Goats From a Small Island (eBook)

CUTTTTTT...!' My eyes ping open. A clutter of raised voices assails my ears, one high-pitched and feverish, another thunderous and the last plaintive. Now what? Can't I enjoy five minutes' shut-eye, my first since the crack of dawn, without World War Three breaking out? I'm beginning to wonder if my sole role on this gruelling film shoot is as a one-woman peacekeeping taskforce. Squinting up from my sun lounger at a sky the colour of washed denim, I try to contemplate what kind of drama is unfolding at the poolside. Perhaps Anastasia has broken her little toenail or lost her eyeliner or, worse, Greedy George has hidden her vodka glass. An elegant falcon glides overhead, caught on a whisper of briny breeze, then in one swift move dives seawards and is gone. I have been hanging about the hotel gardens since 6 a.m., watching the sky turn from dusky rose to pale blue, and wondering when my torment will end. This was supposed to have been a one-day wonder but unless the shoot is wrapped up within the hour, we'll be back here again tomorrow morning. A huge form suddenly blocks out the sun. It's Greedy George. George Myers, to be exact, an old client who wafts between an ever-so-chic three-story affair in South Kensington and a brownstone apartment block on New York's Upper East Side. Now he's in Mallorca, crowding my space. 'There you are!' he booms. 'Shirking in the sun?' I scrabble to sit upright. 'Actually, I was hoping to have five minutes' peace. Thought you could manage the last shot without me.' He slaps my shoulder. 'Come on, guv, this Smirnoff babe is doing my head in. Nick says he's never had such a difficult time directing an ad and he's worked with some of the world's most painful supermodel divas. I mean who the F does she think she is?' 'What's her problem now?' 'Lazy cow won't dive in the pool for the last shot.' 'Probably doesn't want to get her hair wet.' 'Yeah, well, at ten grand a day, she should be willing to drown in chocolate.' 'Keep your fantasies to yourself,' I grunt. Some distance away, beyond a small crop of lemon trees, a bronzed gazelle with black roots and tumbling blond locks is strutting about the vast patio surrounding the pool with a mobile phone suctioned to her ear. 'She doesn't look happy.' 'I don't give a monkey's. I'm paying her to get her togs off and flog the goods.' 'All the same, we don't want to upset her. Dannie will be angry.'