Story - Collection

One final wipe and it went into the cabinet, with the small red card so carefully prepared.  That made ten.  He had no idea how many more he might add to the collection, but he'd felt no inclination to stop yet.  Every new one added to the memories.

Of course the first three meant far more than any of the others, the very first one the most of all, but continuing the collection meant continuing the connection.  Every means of keeping that connection alive felt worthwhile pursuing.  And, if he was honest with himself, he got a bit of a thrill for the risk he took each time.  She'd liked that.

The first had come from a fancy gastropub in Scarborough, where they'd gone for a romantic weeknd.  Drinking their G&Ts, she'd talked about how lovely the glasses were.  Shapely semi-opaque goblets with the crest of the hotel engraved on the side of the bowl.  He'd never done anything like it before.  But somehow he managed it without anyone noticing.  She was shocked and delighted when he revealed it on their return to their room, baffled at how he'd kept the secret, even from her.  Her joy in this unexpected 'gift', and the adrenaline he'd fed on from a volatile mix of fear, excitement and achievement, gave their lovemaking an extra frisson that night.

He was able to surprise her twice more, with attractive gin glasses lifted from the a posh restaurant in town they'd never been to before and doubted they'd ever afford again, and the circle bar of the Grand Theatre.  Both times she was shocked, charmed, thrilled at his audacity and devotion.  They had always been a quiet couple, safe and predictable, and this new found facet to his behaviour, and the hint of the illicit it brought to their relationship, added a spark to their existence.  She'd look at the glasses in the cabinet and be reminded that he wasn't quite the man she'd married, that he was a man of unexpected secrets and abilities.  

And then she was gone.  Throat cancer.  Three brutally short months.  One devastated husband left to mourn, to remember, to live a half empty life.  Tonic without the gin.

Six months later and he was in another bar in another theatre, on his own.  Nice glass.  She'd have liked that glass, he thought.  He drank his drink and, without conscious thought, had it concealed and on it's way to join the trio behind the glass at home.  He found himself lost in the joy of imagination, of her pretend disapproval, the light in her eyes, the buzz in his being.  The memories rekindled.  It was one way to bring her back, maybe the only way..

Now there were half a dozen more.  Every time his drink came in a glass she'd have loved.  He'd started going places for drinks just to see what glasses they came in.  Collection.  Obsession.  Love.  His triangle of risk, and a reason to keep on going.

Story - You Shall Go to the Film

"Martin!"  Martin's head appeared round the side of a shelving unit.  "Get your mop.  Aisle sixteen.  Now!"  The Floor Manager walked back out before he got an answer.  Martin was already busy, unloading a pallet onto the warehouse shelves, and the Warehouse Manager would be furious with him if he stopped.  And the Floor Manager would be furious with him if he didn't.  But Martin was used to people getting angry with him, he well knew how annoying he was. He thought about asking someone what he should do, but there was nobody around, and the aisle spillage might be dangerous to customers, so he decided he should go and do that.  And he did.

He was right.  There was glass and slippy liquids all over the floor and there could have been a nasty accident, maybe even for a child.  Martin was pleased with his choice.  But he received no thanks from anyone out front, just told three times to hurry up and get it all cleared.  And he got the bollocking he expected when he got back to his pallet.  But he still thought he'd done the right thing.

Fifteen seconds after the Warehouse Manager's tirade ended the tannoy sounded.

"Martin Keele to the manager's office immediately."  Martin looked at his gloomy boss, who glowered even more darkly and turned his back, strode off.  He took that to mean 'yes, OK', so he headed up to see the shop manager.  He'd never even been in there before, never had the call, so his mind fizzed over with possible explanations, but he didn't think it was another bollocking.  The big boss would hardly know who he was, and would think him too unimportant to waste time shouting at - there were plenty of others able to do it for him.

"Aah, Martin, come in, come in.   Take a seat." 

A seat?  Martin readied himself for further surprises.  "You know that SupaSava runs a monthly competition for staff with ll kinds of different prizes?"  Martin nodded, he'd heard about it in his basic training, and knew somebody who knew somebody in another shop who knew somebody who'd actually won it once, and got tickets for a play.  "Well it turns out that May's winner is here.  As in people from this shop."

