Tag Archives: Romantic comedy

In the quaint Australian country town of Warbol, a faded B-grade actress,
Faith Farmer, dares to dream again. With a heart full of passion and a
pocketful of savings, she revives the local cinema, The Rex, and invites the
community to fall in love with the Golden Age of Hollywood.

EXCERPT

The Money Pit, 1986

Starring Tom Hanks, Shelley Long.

Directed by Richard Benjamin

Chapter One

FOR SALE BY AUCTION—

SATURDAY 15 OCTOBER 1993

The Rex House

Grand old home with private 100-seat theater

Renovator’s delight. Original features.

Massive entry foyer, three reception rooms

Six bedrooms, one bathroom, kitchen with two pantries

A the wrong end of Mullabong Street, the bleak and

crumbling mansion towered above its neighbors,

shimmering in the summer heat. Faith Farmer pushed her way

to the front of the gathered spectators, pulling a reluctant,

tutting Gerald by the hand. The last time she’d been so excited

and nervous was waiting to learn if she’d been nominated for an

Oscar, and frankly, that didn’t bear remembering. Today, she

had no intention of being overlooked or losing out to a second tier

player.

Sandwiched between Mick’s Meats and DIY Handyman, the

Rex House bore down on Warbol’s main street with a sad air of

grimy decay. Chipped mustard stucco revealed gaping

brickwork. Billposters plastered the massive doors. Shuttered

windows spoke of cobwebs and wood rot within.

Oblivious to the building’s deficiencies, Faith Farmer kept

her eyes locked on the auctioneer, who was standing in the

brass-studded oak doorway, thrusting his hand back and forth

with alarming rapidity.

“One hundred and fifty.” She threw her voice with an

actress’s command. Channeling her stage performance as the

formidable warrior, Boadicea, she’d scare the enemy into

retreat with her determination to win at all costs, no matter the

carnage she’d wreak.

Outside the partially boarded up building, a crowd of

curious onlookers gasped and shuffled.

“One hundred and sixty.” The next bid came from a man in

a smart suit, taking instructions via one of those wireless

telephones.

Faith peered over her rhinestone spectacles and lifted her

arm again. Gerald tried to prevent her, but she shook him off.

“One hundred and seventy.”

“Stop, Faith, you’re over your limit.” Gerald’s chins

wobbled.

She ignored her dear friend and his willful prudence. This

was her life’s dream come true … she was in love, and love

would find a way. A theater … it had a private theater. She

stared up at the derelict Victorian monstrosity’s gloomy facade

and pictured it aglow with lights, restored to its early

magnificence, a glittering reminder of post-Great War decadent

splendor. The Rex Cinema—no, The Rex Movie House—would

be a gem in a regional oasis devoid of cultural charm. A place for

tourists to flock and proud locals to proclaim as their own. After

all these years, she’d once again achieve fame and fortune. But

this time, on her terms.

“I have one hundred and seventy thousand,” boomed the

auctioneer. “Any advance?” He swung his gaze across the

crowd.

Faith clutched Gerald’s arm, crossed her fingers, and closed

her eyes. It would be a goldmine. People would come in droves,

if for no other reason than to meet her. People loved a brush

with fame. Her delusions about her on-screen success in the

fifties—after that unfortunate false start in the forties—had

inflated in proportion with her advancing years. In truth, she’d

featured in overblown tragedies with bad scripts.

“Two hundred,” from telephone man.

Faith’s eyes snapped open, and without stopping to think,

she shouted, “Two ten.”

“Two twenty.”

“Two twenty-one.” Faith’s pulse jack-knifed at her daring.

Gerald muttered under his breath. “You can’t afford it.”

“I shall sell my diamonds.” They’d only ever brought her bad

luck, she was sure of it. At times like these, diamonds truly were

a girl’s best friend. Her dream was tantalizingly close to coming

true, and she had no intention of foregoing this prospect of a

happier future. Not one spent moldering in a rented bungalow

with little entertainment other than memories. She clasped her

hands together and held her breath.

