‘Gorgeous Odette. Are you ready for our final act of family disfunction?’ Rex Marino greeted her as she walked with regal deportment on to set, stopping only to swap her Louboutins for Agnes’s threadbare furry slippers. In the storyline, Agnes had fallen on hard times, after she’d been conned out of all her money by telephone scammers posing as the staff of her local bank. She’d agreed to send them everything she had, believing their story that her bank account had been hacked, and she’d followed their instructions to transfer every penny she had to a new account. The money was never seen again, and in this scene, her son, Hugh, played by Rex Marino, had just found out and he was about to burst into her home in a rage.
‘I was born ready, darling,’ she answered tartly, while withholding the urge to add, ‘you arrogant pillock’. This guy had the world fooled, but not her. Sure, he was attractive, if you liked the whole Henry Cavill vibe. Well over six foot tall. A jawline you could break a nail on. Perfect white teeth. Dark hair and the bluest eyes this side of Paul Newman. He’d been playing her long-lost son – given up at birth and reunited as an adult – onThe Clydesidefor the last two years, but she’d bet her last furrymule that he wouldn’t be here much longer. This guy had his sights firmly set on Hollywood. On the big time. He wanted to follow Gerry Butler, Sam Heughan and Richard Madden to the land where they loved the twinkly eyes and the gruff accents of Scottish actors. Odette didn’t doubt for a second that he’d try to make the leap, but she really hoped he’d fall on his arse, because there was just something about him that set her Untrustworthy Git Radar up at high. But then, she hadn’t realised that all four of her husbands would turn out to be feckless shits, so maybe her radar was in need of recalibration.
Off to her right, she saw that Elliot was watching her and the documentary camera was still running, so, naturally, she put on a show, taking both Rex’s hands. ‘Let’s make this the best goodbye ever,’ she told him, loud enough for the camera to pick up the poignant undertone in her words. If he was surprised that she’d taken his hands, or spoken with such warmth to him, Rex didn’t show it. Maybe the twit could act after all.
Odette took her place on the set. They’d blocked the scene yesterday, so she knew her marks and was ready to go, as always. You didn’t last forty years on a show without being the consummate professional, and she was determined that was what she’d be, right up until she walked out that door.
A couple of the stage technicians were still on the set, checking continuity and adding a couple of subtle placements, so they were a few minutes off getting started. Rex’s make-up team swooped in for touch-ups and Odette was about to take a quiet minute to close her eyes and visualise the scene that was about to play out, when she felt a gentle nudge on her shoulder.
‘I’ll miss you, you know.’ The Geordie accent was unmistakable, and Odette’s smile was the first genuine one of the day. ‘Tress, pet, I’ll miss you too.’
The new set designer had only started here a few months ago, but she was one of the few people that Odette actually liked. Shewas always smiling, and she definitely passed the test of Odette’s Untrustworthy Git Radar. She’d also learned Tress’s backstory from Maisie in the canteen, and och, it was a heartbreak. It was like the saddest ofThe Clydesidestorylines, but the difference was, the loss of Tress’s husband and all the betrayals surrounding it, were very real.
‘How’s the wee fella doing?’
Tress’s grin widened. ‘He’s doing great. It’s his first birthday today.’
‘And you’re in here? Did you not want to take the day off?’ Odette had never had children, so that was a genuine query rather than a judgement. What were the rules for small peoples’ special days?
Tress shook her head. ‘I didn’t want to miss your last day. Besides, he has no idea what a birthday is yet, and he’s with his aunties who are spoiling him to pieces.’
Odette could feel the warmth in Tress’s words and it piqued something in her. Children had just never been part of her story, and there was no regret there because she’d had the career and the job of her dreams. But now that was over and what did she have left?
‘Odette, we’re ready to roll,’ the director called over to her.
She leaned into Tress’s shoulder. ‘Let’s grab a coffee one of these days. Or maybe something stronger? I’d like to meet that little one of yours.’
‘I like your thinking,’ Tress replied. ‘I’m staying for your lunch, so I’ll give you my number then?’
