The Go-To Girl Page 19

  ‘I just wondered if you were free for lunch? I’m buying,’ I add quickly. I should have enough money in my account for one lunch at least. ‘Anywhere you like,’ I say recklessly, hoping that it will not be a place with appetizers with unpronounceable names and fifteen-quid price tags.

  ‘You certainly aren’t,’ Charles says, severely. ‘I’ve never let a lady pay for lunch in my life.’

  ‘I insist.’

  ‘Nevertheless, I am paying,’ says Charles, firmly. ‘And of course I want to see you! I’ll rustle up a table at the Savoy again, shall I? That’s not too far from you.’

  I look down at my wet jeans and sodden windbreaker. ‘I just need to go home and change.’

  ‘How about one, does that suit?’

  He’s so polite. He’s such a sweetie. I don’t know why I’m close to tears, still. And suddenly it just hurts to be wet and cold and poor and the sound of a lovely lunch in the Savoy served immaculately by career waiters, all warm and cosy, is perfect.

  ‘That’s wonderful,’ I say gratefully. ‘I’ll see you there.’

  Thank heavens there’s a taxi, coming towards me with its lights on like a black and orange angel of mercy. I hail it and jump in, settling back into its lovely heated interior. Yes, I know it’ll probably be an eighteen-quid ride, but I can afford it. I’m not paying for lunch.

  I quickly shower and blow-dry my hair, then pull out my navy dress with the pumps again – I know Janet would yell at me, but I don’t have time to experiment. I’m dreading her taking me shopping. Looking at myself in changing-room mirrors – ugh. But that’s a nightmare for another day. Right now I will go with my shapeless but classic dress, my fake pearls and the matching shoes. Then I take off the fake pearls. In the Savoy they all wear real ones. Ho-hum.

  I want to make myself up, but nobody’s here to help me, so I settle for foundation and the traditional dab of bronzer on both cheeks. This is about looking nice – well, as nice as possible, for Charles, nothing to do with the fact I’m going to Swan’s place later. I twist my hair back in a neat bun. OK, at least I look businesslike now. Then I grab my bag and start walking.

  Charles is waiting for me when I arrive. I breathe in, trying to relax. And it’s not made too hard. There’s that buzz that’s always around him, the air of money. Here, it’s reflected in the muted sounds of the dining room, a sort of very low-pitched hum of polite conversation. Rich people seem to murmur when they eat, ever noticed that? You never get a rowdy crowd if the median income is six figures and up.

  I sit down when the waiter pulls out my chair.

  ‘I took the liberty of ordering some champagne,’ says Charles, and indeed there’s a flute fizzing by my place. ‘Hope you don’t mind.’

  ‘Not at all,’ I say, taking a big slug. Then I remember where I am and sip it instead, delicately as I can.

  ‘Oh, don’t mind me,’ Charles says. ‘Knock it back, old girl. You look frazzled.’

  Do I? I thought I’d done OK on the old face-repair job.

  ‘It’s been a rough morning,’ I say.

  ‘Why? What did they make you do?’

  ‘Oh, nothing. It’s not that so much as…’ My voice trails off. ‘Tell me about your day,’ I suggest, brightly.

  Halfway through lunch I escape to the sumptuously appointed loos to take a deep breath in and examine my face for treacherous mascara smears. But there’s nothing wrong with it, apart from the usual.

  I stare at myself in the mirror for a long moment.

  What am I thinking? Here I am, having lunch with a lovely, kind man who jumped at the chance to take me out, at no notice, to one of the most expensive restaurants in London. I’m drinking champagne and eating fillet steak. I’m being spoiled rotten. Me, Anna, who’s never had any attention in her life. And after lunch I’m going to go to a meeting with one of the most powerful directors in the world who apparently wants to mentor me in my career.

  Three months ago I was just a grunt reader for Kitty Simpson, desperate to hang on to a spotty oik with halitosis.

  So what the hell am I so unhappy about?

  Some fat lady in Chanel enters the loo and glances disdainfully at my H&M shift dress. But I don’t care, Charles is waiting patiently for me outside, with a pudding menu that includes chocolate soufflés and ganaches and homemade sorbets and things.

  I take a deep breath.

  I am not going to blow this because of some hopeless infatuation. I’m going to get real. My choices are Charles or nobody. And I like Charles.