Telephone man shook his head.

The auctioneer slammed down his gavel. “Sold for two

hundred and twenty-one thousand dollars. Congratulations,

madam.”

Faith blinked twice in thrilled disbelief and pressed a hand

to her breast. Gerald eyed the rundown mansion’s crumbling

brickwork.

Faith saw fame. Gerald saw debts. They both sighed in

unison.

Brief Encounter, 1945

Starring Celia Johnson, Trevor Howard.

Directed by David Lean

Chapter Two

Six months later

Jock ran all the way from his practice, panicking that he’d

miss the 5:17 train. He belted along Trimbool’s main street,

ignoring startled looks and wisecracks from jovial locals. “Giddy

up, Jock!” and “Where’s the fire?”

His heart rate accelerated at the sound of clanking wheels

on the line, and he sped up, reaching the walkway as the lights

flashed and the alarm beeped. The barrier started to come

down, and he ducked underneath, leaping the tracks, and

reaching the other side just as the train rounded the bend.

Catching his breath, he glanced up and down the platform.

There was no friendly welcoming guard anymore, not now

brand-new trains with driver-operated doors had made his job

redundant. A few yards away stood a tall and rather skinny

woman, wearing a loose-fitting navy cotton shift, a canvas bag

slung over her shoulder. Further along, a young man in a

leather jacket was sitting on a bench, smoking a cigarette,

tapping his foot, and frowning into the distance. Neither looked

familiar, which was a relief. The trouble with small places was

everyone knew everyone, and he didn’t want to be quizzed on

his reason for going into Warbol. It would only invite questions

about why Nancy didn’t join him, and lead to unwarranted

gossip.

The train slowed, and the automatic doors slid open. He

glanced to his right and saw the woman in the blue dress

stumble, heard the click of her heel as it snapped off her shoe,

and her small cry of pain.

Jock moved fast, caught her elbow, and helped her onto the

train. “Are you alright?”

“Yes. No. I went over on my ankle.” She hopped down from

the half-empty carriage. “Thank you. I’m sure I’ll be fine.” She

sat on an aisle seat with a relieved thump, a sheet of pale brown

hair flopping across her face. Jock hovered as she removed her

broken shoe and rubbed her foot with slender, bony fingers. A

smudge of yellow paint bruised the side of her thumb.

The train departed, and he took the seat opposite. “Let me

look.” Swelling was starting to appear.

“No, really, you’re very kind, but it’s nothing.” Her voice was

soft.

“You’ve sprained your ankle. It needs strapping.” Jock

fumbled in his jacket pocket. Among dog treats and loose coins,

he found a partial roll of bandage.

The woman laughed. “You’re very well prepared.”

“Aye. Tools of the trade,” Jock said.

“Are you a doctor?”

“A vet.” In his rush to mend her, he’d forgotten to introduce

himself. “I’m Jock, by the way, Jock Penderly.”

“Alice Flamingo.”

A smile lit his somber face. “Rather appropriate I should

treat a bird. An exotic one, too.” God, he sounded like a dork.

Alice’s expression gave nothing away. “Yes indeed.

Serendipity.”

Jock couldn’t tell if she was amused or being sarcastic, and

before he made another foolish remark, glanced away from her

long regal neck, naked of any jewelry. “Can you put your foot

up?”

With a grimace, she lifted her leg. He carefully placed his

hands under her calf and rested her heel on his knee. “Do you

live in Trimbool?” He wound the bandage in practiced figures of

eight around her ankle.

She paused. “Yes. Mostly.”

It was a curious answer, but he pressed on. “Do you work

locally?” He couldn’t ever recall seeing her, and he knew he

wouldn’t have forgotten her.

“I’m a painter. An artist.”

“Ah. That explains it.” Jock indicated her thumb.

