The Go-To Girl Page 7

Janet is swaying dangerously around the room and we haven’t even got to putting on the J-Lo records yet. She likes to sing them, too. She has her own version of ‘Jenny From the Block’ cunningly re-titled ‘Janet from the Block’. She can’t rap and she can’t sing, but she doesn’t let that stop her.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she says. ‘Jusht fine. The night ish young! D’you want to come to some clubs?’

  I tap my pile of scripts. ‘Got work to do.’

  ‘You don’ need to worry that they won’t let you in,’ she says, reassuringly. ‘They will if you’re with me. I’ll jusht say, “She’s my mate. She’s with me.”’ Janet waves one arm generously. ‘I’ll say, “Step off, fool, Jay-Me and Anna B are in the hizzouse!”’

  ‘Well, I’d love to be in the hizzouse,’ I say. ‘But unfortunately I have to be in the flat. Working.’

  Janet nods. ‘OK,’ she says, getting her coat, ‘but you know, you’re not as bad as you think you are, and if you are, it’s your own fault, you know what I mean?’

  ‘Um. Yes.’

  ‘See ya,’ she says, wafting out in a trail of Dune and gin and tonics.

  I look at my watch. Quarter to midnight. The booze is making me sleepy, but that’s no good. I have to read some of these scripts. At least a few.

  I make coffee and flick through the first few on the pile. Immediately my headache comes back. Why do people write these things? Arty, pretentious indie flicks, formulaic romcoms, endless Britflick ‘Lock Stock’ rip-offs, somebody has kidnapped the President’s daughter (yawn), a master thief is brought out of retirement for one last heist …

  The euphoria of the rum and Cokes is slipping away and a bone weariness starts to seep through my system. It’s no good. I’ll never find anything because there isn’t anything to find. There are just millions and millions of rubbishy scripts, and Kitty will fire me and I’ll never make anything of myself.

  In desperation, I pick up Trish’s script. I have to read this one all the way through. Why, why did I promise to give her notes? I won’t get to bed till two.

  Idly I read the first page. And the second. And third. And then I slowly put my coffee to one side.

  I can’t believe it. It’s funny, it’s fast-paced, the characters are believable. I want to know what happens! I keep reading, keep flipping. It makes me laugh, it’s a bit sexy, and sometimes, like the very best comedies, it’s touching. Plus, there are no big sets or special effects needed. It could be a film you shot cheaply and made millions on.

  In a daze I peel off my clothes, dump them on my bedroom floor and climb into bed. It’s one thirty but I’m too excited to sleep. I just lie there staring into space.

  This could be it. This could be my chance!

  4

  I wake up early. Or you could say I never went to sleep at all. I mean, I did a bit, but it was that sort of fitful, tossing and turning dozing that leaves you more tired than if you’d stayed up with coffee and a pack of Pro-Plus.

  At any rate, I get to hear all the nocturnal sounds of Tottenham Court Road that I normally tune out. Drunks yelling. Clubbers screaming for a taxi. Janet coming back around half four and heaving up in the bathroom. All in all I’m quite glad when the sun puts its head up in the east and the first pink tendrils of dawn are spreading over the grimy London skyline. I jump out of bed and into the shower. I feel a bit punch-drunk, sure, but that feeling is still there, shining through the exhaustion. A sort of Christmassy feeling, as if I’m about to get a very big and shiny present.

  I wash my hair and dry it. At 6 a.m., this would normally have the models screaming, but Lily hasn’t been around for days (probably staying with her latest footballer boyfriend) and Janet is totally passed out. Anyway, I don’t even care. The day feels big and bright and full of opportunity.

  After doing my hair I go into the kitchen and steal some of Lily’s vanilla hazelnut coffee, specially imported from Seattle, and brew up a delicious-smelling pot. Unfortunately her food is not worth stealing – calorie- and taste-free rubbish – so I content myself with the coffee and re-reading Mother of the Bride. At first I’m afraid that maybe it was the booze and the script has turned crap overnight. This happens to script readers the way beer goggles happen to men – you go to bed with a beauty and wake up with an absolute dog.

