If This Is Paradise, I Want My Money Back (17 page)

Anyway, aged sixteen he got a job as a messenger boy for a tiny domestic airline out at Dublin airport and so, legend has it, the seeds of his entrepreneurial zeal were first sown. In those dark days, air travel was only for the super-rich, and a week on the Costa del Sol meant you were either a drug baron or a multi-millionaire. Or both. Anyway, the myth goes that young Billy spotted a gap in the market, and quickly realized that the future lay in low-cost travel to airports about forty miles from where you actually wanted to go, on flights that left at five in the morning and that charged you extra for everything: from checking in, to carrying baggage, to having the temerity to breathe their oxygen while on board and to using their steps to get on and off the aircraft. The rest, as they say, is history. Within a decade, Billy rose to managing director of the airline, and is now one of Ireland’s most successful exports, with all the trappings which that entails: VIP magazine shoots, appearances on the
Late Late Show
, the works. A self-made billionaire who came from nothing and hauled himself up by his bootstraps? It’s a wonder he hasn’t been stripped and sold for parts.

Then, only about three years ago, he was knighted for all the commendable work which the charity he set up to help underprivileged children had done, and in a blaze of publicity, plain man-of-the-people Billy morphed into Sir William. I can still remember all the photos and TV coverage he got outside Buckingham Palace; he was dressed like he was off for a day at the races, and came out to meet the press florid-faced and beaming, claiming that the Queen was, ‘A lovely bird, great crack altogether, but I wouldn’t like to see the amount of cash herself and Philip must fork out on heating bills to keep that gaff warm in December, wah ha ha.’

A great supporter of the arts, he kind of fancies himself as a latter-day Renaissance man, and has invested in everything from Impressionist exhibitions to fledgling theatre companies. And, needless to say, over the years, has been more than generous in funding Meridius Movies. In production circles, they refer to rich investors like Sir William as angels. Which, given that I’m sitting in on this meeting right now, is kind of ironic.

Anyway, Billy, sorry . . . Sir William invites the boys to sit down, the butler from
Batman
brings out a silver tray laden down with tea and coffee pots and we’re away.

Disaster Number One

‘Lovely horse,’ James says, pulling out a wrought-iron chair and plonking himself down, one leg crossed over the other, owning the space all around him, confidence personified. As if this is the style he’s accustomed to.

‘Ehh . . . yeah, yeah, lovely!’ Declan agrees, over-chirpily, on the edge of his seat with nervousness.

‘Ah, do you like her, lads?’ says Sir William, training the binoculars on the horizon. ‘I’ll give you a tip, so. She’s called Sinead O’Connor Ruined My Life and I’m running her in the Gelding Stakes at the Curragh, Saturday fortnight. Worth a few quid each way, boys, do you know what I’m saying? Ha ha!’

James and Declan both do dutiful man-laughs and that’s when it happens. Gobshite James, who always has to push the boat out that bit too far, then pipes up, ‘Who’s that riding the horse now? Is that your jockey?’

‘Ahh, you’re gas, so you are,’ guffaws Sir William doing his big rawl rawl rawl laugh. ‘No, sure, that’s Eloise up there. She’s a natural, isn’t she? Poetry in motion, what, lads?’

The penny instantly drops with me, but not James. Mainly because he’s not as well-up on the gossip pages as I would be. So, I’m half-willing him to say it, and yet half-dreading the response. In the distance, Eloise comes galloping closer and closer, then pulls up at the fountain and dismounts, striding towards us and waving to Sir William. She has a fantastic figure and is gorgeous-looking in a Judi Dench, silver-haired kind of way; looks a fair bit older than anyone else here, but with cheekbones you could grate cheese on, all her own teeth, and a forehead that’s never been within six feet of a Botox jab.

‘Eloise . . .’ says James, as if he’s heard the name somewhere before, and is racking his brains to make the association. Then he sees her coming closer to us, and in his own, inimitable dimwit way, you can practically see him weighing up her connection to Sir William and how he should address her.

‘Ahh, yes, Eloise! Your mother, isn’t she? So how are you doing, Mrs Eames, it’s lovely to meet you.’ He even stands up to greet her, flashing her his cutest, most charming smile, with his hand outstretched, which she completely blanks.

There’s a stony silence all around. A horrified look from Declan, a red flush from Sir William and an icy glare from Eloise herself.

