My bridal what?
‘He only just proposed. I’m not getting married just yet,’ I say. Obviously Lily has slept on it and is terrified that what’s mine might not be hers. But she needn’t have worried. She can come and spend a year in one of Charles’s many guest bedrooms for all I care. I suddenly wish with a pang that she’d do just that. I want to clutch on to everything familiar, even Lily.
‘Oh, you know Charles. I’m sure he’ll be setting the date very soon,’ Lily says.
Actually, now she mentions it, so am I.
‘Have you told your parents?’
No. Let me do that now. I dial their number, just wanting to get it over with, and feel a huge sense of relief when I get the answer machine.
‘Hi, Mum and Dad, it’s me,’ I say redundantly. ‘Anna. Anyway, I’ve wonderful news, I’m getting married. His name’s Charles Dawson and he’s a…’ what? ‘a writer. I don’t want to tell you this on the answer machine,’ I lie, ‘but he’s keen on putting the announcement in the papers, so I had to be sure you’d hear it from me. He’s very nice, you’ll like him. Call you later, bye!’
I hang up feeling as if a sack of potatoes has just been lifted off my shoulders. I couldn’t face the conversation. What? Who? How long have you been going out with him? Why haven’t we met him? Can he support me in the style to which I have become accustomed? Well, that last one would have been pretty easy even for Brian. I’ve become accustomed to thinking of store-made sandwiches as the height of luxury.
Still, I can’t put it off forever. I make a mental note to ring them properly tonight. Otherwise there’s the risk that when I take Charles round to see them they’ll simper and fawn with joy when they find out how much dosh he’s got. I can just see it. Must be stopped. I must prepare them for the fact that, against all the laws of probability (except in my dad’s eyes) I, Anna Brown, am going to marry money.
‘Let’s go shopping for wedding dresses!’ Lily suggests. ‘I know a fabulous boutique – invitation only, but not for you and me, of course.’
I start. ‘I can’t. Got work.’
Lily pouts. ‘Haven’t you resigned yet?’
‘No, and I’m not going to,’ I think about my ghost comedy. I can’t wait to get back to work on it. Get into the second act.
‘Well, it’s your choice,’ she says reluctantly. ‘If you will insist on slaving away for peanuts when there’s no need to.’
‘Women need to work, Lily,’ I tell her severely. ‘We need our own independence and careers.’
‘Good God, why?’ she asks.
I think about giving her a long and passionate answer then decide it’s not worth it and head off to the shower instead. Thank God I do have work to think about, or I’d be going nuts. Oh yes, I am a professional woman.
And, just as an aside. Not that it’s really important. Mark Swan is back in England today. I’m leaving the office to work with him again. And it’s such a great professional opportunity.
I hail a taxi. Why not? I am about to be a woman of substance, after all.
Not my own substance, true. But maybe that can change with work on my movie.
‘Morning, Anna,’ says Michelle coolly. ‘Good to see you again.’
I doubt it. I hadn’t seen much of Michelle, because Swan had mostly had me with him on set, or at some hotel, or over at his place. And I don’t think she was crying too much about it, somehow.
Michelle is young and casually dressed, but I don’t let that fool me. She’s super-efficient, slavishly devoted to Swan and, of course, great-looking.
Today she is resplendent in daring jeans and a sprayed-on T-shirt over her neat little bud breasts that says, ‘I’m only wearing BLACK till they make something DARKER!’
‘Is he about?’ I say, foolishly, looking round the office. ‘Did he have a good holiday?’
‘Going to Hollywood to battle the studios is hardly a holiday,’ corrects Michelle. ‘Coffee?’
‘No thanks,’ I say, erring on the side of caution.
‘Suit yourself,’ says Michelle, icily. ‘He’s in a meeting.’ She nods at the closed door.
‘How long will he be?’
She looks at me with disdain. ‘As long as it takes, I suppose. You can’t rush genius.’
I want to say he’s only a director but don’t dare. I cast around for something to read, but there’s only this week’s Variety and I read that ages ago.
‘What’s that?’ Michelle asks suddenly.
She’s pointing at my ring.
‘My engagement ring,’ I say, wishing to twist it out of sight. Why? It’s a perfectly lovely ring. ‘Here, have a look,’ I tell her boldly, thrusting it towards her. Because, obviously, I’m not ashamed of it.
