide with astonishment. ‘Good God, no, woman,’ he laughed. ‘I’d prefer it if you didn’t. Torrid affairs amongst actors can make for a shitload of trouble.’ His smile vanished as quickly as it had appeared and he concentrated again on the road, swerving to avoid the potholes when he could. ‘But you have an effect on him, Sam. It may be sexual, it may be your performance — I suspect it’s a mixture of both. All I know is that he relates to you on some level. I don’t know what it is, and I don’t intend to try to find out. If I do he’ll close off from me altogether.’ His eyes met hers again, and he said in all seriousness, ‘I need you to get through to him, Sam.’

Oh great, she thought, and how the hell am I supposed to do that?

‘Basically he’s insecure,’ Simon continued. ‘He’s got it all there to play Wily Halliday, he just doesn’t know it, so he uses the tricks.’

Sam agreed wholeheartedly. But what did Simon expect her to do?

‘How do I go about it?’ she asked.

‘I’ve no idea. Bloody awful road, isn’t it?’ he said as they hit another unavoidable pothole.

 

The crowded dining room at the Crowne Plaza was as lively as always that night and the discussion, as usual, was of the day’s filming. It was a hot, sultry evening and the general consensus was to meet at the pool after dinner for a dip and a drink before crashing early. Many were still feeling the effects of the previous night’s party.

‘Fancy a drink at my place?’ Sam asked Brett. She’d decided to take the bull by the horns.

‘Sure.’ Christ, it was the full come-on, he thought.

There was no mistaking his eagerness, so Sam set him straight. ‘I want to talk about tomorrow’s scene,’ she said.

‘Yeah, yeah,’ he grinned impishly, ‘we can do some more impro. See you there in ten, I’ll just call by my place first.’

Ten minutes later there was a tap at her bungalow door and she opened it to discover him brandishing a bottle of Bollinger and two chilled glasses.

‘Called in at the bar on my way,’ he said.

His eyes were bright, he was in full party mode, and Sam suspected that he’d snorted a quick line in preparation for some action. But she said nothing as they walked out onto the verandah where they sat, Brett opening the champagne.

‘To us,’ he toasted when he’d filled the glasses.

‘To the movie,’ she said automatically as they clinked.

‘Now, where do we start?’ He put his glass on the table, ready to close in.

‘We don’t. I meant what I said, Brett, I want to talk about work.’

‘Sure, go for it.’ Plenty of time, he thought, they had all night.

‘You were terrific in the three-hander scene today. Mickey thought so too.’

‘He did?’ Seduction was momentarily forgotten at praise from Mickey Robertson. ‘That’s great. I love working with him.’

‘Me too. He always manages to bring out the truth of a scene. That’s why you two were great together today, the scene was so bloody truthful.’

Brett looked suspicious. Was there criticism intended? ‘And it’s why our scene didn’t work, is that what you’re saying?’

‘Yes, that’s what I’m saying.’ Sam could see the defensiveness spring into play, but she was going for broke. Subtlety was not her forte, she could only be direct and say things the way she saw them. Damn you, Simon, she thought, I’m no psychiatrist, I’m probably doing irreparable damage.

‘I see.’ Brett’s paranoia leapt to the fore. She didn’t like working with him. Just like Scanlon, she thought he was full of Hollywood bullshit. Well, fuck her. He was a star and this was her first fucking movie. What would she know?

‘Do you realise how attractive you are, Brett?’

He’d drained his glass and was about to leave, but the non sequitur confused him and he stared at her suspiciously. What was she playing at?

‘I was knocked out when I first met you,’ she said. She had to get through to him quickly, she thought, he was on the verge of walking out. ‘Not just the good looks and all that, it was your eagerness that stunned me. I hadn’t expected you to be so … I don’t know …’ she fumbled for the word ‘… so enthusiastic, I suppose, so unaffected. I remember thinking you were like a puppy wagging his tail.’

‘How cute,’ he said coldly. And how patronising, he thought.

‘Oh you were much more than cute.’ She could tell he was insulted, but she refused to be deterred. ‘You were disarming. You were magnetic.’

‘Was I?’ Brett rose. ‘Pity I turned out to be such a disappointment.’ He’d asked for it, he supposed. What an egotistical idiot he’d been, arriving with champagne, assuming she wanted to pick up where they’d left off last night. It was his humiliation she was after, and she’d succeeded. She was pissed off, and he couldn’t blame her, she had every right to be.

‘I’m sorry about the party,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t have spiked your drink. I was high and I wasn’t thinking. It was a stupid thing to do.’ He had to get out whilst he still had a vestige of dignity. ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’

‘Oh for God’s sake, sit down.’ She picked up the bottle and refilled his glass. ‘Stop taking this personally.’

‘How am I supposed to take it? You want to piss on me for taking advantage of you? Fine, you’ve done it, and I’ve said I’m sorry. Good night.’

‘I don’t want to piss on you, that’s not what I’m saying.’

