The Go-To Girl Page 20

  The bartender looks up when we come in.

  ‘All right, Mark?’ he says. ‘Who’s yer ladyfriend?’

  ‘This is the lovely Anna,’ Swan says. I stare at him suspiciously for signs of mockery but it doesn’t look like there are any. ‘Usual please. Mike,’ he says, and the barman pours him a double rye whiskey and looks at me.

  ‘Let me guess,’ Swan says. ‘Babycham.’

  ‘Oh, fuck off,’ I say. ‘Half a cider is fine.’

  ‘Living dangerously,’ he comments as he slides some money across the pitted wood.

  ‘I don’t want to get too hammered,’ I tell him. ‘I might lose all my inhibitions and start giving you some home truths.’

  He laughs, delighted. ‘Isn’t she great?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m his pet seal,’ I say grumpily. ‘Available for weddings and bar mitzvahs.’

  ‘Not like your usual type,’ the barman comments. Swan scowls at him and he winks at me.

  ‘What’s that? Boobs like barrage balloons and a waist like a wasp?’

  ‘She’s got your number, mate,’ the barman says, and I’m satisfied to see Swan flush.

  ‘Let’s sit over there,’ Swan suggests, indicating a weatherworn bench with fairly manky-looking cushions tucked into a corner.

  ‘Not outside?’ The rain has stopped, and now it’s a lovely sunny evening, warm and golden; even at sunset it’s not chilly.

  ‘I thought we might be more private in here,’ Swan says.

  ‘What do we need to be private for?

  ‘Some people recognize me, sometimes,’ he admits, blushing. ‘Film students and stuff. Actors. You get a lot of them round here.’

  ‘Yes, it is a fairly pretentious area,’ I concede. ‘All right then, we’ll sit over there to avoid your legions of fans.’

  Swan slides into the corner, disappearing comfortably into the gloom, and takes a pull at his rye, instantly relaxing. I can see he feels safe here, protected. People don’t bother him.

  ‘I hope you don’t think I’m pretentious.’

  I don’t say anything, just nurse my cider.

  ‘It’s OK,’ he reassures me. ‘You can say anything you like and I won’t come down on you.’

  ‘Anything I like?’

  ‘Yep.’ His eyes are sparkling.

  ‘Sounds like a trap,’ I say suspiciously. ‘You’ll lull me into revealing some of those home truths and then you’ll call up Eli Roth and have me fired.’

  ‘I wouldn’t do that,’ he says.

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I’d call my agent and have her do it. I can’t stand Eli,’ he says, and grins.

  ‘Very funny.’

  ‘Seriously, you can trust me. We’re breaking bread together. Or at least booze. That’s got to be sacred.’

  ‘All right,’ I say, sipping my cider, which is flat. ‘I do think you’re a bit pretentious.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’

  ‘Yeah, but it goes with the territory. All directors are pretentious. They think the sun shines out of their arses.’

  ‘Don’t sit on the fence, Anna,’ he says, stretching his hand out on the table. ‘Tell me what you really think.’

  ‘Well, it’s true,’ I say, hotly. ‘What is this “A Rob Reiner Film” anyway? Why is it known as the director’s film?’

  ‘That’s called the possessory credit.’

  ‘I know what it’s called.’

  ‘The director is the one who’s blamed if the film goes wrong, he’s the one who makes all the decisions. I think it’s fair.’

  ‘You would,’ I tell him. ‘Directors are so unimportant. I’ll never work out why they’ve got so much power.’

  Swan goggles at me. ‘You think we’re unimportant?’

  ‘Sure. Anyone can coax a performance out of an actor, they just want their egos stroked. And directors don’t set the look of the film, the DPP does that.’

  ‘So who’s important then?’ Swan ticks off the names on his huge fingers. ‘The stars are self-indulgent tossers, the director’s a meaningless appendage…’

  ‘The writer,’ I say triumphantly.

  ‘The writer’s the low guy on the totem pole.’

  ‘I know that,’ I say indignantly. ‘But she shouldn’t be. She’s written the screenplay, made the story.’

  ‘She,’ he says, grinning. ‘But a movie’s more than a screenplay,’ he adds, reasonably.

