Not Another Happy Ending (22 page)

‘Yes?’

‘Don't fuck it up.’

The line went dead. Willie lowered the phone and looked at Jane, his anxiety melting away like warm granita, replaced by a youthful grin.

They headed back to the flat immediately. He wanted to prepare for the call: throw a few punches at the speedbag, centre himself with a spot of yogic breathing. Jane was curious why Priscilla hadn't imparted more details. What was the new project about, for instance? She hadn't
forgotten their earlier conversation in which he'd all but confessed to perpetrating a wholesale rewrite of her novel and despite the nice lunch there was a part of her that hoped the answer to her question, ‘will you have to go to LA?’ would be a big, fat ‘yes’.

‘Don't worry about that, Janey,’ said Willie, putting an arm round her. ‘
Happy Ending
is my number one priority. Until I write Fade Out, The End, it's all about your novel. Well, my adaptation.’

‘Oh. Good,’ she said, trusting that in his excitement he wouldn't notice her lack of enthusiasm.

The call came just before four-thirty. Willie would usually have been returning from his daily run in the park about then, so he was fizzing with pent-up energy when the withheld number flashed up. He put the phone on speaker and began to pace back and forth in front of his desk.

‘Mr Scott?’ an American voice blared out.

‘Mr Fox!’ said Willie and then grimaced. ‘I mean, you're the guy from Fox, right? Not Mr Fox. He'll be the boss I'm guessing.’

He glanced over at Jane who was holding her head in her hands.

‘Yeah. So, Mr Scott—Willie—let me get right to it. Our senior development executive has been looking for a screenwriter with a distinctive voice for a very special project we have slated for next year.’

Willie shot an excited glance at Jane.

She motioned him to keep cool.

‘Oh aye?’ he swaggered.

She motioned again: OK, not that cool.

‘Aye—’ said the voice.

Jane puzzled for a moment; she could have sworn that the West Coast LA accent had slipped into the West Coast of Scotland variety.

‘I mean … yeah.’ The twang returned. ‘And when she heard you were adapting Jane Lockhart's
Happy Ending
, she was excited.’ The voice rose an octave. ‘We were all excited.’

‘I'm excited,’ Willie beamed. ‘But it's not just adaptations—I have original material, too.’

‘That's terrific,’ enthused the voice.

It was clear to Jane from the way he oversold it that the LA movie executive couldn't give two hoots about Willie's original material.

‘You can share all that with our senior VP … uh … Bob … and our deputy head of acquisitions … Www … Wanda …? Vonda. Yeah, Vonda. They're flying over this Friday. You live in London, right?’

‘Mainly,’ lied Willie. ‘I have a place upcountry too,’ he dropped in casually.

‘Well, apologies, it may involve dragging you out to the middle of nowhere. We're scouting Steven's next pic.’

Willie perked up and Jane had a premonition about what was about to come out of his mouth.

Don't say it, she willed him. Don't say it.

‘Steven?’ Willie shifted the phone to his other hand. ‘Steven Segal?’

Jane winced.

‘Uh, no.’ The voice dripped with disapproval. ‘Soderbergh. He'll probably drop by and say hi. If that's OK?’

So-der-bergh, mouthed Willie excitedly. ‘Aye, that'd be OK,’ he said, endeavouring to make it sound like he and Stevie were always bumping shopping trolleys in Whole Foods.

‘I'm sending you the itinerary. See you Friday, Mr Scott. Looking forward to meeting you.’

‘Likewise. Can't wait to meet you,
bubeleh
.’

There was a click and the call ended.

‘
Bubeleh
?’ asked Jane.

Willie shook his head. ‘I have no idea.’ He walked briskly round to her side of the desk and pulled her to him. His eyes shone with excitement. ‘Jane, I think this might be it. The big one.’

‘I thought
Happy Ending
was the big one,’ she said with a note of chagrin.

‘Well, yeah. Obviously it is
a
big one,’ Willie back-pedalled, ‘but, c'mon,
Soderbergh
. We're talking Hollywood royalty and indie cred up the wazoo.’ He studied his phone, as if some residue of the call lingered; it was no longer a mere handset, it was a relic through which the deity had spoken to him. ‘I've been waiting my whole career for that call.’ He looked up. ‘You should come.’

‘I don't think so.’

‘C'mon, we'll make a trip of it. I'll book us a nice hotel, we'll take in a show, all that tourist bollocks.’

