‘Now we accessorize,’ says Janet. ‘Put on this,’ she chucks me the chunky leather wristwatch she bought me, ‘and this,’ the gorgeous Coach handbag she made me buy, and you have no idea how much it was, ‘and slip your feet into these.’
I stare at them. ‘What are they? I didn’t buy those.’
‘Shoes. Pied à terre. I bought them, they’re a present.’
‘But…’ I struggle with myself. ‘Janet, that’s so lovely of you, and everything, but I can’t possibly wear those. Do you still have the receipt? I’ll exchange them for something really gorgeous, I promise.’
‘You’ll wear these,’ Janet says.
‘But those are heels,’ I explain. ‘Kitten heels.’
‘Yeah. So?’
‘Um, I’m five eleven,’ I say. ‘If you hadn’t noticed.’
‘So what? I’m five six.’
‘Bit of a difference.’
‘Anna,’ Janet says patiently. ‘You are not going to learn to love yourself if you keep trying to be Lily.’
I swallow hard.
‘You’re not going to shrink, you know. There’s no point always wearing flats and slumping your shoulders like you do, trying to be smaller. Flats don’t do anything for you. No, don’t start crying,’ Janet says. She rushes forward with a Kleenex. ‘If you bloody well ruin that make-up job I’ll kill you.’
‘Sorry,’ I sniffle.
‘These are only an inch, maybe less, but what they do for your legs is … well.’ She steps back and looks at me, satisfied. ‘Turn round and look in the mirror. You’ll see.’
I turn round. And look.
And blink.
Who is that? I mean, I know it’s me. But it’s not. It’s somebody else. I don’t have a tall, confident pose, and shapely hips, and attractive arms and delicate wrists – the watch makes my useful, thick wrists look small in comparison. And the low-slung pants fit me perfectly, and they shave off inches everywhere. And the heels … the heels are sort of forcing me to arch my toes, throw out my bottom and stand up straighter, which makes me look about eight pounds lighter. The top is very fitted. It shows off my cleavage, but it’s thick cotton, and it doesn’t look slutty, just … womanly. OK, not delicate, but womanly. And polished.
I gasp in delight.
‘I can’t believe it. I look great.’
‘I know you can’t believe it,’ Janet says. ‘That was always your problem, Anna.’
I examine myself again. It’s true, it’s absolutely true what she told me. I still look like me, but instead of hefty, I’m seeing myself as strong; instead of gigantic, I’m seeing myself as tall; instead of thick-set, I’m seeing myself as curvy. I do have a waist. The flat front of the trousers is hiding my tummy, you don’t even notice it. And my boobs look impressively large instead of slutty or like Daisy the cow. They fit the rest of my body. The whole thing just … fits.
‘Don’t just stand there preening,’ says Janet triumphantly. ‘Take that lot off. We’ve more to get to. Lots more.’
It’s incredible. Almost everything she’s picked, I love. The boring-looking clothes come alive when they’re on my body. The neutral colours are soft and chic and they all blend with each other; it’s an autumnal fantasy of black, cream, red, and beige. Janet has chosen piping and details, but no prints, lots of block colours.
‘You’re not ready for patterns,’ she says. ‘I want to keep it simple.’
‘Whatever you say,’ I say eagerly.
‘Everything mixes. Try that burgundy leather skirt with the knee-high boots. And the fishnets.’
‘I can’t wear … OK. I’ll try them.’
‘And the black sweater, the cashmere. The white cotton will work too. Or that white V-neck tee with the brown bomber jacket.’
It’s actually fun. It’s so much fun. I thought she’d lost it when she showed me the fishnets, but the amazing thing is, when there are only a couple of inches visible, between the top of the calf and the end of the skirt, they don’t look tarty, they look pulled-together, a bit Manhattan, even. They show off my legs, which aren’t bad, in a sexy way. Wow. I look so film-business.
I could ask for an agent anywhere dressed like this. I could walk right into William Morris and …
OK, let’s not get carried away. But I’m amazed at how it makes me feel. The clothes aren’t light and flippy and sprayed-on like the things Lily wears, but they still look feminine. I feel an intense surge of confidence. Is it possible?