Alice scratched at the paint. “I’m experimenting with the

sun.” Her voice quickened as she spoke. “When it’s not raining,

I take my easel or sketchbook to the national park.”

He pictured her, perched on a stool overlooking the

escarpment, lost in concentration, conjuring dramatic

landscapes. 

“I envy you. How I’d love to have a raw talent.”

“You have a vocation. Most people only have a job.”

Aye, she was right. If only Nancy saw his work that way, but

those days of shared respect were long gone.

He ripped the end of the bandage into strips, tied a neat

knot, and eased her foot off his knee. “I’m not sure I can fix your

shoe. My bag of tricks doesn’t run to superglue.”

Alice smiled. Her nose crinkled, small dimples appeared in

her cheeks, and her gray eyes shimmered. “Luckily, I’ve got

running shoes in my bag.”

“Very Girl Scouts of you. Prepared for any emergency.”

Alice laughed again. “I was on my way to an aerobics class.

But I won’t be going now. I’ll just wait for the next train back.”

“You’ll be waiting more than two hours.” A cluster of

thoughts rained through him. She’d be bored, she might get

hungry. What if her ankle swelled? Wasn’t rain forecast?

Would she be safe, alone in the dark on a railway platform? He

picked through each snag methodically until he came to the

obvious solution. “It might not be your thing, but I’m going to

the opening of The Rex Movie House. An actress called Faith

Farmer has done up the private theater in a derelict old home

and plans to show classic films every Monday. Tonight, it’s Brief

Encounter. It would be better than sitting in the station waiting

room.” He waited for a sharp rebuff.

“If I wouldn’t be a bother. I’m a sucker for old movies.”

He grinned. “Me too.” Modern films, for all their big

budgets, never captured his imagination in the same way. “We’ll

take a cab. Save you hobbling on that ankle.”

_

They arrived at The Rex just before six. Standing outside, they

took in the sorrowful building—decaying stucco, paint peeling

from the window frames, and broken shutters. Aside from

posters proclaiming Hollywood comes to Warbol! there was

little indication of a recent makeover.

“What beautiful old doors.” Alice stroked the weathered

oak, her delicate hand tracing the gnarled wood across its

whorls and crevices. A diamond glinted on her ring finger.

A sharp female voice cut between them. “Excuse us.”

Jock stood back to let a tall blonde woman and her scowling

male companion hurry through.

He checked his watch. “We better get in.”

Stepping across the threshold, the world retreated almost a

hundred years. Jock soaked in the not-so-glorious past—walls

yellowed from decades of tobacco smoke, lead-light windows

with duct tape to hold the cracks, and faux stone pillars that

added an air of grandeur to the expanse of stained marble

flooring. Perhaps to hide damp patches or chipped paintwork,

dated theatrical photographs featuring the same pretty young

starlet hung haphazardly—the only embellishment in an

otherwise stark, musty foyer.

A plump, middle-aged man greeted them in a flamboyant

purple jacket and an oversized spotty bow tie. His twinkling

smile lit the atmosphere. “Good evening, good evening.

Welcome to our little soiree. Cash only, if you please.” He

tapped a cake tin on a rickety old card table. “And make your

way in. Two minutes until curtain up.” He waved his arms in the

direction of the maroon velvet drapes.

A head decorated in a feathered concoction peeked through

the curtains, and an imperious voice boomed. “Close the doors,

Gerald.”

Gerald bowed and saluted. “Aye, aye, Miss Farmer. Final

two on their way.”

Jock gave him two five-dollar notes and, ignoring Alice’s

protests, steered her into the tiny theater.

“Amazing place, eh?” They paused in the aisle to take in the

eclectic blend of art deco and Gothic styles. Oversized sconces

lit the walls and mingled with faded gilt cupids and goddesses.

Statues of shepherdesses wrapped in vines graced either side of

the stage. Black drapes hid the screen. He’d expected a plain

viewing room, stripped of any character, not this ornate

throwback to more glamorous days.