  But not today. It’s just as exciting this morning. It actually improves on a second read. I dress hastily, unable to believe my luck. Beige trousers, Gap white T-shirt, my greying sports bra – nobody’s going to see my bra, are they, plus it sort of flattens my boobs a bit. When you’re as tall and galumphing as me, you really don’t want a couple of huge boulders drawing attention, do you? I add a large, cable-knit cardigan that belts round me and hides everything, quickly do my make-up – foundation, bronzer, pathetic bit of nasal shading – and I’m ready to go. I brave the mirror for a quick check. No lipstick on the teeth, no obvious rat’s nests in the hair. It’s as good as I’m going to get. I grab the script and hurry off to the tube.

  When I get to the office, Kitty is already there.

  ‘Wow,’ I say. ‘You look nice.’

  She gives me a piercing look, as though ‘nice’ is totally inadequate.

  ‘Well,’ she sniffs, ‘some of us believe in making an effort.’

  And how. Kitty has chosen an exquisitely cut, tomato-red dress, looks like Versace, with discreet pearl buttons down the front, tanned Woolford tights, and perfectly matched red shoes. It’s sort of eighties power dressing but done with a modern twist: three-quarter length sleeves, very fitted, her skirt slightly flippy. Her bag is a tiny black thing in supple leather, and her make-up very subtle, shades of chocolate. She could pass for thirty-five.

  ‘I hope you haven’t forgotten that Eli Roth is coming in today,’ she says, looking around the half-empty office. ‘Apparently everybody else has.’

  ‘I – no,’ I say, smoothing down my cardigan in a vain attempt to look more presentable. ‘It is only eight thirty.’

  ‘Yes, Sharon and John should have been in hours ago,’ Kitty snaps, magnificently ignoring the fact that we never drink our first cups of coffee until ten. ‘But at least you’re here. Why are you here?’ she probes, eyes narrowing. ‘Hoping to meet Mr Roth early, eh? Maybe get in there before everybody else? Make an impression?’

  ‘Of course not,’ I say. ‘It’s not very likely he’d be impressed by me, is it?’

  Kitty looks me over, craning her neck as though she can hardly see high enough to look at me. ‘I suppose not,’ she says, mollified.

  ‘I think I have something for you,’ I tell her.

  Kitty’s eyes round in a greedy O. ‘You do?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘The script? By the nanny?’

  ‘It’s actually pretty good,’ I say. ‘It could be perfect for Greta, anyway.’

  Kitty fairly dances on the balls of her toes. ‘What are you waiting for?’ she demands. ‘Get into my office. No, wait, bring me some coffee, then get into my office. You can get some for yourself, too,’ she adds magnanimously.

  I hand her the script and rush to the kitchen. That Christmas-morning feeling is still there as I load up the espresso machine and put the kettle on for my own PG Tips. Kitty’s in two hours early. She must really think this buy-out is important. And nobody else is here!

  I have the office all to myself. I can go in and pitch to her, no John or Sharon to try and sabotage me, no filing to get done, no errands to run. It’s my chance. And as I carefully slice off a curl of lemon peel and place it artfully on her saucer, I find my hands are shaking.

  ‘There you go,’ I say, setting her coffee in front of her.

  ‘Thanks.’ Kitty’s bony hands reach out, diamonds flashing, and claw delicately at the bone china cup, while my rough paws grip my chipped mug that says ‘Old Dieters Never Die, They Just Waist Away’. ‘Where’s your coverage?’

  ‘In my head,’ I say, and then, because that sounds too much like Sharon, add hurriedly, ‘I came in early to write it up, bu
t you’re already here, so maybe I could just give it to you in person?’

  ‘Go on,’ she says.

  ‘Well, it’s a romantic comedy,’ I say. ‘Mother of the Bride.’

  ‘I like the title,’ Kitty says crisply.

  ‘The heroine is jealous of her daughter’s wedding and unconsciously sabotaging it. But then she falls in love with the groom’s uncle. Only he’s gone off her because she’s been a total prima donna bitch, and then she has to save the wedding and her romance.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Kitty says doubtfully. ‘I don’t think Greta’s going to want to play a total bitch. She’s America’s sweetheart.’

  Well, she was, before she was revealed to have done more class A substances than Keith Richards.

  ‘I think she would,’ I say deferentially. ‘Remember Starlight and Outcasts? She made her name in those. If she’s going to come back, the part’s funny, it’s bitchy, it’s poignant…’

  ‘Poignant,’ Kitty says, scornfully.

  ‘She could be nominated,’ I lie. This is rubbish, of course, but execs love to hear it. ‘You could play a part in two Oscar-winning movies.’

