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To his horror and shame, Marshall felt an erection coming on fast. It
infuriated him that she could exercise such control
over him. He rolled quickly onto his stomach, nearly knocking his beloved
camera over. He took the bottle from Beverley, wiped the neck and took a long
draught.
'So what were you filming?' Beverley asked.
'An owl,' Marshall replied curtly.
'They only come out at night.'
'Shows how much you know about owls.'
Beverley looked quizzically at him. 'Have you started shaving?'
The question annoyed Marshall. He had been shaving for a year. Once a week at
first but now he had to shave every day. Beverley's presence was proving to be
annoying;.he wished that she would go away. 'What's it to you? If you had to
shave, you'd probably cut your throat. Good thing too.'
Beverley leaned back and laughed, causing her dress to ride up again.
Marshall's throat went dry. Beverley's ringlets were pulled back by hairslides
to form a perfect frame around her oval face. The prettiness he had become
aware of the previous year was now all too apparent. He felt uncomfortably
vulnerable.
'You haven't shown me any of your films for weeks,' Beverley accused
good-naturedly.
'You laughed last time.'
'I never!'
'Yes you did.'
'All right. I'm sorry if I upset you. Satisfied?'
Marshall made no reply.
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'I didn't mean to, really, Matt.'
'S'okay,' said Marshall offhandedly. He looked quickly away when he realized
that Beverley must have seen him glancing covertly at her breasts. More
control, more Authority. His mounting anger quickened his pulse, making his
heart pound in his ears.
Beverley jumped to her feet and held out her hand. 'Come on, Matt. Let's go
back and see your films.' A request to view his movies was one that Marshall
could never refuse.
They returned to his house. It was early afternoon. Celia would not be back
from work for another four hours. Beverley
perched on the end of Marshall's divan bed and dutifully watched his latest
movies, laughing only at what was supposed to be funny. The improvement in his
technique astonished her and she said so. Marshall was pleased. Wally Clegg
had said much the same.
'They're really good,' Beverley enthused when the show was over. She bunked in
the bright sunlight that streamed into the bedroom when Marshall yanked back
the curtains. 'I liked the cat one. Terrific. How did you get him to crouch
and jump like that? I thought he was going to jump right out of the screen.'
'Special effects secret,' said Marshall, sitting beside her on the bed.
Beverley hooked an arm playfully around his neck. 'Tell or I'll break it,' she
threatened.
Marshall pulled angrily away. 'I tied a bit of paper on a string and dangled
it OOS,' he admitted sourly.
'OOS?'
'Out of shot.'
'Well it's a bloody good film,' Beverley said. 'You ought to make one as if
the camera's the cat. You know, so the audience see everything like a cat sees
it.'
The idea immediately fired Marshall's imagination. 'Gosh, yes. What a terrific
idea.' His fertile mind raced ahead. 'I could fix up the camera on a roller
skate or something and push it along.'
'You see?' said Beverley, pleased at his reaction to her idea. 'You need me as
an assistant director. They have assistant directors and second unit
directors, don't they? They get mentioned at the end of films sometimes.
What's a second unit director?'
Marshall was only too keen to pass on knowledge he had gained from his avid
reading of photographic magazines and library books. He read them from cover
to cover, not missing a word, draining them of substance as a spider drains
life juices from its prey. 'That's when some scenes are shot abroad and the
main director is too busy directing the real stars to go,' he explained.
Beverley flopped back on the bed so that her dress rode up. She watched
Marshall carefully, hoping that she looked suitably
beguiling. 'Did you direct those boys who made rude signs at the camera in the
railway film?' she asked mischievously.
'No I did not,' Marshall replied indignantly. 'They spoilt the shot. When I've
saved up for an editor I'm going to cut it out.'
'If you directed me, I'd do exactly as you said,' Beverley murmured.
'You can't act,' Marshall scoffed.
'Nor can Marilyn Monroe.'
"Course she can.'
Beverley sat up, her eyes large and serious. 'I read that she can't, that the
director has to go through everything with her and that she gets away with it
so long as she does exactly as she's told . . . So, you tell me exactly what
to do and I'll do it.' She smirked and added: 'Mr Director, sir.'
'Okay. I'll make a film of you falling in the river and drowning.'
Beverley pulled a face at him. 'Why not make a film of me now?'
'Because we haven't got a river handy that you could drown in,' Marshall
retorted.
'Let's make it in here,' Beverley suggested. 'There's plenty of sunlight,
isn't there?'
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The idea of filming indoors had never occurred to Marshall because the slow,
out-dated film that Wally supplied demanded plenty of light. But Beverley was
right - there was plenty of light in the bedroom. Also the idea of directing
someone just like a real director intrigued him.
'All right,' he agreed, fishing the camera out of his haversack. 'But only one
magazine mind.'
Beverley gave a little clap of delight. 'Let's pretend you're giving me one of
those test things they give actresses who want to be stars.'
'A screen test?'
'That's right.' Beverley looked flushed with excitement.
Marshall considered. 'Okay. I want you to go out of the room and come in when
I shout "Action". Then you cross the room and take a book off the shelf and
then you sit on the bed pretending to read. Okay?'
Beverley hopped off the bed. 'Anything you say, Mr Director.' She left the
room and closed the door behind her.
Marshall moved to the corner of the room where he could pan the camera without
furniture getting in the way. He knelt on one knee, peered through the
camera's viewfinder and aimed at the door, his finger ready on the shutter
button. 'Okay. Action!'
The door opened. All that appeared of Beverley was her left leg which she
tried to wriggle seductively as Marilyn Monroe had done in Gentlemen Prefer
Blondes. The effect was not quite the same because it looked as if she were
kicking the door jamb.
'Where's the rest of you?' Marshall demanded. The sight of Beverley's leg
aroused his interest but the budding professional in him kept the camera
rolling.
There was something else that had been aroused in Marshall: the realization
that Authority, the one thing he hated above all else, was now in his hands.
Being a director meant having real Authority, Authority that gave you power
over people, that made them do what you wanted them to do - Well, almost.
The rest of Beverley appeared. Pulling the slides out of her hair had worked a
fascinating transformation. The awkward schoolkid was gone, replaced by a
sultry tigress, radiating blatant sexuality like a beacon. Her hand was
resting casually on her hip with the hem of her dress hitched up.
Marshall stopped filming and put the camera down quickly so that Beverley
would not see his hand trembling. 'You're supposed to come in and read a
book,' he observed curtly. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]