‘I’m not his mother, I’m his wife, actually,’ she snaps. ‘And for your information, it’s Lady Eames, not Mrs.’ And with that withering put-down, she clips back up the stone steps and strides inside the house, not even pausing to be introduced. And, in fairness, would you blame her? She and Sir William have been married for about six months now, and are probably the highest-profile couple in the country, even more familiar to most people than the President and her husband, and they’re, like, on the fifty-five cent
stamp
and everything.

The only thing that’s slightly unusual about them as a couple is that Sir William is younger than his new wife, by about fifteen years. It shouldn’t have, but at the time, the wedding caused a ripple of shock waves throughout posh Irish society, as I suppose people expected a man like him to go the Hugh Hefner stereotypical route and run off with someone a) young enough to be his granddaughter, never mind his daughter, b) a former pop star/topless model/presenter of a magazine show on TV3, and most of all c) a pneumatic blonde. Eloise is gorgeous and classy, but is most definitely none of the above. In the meantime, Sir William’s ex-wife, who he married aged eighteen, and who he has about seven children with, then went on a publicity rampage, including a now-infamous appearance on the
Late Late
Show
, where she savaged her ex’s brand-new title and brand-new wife. ‘And I wouldn’t mind,’ I can still hear her sniffling, ‘but the bastard didn’t even have the decency to leave me for someone younger.’

It’s a sore, sensitive spot with both Sir William and his new lady, which James just ripped the scab off and poured carbolic acid all over. Round one to me.

And I never even had to open my mouth.

Not yet.

Disaster Number Two

Red-faced, Sir William eventually sits down, and after waving away the two dozen or so mortified apologies from James, and particularly Declan, whose face is hardwired into a grin so wide I think he might pull a muscle, the meeting eventually gets started.

‘So,’ says Sir W in this ‘cut straight to the chase’ way he has. ‘What have you lads got for me, then? Gimme your pitch in one sound bite. I’ve to be in the helicopter and on my way to Dublin in forty-five minutes flat. So you’d want to be quick.’

An encouraging look from James to Declan that might as well say, ‘You be the warm-up act, then I’ll step in with the killer blow at the appropriate moment.’ So off poor old Dec goes, talking up just how much of a blockbusting bestseller
Let He Without Sin
was, how many languages it was translated into, how many weeks it spent in the
Sunday Times
top ten list, and how lucky Meridius were to secure the rights at all, when there was practically a bidding war over them.

‘I’ll stop you there, son,’ Sir William interrupts. ‘I only ever read books I wrote meself. Did you read
The Twenty-Fifth Hour
? Me latest bestseller, about how to squeeze more time out of the day. Read it and weep, lads, wah, ha ha.’

Declan pauses for a millisecond, realizes he’s getting nowhere by talking up the source material, so he then produces budget costings for the TV show which will be based on the book, spreadsheets and projections of investors’ earnings, market demographics; in fact just about everything bar Sir William’s internet horoscope comes in neat folders out of his briefcase. Meanwhile the man himself just looks on, in a Don Corleone way; blank, impassive, patiently waiting to have the socks knocked off him.

And waiting. And waiting.

Eventually, in the middle of Declan’s big spiel about tax incentives for investors, he interrupts. ‘So, lads, let me get this straight. What have we got here? What I mean is, what are we actually dealing with? What’s the heart of the story? Because story, lads, is what it all comes back to. Sure I remember a few years back, a producer coming to me, without an arse in his trousers, looking for cash for a film . . .’

Declan, I notice, politely sits forward, all ears to hear whatever anecdote is coming. Which kind of makes me think that this must be a regular occurrence: Sir William taking these wandering meanders down memory lane, that is. And clearly, if you’re looking for money from him, you’re expected to sit back and put on your ‘enthralled’ face. It’s hard to tell what James’s game plan is; he’s just sitting there, watching, waiting, listening, drinking it all in, cool as you like. Honestly, I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if he clicks his fingers and orders more coffee from the
Batman
butler. Arrogance, thy name is James Kane.

‘. . . so I says to them, “Tell me what the film’s about, lads,” Sir William goes on. “It’s about a ballerina,” they said. “Not really my thing,” I said. “For starters, it’s a chick flick.” “Just hear us out,” they said. “It’s a twelve-year-old boy who wants to do ballet.” “So it’s about a kid who’s gay?” I said. “No,” they said, “at least not to start with, but his dad is a coal miner.” “Ballet and coal mining?” I said. “Doesn’t really mix, does it?” “Not only that,” they said, “but it’s set during the miners’ strike in the eighties. In Thatcher’s Britain.” Then they told me the story, they took me on that kid’s journey. Not a word of a lie, there were tears streaming down my face, and do you want to know why?’

