Docketful of Poesy (6 page)

“But they could be finding these men instead of
allowing them to get further and further away.”

“Chief Constable Heron couldn’t find his arse with
both hands and an hour to spare,” Peter said bluntly. “And your pet
plod DI Drummond is worse.”

Which pretty well concluded discussion on that
topic.

While Peter paid for his purchases I tried calling
Roberta Lom once more, and this time managed to get through to her.
Roberta confirmed my lunch date with Walter Christie—which I’d been
half hoping would be canceled.

I tried hinting that it was not a good day for power
lunches, but Roberta seemed set on the meeting. “It’s the least you
can do, Grace, if you’re going to turn down the technical advisor
gig. Walter’s very talented but he’s a little out of his depth in
this project—and, after all, it is
your
life.” She made it
sound like it was my fault that they were all stuck making this
movie. I wanted to point out that any resemblance to my own life
was pretty much coincidental, but I refrained.

In the end it seemed easier to agree to meet with
Walter Christie.

I disconnected the call and turned to Peter, who
somehow managed to look both comfortable and masculine holding
shopping bags.

“Something wrong?” he asked.

I sighed. “I have a lunch meeting with Walter
Christie. He’s the scriptwriter for
Dangerous to Know.
The
producer wanted us to…get our heads together —” I paused at Peter’s
expression, knowing exactly what he thought of the term “get our
heads together.” The fact was, there was no way to say any of this
without sounding like a “right prat” as Peter would put it—and
probably
would
put it before long. “Apparently he’s having
problems with the screenplay. Or I guess, more accurately, everyone
else is having problems with it, so they want me to…”

“To—what?”

“I’m not exactly sure, to tell you the truth. I think
Walter is supposed to ask me about some of the things that actually
happened and then see if he can incorporate them into the
script.”

“Isn’t the script based on your book?”

“In theory. Anyway, would you want to come along?” I
tried to sound optimistic rather than desperate.

“
I would, actually,” he said,
surprising me. “I’d like to hear more about this so-called
documentary of yours.”

“Oh, it’s definitely
not
a documentary,” I
said. “No mistake about that. In fact, it’s not even a
dramatization really. At most I think it’s a ‘based on.’ And it’s
probably going to be as bad as those kung fu films where the
dubbing is off and the sound of fists and feet on flesh resembles
wooden blocks hitting each other. That’s right, go ahead and
laugh!”

He was not exactly laughing at me, but his eyes
gleamed with wicked amusement.

“But they really
are
making a movie. I was out
there watching them film yesterday. They’ve got sets and catering
trucks and stunt people and…Even a terrible, cheap film costs a
small fortune to make. From what I gather they’ve sold it to one of
those women’s-interest TV channels.”

“I suppose it’s a good sign that someone somewhere
believes women would want to see a film about a female obsessed
with poetry rather than shoes and sex,” said Peter.

“Oh, by the time this film is made I’m sure they’ll
have given me a much more glamorous job than a teacher. I’ll be a
freelance publicist or a museum curator or a former FBI profiler.
Besides, there’s no reason a woman can’t be obsessed with poetry
and
shoes and sex.”

“That’s true. You do have an inordinate number of
shoes now that I think of it.” He checked his watch. “Right, then.
Let’s hear what your Mr. Christie has to say for himself.”

But Walter Christie had little to say for himself,
apparently no happier to be breaking bread with me than he had been
to meet me on the set of
Dangerous to Know.

We met him at a trendy watering hole, Pizzeria Mozza
on North Highland Avenue, and it was clear that Walter had already
been partaking heavily from the Italian wine bar. Brief
introductions were made and Walter peered owlishly into Peter’s
face. “So you’re Peter Fox. At least they got you right.”

“Sorry?”

“Todd Downing. He could pass for your brother.”
Walter glanced at me. “You haven’t met Todd yet.”

“No,” I agreed. “Todd Downing is playing you in the
film,” I explained to Peter. “Or rather he’s playing David Wolf. I
guess the names have been changed to protect the innocent, or maybe
to protect the guilty. Anyway, Downing has been back east doing
some kind of off-Broadway thing.”