‘I told you,’ Janet says, as if she can read my mind. ‘I told you. This can change your life. I know you think it’s only clothes, and it’s really superficial, but when you look the best you can, it helps. It just helps.’
‘Thanks, Janet,’ I say, giving her a hug. ‘Thanks so much. You don’t know what this means to me.’
‘You’re welcome,’ says Janet, tossing her gorgeous hair.
‘You get … um … mad props,’ I say, and she laughs.
I manage to kill a whole afternoon playing with my clothes. Janet has to go out to visit her agent, and I just stay in the flat, peeling off one outfit and putting on another. Mixing them up. Trying on all my new, cheap accessories. Everything looks great.
I know I’m still not beautiful, but I actually like how I look. Maybe it’s not all nonsense, maybe there is something to that idea about character and so forth. Anyway, I feel a lot more cheerful.
I put my last (white, silky) shirt back on the rail in my tiny bedroom (no room for a wardrobe) and pick up my address book. I ring a couple of numbers, production houses I’ve heard of, bigger places that might have something. Once again I check out my reflection in the mirror, but nothing’s changed. I still look pretty good. Good enough to walk into any of those places, I tell myself.
I walk determinedly over to my desk, boot up my laptop, and start writing. The script pours out of me. I feel so confident, now, like nothing can stop me. I write and write until my fingers get cramp, and finally, that’s it, the end of the third act. I’m done.
Screw Kitty and Eli. And screw Mark bloody Swan, too, I tell myself mutinously. I don’t need any of them. I’m a screenwriter now. I can do this!
I pick up the phone. I only hesitate for a moment, then I dial the first number.
* * *
The phone buzzes just as I’m on my way out of the door.
‘Brown,’ I say snappily. Wow, this new me is something else! It’s incredible what a little change in how you look can do for you.
‘Anna? Is that you?’
‘Hi, Charles. Darling,’ I add.
‘Darling.’ I can hear the pleasure in his voice. ‘Are you quite sure you don’t have any extra guests?’
‘For what?’
‘The engagement party,’ he says patiently. ‘It’s tonight, remember. At Vanna’s.’
‘Oh. Oh, yes.’ I’d forgotten all about it. ‘I know,’ I lie. ‘No, just Janet and Lily.’
‘You never gave me the address of your friend Mr Swan.’
I feel perverse relief. ‘Oh, no need to ask him,’ I say. ‘As we’re not working together any more.’
‘But I found it out,’ Charles continues. ‘And I asked him.’
I’m silent.
‘Does it matter?’
‘No. That’s OK,’ I say. ‘I’m sure he doesn’t want to come anyway.’
‘Oh, he does, don’t worry about that. He accepted right away.’
Did he? ‘That’s great,’ I say. ‘I can’t wait to introduce you. What time is it?’
‘Seven for seven thirty, but we should be there early. Say I pick you up at six thirty?’
‘Sounds good.’ I’ve got that green dress I bought with Janet first time around, the one I didn’t wear to the ball. Well, who cares what Mark Swan does, I think. I’ve got my green dress. I’m going to look fantastic.
I look at my watch. My first interview’s in twenty minutes and I’ve got another one half an hour later. And then one more tomorrow morning. It was amazing how easy it was t
o get people to see me. I just called a couple of the big agencies, and mentioned my script, and how I’ve been working with Mark Swan, and they all asked me to come in!
This is easy. What was I concerned about? I’ll have representation by tomorrow, and then my agents can start selling the script to Hollywood. I wonder how much I can get for it?
‘Gotta go. Don’t want to be late. I’ll see you tonight, sweetie,’ I tell him.
I will not think about Mark Swan. I will not think about Mark Swan. I repeat this in my head like a mantra as I turn into Soho Square. Of course, this method repeats the name Mark Swan, so it doesn’t work all that well. I try just clearing my mind. That doesn’t work either.
He thinks I’m not good enough. He won’t back up my script. All that encouraging my hopes and dreams, and now he’s pulling away …
And he didn’t seem all that upset about me getting sacked. In fact, he didn’t seem even slightly upset.
It hurts. It does. More than it should. But it’s a blessing in disguise, I think to myself. I was, just possibly – so ridiculous – just starting to develop the tiniest crush on him. And I’m going to be married. So it’s a good job that I’ve been sacked and he’s not helping me any more, I tell myself. After tonight I won’t have to see him again, and I’ll be safe enough tonight, won’t I? I’ve got my own fiancé.