  ‘I do more than play a part, I drive the projects,’ Kitty says, magnificently. ‘And it’s funny, you say?’

  ‘I think it’s everything The First Wives Club tried to be and wasn’t, and that movie was still a hit,’ I point out. ‘Plus,’ I move in for the kill, ‘there aren’t that many great romantic leads for older women actresses.’

  ‘Greta is hardly older,’ Kitty says.

  ‘She’s older than Kate Hudson,’ I say, ‘or Natalie Portman. You know how it is in casting, Kitty.’

  ‘Mmm,’ Kitty says non-committally, but at least she’s not throwing me out.

  ‘The mother, Diane, is the only really huge role, so all the rest would be character actors, and there aren’t that many locations, it could be shot quite cheaply. It could be another Full Monty,’ I say. ‘Or Four Weddings.’

  Kitty presses her bony fingers together. ‘Get me coverage,’ she says. ‘Make it sizzle. Get me something to sell with. Make it appeal to Greta. Maybe we have something here.’

  I want to ask if this means I get a promotion, but Kitty’s eyes are flinty. ‘Hurry up,’ she barks. ‘We’ve only got a matter of hours.’

  I bring the stapled sheets to her forty minutes later, my fingers stiff from writers’ cramp. By now, the office is crowded; it’s still early for us, I guess nobody wants to be late when new management is here.

  ‘Thanks,’ Kitty says, as I hover in front of her desk. She covers her phone receiver with one hand. ‘Something else?’

  ‘I – no, but…’

  ‘What?’

  I suppose I was hoping she’d read it through, sit me down while she gets on the phone to Greta Gordon. Something.

  ‘Nothing,’ I say.

  ‘Go to Starbucks, fetch me a fat-free frappucino,’ Kitty says, dismissively, and that’s it. I honestly don’t know why I thought it would be any different. Luck and me just don’t go together, do they?

  ‘Don’t sulk, Anna,’ says Kitty acidly as I turn dejectedly towards the door.

  I come back from Starbucks in a vile mood. I felt so miserable and down-hearted I ordered myself a raspberry ice tea and a cheese Danish and scarfed them both down on my way round the corner. They didn’t help, just make me feel even more bloated. Which always happens when I stuff myself, and yet I keep doing it, which is the definition of insanity, isn’t it? I should get my own version of the Verve song and call it ‘The Cakes Don’t Work’.

  ‘Visitor for you in main reception,’ mumbles Claire, keeping her voice down, as I hand her Kitty’s frappucino. Kitty likes her secretaries to be seen and not heard.

  Visitor? I never get visitors.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Some bloke called Charles Dawson. He says he has that novel you wanted.’

  ‘Oh … oh, right.’ I sigh.

  ‘He knows you’re here because I told him,’ she adds helpfully. ‘Shall I send him up?’

  ‘Go ahead,’ I say, despondently. I can’t very well refuse, can I? He did put me in touch with Trish. And he’s Vanna’s friend. And anyway, I sort – of promised to read his stupid book.

  I can take it off him and send him on his way. Then he’ll be happy and so will Vanna. Plus, it might be a good idea to be seen taking delivery of a manuscript today, since Kitty is yelling at me for ‘more projects’. Nobody need know it’s pants. It could be a slipped copy of the new John Grisham. Or something.

  I plaster my professional smile back on as Charles steps out of the elevators. Oh dear, did he absolutely have to wear that three-piece tweed suit with the gold watch on a chain? All he needs is a monocle. People are staring in the halls, sniggering.

  I stride forward with my most businesslike smile and shake Charles’s hand with a firm, dry grip.

  ‘Charles, good of you to come,’ I say loudly. Maybe I can get people to think he’s an eccentric agent. ‘Thanks for slipping me this manuscript for a first look.’

  ‘Slipping it to you?’ he says, and unfortunately his voice is loud as well as high-pitched. ‘I’m hardly doing that. It doesn’t have a publisher, after all – yet.’

  ‘We prefer our material fresh,’ I say, suppressing the urge to blush. ‘We like to surprise the markets. Anyway, thanks for dropping by. I’ll get right back to you,’ I say, putting a friendly arm round his shoulders and steering him back the way he came. There. That didn’t go too badly, did it?

  ‘Helloo,’ coos a voice.

  Oh great.

