The Zoo by Jamie Mollart Page B

backing to everything. The orange make-up of the actors under the lights, the plastic whiteness of their teeth and perfect hair.
    Ben puts his hands on the back of my chair, leans over my shoulder and says, ‘I almost believe it myself’.
    â€˜Let’s hope so eh?’ I reply.
    He claps me on the shoulder and goes and stands next to the director, who shouts ‘action’ and the proxy of daily life begins in front of us again.
    They repeat their movements, aim at crosses on the floor, say their lines, the director calls ‘cut’, they do it all again, like mechanical toys, actions by rote, perfect and the same every time. I look at the darkness behind the dome made by the studio lights and I can’t see the ceiling, can’t see the back wall, just black extending back and back and back, my eyes un-focus, a softness around the edge of things, it all falling away from me, and the girl in the set is Sally and the boy is Harry and the man is me and as they get smaller and further away I reach out for them and . . .
    â€˜I need to get a drink and some fresh air,’ I hiss at Hilary.
    â€˜I’ll join you,’ he says and the others stand and come with us.
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    We’re in the canteen drinking cheap coffee. The place is nearly empty. My phone vibrates an email into my pocket. As I reach in to read it Ben interrupts me.
    â€˜So,’ he says, reaching across me for the sugar, ‘talk me through the concept again. I’ve got to report back on this tomorrow. Mr Berkshire wants a full debrief.’
    â€˜Didn’t they tell you? This has all been signed off, hasn’t it?’
    â€˜Yes of course, but I haven’t seen anything other than the original documents you showed us.’
    â€˜Okay,‘ I say. My coffee is cold. I wave at Baxter and point at my cup. He nods and leaves the table, ‘it’s about putting the public’s mind at ease. We’re writing you a whole new ethos. It’s about not just knowing where your money is, but what it is doing, so you can get on with your life without worrying. We’re playing on the guilt that people have that makes them have a load of direct debits for charities every month and the whole transparency thing. We’re filming the life without worrying bit today.’
    â€˜Gotcha,’ he says and I realise how young he is.
    Once the shoot is over we go for dinner at a nearby chain restaurant to eat badly cooked steaks and drink house wine. Halfway through the meal I remember the email. It reads ‘I hope you’re proud of yourself’. It appears to have come from my own email address. Confused, I stare at it, phone in one hand, glass of wine in the other. I must stay frozen for a long time because Hilary asks me if I’m okay. I tell him I am and go to the bar to order another bottle of wine, but I am shaken and can’t lose the feeling there is someone behind me. Back at the table I keep checking the phone. It stays blank, flashes the time back at me, which creeps inexorably to the early hours as the wine bottles multiply around us. Hilary is demanding karaoke, the waiter is trying to tell him they don’t have it, have never had it and Hilary is accusing him of lying. Then I’m at the bar with the bill and Hilary is nowhere to be seen so I pay it and shovel mints into my mouth, filling my cheeks like a hamster and then we’re moving to a bar nearby and Hilary is back, swaying as he walks, leaning on me, muttering about having no-one to go home to and I check my phone again, think about calling Sally, telling her where I am, opt instead for an easy text message: ‘ Shoot just finished having dinner won’t be late ,’ and I know it’s a cheap, cheap lie, I know she knows it and my face burns red.
    The pub is old-fashioned, traditionally English: a fire in the corner, Johnny Cash on the juke box. Baxter is telling the old joke about the man jumping from