The Go-To Girl Page 11

  ‘Excuse me.’ The Heat is slipping out of my grip. ‘Can I just put these down while you…’

  ‘Sure.’ He grabs the Heat for me on its inexorable way to the floor. Wow. What a good-looking man. All craggy and masculine in a younger Ted Hughes sort of way. I didn’t think they made them like that any more.

  ‘Thanks,’ I mutter.

  ‘Diet Coke,’ he says, amused.

  ‘Excuse me?’ I demand again. Bloody cheek! Just because I have some crisps. And a few sweets. I blush bright red.

  ‘Four twenty,’ says the checkout girl. I sullenly fork over a fiver.

  ‘I hope you realize you’ve ruined it now,’ I tell him. ‘With your comment.’

  ‘Oh,’ he says. ‘You mean…’ He gestures at my pile of loot.

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘And I hope you know those fags are going to give you cancer. Why don’t you think of that when you light up, eh? With every puff, think, this is giving me cancer,’ I say, triumphantly. ‘Try to enjoy them when you’re forced to think about the consequences!’

  He has the good grace to chuckle. ‘You’re right, I’m sorry. Stress relief?’

  ‘Yup,’ I say, pocketing my change. ‘I can’t get on to the set over there.’

  ‘Johnny Depp fan?’ he asks, sympathetically.

  ‘No. Well, yes. Of course. Loved Pirates of the Caribbean. His Keith Richards impersonation was spot-on, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Sure was.’

  ‘I wanted to speak to the director.’ I sigh.

  ‘You an actress?’

  ‘Oh. No. Nothing like that. I work in the film business, I’ve got a script I wanted him to read. And his agent wasn’t interested.’

  ‘So you thought you’d try the direct approach.’

  ‘They won’t let me on set, though,’ I say. ‘You know, Steven Spielberg started his career by sneaking onto the Paramount lot, but they must have had rubbish security back then.’

  He stares at me. Gorgeous dark eyes, long lashes, but they are regarding me as though I’m some sort of circus freak. I step back, self-consciously.

  ‘Are you for real?’ he asks.

  I’m getting a nasty feeling. There’s something familiar about him. His voice, his eyes. ‘What do you mean, am I for real? You’re not with the security, are you? I only asked, you know, I haven’t done anything illegal.’

  Not so far, anyway. My next move is to sneak onto the set. But I haven’t tried that yet.

  ‘You mean you don’t recognize me?’ he asks.

  And then of course I do. With a sickening lurch of horror. I gasp and relax my grip and all the rest of my purchases slither to the floor, and I’m on my knees, face flaming, scrambling to pick them up.

  He bends down to help me, not unkindly. I stagger back up.

  ‘No – I – I didn’t. I do now, Mr Swan,’ I say, miserably. ‘It was the beard. You’ve shaved your beard,’ I cry. Not fair! Why should men be allowed to shave their beards, step out of gloomy cloakrooms and look completely different? ‘Um, look, this was obviously a really bad idea. Please just forget about it. OK? Um, goodbye.’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ Swan says. ‘Don’t I know you?’

  ‘Not really,’ I mutter.

  ‘Yes I do. Yes, I do,’ he says, insistently. ‘Yes, I’ve got it. You’re the cloakroom girl. Aren’t you?’

  I don’t want to tell him. What if he calls Kitty and complains or something?

  ‘Yes,’ I admit.

  ‘The one with the evil boss with the boring Prada clutch.’

  I smile slightly. ‘Yes. Er – no. No. I mean, she’s not evil. And the bag, I suppose you’d call it classic.’

  He steps back. ‘I’d call it boring. But at least she isn’t a wanky recluse, eh?’

  The shop attendant’s head is zipping back and forth between us like a Wimbeldon spectator.

  ‘You know,’ I say with dignity, drawing myself up to my full height, ‘all you had to say was no, Mr Swan.’

  ‘Mark,’ he says. ‘And you’re Anna Brown. Right?’

  I blink with surprise. He remembered?

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And what company are you with?’

  ‘Winning Productions.’

  He looks dubious. ‘They did Starlight Dance? Couple of years ago now.’

  ‘Yes, but we’ve just got bought out by Red Crest Productions,’ I say. ‘Eli Roth.’

