‘I want Anna,’ says Swan.
‘Maybe you should take Kitty, Mr Swan,’ I say, seeing the fury return to my boss’s eyes. ‘I mean, she won an Oscar,’ I bleat. ‘She’s a really excellent producer. It’s true I don’t know anything about it.’
‘You will when I’m done with you.’ Swan says. He looks back at Kitty and Eli and shrugs. ‘I’m about to sign on to do this film for scale. It has to be fun for me. I like Anna, so having her there to rep you guys makes it fun. If you’re not cool with that, we can save ourselves a lot of trouble and I’ll bugger off so you can call other directors.’
‘That’s fine, Mark,’ says Roth, with a warning look at Kitty who has opened her mouth again. ‘We’re cool with that.’
‘Excellent,’ Swan says. ‘You three, come over to my hotel at five – 47 Park Street.’
Trish and Greta say they’ll be there, and I just nod my head. I don’t dare even look up. My insides haven’t churned up like this since I was in the front row of a Beastie Boys gig when I was sixteen and fancied Ad Rock. Kitty is going to blame me, I know it. Maybe Eli Roth too. But they can’t do anything. Mark Swan wanted me, and that’s all that counts.
He stands up and everybody jumps to their feet. Swan goes round the room, shaking hands, starting with Greta. Finally he gets to me.
‘Nice seeing you again,’ he says, clasping my hand in his giant one.
‘See you this afternoon, Mr Swan,’ I say, trying to sound businesslike.
‘We agreed on Mark,’ he reminds me. He gives my hand a gentle squeeze. ‘This is gonna be fun,’ he says. And then he’s gone.
* * *
I’m sitting on Eli Roth’s couch, twisting my hands nervously in my lap. Even though I’ve nothing to feel guilty about, I still do. I’m one of those people who start to cough and shuffle suspiciously whenever they see a copper or walk through the ‘Nothing to Declare’ channel at Customs.
Kitty and Roth seem none too pleased with my coup. This was to be expected, but they really are giving me the third degree. I feel like a Guantanamo Bay detainee.
‘And you got this idea how?’ Kitty asks acidly.
‘I don’t know,’ I say lamely. ‘It just came to me.’
‘And you happened to bump into him,’ Roth says. He’s smiling crisply, but his body language leaves no doubt that he finds me highly suspicious. ‘What were you doing again?’
‘Just buying some sweets.’
‘That figures,’ says Kitty, meanly.
‘And he agreed to read the script.’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Honestly, it was just luck.’
‘You’re quite sure you had no other contact with him?’ asks Roth, raising his eyebrows, which I now notice someone has shaped. A bit girly. I like Mark’s bushy ones better.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You haven’t had … intimacy with him?’
Intimacy? Not unless you count him catching my copy of Heat. Oh, wait a minute, he’s speaking American, intimacy means sex.
‘Me? And Mark Swan?’ I’m so nervous I laugh out loud. The very idea is insane. I mean, Mark Swan could have anyone.
Kitty relaxes a little. ‘I suppose that is rather fanciful,’ she says, the cow. ‘I hardly think Mr Swan would be having a relationship with Anna, Eli.’
‘He seems to like you very much,’ says Roth, as though this continues to be an inexplicable mystery that defies all rational explanation.
‘You know directors,’ I say meekly.
Roth nods curtly. ‘Eccentricity goes with the territory when it comes to creative people,’ he says. I take this as Hollywood code for ‘Sure do, they’re all a bunch of tossers’. I have learned that the cardinal rule of the movie business is never to say anything bad about anybody or anything, in case you need them one day. Eli Roth would find something complimentary to say about Gigli if asked for a quote.
‘Just remember, Anna,’ he says. ‘This is my project. And Kitty’s,’ he acknowledges, at her look. ‘You’re not the producer. You’ve just been delegated, at the director’s request, to report to the producers.’
‘I understand,’ I say humbly.
‘And you must be clear on your loyalties,’ says Roth. He’s warning me. ‘You work for Red Crest Productions, not Mark Swan. You will account everything you see and hear fully to us. Especially any problems.’
‘Especially any problems with Mark himself,’ says Kitty, bitterly.
‘I will,’ I promise.
