‘The reason we’re here is for me to give you notes,’ he says, looking towards Trish and Greta. ‘Greta, I’m going to tell you what I want to see in Elsie. Trish, I’m going to tell you what to rewrite. It’s good for you to hear each other’s notes, because knowing about the story will help Greta shape her performance, and knowing how I’m gonna direct the lead will help Trish with her rewrites. Everybody with me?’
Greta and Trish nod obediently.
‘And why am I here?’ I ask him.
Swan glances back at me, his bushy eyebrows knitting together, as though he doesn’t like to be interrupted. ‘You’re here to listen.’
‘I’ve some great production ideas,’ I offer enthusiastically.
He shrugs. ‘Well, keep ’em to yourself.’
‘So I’m just going to sit here and say nothing?’ I ask, my voice rising slightly.
‘I see you’ve got the gist of it,’ he says. ‘Now can I proceed?’
He’s not giving way.
‘Yes, of course,’ I say. ‘Sorry.’
Swan stares at me for a second, his lip twitching. Then he looks back at the other two women.
‘We’ll start with Greta,’ he says. ‘Now, my image of Elsie is…’
I stare at my yellow legal pad while he goes on about the character of Elsie and how he wants her acted. He refers to other films, other actresses, previous parts Greta’s played, and adds some technical detail about shots and lighting. Greta nods every two seconds like one of those bobble-head dolls. I wish Swan wanted me to contribute something. Frustrated, I doodle words on my pad. ‘Master shot’, ‘Complex’, ‘selfish’, ‘scared’, ‘haughty’. Just enough so he won’t catch me writing the grown-up equivalent of ‘I fancy Jason Connery’ over and over like Miss Wilson did once in French.
‘Yes, yes, I see,’ Greta purrs once he’s done. ‘Fascinating, yes, I can bring all this to the role, I see her in a whole new way now.’
What a suck up. Everybody is staring at me. Oh hell, did I make that slurping noise out loud? I swallow, conspicuously. ‘Mintoe,’ I say. ‘Stuck in my throat.’
‘I don’t want too many changes,’ Swan says to Trish, after looking hard at me for a couple of seconds. ‘But I do think you need to work on your second-act pacing, particularly in the scenes with the wedding planner.’
Trish nods. ‘D’you think we should have more scenes where Gemma is fighting with the wedding planner?’
‘Maybe,’ Swan says. ‘The dialogue’s a bit wooden, though. I’ve seen this before. Father of the Bride with Steve Martin. This has to be different.’
I bite my lip. No, no, that’s all wrong! You don’t want to see more of Gemma, the bride. You want to see more of Elsie, her mother. I mean the film’s about Elsie, not Gemma.
Swan continues to talk, telling Trish what he wants. This bit of the script does sag, it gets boring in the second act. And Trish keeps giving him her ideas. But I think they’re all wrong.
I’d love to say something. I really would. But it’s not my script, is it? And anyway, I’m supposed to be Learning production, not screenwriting.
‘Gemma could insist that if she doesn’t get the flowers in blue and white the whole day will be ruined.’ Trish clenches her fists and stamps her feet. ‘Ruined!’
I look dubiously at Mark. No, no, that’s not it. Yeah, a petulant bride could be funny, but it’s out of character. Gemma is sweet and passive while Elsie is the bitch queen mother from hell. If you do jokes that aren’t consistent with the character, soon the whole story gets muddy. What would be far better here is if Elsie said …
I jot down a couple of funny lines, like doodling. You know, just what I would put if it were my script. But I’m careful to angle my body so she can’t see what I’m doing. Everybody thinks they can write, don’t they?
‘That’s great,’ Swan says, finally. ‘I’ll look forward to talking to both of you in a couple of days.’
Trish and Greta both get to their feet. Greta is air-kissing the side of Swan’s face, or trying to – even on tiptoe she only comes up to his chin – and Trish shakes his hand. I hang back, waiting politely till they’ve finished. I wonder how long it’ll take me to get home and get changed for dinner, what I should wear. Thank God for Charles, I think to myself. It’s been such a long day, and now I just feel drained. It was such a triumph to get here, but all I can think of is how frustrating it is not being able to do anything. There’s not even any intrigue to report back to Kitty, no plots to go over-budget or anything, no diva-like tantrums from Greta. In fact she seems slavishly obedient to Mark Swan, which goes entirely against her reputation.