OK. The Gryphon Agency, Inc. Here we are. I push through the revolving doors, a new spring in my step, mentally rehearsing the pitch for my script. Gryphon has a very cool lobby, or cruel lobby, depending on how you look at it; the walls are thick strips of chocolate brown leather upholstery, punctuated with an equally thick strip of mirror. Hundreds of Anna Browns gaze right back at me but, thankfully, they still look quite cool. I’ve paired the leather kitten-heel boots with some flat-front, low-rise black trousers and a slightly off-the-shoulder burgundy top, added the wristwatch and some dangly earrings and a chunky garnet ring I stole from Janet’s jewellery box – well, she’s done so much for me already she’s not going to mind my nicking the finishing touch for an hour, I wear this on my right hand, to go with the watch, and not to clash with my engagement ring. My bag is that new black Coach one, slung casually over my shoulder as though I’m used to looking stylish.
The receptionist is a black girl in a black dress, sitting behind a kidney-shaped desk made entirely of smoky glass. She’s gorgeous, but this time I’m not intimidated.
‘Hi.’ I smile at her confidently. Anna Brown, here for an interview with Paul Fallon?’
She glances at her sheet. ‘Oh yeah, he’s expecting you. You can go right in,’ she says.
Wow. This is brilliant. I thought for sure she’d tell me to have a seat and I’d be stuck staring at my fingernails for half an hour. Agent interviews make you wait for ages, normally. They’re the only occasion your time is valued less than it is at your doctor’s.
‘Thanks,’ I say, striding into the office.
Where’s Fallon at? He must have heard about me, I think. Heard on the grapevine how good I was on story during the Mother of the Bride meetings. I bet he can’t wait to read my script.
‘Paul about?’ I ask one of the black-clad, John Lennon lookalikes who seem to be everywhere. One of them sullenly jerks his thumb towards a corner office. I head over there, knock on the door.
‘Come,’ he says.
I open the door, step inside. Everything in here is very futuristic, lots of chrome and glass and more mirrors. Fallon has posters for Bladerunner and Minority Report on his walls.
‘Anna Brown,’ he says warmly, getting up out from behind his desk to greet me. He’s got that Manhattan beat-poet thing down pat: black turtleneck sweater, wire-rimmed glasses, expensive yet ill-fitting black slacks. Although not too many beat poets could afford that gold Rolex. ‘So good to finally meet you,’ he says.
‘And you,’ I say. ‘I’m a big fan,’ I lie. We smile Cheshire cat smiles at each other and he gestures me to take a seat. Man! This is so easy. I’ll be represented here by the end of the day.
‘So, I’ve heard all about your great work on Mother of the Bride,’ he says pleasantly.
‘You have?’ I beam.
‘Sure. London watering holes are buzzing,’ he says.
‘Well,’ I say confidently, exhaling and stretching out my legs. ‘It was a great script. I knew as soon as I found it that I could—’
‘How did you attach Mark Swan?’ he asks, cutting me off and looking at me intently.
‘I found him and asked him to read the script.’
‘Just like that?’ he asks, sounding disappointed. ‘Didn’t you have some kind of special connection with him?’
‘No, quite the opposite, actually. I bumped into him in a newsagents and I didn’t even recognize him at first. It was a really funny story, because I’d originally gone up to his set to—’
‘So you didn’t know him from before? Film school?’
‘I didn’t go to film school.’
‘And you weren’t friends?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘But I did get him to read the script. I think I found a good story.’ I smile confidently at him and pull my script out of my bag. ‘In fact, Mr Fallon, that’s what got me interested in writing my own scripts, because I was good at story. Mark pointed that out, and what I’ve written is a comedy. It’s the story of—’
‘Anna, let me put my cards on the table,’ says Fallon briskly. ‘I’m sure you’re a great writer, but scripts aren’t exactly in short supply, and our slate of writers is full. Unless you can bring something spectacular to the table?’ He looks at me expectantly. What does he want me to do, a backflip onto my hands, burp the alphabet?
‘But I’ve written a really funny comedy. Isn’t that spectacular?’