She kissed him, saying it was a lovely offer, but this trip was about him; he needed to focus without any unnecessary distraction. She didn't say that the prospect of a few days alone in her flat was making her turn whooping cartwheels in her head. Laughing with him over lunch, now eager to see the back of him, she was aware that her feelings for Willie pinballed from one moment to the next. It was exhausting.

Willie spent the remainder of the week working on his treatments: the original film ideas he'd mentioned on the call with LA. He explained to Jane that it wasn't enough simply to walk into the room and talk to these guys—they were used to a show. He stalked about the flat practising his pitch. He put on voices, injected meaningful pauses, even threw in a few props. When he was satisfied that he had it down pat he turned his attention to the other part of the sell. Movie execs had notoriously short attention spans, he told Jane, so it was important to grab them with what he called a ‘log-line’; a pithy phrase that encapsulated the movie in twenty-five words or less.

‘OK, OK, here it is.’

Jane was staring out of the window wondering about dinner when he rushed breathlessly into the living room
clutching a sheaf of pages. This would make it the sixth occasion that afternoon; on each he had presented her with a log-line more honed and polished than the last. They were all for the same movie idea, which, as far as she could tell from his excitable description, involved a World War Two tank division battling occult forces through France after D-Day.

Willie cleared his throat. He waved a hand, painting an imaginary cinema marquee: ‘Demons.’ He paused for dramatic effect. ‘In tanks.’ He beamed. ‘What d'you think?’

‘Well,’ Jane began. ‘It's definitely shorter than the last one.’

His face crumpled. ‘You hate it.’

‘I don't hate it. It's just, maybe I'm not the best person to judge a film about possessed tanks.’

‘Fair point.’ He shuffled the pages. ‘OK, OK, try this one.’ He flicked the new top sheet with the back of his hand. ‘A tight-knit family makes a desperate bid to escape the clutches of a totalitarian regime during a talent competition.’ Another meaningful pause. ‘On Mars.’

‘Right,’ she said, mystified.

He elaborated. ‘It's kind of
Alien
meets
The Sound of Music
.’

Jane couldn't help herself. ‘So … in space no one can hear you yodel?’

‘Oh, very bloody amusin’.’ He scowled, then fell silent, clearly mulling what she'd said. He piped up. ‘Can I use that?’

Friday rolled around. Willie was booked on the first shuttle to Heathrow. He stood by the window looking anxiously for his cab, about to call the dispatcher when it pulled up out of the pre-dawn murk.

‘That's me, Janey. I'm off.’ He snatched a single piece of carry-on luggage and hurried out of the room.

‘Hey, what about my kiss?’ she said sleepily. She was still in her pyjamas and planned to go back to bed as soon as he'd gone. Tonight was the pub quiz final and she needed to rest up. Until the phone call from LA, Willie had planned to be there to support her. Not that she minded, but he hadn't said anything about missing it. She suspected that in all the excitement about his trip it had simply slipped his mind.

He trotted back into the living room, dropped his case and took her in his arms. His lips brushed hers.

‘Go,’ she said when the kiss had ended.

He gazed at her fondly. ‘In a second.’ He stroked her hair. ‘Jane, this is an important trip for me. These guys are working with Soderbergh. And they called me. That just never happens.’

‘Yeah, you're right, it doesn't,’ she agreed. Something about the phone call had been bothering her. Maybe that was it.

‘And it's all because of you,’ said Willie. ‘Truth is, I'd never have got their attention if I wasn't adapting your novel.’

‘Oh, rubbish. You're a great writer.’

Willie thought for a moment. ‘Aye, you're right.’ He gathered his case and started for the door.

Jane remembered something and crossed quickly to her desk. She picked up a large buff envelope and hurried after him.

‘Willie. Here.’ She held out the envelope.

‘What's this?’ he asked suspiciously.

‘Relax, it's not a court summons,’ she said, mildly aggrieved. ‘It's my novel.’ She waggled her head. ‘Well, the first thirty chapters. You could read it on the plane, and if you have any thoughts, notes, y'know …’

‘Aye. Terrific.’ He took the envelope and stuffed it unceremoniously into his bag. The door clicked shut behind him and he was gone.

Jane stood for a while listening to the sound of the empty flat then turned on her heel and padded back to her bedroom.