Peter’s expression changed at the mention of Todd
Downing; I had no more than registered this when Walter spoke up
again.

“You,” he said accusingly to me, “don’t look anything
like Tracy.”

“Shouldn’t Tracy look like me?”

From Walter’s expression that was obviously a
dreadful idea. Peter met my gaze with raised eyebrows, and I
smothered a laugh as we moved to the last table in the
filled-to-capacity dining room.

“Have you worked with Tracy before?” I asked for the
sake of something to say.

“No. You’re a foodie. Try the duck,” Walter advised
Peter.

“I’m a what?”

“An epicure,” I supplied.

Peter didn’t look particularly thrilled about his
epicurean status.

“She wrote a lot in the book about what you ate and
drank,” Walter said, nodding at me. “I’m not sure what it had to do
with anything.”

“She was very hungry, as I recall,” Peter said.

“I’ll have the chicken cacciatore,” I told the
waitress, ignoring their exchange.

Peter and Walter ordered, and Walter turned to me.
“Sorry to be rude, but I don’t see the point of this.”

“Lunch?”

“This meeting.” He finished off the wine in his
glass. “I know Roberta and Miles have been talking to you, but I
read the book. It was okay. It’s got the bones of a good story, but
it’s a little too Nancy Drew, if you know what I mean.”

“Not really,” I said. “The book is nonfiction.” I
glanced at Peter who was sipping Sangiovese-Merlot with the air of
a man who knows better than to stick his head up while a sniper is
on the loose.

“Whatever,” said Walter. “The thing is, our audience
is looking for something with more of an edge, something fresh,
something…
real
.”

I interjected sweetly, “More real than
nonfiction?”

Peter cleared his throat.

Walter said, “I mean, sure it’s women’s interest and
all, but what I’m trying to do is give it the feel of a thriller
and less of a fem-jep, which really limits our target
audience.”

“Fem-jep?” I asked.

“Female in jeopardy.”

“Isn’t it already sold to one of the women’s
networks?”

“Well, yes, but…” When Walter stuck his lower lip out
he reminded me of my little nieces when things weren’t going their
way—which, when you’re five, is a lot. He began to talk about the
importance of purity of vision, of the profundity of imagery versus
realism. He was just warming to his theme when our meals
arrived.

I took advantage of the lull. “May I ask how many
screen credits you have, Walter?”

Walter’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve co-written some things.
Alien Dogs
, that’s one of mine.
Fire is for
Burning
.”

It wasn’t easy, but I think I managed to control my
instinctive reaction. “I can see that this screenplay is important
to you, and I’m glad about that. But…this movie is based on my
life. Not just something I made up, my actual
life
, so it’s
hard for me not to take it seriously, too. It’s bad enough that a
blond bim—that the person selected to play me in the film isn’t
remotely like me.”

“I didn’t have anything to do with hiring Tracy
Burke.” He gave me a hostile look. “She’s a wonderful actress,
though. You’re lucky they could get her. She’s going to be
big
.”

“I realize that, and I hope that you can realize that
it’s important to me that everything else not go too far into
alternate reality.”

His face took on that sulky look again. “I’m not sure
what you’re getting at.”

“I looked over the screenplay at the request of
Roberta and Miles, and some of the scenes…well, for example, the
high-speed car chase that takes place in London: not only did
nothing like that happen, even
I
know that would be
extremely expensive to film.”

“There are ways around that.”

“And the fact that you have me and Peter—I mean, the
film’s Faith and David—falling into bed together every couple of
pages —”

Peter interjected. “Might I have a look at this
screenplay?” He was ignored.

“Look,” Walter gave me a patronizing smile. “I
understand where you’re coming from. You had your professional
reputation to think of, and you probably worried your parents or
your grandparents or the headmistress of the orphanage you worked
at were going to read the book, but no one is going to believe that
two normal, physically healthy, single people didn’t have sex for a
week.”

“For a
week
? We didn’t have sex for nearly two
years!”
That
drew some interested glances from our fellow
diners—those not currently engaged on their iPhones and
BlackBerries. Uncomfortably, I met Peter’s blue gaze.