He chuckles. ‘That’s a bit naive, honey, don’t you think? You use what you’ve got in this business.’
I blink. Are the new clothes so good that he’s propositioning me? What is this, finally the casting couch?
‘Mark Swan,’ he explains impatiently. ‘You have to use your relationship with him. We hear that you’re friends with him.’
‘You hear from where?’
‘You’ve been seen around,’ he says. ‘Now, obviously, we here at Gryphon love Mark and we adore his vision. Do you have influence with him? Can you attach him to this script?’ He jabs a manicured finger at my neatly bound script but makes no move to take it.
I sigh. ‘No, Mark does his own thing.’
‘But if you did have influence with him, you could use it?’ Fallon persists. ‘We could get you some kind of a deal with Mark attached.’
‘But the script’s good enough by itself!’ I say mulishly. ‘You should at least try it out.’
‘With Mark Swan, sure. Without him…’ Fallon spreads his hands. ‘It’s been nice to meet you.’
I stand up and walk out. I don’t know how I have the guts to do it, really. The old Anna would have cried, would have begged and pleaded. And yes, I feel upset, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to let this bastard see that.
I get outside, half choking on fury and hurt. Oh well, I think. My cheeks are burning, but I’m not going to let it affect me, I’m going to shrug it off. I’ve another interview coming up, after all. They weren’t the only people to say they wanted to see me.
A sudden, nasty thought hits me. I walk into the little park in Soho Square, perch myself on the edge of one of the benches, avoiding the sleeping student sunning her perfectly flat abdomen, and pull out my mobile. The other agency’s name is Westin, their offices are over in West Kensington.
‘Hi there. Can I speak to…’ What was his name? ‘Richard Hatherley, please. This is Anna Brown, his four p.m. Yeah, thanks.’
Hatherley comes on fast. ‘Anna,’ he says. ‘Not calling to cancel on me, I hope?’
‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ I tell him. ‘I just want to be sure we’re on the same page. You are interviewing me about my script, aren’t you?’
‘Absolutely,’ he says
, enthusiastically. ‘That’s exactly what we’re interested in, Anna. Can’t wait to read it.’
I exhale, letting all the air out of me.
‘Phew,’ I exclaim. ‘For a moment I thought you might only be interested because you thought I had some influence with Mark Swan.’
There’s a long pause.
‘You mean you don’t have any influence with Mark Swan?’
My heart sinks. ‘No, none. I’ve had a falling out with him, actually.’
‘A falling out? How do you “fall out” with an A-list director?’ Hatherley demands. ‘He’s the only reason we wanted to speak to you. How do you “fall out” with someone like that?’ The jovial, fatherly tone has disappeared, and now he’s snapping at me. It reminds me vastly of Kitty.
‘Very simple,’ I say, seeing red. ‘You tell him to fuck off. Like this. FUCK OFF!’ I yell, then press the red button. It’s not the same as slamming the receiver down, though, is it?
OK. I think it’s safe to say they won’t be reading my script.
The hum of conversation in the park dips for a few seconds as everybody stares at me. I lift my head, cheeks flaming, and stuff my cell phone back in my bag. Then I haul myself to my feet and walk off down Greek Street. Trying to avoid anything cool. It doesn’t work. I walk past the entrances to production companies, hip bistros, private clubs, record companies, the London outposts of the major studios. In short, everything I’ve ever wanted in my career. And now, after the only bit of success I’ve ever had, what have I really got out of it?
Nothing.
When I was in college and full of dreams, do you know what I wanted? To be a millionaire by the time I was thirty. Vice-president of a Hollywood studio.
But instead, the reality of it is that I’m thirty-two and an unemployed script reader.
My script feels thin and pathetic inside my handbag. I’d pinned all my hopes on it. But Mark won’t help me submit it, and agents aren’t interested unless he’s attached.
I thought they wanted to see my work. But they only wanted to get to him.
Despite my new, cool clothes, my eyes fill with tears, so I fish out a bit of loo roll stuffed into my chic new handbag and dab them away. I can’t afford to cry, not now. For one thing, it’ll ruin my fabulous make-up job. For another, I have to get myself over to Vanna’s for the engagement party. I can’t let Charles see me all upset at that.
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