The shop manager paused, looked closely at his most junior member of staff.  Martin didn't know what to say, so he said nothing.  

"Do you like the cinema Martin?"

"Oh yeah Mr Smart, I go every week."  He wondered if he'd won a couple of film tickets, which would be so much better than having to go to a boring play.  The manager stifled an uncertain cough.

"Well we've been given ten tickets to the premiere of Caught in the Headlights at Leicester Square on the twelfth, next Wednesday.  I've been asked to choose six of the people to go, and head office have told me the other four names, presumably chosen at random from a a staff list.  And you are, em, you are one of those four.  Now you don't have to go if you don't want to, because you'll be representing the store, indeed the company, so it might seem like a lot of pressure to you.  Anyway you might already be busy next week.  Are you?" he ended hopefully.

But Martin was already visualising the red carpet, and who'd be on it.  He knew about Caught in the Headlights, knew it starred Keara Blakely, and knew she'd be going to Leicester Square.  Martin was a long time fan of Ms Blakely.

"No sir, not busy at all sir, and I don't think I'd feel any pressure and it would be great to go and I really like, like really like, Keara Blakely.  So yes, I'll go, I'll go if that's what they want me to do, happy to go sir.  Very happy."  Martin beamed appropriately, looked a couple of centimetres taller.  

"OK then.  OK."  The manager paused again.  "I'll see to it you get your tickets and all the arrangements and, er, have a nice time Martin."

"Thank you Mr Smart"

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When the details arrived it turned out there was a bit more to it than just a film ticket.  First Martin would have to go Tanmores, Gentleman's Outfitters, for his black tie outfit.  He'd never worn a dinner jacket before, let alone a bow tie.  When he saw himself in the mirror he remained wordless for thirty seconds, baffled at the transformation.  He didn't look like that in his anorak.  The shop assistant was relieved when Martin finally uttered a few words, worried that he'd done something to upset his customer.  Then he saw the grin, the sparkle in the eyes, and could share the happiness.

A couple of stretch limos took Martin and his co-workers to the film theatre.  Not that the others paid much attention to him, embarrassed by his resemblance to a manically giggling penguin.  At the theatre they weren't going to be watching the red carpet.  They went in walking along it, just as expectant crowds of fans were beginning to gather, and were shown into a large room where free drinks and a buffet were on offer.  While his colleagues drank champagne Martin sought out the mini sausage rolls, before disappointedly settling for venison tartlets and quails eggs.  

They were taken in to the theatre, shown to seats in the second row, listened to the opening speeches, Martin watching every move, following every word, of Keara Blakely, the star of the show.  He watched the film, he loved the film, thought it was the second best thing Keara had ever done, and he'd seen them all.  Martin was enjoying himself.

Back to the big reception room, but this time with cast and crew mingling with the guests.  Martin took a glass of something to blend in, but didn't drink, didn't talk.  He watched.  He watched the actors, he watched the director and writer and producers and director of photography and the CGI woman and the makeup guy and most of the time he watched Keara.  He was happy watching.

"Martin."  No answer.  "Martin!"  A tug on his DJ sleeve made him listen.  It was Mr Marchant, the Produce Manager who'd made himself de facto leader of their dectet, dragging him off to gather with the others.  They'd been asked to meet a few people as a group, the lucky prizewinners who'd been allowed into this world as outsiders.  "Just leave the talking to me" said Marchant.  A few grumbles in response, but nobody was brave enough to object.

First came the producers, then the director and some of the techies, and finally the actors.  Marchant did their talking for them, looked sharply at Christine Graham when she tried to engage the director, coughed loudly when Peter Simkins asked the CGI woman a tech question.  Finally the lead actors, Else Kruger, Alan Cresswell, and Keara Blakely herself.  

"We all loved the film and thought you gave your finest performances to date." Else and Alan shone their teeth and said their thanks, dying slightly inside at the blandness of these people. Keara was about to add something when Martin spoke out.