Perhaps she just knows she can’t get away with it, with him.
I sneak another look at him. He’s in his element, relaxed, enjoying himself. His whole body is engaged. When he talks to them he sits forward on his seat, his eyes locked on them; I feel I might as well not be there. Swan focuses totally on the people he’s talking to, and his energy and enthusiasm are electric. Mother of the Bride is really just an above average, quite funny story that suited the actress Kitty wanted cast. But sitting here, I get the feeling that Mark Swan will make it something more. That he’s going to mould it into some kind of comedy classic.
I wish it were me he was looking at like that …
Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Anna! I cough, clear my throat. Those two are leaving. I try to compose myself. Don’t want Mark Swan suspecting an idiotic schoolgirl crush or anything.
‘Bye, Anna, see ya,’ Trish says.
‘Goodbye,’ says Greta majestically to me. ‘Wonderful to be working with you,’ she lies, in a gracious I’m-Hollywood-royalty sort of way.
Swan glances at me, very quickly, a twinkle in his eye, then leaps forwards to hug them both goodbye.
‘See you guys later,’ he said. ‘Michelle’ll walk you out.’
It suddenly occurs to me I should be thrilled that these three beauties are leaving the room. It’s my lot in life to hang around skinny, petite women, but I realize, with a jolt, that it hadn’t actually bothered me this afternoon. I was so focused on what Mark Swan was saying that I didn’t care. But now, as I watch Swan hug Trish goodbye, his tall, muscular frame enveloping her tiny, feminine one reality seeps back in. I don’t really want to be alone with Swan. I feel vulnerable, exposed. Right now I just want to go home so I can hang around a skinny, petite man instead. Charles may not be my type, but at least he’s dedicated to making me feel good, and that makes him pretty rare and special in my book.
Anyway, what do girls like me want with a type? Men aren’t exactly falling over themselves to go out with me. It’s insane to hold out for my type. My type has to be a male somewhere between puberty and death, doesn’t it?
‘OK,’ I say briskly, in a nice impersonation of Eli Roth. ‘That was a very valuable and, er, insightful meeting, and I’ll be reporting back to the producers.’
Swan stares at me. I have the urge to look down and see if I’ve put my T-shirt on backwards or something. I ate a Walnut Whip on the way over here, I hope I haven’t got chocolate all round my mouth. Surreptitiously I wipe my lips. But he’s still staring. Maybe he needs some ass-kissing, that’s what directors like, isn’t it? You know the joke – how many directors does it take to change a lightbulb? One. He just holds the lightbulb and the world revolves around him …
‘We’re so delighted you’re on board with this project,’ I try. ‘It’s such an honour.’
‘God, Anna, do you have to talk like a total wanker?’ Swan says.
I blink. ‘Excuse me?’
He waves his hand dismissively. ‘Don’t give me that. Just because you work for some producers doesn’t mean you have to talk like a Hollywood executive. Or what you think they sound like.’
‘I bet they do sound like that,’ I say, stung.
Swan grins. ‘Well, actually, a lot of them do. But you shouldn’t. I liked you because you weren’t like all the others.’
‘What others?’
<
br /> ‘What, you think you’re the only one to come looking for me? I get two or three film students a week.’
‘Is it the Steven Spielberg story?’ I ask, crestfallen. I had thought it a bold and brilliant stroke.
‘Yeah,’ Swan says. ‘Security guards everywhere curse the day that story started making the rounds.’
‘So … why did you like me?’ I ask.
He shrugs. ‘I don’t know. You took me on over that comment I made about the Diet Coke.’ He grins. ‘D’you know, I’ve stopped smoking? Whenever I try and enjoy a nice quiet smoke I keep seeing your face saying every time I light up I’m getting cancer.’
‘Ha ha,’ I say, triumphantly. ‘Now you know how it feels.’
‘Yes, well. You’ve ruined my cancer sticks for me.’
‘You deserved it,’ I say.
He inclines his head. ‘I did. Yes.’
Then I remember who I’m talking to. I have to be careful, this is Mark Swan, as in, Mark Swan, all round film-making god and the only reason I’ve got this chance. He’s got a way about him that makes you forget who he is.