“I don’t even know who Faith Farmer is,” Alice confided.

“She featured in a lot of disasters back in the fifties.

Hollywood technicolor extravaganzas. Greek dramas, sweeping

family sagas with corny sets and ludicrous costumes. Once seen,

easily forgotten.”

“You seem to have remembered her.”

“Don’t be fooled, I read up on her,” Jock admitted.

The cinema was only a quarter filled, and they chose two

spots in the middle of the dozen or so rows. Their seats were

lumpy with horsehair stuffing, the velvet covers were patchy

and needing repair. The auditorium buzzed with a low murmur

of voices, except for the couple in front who bickered in raspy

whispers.

“I’ve told you Fred, Mitzi is mine.” The woman patted her

blonde chignon with immaculate, manicured hands.

“Paid for with my money, Petronella,” Fred snarled, his

neck swelling red with anger.

Jock raised his eyebrows at Alice and was rewarded with a

smile.

A woman in her late sixties, dressed as Nell Gwynn or

Napoleon’s Josephine—it was hard to tell—swayed up the aisle

with a battered wooden tray slung around her neck. “Ice cream?

Chocolates? Potato chippy things?” A cockatoo feather dangled

from her head at half-mast.

“Two vanilla cones, please.” Jock paid as the lights dimmed,

the curtains creaked apart, and the opening Pathe newsreel

crackled onto the small screen—1945, You Were There When It

Happened.

Jock glanced to Alice, absorbed in the film as she licked her

ice cream, and took in her perfect profile. The thought

ballooned before he could burst it. Today, on this very evening,

in 1994 … is something momentous happening?

Shaken, he ripped away his gaze and stared ahead at the

slideshow of images, but the discombobulating sense that

change was afoot wouldn’t go away.

Chapter Three

Charlotte had seen the poster for Retro Night at The Rex

Movie House in the supermarket where she bought cheap

groceries. There was no television at her digs, and her evenings

were long, with only books for company. Five dollars was a lot

of money, but if she was careful, her budget could manage it.

With a mix of trepidation and determination, she walked

through the town to the building that housed the cinema. It

oozed a dated charm, drawing her inside, and gathering all her

strength of mind, she entered the foyer. People swirled in cozy

circles, and to her relief, no one took much notice of her. She

read the posters on the walls, drinking in Faith Farmer’s

theatrical exploits, and then chose a seat in an empty row at the

back, where she could be anonymous and people-watch,

unseen.

Everyone had a companion, which made her acutely

conscious of being on her own. The last couple to arrive paused

by the doors, heads almost touching, deep in conversation. He

was unkempt, with a button hanging off his jacket. She was tall

and wore gym shoes, presumably to accommodate the bandage

around her ankle. They moved in unison, smiling and chatting,

looking so in love, and Charlotte squashed down envy.

When the lights went down on Brief Encounter, her body

relaxed as she was transported back sixty years to 1930s

England, a time when problems were no easier than today and

conscience overcame passion. She absorbed every heartwrenching

twist and turn, willing Laura to leave her husband

for the dashing doctor, but understanding that duty must come

first.

At the end of the movie, Charlotte waited as everyone filed

out, and took deep breaths to calm her rising anxiety. She

wanted to creep out of a side exit to avoid meeting anyone, but

that would defeat the purpose. Being here was an important

step in her rehabilitation. You must face your fears. Those were

Mother’s parting words to her, wise words from a wise woman.

An arm swooped around her waist, taking her by surprise.

“This way, dearie.” A plump woman in a too-tight bodice, with

a feather waving over one ear, clutched Charlotte in a firm grip

and led her toward the exit. The ice-cream seller. “No point

giving in to stage fright. I should know. Goodness, on the first

night of South Pacific, I threw up six times. Six times! It’s a

wonder I didn’t faint after the first number.”