  ‘A big name,’ Swan concedes.

  I have to do it. I snap open the magnetic clasp to my battered old Prada bag that I spent five hundred quid on five years ago and so can’t stop using even though it’s all scruffed-up and battered, and fish out my Mother of the Bride script.

  ‘Here,’ I say, shoving it at him. ‘Just read the first ten pages. Please?’

  ‘And why do I want to do this?’ Swan asks. He makes no move to take the script and it hangs there, limp and pathetic, in my hand.

  ‘Well.’ I take a breath, then my words come tumbling out, falling all over themselves. ‘It’s a good script. Funny. Like nothing you’ve ever done before, but I thought, you know, he could try something different … it’s a romantic comedy for an older actress … Mother of the Bride … she’s ruining her daughter’s wedding … Greta Gordon is attached…’

  ‘Is she?’ Swan asks, eyes glinting. ‘Thought she’d retired.’

  ‘She wants to come back.’

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ he says, taking the script. ‘No promises. Your phone number on here?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, gratefully.

  ‘It really doesn’t sound like my kind of story,’ he says, gently. ‘Don’t wait by the phone, Anna.’

  ‘Like Bud Fox in Wall Street,’ I say, laughing nervously.

  Swan grins. ‘Yes. I love that scene. Anyway, don’t wait like that.’ He turns to go out of the shop.

  ‘I’m surprised,’ I call after him. ‘Wall Street’s not very arty.’

  Swan turns back to look at me and lifts his eyebrows. ‘Who cares about arty?’ he says. ‘Don’t you think Star Wars is the best film ever made?’

  And then he’s gone, and I’m just standing there, ecstatic, clutching my Quavers.

  * * *

  ‘Do you think,’ I ask John dreamily when I get back to the office, ‘that Star Wars is the best film ever made?’

  He gives me a look of withering contempt. ‘What?’

  ‘Star Wars.’

  ‘Yes, I thought that’s what you said,’ he replies, acidly. ‘I just assumed you were joking. Either that, or you haven’t heard of Citizen Kane or Casablanca. Or The Bicycle Thief.’

  ‘I thought Star Wars was brilliant,’ I say.

  ‘Yes, well,’ sneers John. ‘I believe you were the one who said she liked Speed.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And Pretty Woman.’

  I want to hug myself. I wonder if Mike Swan liked Pretty Woman. I wonder if he likes all my favourite films. Films that aspiring producers aren’t supposed to like. You know, Die Hard, Goodfellas, Trading Places …

  There’s a real stigma to liking mainstream movies. And I can’t get enough of them, while Citizen Kane put me to sleep. I mean I got to the bit where she’s doing the jigsaw on the floor and I switched off. When was the story going to start? No, we’re all supposed to be like John and be into classic movies and film noir and things that win the Palme D’Or at Cannes and nobody ever goes to see. You know what I call a classic? Raiders of the Lost Ark, that’s what. I never wish I’d written worthy movies. Instead I wish I’d had the idea for Shallow Hal. Or The Sixth Sense. I’ve tried with the worthy movies, I really have. David Puttnam once told me that Citizen Kane changed his life. But what can I say? I just don’t get it. And I couldn’t get through the first twenty minutes of Breakfast at Tiffany’s, either.

  I’d love to write. The best thing about being a scout is reading, getting to sift through scripts. Even though so many of them are so awful. I write such scathing things about most of them in the coverage I draw up, and I
really feel bad about it, but you’ve got no idea just how terrible most of them really are. When will people stop trying to write bad pastiches of the film they saw last week? I truly don’t want to know about a retired thief/bounty hunter/private detective called out of retirement for one last job. I could not care less if somebody wants to rob Fort Knox. And please don’t send me an action script featuring a leather-clad girl martial arts expert with magical powers …

  Sometimes I think I could do better. But then I remember I’m only Anna Brown, who am I kidding?

  Kitty got the company to pay for me to go to one of those screenwriting workshops once. She wanted me to learn three act structure and common clichés, so I could give her better coverage. I wasn’t supposed to try and write something myself, so I didn’t. I mean, who do I think I am? I’m not a writer of movies. I’m just a fan.

  But you know, sometimes I do wonder if what I’d churn out could be any worse than the stuff I have to read.

