If This Is Paradise, I Want My Money Back (11 page)

Poor Declan’s anxious-looking face says it all. ‘You heard a
voice
?’

James looks at him, as if weighing up whether to confess all or not.

‘Charlotte’s voice,’ he eventually says, sheepishly.

‘I see.’ Declan sighs worriedly.

‘Not for the first time, either. Happened earlier today, too.’

‘You know, I can’t begin to imagine what you’re going through, man, but I do think you might have come back to work too soon. Why not take a bit more time off, maybe even talk to someone about this?’

Just the merest hint of a suggestion that he consider talking to a therapist is too much for macho-man James, who reacts as if it was suggested he join a church choir.

‘I don’t NEED to see anyone, I just could have sworn I heard . . .’

Oh, to hell, I’m perched on a swivelly chair, and I can’t keep shtoom any longer.

‘You weren’t imagining it, James. It
is
me. Charlotte. And I’m right here, as it happens. Don’t ask me how come you can hear me and no one else can, but there you go. Great unanswered mysteries of the universe and all that.’

Honestly, for a split second, I actually think he’s going to throw up.

‘Declan, please, for the love of God, will you tell me you heard that?’

‘Heard what? There’s nothing to hear.’

‘Charlotte, I swear, I can hear her. She says she’s here, in the room with us. Oh for fuck’s sake, what is going on?’ He’s getting hysterical now, and the more his voice rises the giddier I get. Well, could you blame me? He is single-handedly responsible for bringing about my demise, after all. I mean, I’m
entitled
to want his whole life to go up in smoke, aren’t I?

‘Tra la la la la, Tra la la la la,’ I hum loudly, the music from the Vodafone ad, just to annoy him.

‘She’s singing now.’

‘Singing?’ says Declan flatly.

‘Yeah. The song from the Vodafone ad, I think. Can’t be too sure, she has a minging voice.’

Just for that, I start singing even louder, as Declan moves into him, grabbing him by both shoulders like the Mafia do in films.

‘James, I want you to listen to me very carefully. You know that it’s not possible you’re hearing Charlotte right now. Don’t you?’

‘Yeah, but . . .’

‘It’s just impossible.’

‘I know.’

‘And you also know that there’s no way on earth she can be singing you the theme from the Vodafone ad, or any other commercial for that matter. I think what’s happening here is that you’ve been fraught for the last while, you’ve been strung-out, and now you’re just a bit over-emotional . . .’

‘I am not over-emotional, I am hearing her sing, will you
listen
to me?’

‘Let me finish,’ says Declan, gently but firmly. ‘This pitch tomorrow is too important to us. We only get one shot at hitting William Eames for finance . . .’

‘You think I’m not aware of that?’

‘Come on, you know what I’m getting at. We need a hit or we’re down the Swanee. We’ve had two consecutive flops, and we’re not going to survive a third one.’

‘I know, I know . . .’

Bloody hell.

I, on the other hand, did
not
know.

That the company was in trouble, that is. I mean, I knew his last two projects lost money, but then James is always so brimming over with confidence and gusto and showmanship, I figured, sure his next film will make him back everything and more, won’t it?

For a second, I feel a tiny bud of sympathy.

Then I remember Sophie and it instantly withers and dies.

‘. . . You, of all people, know how it is in this game,’ Declan is saying. ‘You’re a bit like a footballer, only as good as your last match. Which leaves Meridius Movies with a helluva lot to prove. So I strongly suggest you take a bit of time off and let me take the meeting. I’ll handle it. William Eames will understand, what with everything that’s happened in your private life.’

You should just see the pair of them squaring up to each other, like in a Western. James looking so pale, you’d swear he’d just donated a few litres of blood to a passing vampire. Declan, gripping his shoulders, designer scruffy sleeves rolled up on a shirt I know right well his mammy probably ironed for him on his way out to work this morning.

‘Dec,’ James eventually says. ‘This project is my baby, and it has been from day one. There is just no way I won’t be there tomorrow. I’m not going to let you down. Come on, I can do this in my sleep, you know that.’

‘I’m just saying that a bit of time out might do you some good . . .’

‘Forget it,’ James bellows, so forcefully that it shuts me up singing. Then he must realize that he’s being overly brusque with Dec, because he immediately back-pedals.

‘Sorry, man, I didn’t mean to bite your head off.’

