“CUT!” called the director. “Lunch break.”
Thank goodness for that, I thought, as I eased myself of this really stiff, hard-backed stool where I’d been sitting all morning. My legs felt numb, with pins and needles in my feet. Any attempt at walking at this point meant a shuffle across the set towards the canteen in the most unglamorous manner. What on earth had possessed me to be an extra in this gangster film? I sighed. I'd been here since 6am, rushed through hair and make-up, landed on this stool by 7am and had been sitting here ever since. It didn't help that the rickety old stool had joint problems and creaked and squeaked every time I so much as breathed in, much to the despair of the director who kept sending me death looks throughout the morning.
“The mikes are latest technology, my dear,” he'd said. “Very sensitive. So please KEEP STILL!!!! Thank you darling.” Which was actually, I think, my cue to get up and leave. But instead, much to my bewilderment, I’d remained like a dumbfounded child.
I glanced at the mirror as I moved through to the canteen area. What I saw was not a pretty sight. I looked like I’d run my hand over an electric fence. My frizzed-out big, sootyblack hair, never the best even on a good day, had suffered an hour of backcombing which had left it standing on end, and a whole can of hairspray had finished the job off. Quite effectively too, as six hours later there wasn’t a hair out of place. Or in place, if you see what I mean. And as for the make-up… Purple lipstick (which, believe me, does not go with my skin type), and sparkly, sparkly eye shadow… Well, Monster High springs to mind. This is not the appearance I’d expected after sixty whole minutes under professional hands. I looked better after a night clubbing to the wee small hours.
What was I doing here? I had been brooding over this question all morning, and I had the spiel ready for anyone who asked: “Well, I just thought it would be great to meet the stars...”
Or: “I just wanted to live the experience...” The truth is, I was just desperado for money, and, what the heck, the pay wasn't bad. Actually it was a snooty accountant "ex" of mine who got me into it – although he meant it as one of his typical put-downs. He saw an ad in one of the local weekly rags which said that a long-running TV series – and as near porn as British TV is allowed – was looking for extra "extras". He sent it to me with a stick-on note from his snotty City firm. He could have simply texted me and saved the first-class stamp, but then that would have been way too “normal” for him. His note candidly read: You're good at acting… and deceiving... and lying. Why not apply?
Bit harsh, I thought, but I'll show you. And, anyway, something devilish inside me said, This could be fun. And money, too!
I rang the number and a nice-sounding lady (who I later found out was actually a man… Well, you know…) told me to send a photo and they'd "let me know." And that was that.
Nothing. But nine months later the nice-sounding "lady"(who, I must say, was really nice – and, as my snooty ex would have said, "as camp as a row of tents") telephoned and said they were making a low-budget full-length gangster film, and I had one of the faces they wanted.
They were shooting sleazy bar scenes. Bloody cheek. I didn't think I had a sleazy-bar-type face, and was tempted to tell them to shove it. But, then again, I thought, it might be wicked fun. And, of course, there was the money…
I skived off work for the day. Which is, in short, how I found myself looking like the "tart" they'd had in mind from the start.
I didn’t realise how hungry I was until I entered the canteen area. There was a really long queue at the healthy food option, and I hesitated for a moment. If I joined that queue, the chances were that by the time I got any food on my plate it would be time to get back to the set. I like to
watch what I eat, but not eating at all didn’t seem a good idea either. If my stomach started rumbling during the afternoon takes and the mikes picked up on all the noise, I think I’d be
personally assisted off the set by the director himself.
There was nothing for it. I made a bee-line for the hamburger stand and piled my plate with chips, ketchup, and the works.
I felt a bit out of place; everyone else seemed to know one another.
“Dah-ling, it’s so wonderful to see you again! Cynthia, isn’t it?”
I was also snatching comments like “Well, my agent tells me...” and “My personal trainer...”
None of this held much interest for me, as much as I tried to be intrigued by what agents and personal trainers had to offer. I was more concerned about juggling my mountain of food and my large coke with its feathered straw while at the same time attempting to perch myself delicately on a lopsided bench. The furnishings on this set really did leave much to be desired.