Charlotte recognized Faith Farmer from the soft-focus

photographs, taken during her younger, more glamorous days,

which wallpapered the foyer. Against Faith’s vibrancy,

Charlotte shrank, almost invisible in a gray skirt and black shirt.

She took another deep breath. “I’m not very good in crowds.”

Faith squeezed her. “That lot out there is made up of people

just like you, keen to make new friends. Come along, my dear. A

glass of Chianti will set you straight.” She took Charlotte’s hand

and led her into the foyer, where Gerald offered her a glass of

wine. Charlotte took it, glad of something to do with her hands,

and stood, uncertain and too shy to approach anyone.

A dark-haired man at the bar complained. “I thought the

booze was free.”

“Just the first glass. Or you might get tiddly.” Gerald

chortled, showing off a set of perfect false teeth. “Top-ups are a

dollar.”

An immaculate woman in her mid to late thirties, wearing a

skin-tight black wool dress, topped by perfect coiffured blonde

hair, butted in. “Money, money, money. It’s always money with

you, Fred.” She took a glass and turned to Charlotte, wincing as

she took a sip. “Dreadful drop, isn’t it?”

Balancing on pointy-toed, black stilettos, she loomed

several inches above Charlotte. She thrust out a hand crafted

with scarlet red nails. “Petronella.” As an afterthought, she

nodded at her partner. “Fred.”

Petronella could only be a few years older than Charlotte,

but her poise reduced Charlotte to a gawky teenager. With some

hesitation, she said, “I’m Charlotte Tran.” It still sounded odd.

Fred, a dark scowl on his handsome face, wandered away.

Charlotte knew she’d bored him already.

Petronella waved a dismissive hand in his direction. “Oh,

don’t worry about Fred. It’s not you. It’s me. We’re getting a

divorce. At least, I hope we are. He’s proving very difficult to

shake off. It’s sexual jealousy. I’ve met someone new, and poor

Fred can’t imagine being outdone in that department.” Her

voice had a slightly nasal drawl. “I’m glad you rescued me from

him.” She looked Charlotte up and down. “On your own?”

“Yes. I’ve just moved here.”

“Where from?”

She gave the answer she’d perfected. “I was a volunteer in

Africa.”

Petronella’s gaze meandered over the top of Charlotte’s

head. “Interesting.”

Oh dear. She’d bored Petronella, too, though at least she’d

stemmed more questions.

Over the chatter and clink of glasses, Faith clapped her

hands and spread her arms wide. Silence fell, and the crowd

looked at her expectantly.

“What a delightful evening. What a wonderful movie. Who

can fail to be enthralled by the magic and sheer heartbreak of

Celia Johnson? I myself hankered after the role in the later

stage production, but sadly, other commitments took

precedence.” Beside her, Gerald spluttered and coughed. “Do be

quiet, Gerald, and hand out the flyers.”

“Tell them about our three-for-two offer,” he hissed.

Faith looked askance at him and mouthed, “Our what?”

“It’s three sessions for the price of—”

“The flyers, Gerald. Hand out the flyers.” Faith reclaimed

her limelight and gave a deep curtsey. “Farewell ’til next

Monday.”

There was a flutter of applause. People finished their drinks

and made their way out.

Charlotte took a leaflet. The Nun’s Story. Any idea she had

of not coming back was swept away.

“See you next time, then?” Petronella patted Charlotte’s

arm. “I’m dying to hear all about Africa.”

The devoted-looking young couple brushed past. The man

said “Goodnight” to Charlotte in a heathery Scottish burr.

Gerald smacked a kiss on her cheek. Even surly Fred, loitering

by the exit, gave her a wave. Maybe it was the wine, or the

friendly group, but Charlotte’s nerves dissipated, and she raised

her eyes to the rococo ceiling in silent thanks to Mother.

She’d come next Monday, of course she would—and

somehow, she’d find a way to duck Petronella’s probing

questions.