  ‘I’m Sharon,’ Sharon says, giving him a pearly white smile. She’s outdone herself today. She’s wearing a dress that, while technically not slutty, still manages to give that impression. It’s made of very fine and light navy wool, low-cut to show a hint of cleavage, cap sleeves, and sits right on the knee. It clings lovingly to every curve of her body, showing no signs of VPL, not even a thong. Suggesting she’s not wearing any. Sharon’s been under the tanning beds, too, and her long legs taper down to cute little white leather slides with a navy trim. She gives me a sidelong glance and extends her slim hand to him.

  ‘Delighted,’ Charles drools, eyes popping. ‘Oh, delighted.’

  Sharon retrieves her hand and wipes it surreptitiously on her dress. His palms are a bit clammy.

  ‘You’re bringing a goodie for Anna?’ she asks.

  This is amazing. She can’t get over that I wouldn’t give her Trish’s script, and now she wants to jump on this just because it’s mine. I suppose it’s every girl for herself this morning.

  ‘I am,’ Charles confirms. He puffs out his scrawny chest like a starving pigeon trying to attract a mate. ‘It’s an extremely exclusive “sneak peak” at a brand new novel.’ He makes those little quote marks in the air while saying ‘sneak peak’, just like Rob, and I almost die of shame.

  ‘Well, thanks, Charles, I’ll just take it now,’ I say.

  ‘I think not,’ says Sharon, lightly but distinctly, smiling away. ‘You see,’ she adds to Charles, ‘I’m senior to her. She just reads material. It’s people like me who make the decisions.’

  ‘Is that true?’ Charles asks me.

  I swallow. ‘Well, sort of.’

  ‘Sort of?’ Sharon demands. ‘I am a junior development executive, and Anna here is only a reader. I was promoted,’ she adds, tossing her curls.

  It burns, it really does. I look down at Charles, towering over him, in my plain trousers and shapeless, baggy jumper, and there’s Sharon, about his height, small-boned, delicate, in her cute little dress, curls bouncing; Sharon, with all the power. I wait for Charles to give her the sodding book.

  Charles turns to Sharon, very politely, and says, ‘I’m awfully sorry, but I do think I should give it to Anna.’

  ‘And why’s that?’ she demands, scowling now.

  ‘Because Anna and I have a very special relationship,’ Charles says, stoutly.

  I smile at him. I
can’t believe it. He’s sticking up for me!

  ‘I didn’t know Anna had any special relationships with talent,’ says Sharon, licking the outside of her lips provocatively.

  Charles hesitates, but sticks firm.

  ‘No,’ he says, ‘I promised to give the book to Anna and I must keep my word.’

  ‘Thank you, Charles,’ I say, triumphantly, swiping the book from him and clinging on to it tightly.

  ‘And I’ll see you soon,’ he says, looking at me hopefully. ‘How about tonight? Are you free tonight?’

  My heart sinks.

  ‘Oh, well, if I’d known he was your boyfriend,’ Sharon says scornfully. ‘I thought he was a real writer.’

  ‘Charles is a very gifted writer,’ I say, because one good turn deserves another. Charles is beaming at me. Sharon storms off, doubtless in search of someone else whose project ideas she can steal. I seize the opportunity. ‘Look, Charles, about that date—’

  ‘Seven thirty for eight,’ he says, stepping back into the elevator and punching the door close button.

  ‘But I—’

  ‘No need to say anything, Anna,’ Charles says, magnanimously. ‘You deserve a date. See you tonight!’

  The doors hiss shut on him. I stand there, gnashing my teeth. Why? Why do I deserve a date? What did I do wrong?

  * * *

  I’m reading Charles’s book when Eli Roth arrives on our floor. You can tell it’s him by the crackle of electricity that ripples through our normally moribund workspace: all the novels and tabloid papers are shoved into drawers, the secretaries are tossing their hair and checking their nails, sitting up very straight and typing busily. I put the manuscript aside, glad of a legitimate distraction.

  Mind you, it hasn’t taken much to distract me from this masterpiece. I’ve been finding all sorts of things infinitely more interesting, such as arranging my stored emails into folders, changing my desktop background six times, and tidying up my desk. I want to give him a chance, I really do, but it’s just so dull. At one point I realized I’d just read the same ten pages over twice and nothing had sunk in either time. It’s sort of like Proust but far, far duller. I’d rather read the Yellow Pages. At least from there I could order a pizza.