‘It’s OK. You’re stressed out. I understand.’

‘I’ll be there, and we’ll raise the eight hundred grand we need, and that’s all there is to it.’

‘And no more talk about hearing voices in your head?’

‘Whatever’s going on with me, I can control it.’

‘You know, Betty Ford set up a clinic in the desert based on that very statement,’ says Dec, doubtfully.

‘I guarantee you.’ James smiles, a bit more confidently, a bit more like himself. ‘I’ll be in better form for this meeting than you’ve ever seen me in your whole life, and that’s a promise.’

Oh really, James dearest? You think so?

Chapter Eight

I’m still with James. Sorry, but it’s all got that bit too interesting and, what can I say? My inner nosiness just took over. A lot I didn’t know, and a lot to find out. Declan’s taken him off to Toner’s pub on Baggot Street, round the corner from the Meridius office. So now the two of them are sitting at a table in the snug, looking for all the world like a pair of old geezers, whingeing about the youth of today/price of a pint/ state of the country being run into the ground by politicians and bankers/having to go outside and stand in the street to pull on a Sweet Afton cigarette because of the smoking ban, etc., etc. Well, that is to say, a pair of old geezers who both happen to be wearing denim jackets with one single stud earring each. You get the picture. Not for this pair one of those
über-
cool bars only down the road, with Armani-suited bouncers on the door looking like the secret service, packed to the gills with accountants trying to pick up models, and lawyers trying to pick up anyone who’ll speak to them. No, James and particularly Declan, who never lets the hardman persona drop, not even for a millisecond, will only ever drink in a proper pub with sawdust on the floor and a smell of stale beer, where the average age is about ninety-seven and there’s no women. Probably scared off by the horribleness of the toilets, no doubt.

They’ve been talking for well over an hour now, and I’m sitting across the table from them with, I’m sure, a face like a slapped mullet. And I haven’t even opened my mouth once since we got here to torment James, but then that’s the effect that total shock tends to have on me.

There’s so much I didn’t know.

That Meridius is on its last legs, for instance. I mean, OK, I knew they hadn’t had a big hit in a while, but I’d no idea just how critical things had become. It seems the last project they produced that actually made a profit was
Liberator
, a four-part documentary about Daniel O’Connell. Made three full years ago, which in production terms is a lifetime
not
to have had a hit in. And that was only because the DVD sales to schoolkids who had to study him for their Leaving Cert were so high. An in-built captive audience, so to speak. Declan’s project, too, I hasten to add, but then anything highbrow produced by Meridius always is. James is more of the ‘bread and circuses’ school of thought. Sorry, make that bread, circuses and sex.

I hadn’t the first clue how bad things actually were, and in my defence, would you blame me? James was always so full of swagger and big talk, it never crossed my mind that the company was in trouble. When something he produced got slated in the press he’d just riff on about what a bunch of mindless morons TV critics are, and that if they had the slightest modicum of talent, they’d be out making TV shows, not sitting with their arses stuck to couches criticizing them. Likewise, if investors bailed on him, he’d put it down to them not being real risk-takers, and that they’d be sorry when whatever they’d passed on then went on to make millions and get showered with awards, IFTAs, BAFTAs, you name it. What can I say? I got so swept up in all his confidence and bravado that, like him, I always believed that the next big thing was only around the corner, and that would set him up for life.

But it looks like that was all front. All showmanship and hot air, and now the good years are over and they’re in trouble.
Real
trouble.

It must be coming up to about seven in the evening and the state of play is thus. Declan is still trying to persuade James to retreat to a nice padded room with no sharp implements lying around, and recover from the nervous breakdown he appears to be having. James, on the other hand, is not only insisting that he’ll be there for the big-money meeting with their number-one investor tomorrow, but that they need to have back-up, emergency, contingency plans in case the unthinkable happens and they’re flung out the door, cashless.

‘OK, we do a reality TV show, because they’re so cheap to make . . .’ he pitches to Declan.

‘Done to death, man,’ says Declan, shaking his head sadly. ‘Reality TV has had its day, and it’s over.’

‘Hear me out. A reality TV show meets a chat show, except with only one guest, who has to live for twenty-four hours in a single room with the host.’

‘Crap.’

‘Three cameras max.
Big Brother
, except there’s only two of them in there. In their underwear.’

‘I hate it.’

‘And the guest is a celebrity.’

‘I hate it more.’