‘Then what the hell are you saying, Sam?’

‘I’m saying Brett Marsdon is Wily Halliday,’ she explained, exasperated. ‘Sit down and drink your champagne and stop being so bloody defensive.’ He sat but he didn’t drink his champagne, he watched her instead.

‘The Brett Marsdon I first met was Wily Halliday,’ she said. ‘He wasn’t out to make an impression, he was an excited, eager puppy. Don’t you see, Brett? That’s Wily!’ She was so passionately earnest that Brett forgot the perceived insult. ‘Wily’s completely unaware of the effect he has on people,’ she continued. ‘That’s his true charm. He honestly doesn’t know that he’s charismatic.’ She picked up her glass, sat back and studied him. ‘And that’s the impression I had of you when we first met.’ She raised the glass in a silent toast, then downed the champagne in one hit. ‘And that’s why you’re going to be the perfect Wily Halliday.’ Had she got through? She hoped so, she’d meant every word she’d said.

Brett was silent for a moment. It was just the boost his shaken ego needed. ‘Thanks, Sam.’ He couldn’t think of anything else to say.

‘Just stating the facts.’ She put the glass on the table and took a deep breath. ‘One other thing, though …’ She wasn’t sure how he’d react, but she knew she had to say it. ‘Go easy on the coke. It can make you forget that we’re all batting for the same team.’

She was the only one who could have said it to him. If anyone else had offered him such advice, he would have told them to mind their own goddamned business. But deep down Brett knew that she was right. He’d been jumpy a lot lately. He could have punched Simon Scanlon’s lights out today, and it was all because of his own drug-induced paranoia. And the party last night. How the hell could he have done that to her?

‘I nearly blew it with you, didn’t I?’ He shook his head. ‘I must have been crazy. I’m really sorry.’

‘You’ve already said that.’ He looked like a worried little boy. He looked like Wily Halliday, she thought. Boyish and ingenuous. She smiled as she rose to her feet. ‘It’s over. Forgotten. Never happened.’

He stood and hugged her. ‘We’re going to be great, you and me, Sam,’ he whispered in her ear, and this time there was no bravado, just relief.

‘Yes we are,’ she said, returning the hug.

‘So I was an eager puppy …’ His expression was quizzical as he held her at arm’s length. ‘You want to know my first impression of you?’

‘Sure.’

‘I thought you were one helluva hot little number and I couldn’t wait to get you into the cot.’ He smiled and gave a helpless shrug. ‘So sue me, it’s the truth.’

Sam laughed. He was incorrigible. He was brash, cheeky, and disarmingly honest. He was Wily Halliday.

‘Go to bed, Brett,’ she said pushing him to the door. ‘On your own!’

 

‘So you’re Mamma Black.’

‘Yes.’

‘You’re not what I expected.’

‘Really? And what exactly did you expect?’

‘Well someone older, for a start. Someone … I don’t know … bigger, I guess. Hell, Mamma Black, what was I supposed to expect?’

‘What have you done to him?’ Simon whispered to Sam when they’d completed the first take. ‘No,’ he said, raising his hands in the air, ‘don’t tell me, I don’t want to know. Just keep doing what you’re doing, you’re a genius, Sam.’

At the end of the day’s filming, Sam felt elated. Simon’s ‘genius’ tag might have been going a bit far, she thought, but he’d been right. Whatever she’d done to Brett had certainly been effective. Sarah and Wily had come alive that day and, all her qualms forgotten, she now looked forward to working with Brett Marsdon.

As the Landcruiser pulled up at the hotel, she spied Nick Parslow waiting for them in the hotel reception area.

‘G’day, gang, how did it go?’ he asked, joining the actors as they piled out of the car.

They walked into the hotel together, chatting animatedly, everyone having something to say about the day’s filming. Ten minutes later Mickey and Brett disappeared to shower before dinner.

‘Where the hell were you when I needed you?’ Sam demanded once she and Nick were alone. She had determined to say nothing in front of the others.

‘Oh really? Trouble?’ He looked concerned.

‘Nothing that hasn’t sorted itself out,’ she admitted, ‘but what a bugger of a time to desert me.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘The opening scene between me and Brett?’ she said, spelling it out.

‘I thought the timing was rather good myself,’ Nick replied, easing his glasses up the bridge of his nose as he often did when he saw a confrontation coming. ‘If I’d been here I wouldn’t have come out on location anyway.’

‘Why on earth not?’

‘My presence on set wouldn’t have helped, Sam, I can read Brett’s antagonism a mile off. He doesn’t like me.’

‘That’s because he thinks you don’t like him.’

‘Really?’ Brett’s feelings were of little concern to Nick, but he was pleased that Sam was being protective of the American, it augured well for their working together. ‘So what happened?’

Sam paused for a moment. Although she hadn’t intended to tell Nick about the ecstasy pill and the disastrous night with Brett, she had certainly anticipated discussing the difficulties they’d had with the American. But it was too complicated, she now realised. How could she explain the astonishing change in Brett’s performance today without giving Nick, who knew her so well and was also so perceptive, the reasons why? She decided on evasive action instead.