He remarked, “Anything I might say at this point
would be a serious mistake.”

I swung my sights back on Walter who was wiping
hastily at the strings of cheese attached to his goatee.

“And turning my friend Monica into a gay
man—
and
an interior decorator —”

He glared at me. “The character dynamic works really
well.”

“—
and her husband into a gay
Reggae musician. Calum Bell is an Oxford don. Monica and I are
teachers
.”

“Nobody wants to see a movie about Oxford dons or
teachers,” Walter informed me, tossing his napkin aside. “Unless
the movie was made in the sixties, or is about an ex-Special Forces
guy kicking some serious teen butt—or stars Michelle Pfeiffer.”

“Are you serious?”

“Do you have any clue how unsexy poetry is?” Walter
asked almost pityingly. “I don’t think so.”

“Speak for yourself!”

“I am speaking for myself. And every other person in
the viewing audience. Someone has to.
Poetry?
Not even
modern poetry. Not even…Maya Angelou. No, it’s all about dead white
guys with you.”

More so than he might think.

I said, “I believe it was Audre Lorde who said, ‘For
women, then, poetry is not a luxury. It is a vital necessity of our
existence. It forms the quality of the light within which we
predicate our hopes and dreams toward survival and change.’”

If I’d thought quoting a black, lesbian feminist was
going to shut Walter up, I thought wrong. He said flatly, “Did you
notice none of the major characters in your book are people of
color? Did you notice there were no persons of alternate sexuality?
Everybody in your book is white bread. Sexually, racially,
politically —”

“It’s nonfiction,” I said.

“Boy,
that’s
convenient!”

Disbelieving, I turned to Peter, and realized he was
struggling not to laugh.

Was it funny? Somehow it didn’t feel very funny.
Maybe I was losing my sense of humor. I was turning this over in my
mind when our waitress, apparently in a hurry to get to her next
audition, appeared at our table, asked if everything was all right,
and before getting an answer, dropped off the check and
vanished.

I said, “You know, this lunch was not my idea. Miles
and Roberta seem to feel there are some problems with the script as
well.”

Walter’s face twisted into a sneer. “
Miles and
Roberta?
This is Roberta’s first film, and Miles hasn’t had a
hit since
Virtual Ninja
. Miles and Roberta better take
another look at their contracts if they think they have the final
say on
anything.
” He drained his wineglass once more,
reached for his napkin, and mopped his face.

“Well, this has certainly been instructive,” I said,
reaching for my purse and pulling out a handful of bills. “I’ll let
Roberta and Miles know we met.”

“Cool. Thanks for lunch,” Walter said, rising.

I opened my mouth to protest being stuck paying for
Walter’s lunch, then let it go. It really wasn’t worth it.

Peter murmured, “I’ve got it. I wouldn’t have missed
this for the world.”

I started to argue, but Walter, who was appraising
Peter closely, interrupted. “Is it true about your being a former
jewel thief?”

“To my shame, yes,” Peter said, not sounding ashamed
at all.

“You
probably have some stories that would be
worth adapting for the big screen. Did you ever think about
that?”

“Never.” Peter offered one of those lazy, charming
smiles, and glanced my way. “All set?”

“Yes,” I said tersely.

Walter, however, didn’t take the hint. His concerns
about having to pick up the lunch tab assuaged, he waited while I
attempted to out-argue a pained-looking Peter over the check,
continuing to hover while Peter paid the bill, and then
accompanying us outside still trying to inveigle Peter to share his
life story for the entertainment of viewing audiences everywhere.
He was still chattering as they walked to where I had parked—or
rather, wedged—my car on the crowded street.

Peter took my keys as Walter followed us out into the
road. “Just think about it,” he was saying as Peter unlocked my
door and pulled it open. “It could make an incredible feature film.
I’ve seen
Midnight Express
like eleven times at least.”

The car seemed to come out of nowhere: a battered
Datsun 280ZX hurtled down Highland Avenue straight at us—and for a
moment it seemed that all the world fell silent, moving in
excruciatingly slow motion as the car bore down.