‘Ooh, it is stunning,’ she says, in a markedly more friendly voice. Then she pauses and a shadow crosses her pretty face. ‘Who … who’s it from?’
‘His name’s Charles and he’s really nice,’ I say. My standard answer.
‘Oh!’ she says, brightening. ‘Well, that’s great! Congratulations. True love makes the world go round, don’t it? Sure you don’t want that coffee? We’ve got herbal tea and all. Even some PG Tips,’ she offers, generously. I instantly get the impression that she would no longer be spitting in it.
‘That’s OK.’
‘Let me buzz Mark for you,’ she says, smiling full wattage at me. It’s bizarre, as if she thought I was an axe murderer but I have just been revealed to be actually Mother Teresa.
‘Isn’t he in a meeting?’
‘Oh, that don’t matter, not with news like this,’ Michelle says airily. She goes back to her desk and presses the buzzer before I can stop her. ‘Mark?’
‘What is it?’ asks his disembodied voice, a bit tetchily.
‘Anna Brown’s here.’
‘Yeah?’ He sounds pleased to hear it. ‘Great, I’ll be right with her.’
‘And she’s got engaged!’ says Michelle, loudly.
‘What?’
‘Engaged,’ Michelle repeats. ‘To be married. You should come and see the ring!’
There’s a pause and I find I’m blushing.
‘That’s great,’ Swan says, politely. ‘As soon as I’ve finished my meeting I’ll be out there to admire the ring.’
‘Oh-kay,’ singsongs Michelle.
‘And no more interruptions, please,’ he says, hanging up.
‘You didn’t need to do that,’ I tell her, but Michelle shakes her head.
‘Wonderful news like that, he’s gonna want to know straight away,’ she says. ‘You madly in love?’
‘Oh … yeah, sure.’
‘Tall, dark and handsome is he?’
‘Not tall … I like the way he looks,’ I lie. ‘We make the perfect … he’s a real gentleman,’ I say.
‘A real new man?’
‘He always pays for dinner,’ I defend him.
‘What’s his career? In the film business?’
I look helplessly at the door. Please, rescue me. ‘He’s a writer.’
‘Talented writer,’ says Michelle, with satisfaction. ‘You going to have lots of kiddies?’
‘I expect so.’
‘He’s loaded, ain’t he?’
‘How do you know?’
She points at the ring.
‘Well, yes. But I didn’t marry him for that.’
‘Course not,’ she says indignantly. ‘Country gent, is he?’
‘You can’t tell that from the ring.’
‘I knew it,’ she says with satisfaction. ‘Don’t know, just seems your type. Country gent. Getting away from it all.’
But it’s not, I want to tell her. Not me at all. I’m London. I’m crowded tubes and air-conditioned offices. I’m Starbucks and Loot and drooling over over-priced flats. And most of all I’m walking around Soho, dreaming about writing movies and joining the Groucho Club.
I’m Mark Swan’s world, at least in my dreams. But now I’m marrying a land baron, they expect me to instantly give i
t all up and settle down to sensible skirts, Labradors and walled kitchen gardens. Michelle smiles at me encouragingly.
‘You’re so lucky,’ she says.
‘Mmm,’ I reply. And then the door opens. I jump to my feet. Swan is shaking hands with another man in a suit. He’s American, you can tell by the deep tan and the loose, unstructured suit, informal yet breathtakingly expensive. He looks like Eli Roth.
‘Thanks,’ he says to Swan. ‘Good to see you. I hope you’ll consider the offer, Mark.’
‘I’ll consider it,’ Swan says in a tone that adds he’s not promising anything.
‘Good day, miss,’ says the guy to Michelle. She simpers.
‘See you soon, Mr Giallo,’ she says.
Wait a minute. Not … not Frank Giallo? My God. It is Frank Giallo. I recognize his face now, it took up the whole third page of last week’s Variety. He’s the new president of Artemis Studios, took over from Eleanor Marshall last week. He’s one of the most powerful men in Hollywood. After David Geffen and Steven Spielberg, this bloke is it.
And here he is, courting Mark Swan.
