Lives of the Circus Animals (23 page)

T
he city was still dark and glossy with rain as they rode uptown in the taxi. A string of tiny ruby lights glowed over the long, straight avenue. Then, one by one, the rubies turned into emeralds.

“No big crises while I was away?” asked Jessie.

“Not at all,” Henry told her. “But you were only gone a day.”

“Feels longer.”

“It does,” he agreed. “I'm so glad to have you back.”

And he was. He was feeling very moral right now, very proud of himself for being humble enough to go downtown and apologize to an assistant. You can be a charmer when necessary, he told himself.

All day yesterday and most of last night, he had felt it tug at his thoughts, the sense that he-they-someone had made a terrible mistake. He'd forget, then remember, then forget all over again. The joint at bedtime, for example, reminded him of Jessie—she had bought excellent grass—then softly erased her, and he decided to call Toby. But this morning he went into a mild panic as he understood that no one was coming in today. There would be nobody to take care of him. Worse, there would be nobody to talk to. So he needed to set things right. Everything would be fine. So long as you do not let pride stand in the way, there is nothing that cannot be revised or repaired or corrected. Except death.

They arrived at the building and rode up in the elevator. Jessie unlocked the door—she had kept her set of keys. Henry went to the kitchen to make himself a pot of tea. Jessie went back to her desk.

“Henry!”
she called out. “There're fourteen messages here. Don't you ever check your machine?” Without waiting for an answer, she pressed a button and started it: a motet for computer and human voices.

Henry filled a kettle and thought, Yes, this is how life should be lived. An assistant handles the dull stuff and I devote myself to love and art and beauty. I wonder what Toby's doing right now?

“Henry? Come out here. You better listen to this.”

He found Jessie sitting at her desk with a fist at her mouth. She was staring at the answering machine. It was already playing its next message. A familiar female voice with a Yorkshire burr pleaded with the silence.

“Henry? Jessie? Somebody? Please! Dolly Hayes again. I've been calling and calling. Nobody calls back. Adam Rabb has rung me up five times in the past two days.”

“Adam who?” asked Henry.

“Rabb,” said Jessie. “The producer you had lunch with Monday.”

Dolly's voice turned cold as piss. “It's a sweet deal, Henry. If you do want to sell your ass for a high price, here's your chance. But if we don't get it, you'll have nobody to blame but yourself.”
Beep.

The computer voice added, “Wednesday. Five-fifteen,
P
.
M
.”

Another message from Dolly followed.

“Very well, Henry. I tried. It's eleven here, so it must be six there. I just got off the phone with Rabb. I told him you hadn't called back. So he told me and I quote, he was tired of us jerking him off. There are other Grevilles in the sea.”

“Oh shit,” said Jessie.

“Oh shit,” Henry agreed.

“I was tempted to lie and say you and I spoke and you're considering the offer. But I decided against it. In part because I don't like lying. But also to teach you a lesson, Henry. I trust
this
message will get a reply out of you. But I'm going to bed. Good night!”

“Greville?” said Henry. “Remind me again what a Greville is?”

“A novel. Big bestseller. The next
Silence of the Lambs
.”

“Oh shit,” Henry repeated.

Other messages followed, all unrelated, none important. The voices twittered away while Henry lowered himself to the sofa and let the terrible news sink in.

And it was terrible news. So close yet so far away. You want to be a realist, you want to be a whore, and a man shows up with a big bag of money but you're off in the lav having a wank. Nevertheless, Henry
experienced the strangest tickle. He had just lost something big. And he took a peculiar satisfaction in losing. Losing felt so solid and real, more interesting than winning.

“I look forward to seeing you next week,” Rufus concluded—Rufus Brooks was calling from Hollywood, where Henry would
not
be going anytime soon. “Until then.”
Beep
.

“Thursday, ten-twenty,
A
.
M
.,” said the computer. It was the last message. The silence that followed was very deep.

“I'm sorry, Henry. I'm really sorry,” said Jessie. “We blew it.”

He nodded, then squinted at her. “We?”

She made a face; she couldn't look at him. “If I hadn't quit yesterday, maybe we would've heard from Dolly and you could—”

“Don't even consider it! Not your fault. No use crying over spilt milk.” But she was right. It was her fault. Partly. If he changed his mind and became angry over losing this role, he could blame her, couldn't he?

“But Adam Rabb offered you the part at lunch?” she asked.

“Did he?” said Henry, trying to remember the lunch. French food, wasn't it? With very good wine. “We discussed a movie, but he never offered me a part. Not in so many words.”

But before he could work it out, the phone let out a loud electronic chirp.

Jessie glanced down at the caller ID. “England,” she said and grabbed the receiver. “Hello? Dolly.”

Henry waved his open hands back and forth across his face.

“Yes. I just got your messages.” She winced at Henry. “I took yesterday off. Doctor's appointment. No, you're right. I couldn't have chosen a worse time. I'm fine now. Oh yes. Right in front of me.”

Henry angrily shook his head, then stood up, intending to flee.

