‘Oooh,’ I rubbed my hands together. ‘Research.’
Vince groaned, ‘Research.’ Before adding, ‘Tilly will be down to the Portrait Gallery faster than Fagin can pick a pocket or two.’
I beamed, my fingers twitching at the thought of getting started on the hairpieces we would need.
‘Well, before you go beetling off on your little jaunt, we can make a start here.’ Jeanie pointed to a pile of large coffee-table-sized books on the floor in front of her feet. Despite being no bigger than a broom cupboard, her office housed a huge collection of books.
‘Being sexist, let’s start having a look at this lot to get some ideas of the period for the ladies and you Vince,’ she pushed another set of books with her foot across the floor to him, ‘for the gents.’
Vince winked at me. ‘Goody, lots of eye candy for me.’
After about an hour, with pages marked with yellow stickies, scribbles in notebooks and the occasional, ‘What about this?’ Vince got to his feet. ‘My knees are killing me darlings. I need caffeine.’
‘I doubt it will help your knees but I wouldn’t say no.’ I held up my empty mug.
As he stepped over me, I shifted onto my bottom and stretched out my legs, taking over what little space he’d just vacated. My back twinged as I sighed in relief.
Jeanie’s phone buzzed and she leaned over me to get it. A resigned expression settled on her face.
‘I’ll send her up now.’
Alison Kreufeld’s office was a lot grander than Jeanie’s in that there was room to swing a whole cat and possibly a hamster too. With a cursory nod, as I approached the open door she invited me in. I’d only been here a few times before and was fascinated by the patchwork of designs that filled the walls, sets, make-up, wardrobe, lighting rig plans. She had a huge job, like a spider in the centre of the web spinning all the threads to create the final look and feel of a production. I might not be too keen on her but her reputation was fearsome.
‘Morning, Matilde. Take a seat.’
She shook her head and sighed. ‘Bit of a balls up last night.’
‘Yes. Pietro … He had a bit of a crisis.’
‘Do you know what? I don’t actually give a … he’s the talent. I can’t bollock him. You however, I can. It’s your responsibility to make sure he’s where he’s supposed to be. You, I can sack. And I bloody will if you make a balls-up like that again.’
What did she want me to say?
‘I’m sorry but–’
‘Like I said. I don’t give a toss. And yes, I know it’s bloody unfair but that’s the way it is and you have to suck it up.’
Alison sighed and turned to the view outside her window. ‘You’re a good make-up artist. Talented. But there are plenty of good, talented make-up artists. They’re standing ten deep in a queue out there.’ She actually stabbed her finger at the pane of glass. ‘You need to be better than good. Deal with stuff. Like getting Pietro on stage on time no matter what. You’re too casual about things. You need to take some responsibility.’
I opened my mouth. I’d got Pietro down to the wings. Calmed him down in the lift. Got him to sing scales. He was two minutes late but it wasn’t my fault.
‘Your attitude is far too cavalier. Just that bit too laid back. It’s not acceptable. You’re letting yourself down. The executive board has decided to appoint an assistant head of department to Jeanie in the New Year. It’s a management post.’ Her eyes bored into mine. ‘And it has to be advertised internally and externally. I’d like to see you apply but I need to see you buck your ideas up. I’m going to be keeping a very close eye on you, one more cock-up and you’ll be on a disciplinary. Consider yourself on probation between now and Christmas.’
I opened my mouth aghast and for once thought better of it and closed it quickly. The quick calculating glance she shot me suggested she’d seen the brief movement.
‘Probation?’ What on earth did that mean?
‘Yes. For the next few weeks I’ll be reviewing your work very closely and at the end of the period, I’ll decide whether to recommend you for the job or not. You have a tendency to jump in feet first without thinking about the further consequences,’ she continued. ‘That is not managerial behaviour. Managers reflect, think and then act.’
‘I’d really like to apply. I love it here and–’
‘I appreciate that but we want someone who doesn’t just get the job done but who also understands the bigger picture. You love it. Great. You’re brilliant at it. Wonderful. But you are just one small cog. Make-up … yes, it’s important. But so is the sound, wardrobe, the electricians, the lighting riggers, the props guys. If you’re in management, you can’t afford to think that your department makes a bigger, better, more special, more authentic, cleverer contribution. I know the detail, the attention, the amount of work that goes in, but,’ she paused and gave me a ferocious stare, ‘if you don’t get the talent on the fucking stage, none of that counts for jack shit and actually shafts all the other buggers who have done their job just as bloody well and don’t get the notice. Prima donnas on the stage I can cope with, but not the backstage crew.’
She sat down back at her desk and began to flip through her diary.
‘You need to prove that you can do more than wield a hairbrush. And not make stupid cock-ups such as sending effing pictures of Dr sodding Who to my opposite number at La Scala when she’s expecting shots of our leading lady. Yes, I did hear about that and it makes us all look stupid. Especially when we’re in competition with the Royal Opera House only a stone’s throw from here.’
‘That was …’ One of my ditzier moments.
‘Unprofessional.’
‘But they … thought it was funny,’ I said in a small voice.
‘Funny?’ Her voice dripped icicles. ‘It undermines the reputation of the London Metropolitan Opera Company, the heart of what we are – a world-renowned institution which employs the very best people, not a bunch of amateurs who can’t use modern technology. What does that sort of dumb ass thing say about us? We’re a bunch of effing dinosaurs? We’re supposed to be at the forefront of artistic endeavour, avant garde, cutting edge, innovative, ground breaking.’
I bit my lip as she continued her diatribe, still hanging on to that brief thread of hope, ‘I’d like to see you apply’.
‘And then there’s the small matter of yesterday’s virus. Which brings me to my second point which is going to be a key part of your probation.’ She picked up a pen and marked a date in the diary with my initials. Christmas Eve.
My heart contracted slightly.
‘Care to explain that?’
I grimaced. ‘Yes, I’m sorry I thought it was,’ I shrugged, ‘harmless.’
‘Clearly,’ she bit out. ‘Do you have any idea how much havoc that little stunt caused?’
‘No.’ I’d very much hoped that not too many people had realised. ‘W-what happened?’
‘What happened,’ she almost snarled the words, ‘was that when you opened that attachment, it attached itself to every email contact you have.’
‘Oh.’ I wriggled in my chair. That sounded really, really bad.
‘Which in turn then attached itself to every contact in all those contacts and so on and so on.’
OK, it just got even worse. My face heated up.