Finally settled, and at the same time feeling a bit guilty about all these calories I was about to get my digestive system to try to break down, I heard a small sharp cry to my left. I looked up and saw Susie, one of the ladies in the makeup department, dashing towards me with her make-up bag swinging on her arm, and looking like one of the medics in Grey's Anatomy out to save the world. She paused by my side, and to my amazement snatched the burger right out of my hands. The burger sailed through the air and narrowly missed the film director as he walked past. I thanked my lucky stars that he was completely unaware that he’d almost got mayonnaise all down his Armani suit.
I turned my attention back to what I assumed was a sunstroked crazy woman who'd blagged her way to becoming a make-up artist. This would actually explain my "sparkly, sparkly" eye-shadow.
“Dah-ling!” she exclaimed. “Like this!” She then dug into my still untouched plate of chips, picked one up and opened her mouth so wide that I could just about make out her tonsils. She placed the chip onto her tongue with delicate fingers, making sure not to brush her lips or lick her fingers. This, I reflected in part admiration, must have taken some practice.
“You mustn’t smudge your make-up,” she went on. Then, like a mother hen, she peered over at the other members of the cast, searching out others in need of her attention. In a flash she was gone, bags swinging.
Right… I picked up my plate of chips. I had the solution and promptly made my way to the Ladies room, where I proposed to wolf down the remainder of my food out of sight of the beady eyes of Mother Hen.
I stood in the washroom, avoiding the mirror because I really did look something shocking, and finished off my lunch. I was given a couple of suspicious looks by some of the other girls who'd entered the Ladies in order to preen themselves. I just winked at them and went on eating. I’m not sure if the looks were aroused by my metre-high hair or my choice of lunch location, or that, despite all the food piled on my plate and my apparent unhealthy appetite, I managed – though God knows how – to stay relatively slim. And in that tight-fitting red catsuit I’d been given to wear, my figure was highlighted all the more.
Lunch over, I slipped out of the toilets and meekly sought out Mother Hen, bracing myself for her disapproving glare. Though, when I finally found her, she just clucked over me in a disappointed tone, but didn’t seem the slightest bit surprised to find me lipstick-free. She got right into reapplying all my make-up, and as I moved back onto the set, I felt I had a brick wall of foundation applied. To my horror she even got out the shiny eye shadow again, despite my
moan of protest.
I got told by one of the crew that the director wanted to see me. In a panic I walked over to where he was with the “hot stars” of the film, thinking I probably did get mayonnaise down his suit and he’s going to charge me for the dry cleaning.
“Turn around,” he instructed as soon as I approached. Bemused, I turned, feeling like a fool, and blushing as red as my catsuit.
“Cute tight ass,” he said, though not to me, rather to the gang around him. I felt my skin crawl and flush even redder. What with the red outfit I was wearing, I felt I was glowing
as bright as a light bulb.
“Excuse me,” I stuttered as I
finally got my voice back.
“Come and see me after today’s shoot and we can talk business,” he replied.
Bet we can…! But I didn’t think it was talking he had in mind. Warning bells rang, and escape plans shot through my head. But before I could leg it off the set, I was taken by the
arm by the owner of the only friendly face there seemed to be around, and was led right to the front of the set.
“Just stand here,” I was told. I remained frozen to the spot – not because I wanted to, but because my legs refused to obey my brain’s instruction to run. I was still stunned by the comment I had just heard. Once again I wondered what on earth had possessed me to agree to this idea of being an extra.
Suddenly the whole place seemed to go mad. People started crowding around me with lights, light-meters and clipboards. Others were shouting to technicians and floor crew, whilst Mother Hen attacked my hair and my face – again! I was pushed and shoved and manhandled, shoulders pulled back, bust out, red catsuit smoothed over bum, hips twisted.
Silence.