  I head back out to him, forcing myself to smile.

  * * *

  Mark Swan lives in the heart of Notting Hill, in a gorgeous Queen Anne house with a walled garden that puts Vanna’s to shame. I’ve been there before one time, for a script meeting. We walked there from a local restaurant, after lunch, and I got to see the full gamut of women who wanted to attract his attention.

  Everywhere he goes people want to be in bed with him. On the one hand you can understand it; a man that powerful, all the film people want to schmooze him. But women seem drawn to him no matter what. The average person wouldn’t recognize Mark Swan if he sat next to them on a bus, but women preen whenever he walks into a room. Sometimes without even noticing it. Legs are crossed, toes are pointed, hair is tossed. I think I’ve seen enough lips tentatively licked this week to last me several lifetimes. There are the fingers laid casually on his jacket sleeve, the light laughter, eyes glancing his way, then away again, then back – all the little tricks. What they used to call ‘feminine wiles’.

  I don’t have any of these, so I’m OK. It’s just fun for me to observe Swan and his effect on the women all around him. It’s like watching a rock star walk into a bar. I’m a student of pretty women, and seeing him set the cat amongst the pigeons is fascinating. In a purely anthropological sense.

  I have just been taking care of myself, talking to Greta, making sure she’s OK, reporting back to Kitty and Eli (mostly making stuff up – there’s nothing really to report; what am I going to say. Pre-production is fine, wish you were here?) and trying to improve myself. Nothing fancy, just a little. I go for a jog most mornings, I’m eating salads and diet sandwiches, I switched to Diet Pepsi, and I’m down to one packet of Quavers a day. It’s no big deal. I’m too busy trailing Swan to eat much anyway. He likes to keep me busy. As well as asking me testing questions on the day’s notes, he likes to grill me on movie trivia, which I’m great at, as long as it’s about a big budget Hollywood film shot no sooner than ’84. He does ask me questions about dull arty films and seems delighted when I don’t know any of the answers.

  Apart from the fact I fancy him, I want to be just like him. I know it’s impossible. I don’t know how to direct and I don’t want to. But just once, I’d like to inspire that kind of reaction in other people, I’d like them to drop their voices and whisper when I come into a room. Find me incredibly impressive, the way I think of him. But I just keep jogging and making notes and staying out of his way and trying to seem interested. That’s what’s going to get me through these couple of months, and that’s what’ll get me my promotion. Nothing else matters, right?

  I square my shoulders as I turn in through Swan’s cast-iron gate. I feel stronger than I did this morning. The champagne, the fact I’m not freezing. And Charles’s patient attention.

  I do love movies and I do want a good career. I don’t need to dread seeing Mark Swan, just because he’s handsome. This is a huge career opportunity. I’m glad I can be here.

  OK, right. Here we go.

  I march up his garden path (old-fashioned red bricks, lavender on the sides, hollyhocks and lupins) and ring the bell.

  ‘Coming.’ A muffled yell from inside and then Swan wrenches the door open. He’s wearing black karate pants, tied at the waist, and … that’s it.

  His chest is bare.

  Bare. And cut, as the Americans say. He’s got hair all over his chest, but you can still see the muscles, the biceps, the what do they call th
ose things on the chest? Ooh. I love muscular men. His chest hair looks like Sean Connery.

  I take a step back, dry-mouthed. Stop staring. Stop. Staring!

  ‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ says Swan. ‘I was working out, lost track of the time. Come in, come in, I’ll just get changed.’

  Don’t bother on my account.

  Stop that!

  ‘I’ll make some coffee, shall I?’ I ask. My voice has gone sort of hysterical and squeaky. I hastily beat a retreat to the kitchen and his sleek black coffee machine.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ Swan says, two seconds later. He’s pulled on a pair of chinos and a large T-shirt. ‘I got carried away. Love martial arts.’ He shakes his head. ‘Great stress-reliever. Of course I don’t mean to scare innocent young women.’

  ‘You didn’t scare me. I mean that’s fine.’ I busy myself measuring out the coffee. It’s scented with vanilla, smells heavenly. ‘Were you breaking wood planks with your bare hands?’ I joke.

  ‘No, I’m doing bricks now,’ Swan says.

  ‘You’re breaking bricks with your bare hands?’ I ask, looking at him.

  Swan shrugs. ‘It’s all technique. Don’t look so impressed.’

