Bryony Bell's Star Turn Read Free Page A

Nativity play parts go
quite
so much to our heads?’

Chapter Three
    When Bryony finished reading the letter from Channel 4 to Big Bob, Clarissa, and the little Bells, the kitchen fell silent. Then everyone spoke at once.
    â€˜We’ve
nothing
to wear!’
    â€˜We’ll need complete makeovers!’
    â€˜And personal trainers!’
    â€˜And image consultants!’
    Struggling to make herself heard over the list of requirements, Clarissa announced:
    â€˜Three cheers for Bryony!’ And, when these had been duly delivered, rather spoilt the effect for Bryony by adding, ‘
Now
we’ll be headhunted for Hollywood, nothing surer.’
    When everyone had calmed down, Bryony edged closer to Big Bob, who was quietly tightening the screws around the stuffed bear’s head. ‘What do you think, Dad?’ she whispered nervously. ‘Be good for
Bell’s Building ’n’ Joinery
,won’t it?’
    â€˜Ever so good, Bryony love,’ Big Bob assured her. ‘Specially if we get close-ups of my dovetail joints and my French polishing.’
    Clarissa, meanwhile, was rounding up the little Bells with some difficulty. ‘Off to the music studio!’ she said, knotting Little Bob’s scarf. ‘Mustn’t let this excitement keep us away from our daily practice.’
    When they had disappeared, Bryony hopped up onto the table and leant her head against Big Bob’s shoulder. ‘
Sure
you like the idea of a docu-soap, Dad?’ she said anxiously. ‘I kind of wondered whether you’d think it was a bit…’ She struggled to find the right word.
    â€˜Tacky?’ Big Bob suggested.
    â€˜Oh, Dad…’ She bit her lip. ‘You
don’t
think it’s tacky, do you?’
    But Big Bob merely gave each screw a final turn. ‘Safe as houses,’ he grinned, giving the head a tug. ‘Wouldn’t do if it fell on us in front of the great British public, would it!’
    Bryony grinned back. ‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘the docu-soap’ll keep them at home for a bit, won’t it?’ and to her relief, Big Bob nodded.
    â€˜Take the “e” out of “Belle”,’ he agreedthoughtfully. Then he propped his screwdriver behind his ear, smoothed his moustache, and beamed at her, first in one direction and then in the other. ‘What do you think, lass?’ he asked. ‘Which is my best side?’
    When the film crew arrived a week later and Bryony saw Trish the producer, she thought she had never, in all her born days, met anyone so right-on cool.
    Trish was coat-hanger thin and even taller than Abid. Her hair was very short and blonde except for an orange crest down the middle. Her enormous green eyes shone like stars in an eye-shadowy black sky. Her smile would have been sparkly even without the red jewel shimmering from the piercing in her top lip, and her hooped earrings were so big, each could have fitted round her neck.
    She wore an extremely tight T-shirt and extremely baggy combat trousers covered in pockets out of which spilled an incredible array of useful objects like elastic bands, scissors, and measuring tapes; and she carried a clipboard.
    â€˜I was thinking,’ Clarissa said as she led Trish, two heavily laden cameramen and a soundengineer into the living room, ‘that perhaps you could film me ever so slightly out of focus?
    â€˜With a pink
aura
round my head,’ she added, sinking down onto the settee and adjusting her white silk housecoat. ‘Mmm?’
    Trish closed one eye, looked Clarissa up and down, and made some notes on her clipboard. ‘Wicked,’ she muttered several times. ‘Though I think lilac for the aura, if you’re OK with that?’ And she began to check her cast list.

    â€˜My husband is in his potting shed,’ Clarissa explained apologetically. ‘But he is available for interview whenever you want.’
    â€˜Fabulous,’