‘And we get the guest plastered drunk before they go on, so there might be a fight. You know me, Dec, I don’t suffer fools gladly, but I’ll gladly let fools suffer.’

Poor old Declan doesn’t even answer, just stares morosely into his pint. Wish I could read thoughts, but from the look on his face I’ll bet he’s wondering whether or not he should desert the ship before it sinks, or else stay where he is: on the
Titanic
rearranging deckchairs. He used to be a journalist for
Hot Press
before he went to work for Meridius, and I’d say half of him is wondering whether it would be worth his while asking for his old job back. Sorry, make that crawling over broken glass on his hands and knees,
begging
for his old job back.

‘OK then, property TV,’ says James, undeterred.

‘Hadn’t you noticed? We’re in a recession. The property market is dead on its feet.’

‘You haven’t heard me out. Pimp my house, except it’s done by the two sexiest-looking presenters we can find: that leggy blonde one from
Xpose
on TV3 . . .’

‘I have to stop you right there,’ says Declan, firmly.

‘What’s up? Why are you being so unenthusiastic? Sure, we’ve had a few knocks, but this business is cyclical, everyone knows that . . .’

‘James, really, please just drop it.’

‘OK, I have it. We shoot a low-budget chick-flick. ’Cos everyone knows they make a fortune at the box office. One of those ones with a cheesy tag-line like, “Sometimes you have to lose yourself to find yourself.”’

‘Please shut up. Now.’

‘Or no, I’ve a better one. “Lose your heart and come to your senses.” Every thirty-something that queued up to see the
Sex and the City
movie would pay good money to see this. Guaranteed blockbuster. I can
feel
it.’

‘Either you can shut up with your crap pitches or I can leave and go home. Take your choice.’

‘What’s up with you?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Spit it out.’

Declan takes a big gulpful of his pint, then wearily sinks back. You should see the hopeless look on his face: it’s like he’s ageing ten years for every minute spent sitting here.

‘It’s just that . . . you and me, man, we used to be like . . . the David Bowies of the production world. Whatever everyone else was at, we were two years ahead of them. And now look at us. Fighting for survival. Barely enough cash in the bank to pay the rent on the office. I don’t know about you, man, but I’m starting to feel like . . . like we’re analogue players in a digital world. Know what I mean?’

‘Temporary setback. Nothing more,’ says James firmly. But then this is where he excels himself and really comes into his own. When all hope is lost, he’s the guy at the back going, ‘This? This is nothing!’ The type of fella that in a tsunami would be saying, ‘Yeah, all right, so it’s a big wave, but to be honest with you, I’ve seen worse.’ If he’d been around for the San Francisco earthquake, he’d have come out with, ‘Bit of a tremor, that’s all.’ Or at the Charge of the Light Brigade, he’d have said, ‘Yeah, OK, so maybe there’s a
few
canons, nothing to worry about. Promise.’

‘But this is the baby that’ll turn it all around for us,’ he’s insisting now, refusing to let any negativity get next to or near him. ‘
Let He Without Sin
will be huge, we’ll syndicate it, sell rights all over the world; believe me, man, I know a hit when I smell one.’

The classic James Kane motivational catchphrase. Except this time it’s falling on deaf ears. Poor old Declan is still staring into the middle distance, twiddling with his earring so intently that I’m half-wondering if he whips it out before going home to dinner, lovingly cooked by his mammy. After a long, long silence, he simply says that they’ll just have to give it their best shot tomorrow, and see how it goes.

‘And if that doesn’t work out,’ he adds sadly, ‘I’ll have to look into bringing in the BBC and seeing if they’d be interested in doing it as a co-production. Unlikely that they will – most of their drama budget is already allocated by this time of year – but might be worth a shot.’

Now, ordinarily James would have a mild coronary at the very suggestion that any TV channel would be coaxed in to co-produce anything, his main reason being that ‘they interfere with his vision’. Honest to God, you’d swear he was Cecil B. DeMille. The actual reason, I happen to know, is that if a show is a hit, he just hates sharing the glory with anyone else. Always has to be Gladys Knight and not a Pip, if you’re with me. And it’s a terrifying measure of just how up against it the lads are, that James just nods and lets it pass.