  ‘I’m not impressed!’ I lie. Why? Why me? Will I ever be able to get that image out of my mind? And I was doing so well, with the nice lunch and all.

  ‘Have a coffee,’ I say, severely. ‘Down to business.’

  ‘Mmm, business,’ he agrees, eyes glinting again. ‘You’re looking very … professional this afternoon, Anna.’

  I stiffen. ‘What’s wrong with it?’

  ‘Oh, nothing,’ he says. ‘Except that I feel like I’m about to get a rap on the knuckles with a ruler.’

  ‘You probably need one,’ I say haughtily.

  ‘Of course you could do that sexy-secretary thing, you know, unpin that severe bun and shake your long hair loose. You could run your fingers through it,’ he suggests.

  Now I know he’s laughing at me.

  ‘It’s not nice to make personal remarks,’ I tell him. ‘Don’t you want to talk to me about something?’

  ‘Sorry, I know. Only your boyfriend is allowed to flirt with you,’ he says.

  ‘That’s right. Don’t flirt with me,’ I say, rather snappily. Then I blink. I mustn’t snap at my mentor. But him being flirty with me is the absolute last thing I want. I don’t need to be positively tortured.

  Swan holds up his hands. ‘OK, OK. Point taken. Let’s talk about your role in pre-production. Learning the business.’

  Finally.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Your heart’s not in it,’ he says. ‘Why not?’

  I start and my mug jerks, spilling coffee all over the table. ‘Oh! I’m sorry.’ I jump up and rip off a piece of kitchen towel dabbing it up.

  ‘Don’t worry about that,’ he says. ‘Just answer my question.’

  ‘I don’t understand what you mean,’ I say, shaking my head as though puzzled. ‘You asked me this this morning. But it’s not fair! I’ve been paying careful attention to the film-making process. I’ve got here early—’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ve been watching what you’ve said to the actors, watching you on set, listening to the script notes…’

  ‘Yes,’ he agrees, pleasantly enough.

  ‘I have been paying attention, honest,’ I plead. ‘I can show you all my notes.’

  Swan smiles lazily back at me, that relaxed self-confidence just oozing out of him. ‘I know that,’ he says. ‘You’re not stupid. You didn’t want me to kick you off the pre-production.’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘It’s fascinating.’

  ‘It is, but obviously not to you.’ Swan looks at me intently, as though I am a particularly interesting Japanese promo ad, or a still that needs analysis. ‘You only come alive during the script meetings.’

  I do love those meetings. Listening to the finished story take shape, watching Trish and Mark work through the characters, beef up the scenes and beats. I suppose it must have showed.

  ‘Those are my favourites,’ I admit.

  ‘Why is that?’ he asks.

  ‘I love the story,’ I say honestly. ‘I just think the story is funny and poignant and near the knuckle and … I love it.’

  ‘But you find discussion about sets tedious.’

  ‘Oh, fuck it,’ I say suddenly. I just don’t feel like pretending any more. ‘It’s so bloody boring, I don’t know how you do it. But I don’t think you should sack me. I’ve done everything you said,’ I argue, defensively. ‘I’ve listened, I’ve learned, I’ve observed.’

  ‘What about rehearsing?’

  ‘That’s boring too. I wouldn’t do it for a million pounds,’ I hear myself say dismissively. ‘Standing around in the rain watching a bunch of overpaid actors say the same bloody line over and over. How hard can it be, eh? They talk about motivation in the scene – “Mark, what’s my motivation here?’” I imitate Greta perfectly.

  He laughs softly. ‘What would you say?’

  ‘Um, “Your bloody enormous pay check”?’ I suggest.

  Swan laughs again, really amused. ‘You aren’t impressed by the actors’ craft?’

  ‘I think they’re a bunch of…’ I stop. ‘I expect some of them are really nice,’ I say diplomatically. ‘And not tossers at all.’

  ‘Very well put,’ he says, his face grave. ‘So basically what we’re saying here is that you only really like the story development stuff.’

  ‘Well, yes. But that’s the most important part,’ I plead in my own defence.

  ‘When you were bullshitting me this morning, when I caught you drifting off,’ he says, ‘no, no need to deny it. You made up that scene where Elsie’s dog pulls her into the pond. Right off the top of your head.’

  I think about an excuse, but it’s clear he’s caught me.