‘Odette…’ the director called again, so she gave Tress’s hand a quick squeeze and went onto the set. It was Agnes McGlinchy’s living room, an interior layout that matched the outside of the tenement building shot that signalled Agnes’s home to the viewers. It was supposed to be in the evening, in winter, so thelights were low and the real fireplace was alight, flames licking the back of the chimney breast.
Odette sat in the chair in front of the fire, picked up Agnes’s glasses from the side table and lifted her book. It was one of Agnes’s trademark saga novels, set in the Glasgow shipyards of the thirties. Tress’s attention to detail when it came to Agnes’s home and life had been meticulous – Agnes had been working her way through this series of books for the last few months and now she was on the final instalment, just another layer to the final act.
The director hushed the set, Odette took a deep breath, closed her eyes, exhaled. This had to be perfect for many reasons. It was her swansong. A scene that would be replayed for years to come in the shows that covered landmark moments in TV. This was one of them. The demise of one of the longest-running soap characters in the country. She wasn’t quite in the same bracket as Ken, Rita or Gail fromCoronation Street, but she’d made the four-decade mark and that was something special, so this scene had to match it.
The producers had initially wanted to keep it under wraps, top-secret, but they’d gone for a ratings grab instead. For the last fortnight, there had been a media blitz of adverts proclaiming that Odette’s last episode would be shown next month, in a special extended episode, and it was anticipated that they’d have the highest viewing figures in years. Strange how her goodbye was apparently something special, yet the new team of idiot producers and writers hadn’t wanted to keep her around. Ageism. Sexism. Stupidity. It was all of the above.
The day she’d been let go, she’d gone into a meeting with the new production team to renegotiate her contract, just as she’d done every year. As always, Calvin was by her side. ‘Head up, stomach in, a big fat pay rise we will win,’ he’d chanted on the way down the corridor to the boardroom, making her laugh,as he always did when she was anxious. She really needed the money. She was still paying off credit card debts years after Mitchum had bled her dry and she needed to make the next few years count if she was ever going to be able to start enjoying her life again. Of course, Calvin knew the bones of her financial issues, but she’d kept the scale of it even from him, so he had no idea how much debt she had. Shame. Embarrassment. Humiliation. Secrecy. That pretty much summed up her situation.
As soon as she’d gone in, they’d got straight to it. There were apologies, platitudes, fake regret. Thanks for her lifelong commitment to the show. And then the announcement that they’d decided to write her out, that they were shifting the focus to the younger characters.
‘You mean, cheaper actors,’ she’d spat, ignoring Calvin’s shooting glance of reproach, that said ‘leave it to him’, even though they’d both realised that his legendary negotiating skills weren’t going to win here.
The show execs didn’t spell it out, but what it all boiled down to was that after forty years of annual raises, she was too expensive. They could bring in two or three mid-level names for what they paid her and that was exactly what they planned to do. Calvin had tried everything from reasonable discussion to playing hardball and threatening to sue, but nothing worked. They’d made up their minds. Put her out to pasture. And there wasn’t a damn thing she or Calvin could do about it. Her contract was up and so was her time on the show. Killed off. No return.
‘At least this way, you’re going out in a blaze of glory, my darling,’ Calvin had consoled her, although, as always, he couldn’t resist adding a teasing, ‘I mean, I can think of worse ways to go than being up close and personal with Rex Marino.’
The thought caused her glance to wander now to her manager at the side of the set, and he returned her gaze with a smile of such affection she almost crumbled. Almost. But not yet. Right now, she had work to do.
‘And… Action!’ Carl, the director, bellowed.
The whole room immediately fell silent. This was a show with insane shooting schedules and deadlines, so where possible, they got the scenes in the first take. No room for error. When it came to discipline and preparation, this was the best training ground any actor could have.
Agnes was dozing, her book on her lap, her head tilted to one side on her red plaid armchair, when the door burst open. Her son, Hugh, roared, ‘Ma!’ and stormed across the room. Startled from her sleep, Agnes’s head shot up, just as Hugh’s snarling face crowed over her, spittle coming from his mouth as he shouted, ‘What have you done, you stupid old…’
‘Hugh!’ Agnes blasted back, ‘Don’t you dare raise your voice to me! How was I to know? They tricked me…’
His eyes were blazing as he spat, ‘You mean us! Us! That money should have been coming to me. And now you’ve lost it all.’