And that’s when I begin to feel sorry for the pair of them. All their hard work, all their years of grafting, of blood, sweat and tears. Getting productions off the ground, commissioning writers, doing the endless round of investors, desperately trying to get them to stump up cash so a project can be ‘green lit’, and then, after all that, the real work starts. Hiring a decent director (harder than you’d think; James always reckons the majority of directors are just traffic wardens for actors, and that half of them don’t know their arse from their elbow), a stellar cast, a production crew prepared to put in regular sixteen-hour days, and that’s all before day one principal photography, when the director calls ‘action’.

What’s totally knocked me for six, though, is that the person my heart’s really going out to is James. After everything that’s happened, all I feel for him right now is sympathy. Meridius Movies was his from the word go, his creative baby, and unless by some miracle this magical investor comes up trumps for him tomorrow and all’s well that end’s well, then . . . I can’t imagine what he’ll do with the rest of his life. Declan, I’m certain, will be fine, his stock is high and he could stroll back into his old job tomorrow. But James has made his fair share of enemies along the way, and as for his future prospects . . .

No, no, no, this is mental! I cannot allow myself to start feeling sorry for the man who ruined my life and played an
indirect part in my death . . . NO!! My God, do I have to remind myself that there’s such a thing as
Schadenfreude
?

My hand had been on the table, right beside his, and I instinctively pull it away.

I know he must feel something because he shivers, then shoves both his own hands under his armpits, suddenly trying to warm up.

And that’s when Sophie bleeding Kelly comes bouncing in.

OK, then.

So much for that mini bout of empathy, now we’re back to full-scale, de luxe, out-and-out war.

‘Oh HI!!’ she shrieks in fake surprise, like we were the last people she expected to bump into.

Sorry, make that like Declan and James were the last people she expected to bump into.

I keep forgetting.

‘Ehh . . . hi there,’ says James, after he’s finished sputtering on his pint. ‘Sophie, yeah, hi, good to see you. You remember Declan?’

‘Yeah, hi, Declan,’ she says, breezily, swishing back one of the stupid-looking girlie pigtails and standing right on top of the stool I’m perched on, with her bum practically in my face.

‘Eughhh, get off me,’ I shout, springing up to my feet. James reacts with a jolt, but no one seems to notice. Screechy Sophie is too busy doing her, ‘Oh my Gawd, like, imagine bumping into you guys here, of all places, like what a coincidence!’ act, with the poppy eyes bulging out of her stupid-looking head. And fooling no one, well, certainly not me.

‘I met you at the premiere of
Nine Lives, and I Picked This One?
’ she smirks at Declan, hand outstretched.

‘Oh right, yeah, I remember,’ says Declan, although I know by him he’s only lying to be polite. ‘So, eh, are you meeting friends here or what?’ It’s unspoken, but there’s the merest hint of suspicion there, all the same. This spit-on-the-floor dive bar is most definitely not the kind of place girls come into, particularly girlie girls with their boobs on display like her, wearing more bronzer than you’d normally see on the whole of Girls Aloud. Already the half-dozen or so scruffy aul fellas at the bar are reacting like a gang of freemasons whose secret handshaky meeting has just been interrupted by some bird in a Wonderbra.

‘Ehh, noooooo, not exactly,’ she lies back at him. Then digs a deeper hole for herself by adding, ‘Just came in to use the loo, actually, ha ha ha.’

‘Right,’ Declan nods, letting his suspicions pass, but then I suppose he has other things on his mind. Interesting, I note, though, feeling very Miss Marple altogether; either he’s the best actor this side of Daniel Day-Lewis, or he genuinely doesn’t have concrete proof that there’s actually anything going on between James and Poodle Head. In fairness, it would be hard for a gentleman like Dec to believe how any man could do that with his ex-girlfriend still warm in the ground.

I can barely believe it myself.

‘So, like, how ARE you?’ she shrieks at James, ‘I haven’t seen you in like, for
ever
.’

‘Yeah, yeah, it’s ehh . . . been a while, all right.’

Oh, for f*ck’s sake, now it’s like I’m watching a play being acted solely for Declan’s benefit. Badly acted, at that.

‘So . . . emm . . . OK if I join you for a sec?’ she says, plonking herself down right where I was sitting, without waiting for an answer. Neither of them say a word, Declan just drains back the dregs of his pint and says he’s going to take off. No doubt code for: ‘Or else mammy will murder me for being home late for the meat, spuds and two veg dinner.’

No sooner has he left than Sophie ups and moves right in beside James.