I feel slightly faint. Swan catches my eye. He glances at me neutrally, his eyes flickering to my ring, then sees the expressions of awe and sheer terror crossing my face, and his body relaxes slightly, as though he’s thinking better of something.
‘Hold on a second, Frank,’ Swan says, stopping him. Giallo pauses, looks back at him eagerly, as though he’s hoping Swan will give instant consent to whatever he just offered him. ‘Here’s somebody I want you to meet. Anna Brown, this is Frank Giallo.’
‘How do you do … sir,’ I say, dry-mouthed.
‘Sir!’ says Giallo, pumping my hand and chuckling. ‘Love those English accents. Too cute. You can call me Frank, honey. Anybody recommended by Mark is on first-name terms.’
Michelle scowls at this but I think I’m the only one who notices.
‘Anna’s a talented producer, but she’s going to start writing scripts,’ Swan says, grinning.
‘That right?’ says Giallo to me, but only a squeak came from me. ‘Are you any good?’
‘If she is,’ Swan says, ‘I’m going to messenger her script over to you and you’re going to read it.’
‘Are you attached, Mark?’ asks Giallo, cannily.
‘Don’t pass it down to some shitty vice-president either,’ says Swan, not answering the question.
‘Oh, that’s OK,’ I say, because my face has gone so red it makes a becoming match for my ruby. ‘You don’t need to do that, Mr … Frank.’
‘Mr Frank!’ says Giallo, delighted. ‘Listen, sugar, a word of advice. If you have powerful friends and they pull strings for you, don’t say no. That’s Hollywood. Don’t bother with that Brit reserve. I’ll be reading the first thing of yours I see because Mark Swan recommended you. If you’ve impressed him,’ he shrugs, ‘that impresses me. See?’
‘Yes,’ I manage.
‘Backers don’t come more powerful than him,’ he tells me.
I can’t even look up at Swan. ‘So now what do you say?’ Giallo asks.
‘I – thank you,’ I say.
Giallo grins. ‘She’s learning, Mark. It’s been good to meet you, Anna,’ Giallo says, to let me know he remembers my name. And then he wishes us a good day, steps into the corridor, and I watch the elevator swallow him up.
I’m left standing there, with Swan and Michelle, staring after him, open-mouthed and slightly hyperventilating.
‘I can’t believe you just did that,’ I say.
‘Why not?’ Swan asks easily. He reaches round and grabs his coat where it’s laid over a chair. ‘Ready? We’re meeting Trish again this morning.’
‘Oh.’ I swallow hard, try to get my act together. ‘Yes.’
He doesn’t pay any attention to me all morning. Not to my ring. Not to my haircut. Trish sits there and complains as he demands more changes, and he ignores her, just tells her why he wants things done. And she gives in. I sit there taking notes for Kitty and Eli, but I’m doing it on autopilot. I’m miles away. Trying to process what just happened.
I mean, I knew he was big. And popular. But power … I don’t think I’d realized exactly how much power he had. Or thought he would flex those muscles for me. Oh, on one level, yeah, but I thought it was just nice, encouraging talk. I don’t think I ever expected him to do something like that for me.
In thirty seconds, he just turned my whole life upside down. Now screenwriting is more than a dream, now it’s something I have a chance at. A studio head’s going to read it. People can spend ten, fifteen years trying to break into Hollywood and never get a chance like that.
And Mark Swan got it for me in ten seconds.
I try to concentrate and be professional, but it’s all a bit pointless. I keep staring at him. He towers over Trish, it’s ridiculous. She’s willowy and blonde with pale English skin. Tiny against him. I wonder what she would look like if he kissed her. I wonder what—
‘Anna.’
‘Yes?’ I ask, guiltily.
‘Anything to add?’ Swan says.
‘No. No, I think you nailed it,’ I say. Luckily he nods and doesn’t ask for anything more.
‘That was good work,’ he says to Trish, and I can see her smiling, blossoming under the sun of his praise. ‘Lunch?’
‘Can’t,’ she says. ‘Got lunch with Peter.’
‘Who’s Peter?’
‘My boyfriend,’ Trish says, happily. ‘Peter’s a lawyer. But he’s not a complete git or anything.’
‘That’s certainly a recommendation,’ says Swan, smiling.
‘Oh, eff off,’ says Trish, airily. ‘Rather go out with him than you and your ugly mug, quite frankly.’