‘Some teething problems,’ she said. ‘It’s probably best if Simon fills you in.’

‘Right you are,’ he nodded. ‘Now let’s have a drink, there’s someone I want you to meet.’

She was relieved that he didn’t appear interested in pursuing the conversation, but also a little puzzled. She’d expected him to grill her further. ‘What teething problems?’ he would normally have demanded. He seemed rather distracted, she thought.

‘Not now, Nick, I have to have a shower, I’m filthy.’

‘No shower, you’re as fresh as a daisy, and I want you to meet him before the others congregate. Come on, he’s waiting at the bar.’ Arm linked firmly through hers he started marching her out of the reception area.

‘Can’t you give me twenty minutes …?’ she started to protest.

‘Nope, the gang’ll be turning up and I want you to meet him on your own, it’s important. Now listen to me, Sam …’

She allowed herself to be led. He was so intensely excited, the way he was during script discussions and workshops and play readings. What was going on? she wondered.

‘You remember I told you Mamma Black was loosely based on a real character?’ he asked.

‘Yes. You said her name was Mamma Tack, but you didn’t know who she was.’

‘Exactly, apart from the fact that she was an Englishwoman married to a missionary doctor.’ He shrugged. ‘Writer’s licence, I was inspired by the stories about her, simple as that. I didn’t research the woman herself, it was never going to be a true story, Mamma Tack was simply an inspiration.’ He’d slowed his walk to a snail’s pace as they started down the hill to the poolside bar, but he was talking at the rate of knots.

‘Well, some British journo busted us. There was a huge feature in the Times weekend supplement about the theme of Mammoth’s new big-budget production in the South Pacific. Pictures of you, pictures of Brett. That’s fine, great publicity. But there was also a detailed breakdown of Torpedo Junction’s plot. A bloke called Nigel Daly. Don’t ask me how he did it. There must be a spy in our midst and he paid them off for a look at the script or whatever …’

‘Yes, that’d be Nigel’s style,’ Sam agreed. ‘If there’s a way, he’ll find it.’

‘As it turns out he’s done us a favour,’ Nick said. They were fifty metres from the pool now, and he’d come to a standstill. ‘At least I think he has. I hope you won’t find it confusing.’

‘Find what confusing?’

‘I promise I’m not going to make any radical changes to the script,’ he assured her. ‘Simon’d kill me if I tried anyway. But it might give you an added insight. You know? You might even find it inspirational. It’s inspired me, I can tell you …’

‘Nick, what the hell are you on about?’

‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘got carried away,’ and he started slowly from the beginning. ‘Someone responded to the Times feature and got in touch with Mammoth. He said he was related to Mamma Tack. At first I thought he was a sensation-seeker, and then, when Mammoth put him onto me and I discovered he was for real, I thought he was after money. Either rights for the story, or the threat of a libel suit, neither of which would have held water, but it would have been an unnecessary hassle.’

‘So what did he want?’ She wished he’d get to the point.

‘He wanted to help us in any way we might need,’ Nick said. ‘He’s really interested in the project. He flew out at his own expense, said he was planning a trip anyway, and he’s here right now.’ He took her arm again and started walking towards the pool.

‘It’s incredible stuff,’ he said, and again in his enthusiasm his words tripped over themselves. ‘Mamma Tack was a woman called Jane Thackeray and she died in 1994. The locals called her Missus Tack because they couldn’t pronounce the name, and it was the Americans who christened her “Mamma”. She came from the south of England and she was married to a missionary doctor called Martin. Well no surprises there,’ he admitted, ‘apart from her real name, that much I knew of Mamma Tack. But I tell you, Sam, the parallels with the script and the story of the real Jane Thackeray are uncanny. She even knew the French plantation owner whose homestead we’re filming in!’

They were nearing the pool and he lowered his voice, but his words tumbled out even faster as he told her of the similarities in the deaths of the husbands. ‘Isn’t it extraordinary? Hugh Blackston and Martin Thackeray died the same way.’

By now Sam was finding Nick’s excitement contagious and, as they arrived at the pool, she looked about expectantly. The place was deserted, with the exception of a lone man seated at a table, and Jimmy behind the bar polishing the glasses in preparation for the ‘hafmad filem bigfala grup’, the crazy movie crowd.

The man rose from the table. He was in his early thirties and most intriguing-looking. Straight-haired, fine-boned and lightly olive-skinned; European, but with perhaps a touch of island blood.

‘Jason, sorry to keep you waiting,’ Nick said, ‘this is Samantha.’

‘Hello, Samantha.’ Jason held out his hand. ‘I’ve heard a great deal about you,’ he smiled. The accent was very British, and Sam thought that she had never seen eyes so piercingly blue.

‘Sam, this is Dr Jason Thackeray, Mamma Tack’s grandson.’