‘You’re gonna be my eyes and ears here,’ Roth concludes. ‘You’ve been shoved into this position even though you’re only a reader. I expect you to use it fully. I expect to know everything, even things the actors and crew might not want me to know.’
‘I’ll definitely let you know every detail,’ I promise. ‘I’m hoping for a promotion,’ I add, braving Kitty’s scowl.
‘Well, let’s see how you handle this,’ Roth says. ‘Your future depends on it, Anna.’
‘Thank you, Mr Roth,’ I say earnestly. ‘I won’t let you down.’
‘That’s all,’ Roth says. His face adds, ‘You better not.’
I stand up, grab my bag and flee back downstairs.
* * *
John has piled a huge mound of scripts on my desk when I get back to it.
‘What’s this?’
‘The weekend read,’ he says.
‘But…’
The elevator doors hiss open and Kitty emerges.
‘But nothing,’ John says.
‘You’ll have your normal duties, Anna, of course,’ she says. ‘I want you to realize that this whim of Mark’s doesn’t change anything – apart from possibly putting our production at risk, trusting somebody so inexperienced.’
I look at the huge pile. ‘That’s fine,’ I say. ‘Kitty, can I see you a minute?’
‘Anything you have to say, you can say in front of John,’ she snaps.
‘Please,’ I beg.
Kitty relents. ‘Thirty seconds,’ she says, gesturing to her office. We go in there and I shut the door while Kitty takes her bony frame back round her desk and sits down, and I’m standing there like a schoolgirl in front of the headmistress.
‘Look,’ I say. ‘I just want to say that I didn’t plan this. I didn’t have anything to do with it – I had no idea he was going to ask for me.’
‘Hmmm,’ says Kitty.
‘You can trust me,’ I say, urgently. I want that promotion, and I know I’m not going to get it from Mark Swan. ‘I’ll be your right-hand girl. I’ll report everything right back to you.’
Kitty looks at me, and her shoulders relax just a little.
‘You know you can trust me, Anna,’ she says. ‘I gave you the raise.’
‘Yes, thanks so much,’ I say.
‘And I did say you could be promoted when the time is right, so assuming you do a good job for us with Mark…’ she waves her hand in the air. ‘Perhaps after pre-production, then.’
I smile. She’s actually putting a time frame on it. She means it, she’s really going to promote me.
‘And when I do move you up,’ she continues, as though reading my mind, ‘it won’t be a fake promotion like Sharon’s. You’ll have your own office, your own readers, and we’ll announce it in the trades.’
Fantastic! I want to jump up and down.
‘Just make sure you don’t go native on me,’ Kitty says. ‘You’re on our side, not Mark’s.’
‘I know,’ I say. ‘Thanks so much, Kitty, you won’t regret it.’
I float through the rest of the day. I flick through the new scripts (they’re all dire) and make a few half-hearted notes. But mostly I’m just watching the clock, waiting for four thirty so I can get out of the office and get down to Park Street. I can’t wait. I’ll get a chance to thank Mark, and sit in on a real pre-production meeting. And prove myself to Kitty. I know which side my bread’s buttered. I’m going to give them such exhaustive notes that Roth and Kitty will feel as if they were in there themselve
s.
It’s like winning the Lottery! I’ll get a chance to impress everybody. My bosses, Mark Swan, Trish, and Greta. I indulge in all these great career fantasies. In five or six years I could be a major Hollywood mogul. I could be as rich as Eli Roth!
Everybody in the office is looking at me. Sharon and John are standing by the kitchen, heads together, whispering. Mike Watson is staring at me from inside his office’s glass walls. He scowls and looks away when I catch him at it. You can almost hear them all thinking, not Anna. But it is me, it is Anna.
And I have Mark Swan to thank for it!
Sharon’s coming over. Quickly I close my game of Minesweeper, don’t want her reporting me to Personnel or anything.
‘Hi,’ she says, smiling sweetly.
‘Hello,’ I say, suspiciously.
‘Would you like some coffee?’ Sharon asks winsomely. ‘Or some herbal tea?’
‘No thanks,’ I say. What, with her spit in it?
‘I could run round to Starbucks and get you a cappuccino or a hot chocolate if you’d like,’ she offers. Something’s definitely up.
‘What do you want, Sharon?’ I demand.
‘Don’t be like that,’ she says. ‘Why do I have to want anything? We’re just friends, aren’t we?’