  ‘I know that too. But the screenplay is the blueprint, isn’t it? Film isn’t anything more than a story told in pictures.’

  ‘I’m responsible for the pictures.’

  ‘Anybody could make the pictures,’ I say hotly. ‘But only the person who thinks of the story can make the story. Anybody could act the part, too. Just because one person’s good in the role doesn’t mean somebody else wouldn’t have been just as good.’

  Swan says, ‘I admire your passion.’

  ‘Oh, give over,’ I say, scornfully. ‘Now you really do sound like an LA executive.’

  He laughs, a rich, deep belly laugh that seems to go on and on and sends half the pub staring in our direction. I nudge him. ‘Cut that out,’ I hiss.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says, wiping his eyes. ‘I just think you’re priceless. And fearless,’ he adds, before I can take offence. ‘Do you know how long it’s been since anybody talked to me like that?’

  ‘Well, you can’t get me in trouble, you promised.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ Swan says. He reaches across the table and takes my hand in his. I look at it, lying there, and for the first time in ages I’m not embarrassed of my too-large, too-utilitarian hands. Inside his large, thick fingers, they seem slender, feminine.

  Mark Swan dwarfs me. I understand now, with a sudden shock of recognition, one reason why women react around him the way they do. He’s huge. It’s as if the masculinity of his personality has somehow manifested itself physically in his body. There are plenty of tall men around, but Swan is six four and built. His muscles are thick, he’s barrel-chested, hairy – everywhere, even his eyebrows are thick and beetling – his hands look like they could crush up Coke cans without a second thought. He looks as though he’s come forward in time from King Alfred’s day when Viking longships were harrying the coasts.

  Swan wears suits sometimes, nice ones which he has specially made, but on him they seem like a costume. There’s nothing at all about him that People magazine would think of listing in its ‘Fifty Most Beautiful’ edition; he’s a million miles away from Brad Pitt’s smooth good looks, or Colin Firth’s reserved manliness. No, he looks as if he’s about ready to grab some poor wench by her long plaited hair and drag her off screaming to his cave, though you feel most of them wouldn’t be screaming very hard.

  I jerk my hand away.

  ‘I think I’ve discovered your problem,’ Swan says, apparently not noticing.

  ‘Oh yeah?’

  ‘Yeah. I couldn’t work you out. You seemed to want this badly, your movie, and I thought you were fun,’ he says lightly, and I feel a shiver all up my legs and back. ‘So I thought I’d give you your break. And once I got you here, you obviously loved movies. But you were miles away.’

  I blush.

  ‘You thought you did a pretty good job of hiding it?’ he asks, and winks at me. ‘You forget, I’m around actors all day long and most of them are better than you.’

  I blush some more. Whether it’s being caught out or the wink I don’t know, but I stare away, into my half of cider. Mark Swan at this proximity is very … disturbing, and the last thing I want to do is start giggling inanely like all the gorgeous groupies and hangers-on and adoring twenty-somethings he runs into every day.

  ‘I’m doing my job,’ I say, gruffly.

  ‘Yes, but I told you, you’ll never be good at it.’

  I bristle. ‘And why not?’

  ‘Because you don’t love it,’ he says simply. ‘I know you love movies, but you don’t love producing and you never will.’

  ‘So what’s my vo
cation?’ I demand. ‘To buy tickets and sit there eating popcorn so men like you can be paid far too much for sitting in a chair and shouting “cut”?’

  ‘You should be a writer,’ he says, ignoring my hostility. ‘You’ve got a great feel for story, you’re obviously creative. You appreciate good scripts. You think the film is the story. You should write screenplays,’ he says simply. ‘Last time I mentioned it, it was just a suggestion. Now it’s an order.’

  I shiver with pleasure. Swan has just recited my secret dream back to me. The dream I’ve dismissed for about as long as I dismissed the idea of having a solvent boyfriend without acne. But that’s happened, so why not this?

  ‘An order?’

  He nods. ‘You want my help, right? After you started riffing on that dog-walking scene I knew for sure. She’d be a good writer. Not right away, but if she worked at it. You owe it to yourself to at least try, Anna.’ He takes a long pull at his drink. ‘This is pure selfishness on my part. ‘I’m fed up with the dire scripts out there. Anything I can do to infuse new talent into the market, the more choice for me, right?’