“I'm sure he will. Here.” She held out the phone.

“Henry!” a tiny voice buzzed in the earpiece. “Henry! Are you there? Talk to me, Henry!”

He glared at Jessie and took the phone. He turned his back to her. “Dolly, dear. Good morning,” he said in his creamiest tones.

“Finally.” Her voice was as sharp as a school bell. “Where the hell have you people been? Don't you ever check your messages? Bloody hell, Henry, you still live in the Stone Age!”

“We just got in, Dolly, and played your messages. Jessie was at the doctor's and we—”

“Stuff the doctor, Henry. I'm in no mood for your games.”

He took on a somber demeanor. “So this
Greville
thing is dead? I'm sorry. There's no way we can get back to this producer?”

Dolly let out a long, exasperated sigh. He imagined it racing through the cable under the Atlantic, terrifying whole schools of fish. Or did phone signals travel by satellite nowadays?

“What's the saying?” said Dolly. “God looks out for fools, drunks, and Americans? You belong to only one of those categories. Even so.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your bad manners are golden, Henry. Rabb assumes we have other porridges cooking. And he believes that once you win your Tony next month you'll be untouchable. So he has given us yet another chance. And another ultimatum. Will you play Greville? Yes or no? He needs to know by today. And to persuade you that he's in earnest, he has named a price. He is offering three million.”

“Three million,” repeated Henry. Such a large, improbable number. “Is that dollars or pounds?”

“Only dollars, darling. So the answer's no?”

“No, I'm just—” It took him a moment to recognize her sarcasm. “Three million dollars?” he repeated. “You're not joking?”

He noticed Jessie watching him, staring at him, with a look of wonder that made him understand this truly was remarkable news.

“So do I call him back?” said the voice in his ear. “What do I tell Mr. Rabb?”

His mind was as blank as a shovel. “What do you think?”

“What do you think I think? I think you should do it! I think you'd be a fool to say no to this kind of money.”

“But you thought I was a fool to pursue this sort of thing in the first place,” he told her.

“Only because I thought you'd be miserable, Henry. And maybe you will be. But in the course of learning that, you'll put three million dollars in the bank. You could do worse. And it's not a bad script. Don't you think?”

“Oh yes. Not bad. Considering.” Was this a trick question? How low would she let him go? What kind of villain was he playing? A
Shakespeare-quoting werewolf? A geek with razor blade fingers? Or no, this was supposed to be a suave pervert à la James Mason.

“So are you in or are you out? Rabb needs an answer by one. It's already twelve-thirty.”

“Today?”

“Yes, today. He's tired of being dicked with. His word. Maybe we could
dick
him a little more, but I prefer not to press our luck.”

“I can't have a couple of hours to think it over?”

“Oh, Henry. You haven't read the script yet, have you?”

“Of course, I've read it! Don't treat me like a child!” He took a breath, he regained his temper. “
Silence of the Lambs
meets
Lolita
?” He looked at Jessie as he remembered that this was her phrase. “Very well then. Yes. Why not?”

“You agree?” she sounded surprised.

“Yes. This Greville sounds like my kind of guy.” Without intending it, he fell into an American accent.

“Good. I'll call Rabb right back.”

“Good,” he told her.

“All I ask, Henry, is that you remain in the vicinity of your phone this afternoon. And talk to me. In case there's further negotiating. Will you promise me that much?”

“I'm not going anywhere until my show this evening.”

“Good. So. Touch wood. Here goes nothing. Can you give me back to Jessica?”

“Certainly.” He passed the phone to Jessie.

“Yes?” Jessie told the mouthpiece. “I see. Uh-huh.” She frowned at Henry like a concerned mother. “Gotcha. I'll keep you posted. Exciting stuff. I won't drop the ball, Dolly. I promise. Bye.”

She gently parked the phone in its slot. Then she slowly sat back up and stared at Henry.

“A movie!” she cried. “A movie!” She leaped from her chair. “And you got the lead!” She threw her arms around him. “Three million dollars, Henry! Three
fucking
million dollars!” And she began to jump up and down, expecting him to jump with her.

H
enry had never guessed his assistant was so wiry and muscular, her grip so strong. He was touched she could be so happy for him.

She stopped jumping. She let go and stepped back. “Sorry. I got so excited and forgot myself.” She tucked her offending hands into her armpits. “But—Wow. Right?”

“Exactly,” he told her. “Wow.”

She stepped away, looking embarrassed, confused. “Only money. We can't be silly about it. And it's your money, not mine. But hey. I'm happy for you.”

“Thank you, Jessie. Thank you very much.” He blinked and tried to laugh, but all he could produce was a mild chuckle. “It's so unexpected. It doesn't feel real. It's not like I did anything to get it.”

“No, you didn't. So where's the script? I want to read it. Let's see what kind of monster you're going to be.”

“Good idea,” said Henry. “I should probably read it myself.”

They hunted around and found it in the stack on the sideboard in the dining room. A swatch of pages without a cover, it was held together with brass fasteners.