  I figured out long ago that what I love about movies is the stories. You can have a bunch of unknown actors, no special effects, even an ordinary director, and as long as you have a sparkling story it really doesn’t matter. You know, Four Weddings and a Funeral. Or Phonebooth. In Phonebooth the lead character hardly ever gets out of the phone booth! Talk about low-budget. And it was still a great thriller.

  And then I pull myself together and dismiss those kinds of thoughts. And go back to my slush pile.

  ‘You wouldn’t know a good film if it bit you in the arse,’ says John. ‘Oh, and Kitty wants to see you.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Probably so you can tell her all about your big meeting with Mark Swan,’ he says, with heavy sarcasm.

  ‘Oh,’ I toss my hair, as if I was Sharon. ‘No problem, it went pretty well, actually.’

  John’s eyes narrow. ‘You did not have a meeting with Mark Swan.’

  ‘Didn’t I?’ I ask innocently.

  ‘You’re making it up,’ John hisses, looking sick. ‘Why would someone like him want to meet someone like you?’

  ‘Maybe to direct my movie?’

  ‘Kitty’s movie,’ snaps John, but he’s gone all pasty and his heart isn’t in it.

  I go to Kitty’s office and knock timidly on her door.

  ‘Come.’

  I let myself in, shutting the door behind me, but can’t resist winking at John’s stricken face.

  ‘What’s all this I hear about you and Swan?’ Kitty barks. ‘Did you really have a meeting with him? And if you did,’ she drums her talons on her mahogany desk, ‘why wasn’t I informed? You don’t take meetings with talent, Anna, I take meetings with talent.’

  ‘It wasn’t like that,’ I protest hastily. Kitty is scowling furiously at me. The thought of being shut out of a meeting with Mark Swan has driven her insane. ‘I just went up to Hampstead Heath where he’s shooting and asked to give him the script.’

  Kitty’s scowl switches from rage to horror. ‘You did what? But that’s so unprofessional, Anna! How could you? He doesn’t know you work for Winning, does he?’ she demands. ‘He doesn’t know you work for me?’

  ‘Absolutely not,’ I lie, hastily. ‘He has no clue!’

  ‘I don’t suppose you managed to see him,’ she says, slightly mollified.

  ‘Actually, he did see me.’ I say carefully. ‘And he decided to take the script and have a look at it. But he said it probably wasn’t his kind of thing.’

  ‘Of course it isn’t,’ Kitty snaps, bad humour restored. ‘If you’d listened to me you’d have known that and saved us all some embarrassment.’

  Her phone buzzes and she presses the speaker button with irritation. ‘What the hell is it now, Claire?’

  ‘Phone call for Anna,’ Claire’s disembodied voice says meekly.

  ‘So bloody what?’ snaps Kitty. ‘She can take her phone calls on her own time.’

  ‘He – he says his name is Mark Swan,’ says Claire, nervously.

  Kitty and I exchange looks.

  ‘I’ll just get back to my desk,’ I suggest.

  ‘No you don’t,’ hisses Kitty, shoving the receiver at me. ‘You take it right here. Put him through,’ she says to Claire.

  I take the receiver, heart pounding, and Kitty picks up an extension, pressing the mute button so she can eavesdrop but Swan won’t be able to hear her heavy breathing. Oh bugger. Please don’t let him say anything to get me in trouble.

  ‘Anna Brown,’ I say.

  ‘All right, Bud Fox,’ says Mark Swan’s voice, richly baritone and confident, and I can hear the grin in it. ‘I want you to buy me twenty thousand shares of Bluestar…’

  I can’t speak. Kitty’s eyes are popping out of her head. Clearly she doesn’t get it.

  ‘Mr Swan,’ I say.

  ‘If we’re going to work together, don’t you think you should call me Mark?’ he says.

  ‘You liked it,’ I say. I can’t breathe. My insides are melting. ‘You liked it?’

  ‘Very good, Sherlock,’ he says. Oh man, he’s sexy. ‘My agent’s having a fit, but I think this might be kind of fun. And I have some space in my schedule for the autumn. Are you developing this project?’

  Kitty is making frenzied hand gestures at me.

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘That’s my boss, Kitty Simpson.’

  ‘Well, have her call my assistant Michelle and set something up,’ he says. ‘And make sure you’re in that meeting too, kid.’