We used to at least be civil, until she got promoted and decided her mission in life was to rag on me mercilessly. I don’t say anything.
‘That was quite a coup you pulled off with Mark Swan,’ she says flatteringly. ‘The whole office is talking about it.’
‘I just bumped into him.’
‘And apparently he really likes you.’
‘He was very nice,’ I admit.
‘I heard what Eli Roth said. That was out of order,’ Sharon commiserates, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘Of course you weren’t sleeping with him.’
‘No.’
‘Mark Swan wouldn’t do that,’ she says. ‘Obviously.’
‘Obviously.’ I sigh. I could wish I had a million pounds for plastic surgery to remake my entire body and face, but short of that …
‘And anyway, you’re taken,’ she adds brightly. ‘By the nice little man who sent you flowers.’
Of course I’m not taken, I’m just going out.
‘He’s not little,’ I say defensively.
‘No,’ she agrees hastily. ‘I’m sure there are lots of shorter men, and anyway, size doesn’t matter, does it?’
I think of my own wretched height and how I tower over Charles.
‘That’s right, it doesn’t,’ I lie.
‘You both have inner beauty,’ she says consolingly. ‘Anyway, how well do you know Mark?’
‘I only just met him.’
‘Does he actually have a girlfriend?’ Sharon asks, casually. Ah. I should have guessed.
‘I’ve got no idea,’ I say. ‘I expect so. Gorgeous millionaires normally do, don’t they?’
‘He’s not gorgeous,’ Sharon says, shocked. ‘He’s a great big beast. I expect he’d be lucky to get a girlfriend. I saw him when he came in. Of course,’ she adds, ‘I don’t care about things like looks. I’m just attracted to his talent.’
‘I’m sure he’d be very flattered,’ I say.
‘Maybe you could find out for me?’ wheedles Sharon.
‘I’ll ask him,’ I say reluctantly.
‘Thanks.’ Sharon beams at me. ‘You’re a real friend, Anna.’
‘Mark Swan?’ asks Claire, who’s been listening in intently ‘Why would you bother with him when Eli Roth works right in this very building?’ She sighs, dreamily.
Sharon eyes Claire’s new, sexy self with disdain. She obviously doesn’t think much of the home dye job and the short leather skirt.
‘Eli Roth’s not available,’ she says curtly.
‘And how do you know?’ asks Claire, bristling.
Sharon tosses her curls confidently. ‘I’ve taken him coffee a couple of times when he’s been in to see Mike,’ she says.
‘So what? So have I,’ says Claire.
‘Well, he didn’t ask me out,’ says Sharon. ‘So, you know. He’s either got a girlfriend or he’s gay.’
Claire snorts.
‘He didn’t ask you out either,’ Sharon points out.
‘Doesn’t mean he won’t. Maybe he’s working up to it,’ Claire retorts. They glare at each other and I grin slightly to myself. Pretty girls! What would it be like, I wonder, to be ignored by a man and actually conclude there was something wrong with the man? I’d love to have that self-confidence. Just once, just for five minutes.
‘He’s not going to ask you out,’ says Sharon, cattily. ‘He’d be just as likely to ask Anna.’ She laughs. I feel all my happiness just draining out. I try to think of Mark Swan and my new honest to goodness career, but I can’t. One comment, and I’m back to Anna Brown, the tall, big-boned, big-nosed girl.
A wave of sadness crashes over me. To my horror, I realize tears have started to prickle in my eyes. I may be the story of the day as a future success, but as a woman, I’m still just the office joke. I mean, I know Mark Swan and Eli Roth wouldn’t date me, but does it have to be so bloody funny?
‘I’m sorry,’ says Sharon, catching my expression. ‘Of course I didn’t mean it like that.’
‘I just have something in my eye,’ I lie. My phone buzzes and I snatch it up.
‘Winning Productions, you’re with a Winner,’ I say automatically, swallowing the thick lump in my throat.
‘Anna,’ says Charles.
‘Oh, hi,’ I say.
‘How is the most beautiful girl in London?’ Charles asks politely.
I smile, despite the tears that are trickling down my cheeks now. I quickly brush them away, although Sharon’s already seen them. How does he know to say exactly the right thing when I need it most? I feel a rush of warmth and gratitude.