‘Eh . . . no, why was that, Sir William?’ Good old Declan, always so polite. So well brought up by his mammy.

‘Because it got me here,’ Sir William goes on, thumping at his heart dramatically. ‘Pulled me by the aul heart-strings. A film about a kid who comes from nothing and has dreams to make something of himself in the world, now
that
is a story I can relate to. And do you want to know the name of that film?’

‘I’m guessing
Billy Elliot
,’ James pipes up, kind of stealing Sir William’s thunder a bit.

‘The very one. And do you know how much I made out of it? A two hundred and fifty per cent return on my investment, that’s how much. Because I trusted my instincts, lads, that’s why. Then Elton John goes and makes it into a musical, and I make the same amount of cash all over again. And I said to Elton, on his yacht at the Cannes Film Festival, I said, “Elton, my lad, this money is a reward for listening to my inner voice.” And he agreed with me, too. Very nice fella, considering he’s gay.’

‘Oh yeah, he’s a terrific guy,’ says James. ‘I met him at a premiere at the Odeon, Leicester Square, once.’

Oh, to hell with this, I’ve stayed quiet long enough.

‘James Kane, you’re a filthy name-dropper. Spotting Elton John from the far end of a packed cinema and waving at him does NOT constitute meeting the man.’

I’ll never get over the funny colours James’s face goes when he hears me but is pretending that he can’t. Right now, he looks as though he just walked into a buzz saw, and it serves him bloody right.

‘Back to your pitch then, lads,’ says Sir William. ‘You’re telling me you’ve an elderly priest with Alzheimer’s and a young one doing a transition-year project for school. So, the old priest starts rambling on and on and on . . .’

‘Absolutely correct,’ says Declan, taking up the baton. ‘But, critically, without realizing that he’s inadvertently breaking the seal of the confessional.’

‘Speak English, will you, son?’

‘Ehh . . . sorry. Well, the thrust of the story arc is that this is a ten-part drama series, and in each episode, our lead character, the elderly priest, tells a tale he’s heard in confession decades ago, not even realizing what he’s doing.’

A look over to James, who steps in.

‘Over ten weeks, we get to look at each of the Ten Commandments which have been broken, so each episode, if you like, is a mini short story.’

And then he starts off on what I can only describe as a vicious circle of lies. So and so is interested, he says, naming a well-known international actor. And X, the hottest director in town, is mad about the script. All utter shite, I happen to know, but that’s the way producers seem to have to work. No one ever wants to be the first person to commit to a project, so cue James and his candy floss of spin. Fortunately for James, though, talking crap happens to be his one big strength in life.

‘Talk me through one episode,’ says Sir William.

‘A pleasure,’ James beams confidently. ‘For example, off the top of my head, we have one hot episode called “Thou Shalt Not Commit Adultery”. So then we get a story about this guy who’s cheating on his wife with another woman, who he eventually leaves her for and subsequently marries. He’s been married to the first wife for decades, they’ve a big family, and of course she isn’t even remotely suspicious, because he’s always away on business trips anyway, until she comes across his credit-card statement and discovers . . .’

Sorry, but I can’t keep my mouth shut any longer. My will to talk is just too overwhelming.

‘You do realize,’ I say right into James’s face, ‘that you might as well subtitle that episode, “The True Life Story of William Eames”? Or maybe, “Billy Eames: E! True Hollywood Story!” Don’t you ever read gossip pages in the papers? Or maybe you’re trying to write his biography for him, you unimaginable moron. Oh, and just so you know? There’s a false laugh coming out of me right now with your name on it.’

He rubs his temples, and I can see him starting to break a sweat. Good.

A panicky look back at Declan, who takes over and shuts him up.

‘. . . of course, that’s just one episode, there are nine other stories to come. For example, in the episode entitled “Thou Shalt Not Kill”, we tell the story of two middle-aged brothers sharing an old, derelict Georgian house, which has been left to them equally, but they hate each other and each spends the entire show trying to drive the other one away. They even share a bedroom, divided down the centre by a stack of old newspapers . . .’