  I can’t help it, I beam at him, and Swan leans back against the wall, his hazel eyes flickering over me.

  ‘When you smile like that your face lights up,’ he says. ‘You should do it more often.’

  ‘Thanks for the suggestion,’ I say. ‘It’s – it’s really nice of you.’

  ‘If you’ll take one more suggestion from a useless wanker of a director,’ he says, ‘don’t go around repealing what you told me about directors all being a waste of space. It’s not all that likely to get you hired.’

  ‘I won’t,’ I say. He smiles at me, and I feel that bolt of electricity again and take a deep drink of cider to cover myself. I’m not going to do it, I’m not, I tell myself fiercely. Wouldn’t that be a joke? Flirting with a man like Mark Swan, me, Anna Brown? Imagine how embarrassing. Just like Claire, pathetically dressing up and walking around giggling and flicking her hair for Eli Roth, while he doesn’t know she’s alive.

  ‘I’m not promising you anything,’ he says. ‘For all I know you could be rubbish. But just in case you aren’t, if you can actually produce a good screenplay…’ he shrugs. ‘I might be able to help you out.’

  I don’t dare ask what that would mean, but the adrenaline is coursing through my veins. Whatever it means, it’s my ticket out. I look at him again, differently. This is Mark Swan, I tell myself. Probably the single most powerful man in the British film industry. He knows all the major Hollywood studio heads personally. Every super-agent in LA has been courting him for years, and there’s not a star around who wouldn’t love to work in one of his films.

  If he’s offering me his help, he’s offering me the moon.

  ‘Only if you’re good,’ he says, sternly. ‘You might not be.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘Very much.’

  ‘I haven’t done anything yet. Maybe point you in the right direction.’

  ‘I appreciate it. You’re…’ My voice trails off.

  ‘Don’t look at me like that,’ he says gently. ‘I prefer it when you’re telling me to sod off than when you look awe-struck.’

  ‘Awe-struck! I’m not awe-struck. You’re just another overpaid loser as far as I’m concerned.’

  ‘Better,’ he says. ‘Better.’ And he reaches out one stubby finger and, grinning, tucks a strand of loose hair back behind my ear.

  His touch is electric. Instantly, shamefully, I feel my nipples harden, my stomach liquefy, I want to squirm on my seat. My skin mottles.

  I can’t do this! I can’t be like all those other girls. Mark Swan actually likes me. He wants to help me. I’m not going to blow it.

  ‘I should go,’ I say, as lightly as I can manage. ‘Better get back. Still have a huge weekend read to do.’

  ‘Isn’t that what the weekend’s for?’

  ‘I have something on this weekend,’ I say, thinking of Chester House.

  ‘Your busy social life?’ he says.

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘You’ve hardly finished your drink.’

  ‘It’s almost seven,’ I say pleadingly.

  ‘Well, don’t let me keep you from your cup of hot cocoa and your pile of dull scripts,’ Swan says. ‘See you Monday.’

  * * *

  Once I get safely home, I breathe out. That was OK, I think. I handled it fine. Didn’t I? Mark Swan wants to help me be a screenwriter. And I didn’t melt into a puddle of seething hormones at his feet and ruin all my chances.

  I’m going to be Mark Swan’s protégée. That’s absolutely brilliant! I can’t let anything stand in the way of that. The weekend read is indeed piled up on my bed, but I can’t face it right now. I’m way too excited. I make myself a hot chocolate, if you can call it that, one of those diet things from Shapers. It’s not the same as the full cream milk, four sugars and spoons of Nesquik I prefer, but it’ll have to do. It’s part of my health kick these days.

  I peel off my clothes and take the mug to bed with me, where I fall asleep, trying to think of my career and not about the man who wants to help me with it.

  8

  ‘You promised,’ Janet says.

  ‘Well, I know, but I’ve changed my mind,’ I tell her. It’s Friday afternoon, I’ve reluctantly come away from the office, and we’re standing outside Harvey Nichols. Just me and this incredibly sexy woman. Everybody is staring. We’re like Beauty and the Beast.

  Janet is sticking to her guns.

  ‘Not good enough,’ she says, spiritedly. ‘You promised me I could make you over, Anna.’