In this scene, I was told, I was going to be "in shot." I was rigid with fright. My only relief was the thought that at least I wasn't an extra "extra" any more.
There was a really hot camera light focused right to one side of me, and I wondered how long it would take for me to sweat off all my make-up. I was handed one of those small battery-powered pocket fans to keep the sweat beads from gathering whilst I waited. Then I was given instructions that “Craig” (the star of this really tawdry gangster movie I'd got myself into) would walk past me, which is when I would have to "hold it" as the camera would zoom in on me. The one comfort I had was that with my hair all buffed out and the mountain of slap I had on, no one would actually recognise me when the film got shown on the big screen.
“ACTION!”
The shout brought me back to reality, if you could call this madness reality. I’d been given strict directions not to look at the camera, and to act surprised when Craig sauntered past me. I don't think I could have acted more startled if I'd tried, for Craig didn’t just meander passed me. He halted by me with a loud “HI SEXY,” grabbed my arse and planted a kiss full on my lips as the camera zoomed in for a real closeup. Furthermore, for some reason known only to the director we had to repeat this scene at least fifteen times – and with each re-take, Craig’s hands lingered on my bum and his lips on mine a little longer.
“Don’t know about you, Kiddo, but I love this scene,” he'd whispered as he'd moved back for the thirteenth take. I don’t know what offended me more, being called “Kiddo” by someone who was (mentally at any rate) several years younger than me, or with his over-familiar manner with my body parts.
By the end of the day, and – mark my words – it had been a long day, I was exhausted. The last thing I wanted was to “talk business” with Mr Director. So cash in hand I made a quick exit, hopped into my Mini (not one of the nice spacious modern ones, but the classical model – in other words, a real haggard old banger), and once safely inside I whooshed off, leaving behind a black cloud of exhaust fumes.
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What people are saying about A little of Chantelle Rose
***** Love the twists and turns, romantic with a bit of a mystery, a great read!
I absolutely loved this. I wasn't truly sure what to expect and I was thinking it was going to be an ideal holiday read. What I actually got was a real page turner that started out like a fairly romantic novel but developed into a very intricate mystery. I loved all the twists and turns. I hated (in a good way) that every time I thought I had figured out what was going to happen there was another twist. I Found at times I just couldn't put it down. It has the reading ease of a romantic novel and is perfect to take on holiday, relax in the garden and curl up on a rainy day, but with the dark twists and mystery of thriller, I found it both gripping and curious.
The characters were well written with lots of depth. I found myself quite emotionally invested in Chantelle and how she would deal with each situation. I loved the variety of personalities and the ties that unravelled.
Huge thanks go out to TBC and to Cristina Hodgson for the opportunity to read this book. I'm looking forward to reading more from Cristina soon!
***** Chantelle Rose is a great read!
A little of Chantelle Rose is a perfect holiday beach read. In fact, it's like a sunbeam within a book, it's filled with that feel good factor. It is extremely funny, there were moments when I really laughed out loud, much to my partners surprise!
Chantelle becomes a Hollywood star quite by accident. She works in a small coffee shop. An ex sends her a job ad to appear as an extra in a movie, Chantelle is game for anything and applies. 9 Months later she has totally forgotten about her phone call with the nice lady, who she later finds out is a man! until said lady rings her and offers her a part as an extra in a gangster movie. This small bit part turns into a bit more than she ever suspected. Chantelle is offered a million dollar film contract and so the story begins.
Chantelle Rose definitely has the touch of Miss Congeniality about her, from her transformation from frizzy haired funny girl to svelte, sleek and coiffured Hollywood starlet funny girl! There is a lovely Bermuda love triangle between Chantelle, Robbie, English hunk resembling a diet coke ad model & very famous Lionel, Hollywood superstar.
Chantelle is a sparkling delightful character who I warmed to really quickly. All the characters are very relatable and their personalities develop throughout the plot.
The story has twists and unexpected turns which keeps you turning the pages hungry for more! As well as the story line being great the cover of the book is totally gorgeous and eye catching.
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