‘I expect the other film students don’t say stuff like that to you,’ I offer tentatively.
‘No. Well, for one they recognize me.’
I blush.
‘And for two, then they’re dumbstruck. Like I was George Best or something. They sometimes ask to sit at my table when I’m in the pub, and if I say yes, they just sit there with their arms crossed, staring.’ He gazes unblinkingly at me. ‘But they don’t say anything.’
‘Like you’re in the zoo,’ I say, delighted.
‘Exactly.’ He grins, and then there’s a pause. I wrench my gaze away. Shouldn’t relish his company like this.
I glance at my watch. ‘I’ll be off, then.’
‘Hold on,’ Swan says, and his face turns serious again. ‘What was that?’
‘What?’
‘That meeting. You sat there like a pudding. What’s the matter, not glad to be here?’
‘Oh,’ I say, panicked. He’s not going to kick me out, is he? ‘No. I was glad to be here. So glad. I loved listening to you,’ I say earnestly, then I blush. That came out wrong. I can’t let him suspect my admiration.
‘Then what?’
‘I was listening,’ I say.
‘But you didn’t say anything,’ he explains, patiently.
‘You were talking to Greta and Trish,’ I point out.
‘That doesn’t mean I didn’t want to hear from you. I didn’t ask you to the meeting just so you could be decorative,’ he says.
Decorative! Hah. ‘But I’m just representing the production company.’
‘Not as far as I’m concerned,’ Swan says. ‘Look, I didn’t have to have anybody from Winning—’
‘Red Crest.’
‘Whatever. I could just have said no. Do you think they wouldn’t have agreed to whatever I wanted?’
I shake my head. I know they would have.
‘I value your opinion. That’s why I asked you there.’ He looks at me. ‘When we were discussing those wedding planner scenes you looked like you’d bitten into a lemon, but you still didn’t say anything.’
‘I didn’t think it was my place,’ I say, blushing.
He smiles. ‘But I’m telling you it is. You have a suggestion?’
‘Uhm.’ I feel rather stupid and exposed, so I blurt it out. ‘I don’t think those scenes should be about Gemma at all, it’s not her story, it should be all about Elsie, and this is where she’s really sabotaging the wedding so she could, you know, she could make sure to ask for things which will be impossible. She wants it to be chaos, or for the planner to quit.’
‘Hmmm,’ he says. ‘Go on.’
‘But Elsie needs it to sound reasonable. And you want it to be funny. So she needs to make all the outrageous demands with a very uptight little smile. Sounding really … saccharine,’ I suggest.
He’s silent for a beat. I daren’t look up at him. I feel my heart thud-thudding in my chest.
‘Can I see that?’
He reaches for the yellow pad on which I’ve doodled my dialogue. Flushing, I move it away.
‘Oh no, that’s nothing,’ I protest.
‘Hand it over,’ he says, inexorably, swiping it. I shuffle my feet together while his eyes flicker over it, reading everything I’ve written. He seems taken aback.
‘Did you come up with this?’
‘What?’ I ask, playing for time.
‘These lines.’
‘Yes, but I was listening, I swear.’
‘Anna. These lines aren’t bad. Not at all.’ He casts his eye over them again, reading more carefully. ‘That’s closer to what I was looking for. The humour, the tone – the whole bit.’
‘Oh.’ I don’t know what to say. I feel a wash of pleasure all over.
‘You’ve got a great ear for dialogue,’ he says. ‘Ever thought about writing?’
‘Who? Me?’
‘There’s nobody else here,’ he points out, reasonably.
‘I couldn’t be a writer. I’m just a producer. Apprentice producer,’ I say hastily.
‘You’re a lot more impressive as a writer,’ Swan says. ‘Anyway. Think about it.’
‘You really think I could be a writer?’ I ask, delighted.
‘What, are you deaf? How many times do I have to say it?’
‘Well Thanks,’ I say. ‘Thank you very much.’
‘You’re welcome, sweetheart,’ he says.
I turn away, spell broken. I had been gazing at him, so full of happiness and gratitude, and of course he’s so gorgeous and he’s being so nice. But then he said sweetheart, and I don’t like the teasing. I swallow hard against the sudden lump in my throat. Which is totally ridiculous, of course.