"I do agree they were all great performances, and that's definitely the best I've seen from you Alan. But I think your Gabrielle in The Backstreets of Genoa is still your most powerful role," he said, nodding at Else, "and Keara, I still prefer you in Grime Street, that was a stunning piece of acting, especially the warehouse scene, but I'm sure you'll surpass it one day. Headlights' writing doesn't really provide you with the chance to reveal those depths of emotion, does it?"

Marchant jumped in, horrified at Martin's presumption. "I'm sure Ms Blakely doesn't want to be bothered with your views, so maybe we'll let her get back to some of the important people, eh?”

But Keara had years of experience ignoring men who thought they could tell her what to do. "Not at all Mr... Thingummy. It's good to hear from someone who doesn't just tell me what they imagine I want to hear. You've no idea how tedious it is hearing the same banalities over and over," as she gave him the look that had turned back an army in Erica Johnson, "and nobody's more important than a real film fan," turning back to Martin. "So is Grime Street your favourite of mine?"

"No, but I think that's your best performance, though it’s a shame that Randall as the baddie felt miscast, and there were a couple of plot holes that spoiled the flow of the storyline. The Dreaming Sea is my favourite. Not just strong acting, but one of the most perfect soundtracks, and some stunning cinematography, especially the undersea stuff. I know your role was comparatively minor, but your character's revelations on the island were such a critical pivot in shifting our sympathies from Farrell to Krechov."

"You're right, and it was a joy to be directed by Jean Stillwell, I hope I get to work with her again one day."

And that was that. The other two actors drifted away. The SupaSava group drifted away, even Marchant realising that he wasn't going to be able to override Keara Blakely. Martin chatted happily, so absorbed in the film world that it never occurred to him that if you'd told him beforehand that he'd be chatting with his favourite actor for over an hour he'd have been petrified. Keara chatted happily, relieved to find a young man who loved movies, talked movies, knew movies, and didn't stare at her with the eyes of a sick puppy.

"I think I need a drink. D'you want one?"

"I'm fine thanks, but..."

"OK. Stay there. Don't move. I'll be back in five." And Keara was off into the sparkling crowd, leaving Martin to realise what he'd been doing for the previous seventy minutes. It had been as easy for him as it was hard to believe now.

"Jeez, you're still here Martin. Come on, we've got to go now, the cars are waiting and Marchant's fuming, saying he'll leave you behind if you're not there quick." Peter grabbed Martin by the arm and hustled him across the floor and up the broad wine-carpeted stairs to the main entrance. Keara returned to no Martin, saw him being manhandled out, plonked her drink into the hands of the nearest penguin, and ran after them. As she reached the foot of the stairs she looked up and saw Martin stagger, grab at his ear, and disappear like a child being pulled in by a particularly clumsy octopus. Something tiny object flashed in the light, fell to the carpet.

By the time she reached the top they were gone, and she reluctantly made her way back into the reception. A metallic glimmer on the second step down caught her eye, and she bent to pick it up. A stud earring, shaped like a tiny wave of surf. She remembered seeing it before.

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Caught in the Headlights proved to be big box office. After the Leicester Square launch Keara Blakely had one night at home and then four months doing the rounds. The Canadian premiere, the Australian premiere, the US premiere. Festivals, celebrations, public appearances, thirty eight red carpets (she counted every one). Flashlights, spotlights, crowds, politicians, directors, journalists, one to ones, one to manys, interviews, charity dinners, TV and radio and bloggers and vloggers. Flight after flight, hotel after hotel. It felt good to come home.

Home to relax. She was exhausted. Happy, yes. Thrilled by how well the film, and her own performance, had been received.    But tired of the fawning, and entirely fake adulation, of the smiling and chatting with people she didn't know and would never see again, of the interviewers who understood so little about filming, of the desperate desire she saw lasered at her from so many eyes.  She wanted honesty, and some understanding.  Old friends and family played their part, but none of them had any real love for cinema.  Her secretary, Simon, was efficient and effective, but reticent to speak his mind, and even if he did would it have been worth hearing?  She missed... something.