‘Charming,’ said Darsie, who lay stretched out on the bed like some starlet, clad in a gauzy red silk dressing gown, hidden behind an eye-mask. She lifted one corner of the mask. ‘He could at least have pretended to be interested.’

‘He's excited about his meeting.’

Darsie propped herself up on one elbow. ‘Why are you making excuses for him?’

It was a good question. ‘Because …’ she began, and then realised that she didn't have a good answer.

‘Do you love him?’

The answer was yes. On paper, at least. Sure, he could be insufferably self-regarding, but when he wasn't puffing himself up he was kind and funny and vulnerable and handsome. A great guy, on paper. Her whole life was on paper. ‘Just because I don't hear violins doesn't mean I don't, y'know …’

Darsie rolled over. ‘I understand. He's no romantic hero.’

‘No, thank god.’

Darsie sat up. ‘You don't want a hero?’

‘What the hell does that even mean? In my experience men are not heroes. Men leave. They do terrible things and then they walk out of your life. So no, I'm not waiting to be swept off my feet.’

‘Well, I want a hero.’

Jane couldn't hide her disappointment. ‘I wrote you to be more than that. You're not just some paper-thin heroine in a bodice ripper, you have
levels
.’

‘Y'know what, you can keep your levels. If it's a choice between being deep or being happy, I'll take happy.’

Was that the choice—engaged sorrow or unthinking happiness?

‘So that's why Tony Douglas is such a bastard.’

Why was she bringing up the hero of her novel? Strictly speaking he wasn't a hero, more an anti-hero, although she disliked using either term, reducing as they did complex characters to ciphers.

‘He's horrible, mean-spirited, and yet I keep going
back to him,’ mused Darsie. ‘Is that the sort of man you want?’

‘No. Of course not. And I'm not defined by a man.’ She paused. ‘He's not
that
horrible.’

‘Oh, he's dreadful. The things he's done to me …’ She shook her head slowly and then stopped. A curious expression slid across her face. ‘Wait, you like him, don't you?’

‘Of course not. I mean, not like
that
. I like him as a character. Between the sheets—
pages
.’

‘Do you like him better than me?’

‘It's not a popularity contest I'm writing, it's a novel.’ She crossed to the window. ‘Some characters can do the most dreadful things, but if they're compelling enough then once you're hooked you go with them. It's not just that you want to know what happens, but even if what they're up to is morally questionable you find yourself—against your better judgement—willing them to succeed. You'll forgive them anything.’ She shrugged. ‘It's one of the differences between fiction and real life.’

She turned to the bed. Darsie had gone.

‘I Made It Through the Rain’, Barry Manilow, 1980, Arista

T
OM HAD BEEN
surprised at the ease with which he and Roddy had fooled Priscilla into believing they were Fox movie executives looking to connect with her client, but even more gratifying was how easily they had persuaded Willie into getting on a plane to London—at his own expense, no less—and then forging into the depths of the Home Counties for an imaginary meeting. Based on the dismal showing of their previous machinations, he had half expected Willie to see straight through the ruse and march into Tristesse to deliver another beating. He winced at the memory of the previous one; the bruises hadn't completely faded.

‘I thought you said you could do an American accent,’ Tom complained to Roddy soon after he'd hung up on the faked phone call.

‘That
was
American.’

Tom grunted non-committally. ‘Off and on.’

‘Well, you didn't exactly help. Wanda … Vonda. If
you're going to mouth a phoney name you could at least make it obvious.’

However, both agreed that despite Roddy's vowels and Tom's consonants this latest plan had got off to a brilliant start. It was a propitious moment—they were rid of Willie. It was time for phase two.

‘Now we work on
papa
.’

‘I want it on record,’ said Roddy grimly. ‘This is going too far. She wouldn't talk to her dad for years—they're rebuilding their relationship.’

So far Tom had tried and failed to make Jane miserable by sabotaging her career and then her relationship with her boyfriend; all that remained was her dad. Tom liked Benny Lockhart, didn't want to hurt him, but there was no other option.

And it wasn't as if he was trying to cause a permanent rift between father and daughter; a temporary falling out should do it. Briefly he'd considered enlisting Benny in the plan. That way the older man would know it wasn't a real quarrel and avoid any potential heartache. But Benny was no actor and if the scheme were to work then Tom needed him to feel every raw emotion. When Roddy voiced his doubts Tom didn't admit that he had them too, and instead resorted to his usual refrain.