  Bless him. I love him! ‘Whatever you say, boss.’

  ‘I get final cut,’ he warns. ‘Non-negotiable.’

  I look at Kitty, who nods frantically.

  ‘No problem,’ I say. ‘And thank you so much.’

  ‘Don’t thank me,’ he says. ‘I own you now. I’m going to be working you so hard you’re gonna throw up.’

  ‘Sounds good to me,’ I manage.

  ‘Have her make the call,’ he says. ‘See you, Bud Fox.’

  He hangs up and so do I. Kitty stares at me as if she can’t believe it.

  ‘Who the hell is Bud Fox?’ she demands.

  ‘Wall Street You know, the movie?’

  ‘Oh,’ Kitty says, giving a little tinkling laugh. ‘Wretched trashy film. Dear Mark, so ironic,’ she says. ‘And well done, Anna. I’ll call Personnel, get them moving on that raise.’

  Get them moving? I thought that had already gone through.

  ‘Why don’t you call the writer – that Trish person,’ Kitty says. ‘Have her ready to meet her director tomorrow morning. I’ll call Eli Roth. And Carly Smith.’ She smiles with satisfaction, like a cat, and then admires her canary diamond. ‘My movie is really starting to come together,’ she says, and nods at me as though she’s the Queen and I’ve just won a gold medal in the Duke of Edinburgh’s Award Scheme.

  I exit her office to find John jumping away back to his desk. Had he actually had his ear pressed up against the door?

  ‘So what happened in there?’ he asks, casually.

  I favour him with a smile. ‘Oh, I was just chatting to Kitty and Mark,’ I say, casually.

  ‘Really,’ says John, furiously. ‘Congratulations.’

  I mustn’t let him make me any coffee for the foreseeable future.

  I know it’s childish, but I just feel wonderful. I’m going to go to the off-licence on the way home and buy some cheap champagne. And go to Blockbuster and rent a copy of Wall Street …

  * * *

  The phone is ringing as I walk through the door.

  My arms are laden with bags. I have an Indian prawn korma from Marks and Spencer, a family-sized bar of Dairy Milk, a pack of tree-ripened peaches (so expensive, but what the hell), and two bottles of champagne (M&S’s own, but it still counts). I don’t care, it’s a celebration, and Janet and Lily will be on the champagne too (Lily has convinced herself champagne is calorie-free) so there has to be enough. I also got a six-pack of crisps, all salt and vinegar. And I’m going to eat at least two packets. Maybe three!

  Before I left t
he office today – after the tech guys turned all my files on to Kitty’s computer – Personnel rang and told me my new salary and benefits.

  I am going to be making thirty grand!

  Thirty. Grand. A. Year!

  And there’s a bonus if we actually get Mother of the Bride made, but they weren’t specific. Who cares? I just went up from sixteen grand a year to thirty grand a year in five minutes! And my own parking space in the underground lot!

  Which would be nice if I had a car. But I can’t afford one, with petrol and parking and congestion charge. Where would I park it round here? Monthly spaces are almost as much as the rent. Maybe I could rent out my new parking space. Rob is loaded, he drives a Porsche Boxster …

  Course, he probably wouldn’t rent from me, I think to myself. Too demeaning! Ha ha ha ha ha!

  The phone is still ringing, so I drop my bags and pick it up.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Anna?’

  ‘Oh, hi, Charles,’ I say, with forced enthusiasm. It feels like my dentist calling. But I know I have to get over it. It’s not his fault, after all. ‘Um, thank you for the lovely flowers.’

  And I do feel a bit guilty. Before all the drama started today he sent me those roses, and they made me feel fantastic, didn’t they?

  ‘Did you like them?’ he asks, sounding all pleased.

  ‘They were great. They’re sitting on my desk right now.’

  ‘Well, I hope they brightened up your morning,’ he says, a bit stiffly. But he sounds nervous. I know the feeling. I instantly want to put him at ease.

  ‘They were the perfect start,’ I tell him. ‘And then I got a raise! I think they were my lucky flowers.’

  ‘A raise?’

  ‘I’m assisting on a project now,’ I tell him. ‘I can try to get films made.’

  ‘Terrific,’ Charles says happily. ‘So you’ll be able to put my novel into production!’