The Passengers(43)
She raised her voice and stared at the camera. ‘Will someone pull this car over and let me out? I need to speak to my agent and until that happens, you’re not getting one more reaction from me.’
Sofia poured herself another brandy and swallowed her fifth painkiller of the morning. The buzz from the last one was already beginning to wear off. She held her glare on the monitor, waiting for a response to her demands. Instead, more shouting and crying came through the speakers. She rolled her eyes and spoke louder. ‘Read my lips – Sofia Bradbury is not reacting. This is not what she signed up for.’ The vehicle continued at the same pace, offering no sign it was preparing to slow down.
She turned to Oscar again. ‘Listen to that lot wailing like bloody banshees. They’re all competing to see who can make the most amount of noise and take the most screen-time. It’s pathetic. This is not what I worked my arse off for, to end up on something glorifying violence. I think Rupert has made a huge mistake getting me involved in this.’
It was the explosion of the car with the Indian woman inside – a Bollywood actress, Sofia assumed, as she hadn’t recognised her – that tipped her over the edge. The blasts from the first two cars were clearly visual trickery designed to elicit realistic responses from viewers and Passengers. But the third appeared much more detailed than the others. Supporting actors must have spent hours in hair and make-up to ensure the wounds were believable. Then there were smoke bombs, people running around with limbs falling off left right and centre and stuntmen and women ablaze. She knew today’s audiences expected more from their programming than her generation did, but still, who in their right mind would want to watch a child on fire?
‘I did a lot of Ayckbourn in the seventies so don’t try and tell me I’m a prude,’ she continued to whomever was listening. ‘I do not agree with the increasing amount of gore shown on prime-time television for the public’s titillation. Therefore, I cannot, in good faith, remain on this programme until I’ve spoken to my agent or until a producer can guarantee me there is going to be more substance to this series than I have witnessed so far.’
Sofia hesitated, debating whether making a fuss was the right thing to do. Standing up for herself might go one of two ways. It could backfire, making her come across like an old fuddy duddy to the younger audience she craved. Or by remaining true to herself, it could win her more support from an older demographic. It was a risk she was willing to take.
She had been waiting for the show to cut to a commercial break and allow her to discreetly fit new ear guards into her hearing aids. The sound was becoming muffled but she had just about heard the woman in the ill-fitting plaid suit lending Sofia her support over something. She assumed her long-standing status as national treasure was giving her some gravitas.
Were she to remain in the show, Sofia figured her toughest competition would come from the pregnant girl who was milking her condition for all it was worth. Will you just leave that bloody belly alone? she thought. All that stroking and rubbing, it’s not made of Play-Doh.
Quietly, Sofia resented and envied the girl. Many times over the years, she’d questioned whether she had done the right thing in not starting a family of her own. How much had she lost out on by not feeling another life growing inside her? Of loving another person unconditionally and allowing that love to be reciprocated? She would never know. But each time she doubted herself, she would think of her husband Patrick and it would remind her the decision had been for the best. He would not have made a good father.
As she stroked her sleeping dog’s head with one hand, she swirled brandy around a glass tumbler with her other and wondered what Patrick had planned now that she had been swept up in the Celebs Against The Odds frenzy. She hoped Rupert had cancelled the car driving him to the hospital where they were supposed to meet ahead of her public appearance. If he had not, it would be another thing for her to worry about.
At least her filming schedule would give them a break for the next seven nights, she thought, providing she survived in the competition that long. While the quality film and television roles offered to her had dried up, she was still in demand on the stage and often travelled for work, staying in hotels and away from home for weeks at a time. Unbeknown to Patrick, she had people to watch his every move and report back to her. Her cook, housekeeper and gardener were reliable sources of information, as was the private detective she kept on a retainer. There was also her accountant and a forensic digital specialist who followed Patrick’s every move online and who dipped in and out of his Operating System without being seen.
‘Hello!’ she said again. ‘Is anyone listening to me?’
Suddenly a man’s voice came from one of the other cars. ‘You don’t get it, do you?’ he barked.
Sofia moved her face closer to the screen until she could see who was talking to her. It was the one who was married to another contestant. He reminded her of a daytime television presenter who’d once made her an indecent proposal in a dressing room. She had firmly declined.
‘Speak up, I can barely hear you.’
‘I said, you don’t get it, do you?’
‘What don’t I get?’ she replied. ‘I am sure I have been in this business for a lot longer than you, darling, and I know what makes good television. This, however, is just violence for the sake of it. It is most certainly not entertainment.’