“Here,” said Jessie, and she undid the fasteners. “So we can both read it. I'm a fast reader. I'll start and pass the pages to you.”

Henry sat on the sofa, Jessie in the armchair. She began to read. Ten seconds later, she handed a page to Henry. More pages followed.

Henry could not keep up with her. She set the pages at his feet.

Movies were a foreign country for Henry, a land he visited rarely and briefly, playing character parts that lasted only a scene or two. His one major role was in the BBC adaptation of
Daniel Deronda,
where he played a cold, sadistic Victorian husband. Good, clean fun. However,
acting for the camera was much as Olivier or Richardson or somebody described it: you never perform, you only rehearse. And they film all your rehearsals and use the best. Henry had no practice reading screenplays. He read this one much as he read plays, skipping the stage directions and concentrating on the dialogue. But it was all stage directions and little dialogue. The title character, however, did get a juicy line or two.

“They go to Capri,” said Jessie, setting another page on the floor. “So you get to go to Italy when they film.”

No, this did not feel real. It felt nothing like a plausible acting job. First because it was a movie, second because of the money. Three million dollars. Three
million
dollars? No wonder he felt light-headed. It was as if he'd just knocked back a very large martini.

“What a pretty fantasy,” said Jessie. “A man loves a girl so much that he wants to kill her mother.”

It settled in deeper: This is big money. You're going to be rich, Henry Lewse. The very idea of millions of dollars enlarged his mind. He felt giddy and new. But I'm still the same man, he told himself, the same fool but with money. What is the emotion of being rich? His months of playing Hackensacker should have given him practice.

“You're smiling,” said Jessie. “Are you at the scene where he's in the closet full of the daughter's shoes?”

“No. I was just—” He shrugged and dove back behind the sheaf of pages.

His happiness was ridiculous. It was only money—hypothetical money. He hadn't even signed a contract yet. Nevertheless, he was feeling very good, with a lightness in the chest that he rarely felt except when he knew he was going to get laid soon.

The phone chirped again. Jessie jumped up and read the caller ID. “Nope, not England,” she said and let the machine take care of it.

“This is David Blackwell at
Variety.
We understand that Mr. Lewse was offered the lead in the film adaptation of
Greville.
We'd like to run this in tomorrow's edition but need to confirm—”

Jessie snatched up the receiver. “This is Jessie Doyle, Mr. Lewse's personal assistant.”

Henry was surprised by the imperious tone she took.

“Yes. He has been offered the part. Yes, he is interested. What? Yes,
you can quote me. Doyle.
D-o-y-l-e.
Thank you.” She hung up and looked over at Henry, blinking in surprise.

“Word travels fast,” said Henry.

“I'll bet it's Rabb,” said Jessie. “He must be publicizing this to lock you into the project.”

She was very savvy. Henry was impressed.

He returned to the script. Knowing
Variety
cared, he paid closer attention. He came to a scene where Greville shares a hot tub with the mother and eighteen-year-old daughter and tries to flirt with both without giving the game away. The scene had possibilities, not least because Henry would get the chance to show off his body work.

The phone rang again. Again Jessie answered it.

“Ditchley? Cameron? Oh, ‘Page Six.' Yes, of course.” She flexed her eyebrows at Henry like semaphore signals, only Henry had no idea what her message was. “I'd be happy to confirm or disconfirm any rumors. Uh-huh. That is correct. Mr. Lewse has been offered the title role of Greville. Uh-uh. Susan Sarandon? Yes, of course. Mr. Lewse can't wait to work with her.”

She pressed the button of the receiver but did not hang up. “Oh my God,” she said. “Rabb must've had a press release all set to go. Did you know that you're cast opposite Susan Sarandon? This could be the start of a very busy—”

The phone chirped again; she hit the button.

“Hello. CNN? I see. His personal assistant. An interview? Really? I'll have to check with Mr. Lewse.”

The phone continued to tweedle and chirp as more people called. Most only asked for confirmation, but others requested pieces of Henry.
Entertainment Tonight
wanted a press kit and maybe an interview next week.
Good Morning, America
wanted an interview tomorrow; something called
E!
wanted an interview tonight.

It was impossible to read a script with the telephone trilling away. Henry was tempted to go to the bedroom, shut the door, and let Jessie handle this—she handled the calls anyway—but it was too exciting. He didn't want to miss anything.

“My God,” said Jessie after the twentieth call, giggling at the lunacy. “You're like a run on a bank. It's free-money day at First Henry Lewse. This Adam Rabb must be
very
connected.”

He laughed with her. “It makes no sense. I'm famous for starring in a movie that hasn't even been made yet?”

“That's the best kind. An abstract movie. Pure potential.” She shook her head. “Your little friend is going to kick himself for not going to bed with you.”

“Who? Oh. Toby. You think?”

What a wonderful idea. Success would bring the boy around.
Greville
would win him Toby. Or maybe Henry wouldn't need the love of a pretty little nobody once he had fame and fortune.

“But he
did
go to bed with me,” he reminded Jessie and himself. “Not to put too fine a point on it.”