She'd been home a couple of days, slutting her way through the hours, and looking for the key to the drawer in the old kitchen table where she kept her 'for my eyes only' stuff. It turned up in the bowl in her study, along with a tiny wave shaped stud. Which took her back to Leicester Square, one of the most absorbing conversations she'd had in years, and a man being rushed out of the building as if he was about to turn into a pumpkin or something. She never did learn his name, but hadn't he been part of some work group who'd won a prize?

One call and she had the name SupaSava, and the location of the shop the party had come from. She could get someone to sort it out for her, but a weird idea was groping it's way into her brain, like a particularly determined octopus.

The next morning she was on the road and heading for a town she'd never been to before, looking for a supermarket she'd never shopped in before. Parked up, went in, asked if she could speak to the manager. Smart didn't recognise her immediately, but went into full fawning mode when he realised. At least it made him helpful.

"I'm looking for one of the men who came to the movie premiere back in April. Didn't get his name, but I have something I think is his, and I'd like to meet him again. It's not often I get to meet so knowledgeable and interesting a fan."

"Oh certainly, certainly, let me just bring up the list of names. What age would you say he was?"

"About twenty five maybe? Twenty six? Something like that."

OK, I have four here who'd fit, but I think we can rule out a couple of them. Let me call up the others." Smart got the call out for Ben Crighton and Gerry Crimmin, and they duly obeyed their way to his office. Keara shook her head. She'd didn't recall either of them. What about the other two?

"That would have to be Peter then. Knowledgeable and interesting aren't the adjectives that would normally spring to mind, but perhaps he has hidden depths I've yet to see" Smart said with forced jocularity.

"And what about the fourth man? Couldn't have hidden depths as well?"

"Martin? Oh, I really don't think so, I really don't. What you see is what you get with Martin."

Peter Simpkins came into the office.

"Oh it's you." Smart's face mixed surprise with relief at Keara's words. And fell sour again when she said "You're the one who dragged him up the stairs, aren't you? Took him away from me when we really just getting going. Is he around?"

Smart cut Peter off before he had a chance to reply. "I don't think Martin is in today, but I really don't think he's the one you're looking for."  

Keara went up to Peter, looked directly at him and asked "Have you seen Martin today?"  He opened his mouth, looked at Smart, closed his mouth, opened it again and still no sound emerged.  Peter looked like he was wishing he wasn't there.

"I'll take that as yes.  Would you call him please Mr Smart" the 'Mister' given full thespian significance, "or should I go out and have a look, maybe ask around?"  The manager did as he was told.

Martin went up to the office, as puzzled at receiving the order as he had been all those months before.  And surprised to find that sitting in front of the big boss was his favourite actor. Keara got up and came towards him. 

"Hello Martin, it's good to see you again , it's a shame some people made it so difficult."  Smart looked at the screen on his desk.  "I think I've got something of yours."  And she handed him the tiny wave.

Martin looked at the shiny stud in his hand and smiled warmly at the person who'd come all this way to hand it over.  "I wondered where I'd lost it.  I got it to remind me of..."

"...The Dreaming Sea" they said together, and laughed.

"What time do you finish work today?"

"Six."

"Would you be able to have dinner with me after that?  There's something I'd like to ask you.  And we never got to finish off our conversation at the premiere properly."

"Yeah, sure, that would be, em, really good.  There was still so much I wanted to say and ask and, you know..."  He'd seen Smart looking at him.  

"Right, I'll be back here then.  If I'm not there by the door look out for a blue Audi in the car park.  See you then."  She turned.  "Thank you Mister Smart, it's been good to find someone so knowledgeable and interesting in your shop."  She grinned at the confused Martin and left the office.  Smart barked "Get out.", and Martin followed rapidly.

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Martin asked if he could go up to the manager's office the following morning.  Where he presented Smart with his notice.  "I think with the leave I'm due that means I finish on the sixteenth?  Will somebody check that for me?  I hope so, because Keara's expecting me to start my new job on the nineteenth, and I've got to get myself moved to London by then."

"HR will be in touch.  What happened Martin?"

"I got a better offer sir.  A much much better offer.  I think my fairy godmother must have been looking out for me or something."  

Smart never saw Martin again.