  ‘Yes?’ I ask warily.

  ‘Well, like Trish said, that was good stuff.’ He takes a drink of coffee. ‘And that dialogue you wrote at our first meeting. That was good too.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say, blushing.

  ‘I asked you then if you’d thought about being a screenwriter.’

  ‘Oh, yes. That was nice of you.’

  ‘Well, have you?’ he asks, looking me right in the eye.

  I shrug. ‘I don’t know … I’m just a reader.’

  ‘Could you do better than most of the scripts you read?’

  ‘Oh, fuck yeah,’ I say. ‘Excuse me,’ I add hastily. Nice girls don’t say ‘fuck’ do they? Cheerleaders for the LA Lakers and Rachel Weisz.

  ‘Listen, you’re not terrible at producing,’ he says. ‘You could wind up with an OK career on the conceptual side. You found the right script for the right actress and you went after the right director. That’s a big part of it. But all the grunt work of producing, locations, marketing, hiring crew, casting smaller parts, you hate all that stuff. So there’s going to be a limit as to how well you do. Bringing a film in under budget depends on attention to detail a lot of the time.’ He looks at me over the top of his coffee mug. ‘What’s the matter?’

  I find I’m gazing at him adoringly again. The irony is, though, that the first time he’s actually caught me I wasn’t thinking how sexy and hot he is. I was just thinking, nobody has ever talked to me like this. Not as long as I’ve been in movies. He’s taking me seriously. He’s not telling me to stick with him and he’ll make me a star. He’s not offering me the moon. He’s just listing strengths and weaknesses, as if I was a real movie person, as if I could have a career. It’s almost as if he respects me.

  I don’t think I’ve ever been paid a greater compliment, not one that mattered.

  ‘Nothing,’ I say. Then I think better of it. ‘No, it’s not nothing. I was just thinking that –’ I’m blushing but I plough on – ‘this is really kind of you to do this.’

  ‘What am I doing? I’m not doing anything,’ he says, easily. ‘Attached myself to a good script.’

  ‘That’s not tr
ue. We both know it,’ I say. ‘First of all you didn’t get angry when I didn’t recognize you. And then you let me give you the script. And you read it.’

  He shrugs. ‘It was ten minutes out of my day.’

  ‘Yes, but big stars like you don’t do that sort of thing. They only read what their agents send them. And that wasn’t all, you made my bosses give me a chance to come and learn from you. You threatened to pull out of the deal unless they let me go.’

  He grins. ‘Like you say, I’m a big star. Got to get my own way.’

  ‘And even though I turned up late the first time you didn’t sack me. And now you’re talking to me like this. Like you believe in me.’

  ‘I do believe in you,’ he says, dead serious. ‘I saw in you something I haven’t seen for a very long time.’

  I look at him, asking the question.

  ‘Passion,’ he says. ‘Passion. Love of movies. Love of stories. Enthusiasm. Most people have love of deals. Not you.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say. I can barely whisper it out. I clear my throat, try to pull myself together. ‘I mean, I want to thank you, so much, for all you’re doing for me. I never had a chance till you came along.’

  ‘You always had a chance,’ he says. ‘Think about this: I didn’t just come along, you came to find me.’

  There’s a moment’s pause. I’m staring into his eyes. I force myself to break the look, to wrench my eyes away, even though I wish I could stare at him like that forever.

  ‘Doing something tonight? Got another date?’

  ‘Not tonight,’ I say, warily. Is he laughing at me?

  ‘Would you like to go for a drink?’ He spreads his huge, sunburned hands. ‘No obligation. You’re not going to get kicked back to Winning Productions if you turn me down. I want to discuss something with you, and I think better over beer than coffee.’

  ‘Well…’ It’s only 6 p.m. ‘I suppose that’d be OK,’ I say, insouciantly. But my heart is leaping. What can I say? I can’t help it.

  He walks me out, down the road and round the corner where there’s a small place called the Queen Adelaide. Probably one of the last pubs in London that hasn’t been taken over, given the stripped-pine look and re-named something funky. The Queen Adelaide has a dark, burgundy fabric, musky-smelling interior thick with smoke and a slightly pungent reek, tables, chairs and benches of worn, dark wood, a dartboard and just a couple of outside tables in cast-iron; a grudging concession to London’s cafe culture.