‘How would I know? I’ve never met Kate Moss,’ I joke.
‘That bony thing?’ Charles says scornfully. ‘Looks like a golf club on a diet.’
That one actually makes me laugh.
‘I’ll be off then,’ says Sharon, relieved. ‘Just let me know what he says, OK?’
I nod and turn my attention back to the phone.
‘Are we going out tonight?’ Charles asks hopefully. Well, we weren’t, but why not?
‘Sure,’ I say. ‘I’d love to. I have an afternoon meeting, how about seven thirty?’
‘Wonderful. I’ll pick you up.’
‘No, don’t do that,’ I say, panicking slightly. I have no wish to expose him to Lily before I have to. Even Janet, who’s being so much nicer. She wouldn’t be able to help herself, she’d have to ask really embarrassing questions about his sister and her title. ‘I’ll come to you. What’s your address?’
‘Forty-eight Eaton Square, flat twelve,’ he says.
Eaton Square. Oh yes.
‘Right. I’ll see you there at seven thirty.’
‘Brilliant. I’m really looking forward to it,’ he says.
I find I’ve stopped crying. ‘So am I,’ I reply.
* * *
Forty-seven Park Street is a hotel. A very discreet hotel that looks like a private house, just off Marble Arch tube station, a stone’s throw from Hyde Park. I’ve been here many times, mostly running errands for Kitty to some film star or another we’d put up here. I would leave little gift baskets at the front desk and wait to see if there was a reply, like some eighteenth-century butler. It wasn’t very glamorous, unless you count that time I saw Hugh Grant all hung over. He’s much fitter in real life, even bleary-eyed.
This will be the first time I’ve ever got further than the lobby.
‘Mark Swan?’ I ask nervously.
‘Your name, please, madam?’
‘Anna Brown,’ I say.
He consults a list. ‘Will you wait here, madam?’ He lifts the phone and speaks discreetly into the receiver.
‘Somebody is just coming to get you,’ he tells me.
&n
bsp; I wait, nervously, but within a minute a gorgeous, rather shocking young thing has appeared on the stairs. Of course. This is exactly the kind of girl who would wind up assisting Mark Swan. She’s got the best red hair money can buy, a frighteningly low-cut pair of jeans, a safety pin through her nose, and no bottom or boobs. She’s a film school graduate. Probably top of her class, now working for the great man.
‘You Anna?’ she demands.
‘Guilty as charged.’
She doesn’t smile. ‘My name’s Michelle Ross, I’m Mark’s assistant. In the future, you want to talk to him, you can call me. OK?’
‘OK.’
‘Nice to meet you,’ she says, shaking my hand briskly. ‘Follow me.’
Swan has a suite on the fourth floor. When I get there Trish and Greta are already settled on the sofa, sipping drinks. Greta is on a mineral water and Trish is guzzling a huge gin and tonic. I must have a word with her about drinking in front of stars that have just come out of rehab.
Mark Swan is drinking a Heineken from the bottle. I must have a word with him, too. In some alternative universe where I would actually have the balls to criticize him.
‘Hi,’ I say.
Swan glances at his watch. ‘You’re late.’
I look guiltily at mine. It says five past. ‘Oh, yeah, sorry, the tube was delayed.’
‘Then leave extra time,’ Swan says. ‘I’m working two projects. I expect you to be exactly on time or early.’
I chuckle at his impression of a stuck-up movie mogul.
‘What the fuck is so funny?’
‘Oh, nothing,’ I say, as it dawns on me he wasn’t joking. ‘It won’t happen again.’
‘It better not,’ he says curtly.
Michelle sits in the corner, smirking and pretending to take notes.
I sit down on an empty chair, blushing. He was all over me this morning, does he have to be such a martinet? My face is burning like I’ve just downed eight of Trish’s gin and tonics, but it’s not the sexy, semi-enjoyable blushes his praise gave me this morning. Now I feel like a turbulent child called out in front of the class. I look reproachfully at Mark, but he just gazes evenly back at me.
Apparently he can’t be manipulated.
I should be angry at the rebuke, but instead I’m feeling something odd. I feel … respect. Yes, that’s what it is. I wasn’t sure at first, it’s been so long since I’ve actually met somebody I respect.
The Go-To Girl Page 14