‘What happened to that smile?’ he asks, grinning. ‘Have you got plans for the evening? Maybe you’d like to come out for a drink? Michelle and I usually get a pint about now.’
Oh, absolutely. Love to, so I can sit there while much prettier women come up and fling themselves at him, and skinny Michelle sneers at me. No, no. Mark Swan is far too dangerous to hang out with on a social level.
‘I’ve got plans,’ I say, not looking at him.
‘Cancel them,’ Swan suggests.
‘I’ve got a date,’ I say, with a sudden surge of gratitude to Charles. Yes, I do have a date. Once again, Charles saves me without even knowing it. I glance at Swan. I’m waiting for the look of disbelief or mockery I’m sure will cross his face, only it doesn’t.
‘Oh. Who?’
‘His name’s Charles Dawson,’ I say, as brightly as I can manage.
Now Swan does frown slightly. ‘Charles Dawson, the one who tipped you off to the script? Trish’s employer’s brother?’
‘How do you know that?’
‘I called Trish this afternoon. I make it a rule to get to know the people I work with. It helps me get the best out of them if I can see inside their heads,’ he says.
‘Yes,’ I say.
‘Humph.’ he says, non-committally.
‘What, you think it’ll interfere with the movie?’ I ask, nervously. ‘Him being Lady Cartwright’s brother?’
‘Oh no,’ Swan says. ‘Trish quit her job, anyway.’
‘She did?’ I ask. I feel guilty. I realize I really haven’t taken the time to call Trish, bond with her, since I met up with her over the script. I’ve just been so busy. Mark Swan has known her two seconds and already he’s her new best friend. ‘Isn’t that a bit risky for her? Nobody knows how the film will do, and she’s only getting scale.’
‘Her film will be a huge hit,’ says Swan. ‘I’m involved.’
‘You’re so modest.’ I smile.
He shrugs. ‘We both know it’s the truth.’ And of course I do. ‘Anyway, you’ll find that not risking anything is what you need to be afraid of.’
I look at my watch again. ‘If it’s OK with you, I really have to go,’ I say. ‘I have to get ready.�
��
‘No problem,’ Swan says. ‘I’m sure Charles doesn’t like to be kept waiting either. See you tomorrow. Ten o’clock, sharp.’
‘I’ll be there,’ I say, gratefully. ‘Thank you for the chance.’
He doesn’t look at me, just nods. He’s already gone back to his notes. I walk out of the room, trying not to look back at him.
I don’t want to feel like this. So strongly. I mean, just because he’s masculine and powerful but still funny and nice, that’s no reason to fancy a man, is it?
OK, maybe it is.
But I can never have Mark Swan. He’s out of my league. He’s the Premiership and I’m five-a-side on Sundays.
Now that’s an excellent reason not to fancy him. No point. And the fact that he said lovely things about me maybe being able to write is to do with my career.
I must think about my career.
I must not get a crush on a gorgeous, famous, powerful director.
Note to self. Do not fall for Mark Swan.
OK. I’m not going to think about him any more tonight.
But it’s a real effort to shake the feeling as I emerge onto the street, already busy with harried office workers heading home. I mustn’t get carried away with Mark Swan. I can’t get that close to him. He’s being so nice, but he’s still in charge, and if I go too far and annoy him? Then what? I have to watch my step. Certainly not show stupid, unprofessional feelings like jealousy when he’s close to Trish or other pretty women. I mean, he works with Michelle every day.
Women! I forgot to ask him about his girlfriend, for Sharon. Oh well, it’ll have to wait. But there has to be some lucky cow, doesn’t there? Fame and fortune and good looks, they don’t go begging for company. Sharon doesn’t think he’s good-looking; she must be mad, either that or she likes pretty boys. Swan is a vast hulking mass of testosterone. He’s completely attractive. Absolutely, totally attractive …
Anna. Stop it. You’ve got Charles, and that’s a miracle.
I think about Charles and the lovely flowers until I reach the tube station and shove my way down into the mass of sweaty, tired humanity. At least I’m only two stops away. It’s six o’clock. I should be able to do my hair and get Janet’s advice on damage limitation with my make up and clothes. I’d like to look nice for Charles this evening, just for once. I’d like to feel pretty. Although I know that’s not going to happen, so I’ll settle for just feeling normal.
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