‘Understandable,’ says Swan. ‘Oh well.’
‘You go with Anna, have a good time.’
‘Anna. Yes.’ Swan turns to look at me, without much enthusiasm. ‘Sure you can’t come?’ he asks her again, a bit more pleadingly this time.
‘No. Thanks,’ says Trish. ‘See you guys, yeah?’
‘Bye, Trish,’ I say as she exits. Swan turns to look at me and I let my eyes slide to the floor.
‘Well,’ he says, after a pause. ‘I suppose we’d better go out to lunch.’
‘OK,’ I say, feeling hunted. I was so longing to see him, to tell him about my script, to tell him what I’ve done with his gift. But now the moment is here I just want to run away.
I don’t want to talk about Charles and me with him.
‘How’s Edgardo’s?’
‘I don’t know it.’
‘Little tapas place in Holland Park. Not very fancy,’ says Swan. ‘I suppose you’re only eating the best now, huh?’ he adds, nodding at my ring.
‘Who, me?’ I shake my head. ‘McDonald’s is my idea of fancy. You know me.’
‘Not all that well, perhaps,’ he says. What does he mean by that? ‘Edgardo’s it is.’
‘Fine,’ I say. ‘As long as you don’t order off the menu for me,’ I add with a touch of my old spirit. ‘Why do men always do that and think it’s sexy? It’s not. It’s aggravating.’
Swan looks at me and his mouth twitches very slightly. ‘I promise you can order for yourself.’
‘All right then,’ I say. ‘Let’s go.’
The sooner we get to the place, the sooner I can get out of there. I wish Trish had come. I don’t want to eat with him by myself.
He makes me nervous.
* * *
Edgardo’s is, as promised, not very fancy. It has small tables covered with oil-proof laminated cloths in a cheesy French check, plain white walls, and ancient-looking menus. The tables are all crowded together, the waiters look harassed, and the place is heaving. I love it immediately.
The delicious scent of Spanish cooking is everywhere, little glass carafes of cheap red and white wines are knocking about, everybody is stuffing their face and having a good time, and the conversation is punctuated with laughter and sizzling. Plus, nobody looks at Swan.
We thread our way carefully past people’s elbows and coats draped on the back of chairs and find one of the last empty tables.
‘Nobody knows you here?’ I ask as we sit down.
‘The waiters,’ he says. ‘Nobody else. I don’t like to be bothered while I’m eating. Or have photographers outside ready to take a picture of me and stick it in the papers.’
‘How can you stop that?’
‘Simple maths,’ he says. ‘A snapper’s not going to hang about a cheap and cheerful tapas place waiting for the possibility of getting a shot of Mark Swan. He’s going to be outside Quaglino’s on Friday night, so he can get a shot of at least four or five celebs. People whine about privacy, but they don’t do anything to actually protect themselves. Unless you’re Madonna, you don’t have to be in the spotlight unless you want to.’
‘People think you’re cultivating a deliberate air of mystery,’ I say. ‘Mark Swan, reclusive superdirector. Mark Swan, Hollywood’s secretive superstar. Mark Swan…’ I realize I’m getting a bit lyrical and trail off, blushing. ‘You know.’
‘Apparently not,’ he says, drily.
‘Most people think it’s a strategy on your part.’
‘To get famous by avoiding publicity?’ He snorts. ‘That makes a lot of sense. My only strategy is to avoid being fucking bothered all the time.’
A waiter swoops down on us, grinning, bearing four or five platters of little hot, delicious things.
‘Señor Mark,’ he says. ‘Ow good to see you! Here you go.’ He lays them out for us, steaming plates of crepes, little grilled sardines, some herby sausage things, some pitted, marinated olives, and fried jalapeno peppers stuffed with cheese.
I scowl at Swan.
‘Gracias,’ he says to the waiter.
‘I get the rest of it. And your wine. Señorita,’ he nods to me. The stress of this meal is mounting by the second.
‘I thought I told you I hate people ordering for me,’ I snap. ‘God, you’re such a egomaniac control freak, Mark Swan!’
He picks up an olive, admires its glossy black skin, and puts it in his mouth.
‘Aren’t you even going to answer me?’ I demand, furiously.
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