  ‘I’m not that superficial’ I say. Why are we doing this, except to make me go through changing-room trauma? I’ll still emerge looking like a cross between a giraffe and a sack of potatoes. And Gonzo from the Muppets.

  Janet snorts, Rubbish, you’ve just got a complex.’

  ‘Well, you would have too,’ I say defensively.

  ‘You can’t tell me you don’t want to improve your look, deep down inside,’ she says. ‘What about all that running? What about all the stuff you’ve been eating?’

  I blush. I was kind of hoping nobody had noticed. I leave at six in the morning and six at night and my flatmates are not supposed to be awake then, or notice when I get back.

  Janet has, though. I feel aggrieved. It’s very embarrassing, isn’t it? Old lard-arse suddenly getting all Jane Fonda? I hope Lily hasn’t picked up on it. She’d never stop teasing me.

  ‘You threw out those chocolate Hob-Nobs,’ she says relentlessly.

  Yes, that was hard.

  ‘And you’ve been eating Boots Shapers sandwiches and apples. And you switched to diet Pepsi.’

  ‘I don’t know why you have to snoop around in my food cupboard,’ I say haughtily.

  ‘Hey, it’s Jay-Me’s crib too,’ she says. ‘I know wazzup in the hizzouse. I think you’ve lost some weight already.’

  ‘I have not,’ I say. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘At least three pounds and probably five,’ she says judiciously. ‘But most of that is water weight. Still, it’s coming off.’

  I shrug.

  ‘You’ve been doing it because of that man,’ she says.

  I blush deeper. ‘That’s bullshit!’ I say defensively.

  Janet looks at me as if I’m insane. ‘Yes you have. Copying his lifestyle? Modelling your millionaire mentor? Eli Roth, right?’

  ‘Oh – yes. You mean like that. Eli. Well, sure.’

  ‘And for love, of course.’

  ‘What?’ I protest.

  ‘For Charles,’ she says, nudging me. Oh, yeah, Charles, right. ‘Huh? Huh? The big party? Now what’s the point of taking the weight off and getting healthy if you don’t dress to match?’

  ‘Harvey Nichols, I can’t afford that. Or the hairdressing.’ My raise is looking more and more anaemic.

  ‘My treat,’ Janet says. ‘Don’t argue. I get staff discount here. Got connections,’ she says airily. ‘An
d the hairdressing is for free. Paolo’s doing it as a favour to me. I spent ages setting that up. You can’t let me down, I’ll look really stupid.’

  ‘OK,’ I say glumly.

  Honestly, what is the point? I’m wearing a black Gap T-shirt and 501s. Another don’t-notice-me outfit. Janet is wearing a pair of sprayed-on white shorts, little tangerine leather sandals with kitten heels and sexy straps tied round her ankles, a white shirt knotted under her huge boobs à la Daisy Duke, and masses of jangly silver bangles. The thought of me in an outfit like that would turn the stomachs of strong men.

  ‘Come on!’ says Janet gaily. And she drags me through the revolving doors.

  ‘I want to go home,’ I mutter when we reach our floor. It’s horrible. Rack after rack of clothes that cost the earth and fit skinny girls. So many clothes. Taunting you, really. Trying to get you into a changing room. And don’t start me on changing rooms. They are just torture chambers, aren’t they?

  ‘Don’t be stupid,’ Janet says. ‘OK, waist.’ She whips out a little tape and comes at me with it.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’

  ‘Measuring you,’ she says. ‘Fit is everything. Waist … boobs … 37, very nice … bum…’

  ‘Keep your voice down,’ I hiss.

  ‘OK, let’s try something,’ she says, professionally. Janet moves through the racks going, ‘This one … that one … this one…’

  They all look unappetizing over her arm. Is she some kind of idiot savant? Like people who look at those Magic Eye things and instantly go, ‘Hey, it’s a boat?’ All I ever see is stupid dots and then I get a headache.

  ‘OK,’ she says. ‘Off to the changing rooms!’

  Bloody hell. There’s no escape.

  And it’s every bit as bad as I’d feared. I try not to look too hard, but you can’t help it, can you? It’s even worse than the bathroom, because there’s a harsh overhead light. And my cellulite …