‘So now you’re going to tell me that When Harry Met Sally is just a rewrite of Hamlet?’
‘No. But take horror for example. It’s always the old “overcoming the monster” plot-line. You know, Moby Dick, Alien, all those.’
Erin laughed. ‘Overcoming the monster. That’s my memoir of my brush with Julian Sewell.’
Chris took his glasses off, smiling. ‘I see you’ve finally come to your senses. I tried to tell you he was a wrong ’un.’
‘No you didn’t,’ she laughed.
‘Well, I would have if you’d given me the opportunity. I never saw you for dust when he was on the scene.’
‘And to think I thought I meant nothing to you,’ Erin teased.
They both looked at each awkwardly and Erin began scribbling on her pad again. ‘Will you let me read what you’ve written then?’
‘No,’ said Chris.
‘Why not?’
‘Because it’s not finished.’
Erin groaned. ‘Well, tell me a bit more about this overcoming the monster thing. I like the sound of it.’
Chris put a cushion at the back of his head and stretched his legs out.
‘Overcoming the monster is one of the most basic plots in story-telling,’ he said. ‘“Little Red Riding Hood” is a good example, or “Hansel and Gretel”. Even James Bond – it’s good versus evil, where good has to conquer the bad to get the precious treasure, the princess, to save the world, whatever.’
Erin thought about it for a moment. ‘It sounds like Karin and Adam,’ she said.
‘I heard Karin was a bit of a monster,’ smiled Chris.
‘No, Adam’s the prize, the treasure,’ said Erin thoughtfully. ‘Karin guards him like a Minotaur or something. Every woman that comes into contact with Adam seems to be after him – to her at least. Except they’re not all good,’ she said, frowning. ‘Certainly not women like Molly Sinclair.’
‘They sound like a right bunch of gold-diggers.’
‘Well, yes and no.’
‘No?’ said Chris, laughing, ‘but the man’s a billionaire!’
‘I mean, they are not doing anything that women of their age weren’t doing a hundred years ago – and it was entirely respectable to do it. Marrying for money, position in society.’
‘Bloody hell. Listen to you,’ said Chris, a note of surprise in his voice. ‘It’s like the feminist movement never happened.’
‘But that’s the point. It has,’ said Erin. ‘The women who chase Adam Gold have choices. Chase the career or chase the man. Gold-diggers chose the man. And I guess women like Karin want both.’
‘Well, that’s what you should write about!’ said Chris suddenly, slapping the arm of the sofa. ‘Adam’s wonderful world of women!’
‘I can’t do that,’ said Erin uncertainly, ‘I’d get fired.’
‘But you wouldn’t be writing about him or Karin or Molly or anyone, not specifically,’ said Chris, sitting up, ‘You can create a world. A literary beau monde. It’s what Fitzgerald made a career out of. The Beautiful and the Damned, Tender Is the Night.’
‘Oh, I love that book,’ smiled Erin, relaxing into the sofa. She hadn’t felt like this in ages. Clever and creative and capable.
Chris had moved nearer to her on the sofa. Part of her felt hot and uncomfortable, another part of her was buzzing at the banter between them and the possibility of something happening. She glanced up quickly at Chris and suddenly noticed how long his eyelashes were. Even though it was a warm night, he had lit a fire, and the logs spat and crackled.
Suddenly Chris stood up, as if he had sensed the change in atmosphere between them. He walked into the kitchen to open a bottle of red wine: a medal winner, he told Erin. That meant nothing to her, but it tasted sublime, like blackcurrants and spices on her tongue.
‘Umm, I like your job,’ she laughed softly.
‘I like it too, but I could think of a better way to make a living.’
‘Oh yeah? Doing what?’
‘Being able to make a career out of writing,’ he said, sitting down next to Erin again. ‘It would be brilliant. Me and my girl being able to live away from London, somewhere like this.’
His fingers touched hers on the cushion and Erin felt a spark jump between them. She waited for a moment to see if it was mistake, to see if Chris would remove them, but he kept his hand on hers and looked at her with a nervous expression completely out of character with the confident, womanizing Irish man-about-town.
‘Chris, I … Dammit!’
Erin’s mobile buzzed loudly on the desk. She had promised him she would switch it off, but she had left it on vibrate, just in case. They both looked at the phone humming insistently.
‘Are you going to answer it?’ said Chris, raising an eyebrow. Erin thought he looked annoyed, but she ignored it.
‘It might be work,’ she said weakly, feeling the electricity between them vanish as she said it.
‘Fuck work,’ said Chris angrily.
Erin looked unsure. The phone was still vibrating. It might be important.
Chris followed her glance and jumped up, grabbing the phone. ‘Erin. You have a few days off,’ he said, holding the phone in his fist. ‘You’re entitled to a break and you have a book to write, or should I say a book to start, otherwise you are going to get fired by your agent.’
‘But you don’t understand,’ said Erin, raising her voice. She snatched the mobile from his hand and ran through to the kitchen. Through the closed door, Chris could hear a muffled conversation. When she returned he fixed her with a sour expression.
‘You’re going back to London, aren’t you?’
‘I have to,’ said Erin. ‘There’s been a fire in the Midas Corporation mine in Kazakhstan. Adam is freaking out. He has to fly out there.’
‘So why do you have to go back to work? He has other people that can sort things out, doesn’t he? I mean, they managed okay before you came along.’
Erin flung her mobile on the sofa angrily. ‘Chris. The Midas Corporation is a multi-billion-dollar business. I can’t just turn my loyalties on or off as it suits me. I am Adam’s assistant, I have to be there whenever he needs me. And he needs me now.’
Chris started shaking his head slowly. ‘You’re desperate to be part of that world, aren’t you? No wonder you can’t bring yourself to write about the women who hang around Adam, because you appreciate what they’re after.’
‘Oh, don’t be such a shit,’ she snapped. ‘Forgive me if I enjoy my job, and forgive me if I want to help my boss. Adam saved me from a mundane life in Cornwall, and I’ll never forget it.’
A small smile of resignation pulled at Chris’s lips. ‘You’re in love with him, aren’t you?’
‘I am not,’ said Erin, blushing furiously, feeling as if she’d been caught out. Chris saw her expression and shook his head sadly.
‘Well, I guess I can’t blame you. He’s super-rich and good looking, and so are his friends. I just thought you were different,’ he said softly.
‘I’m leaving,’ she said, moving towards the door.
‘Oh, don’t be stupid,’ said Chris, moving across to stop her. ‘It’s late and it’s dark.’
‘I thought you were my friend,’ shouted Erin, pushing him away.
‘I am,’ replied Chris, touching her on her shoulder. ‘That’s why I’m saying this.’
Erin looked at him intently and shook her head. He’d touched a raw nerve and she hated him for it. ‘I’m going back to London,’ she whispered, and ran upstairs to pack.
52
Imogen Sanders, one of the UK’s top casting directors, worked out of an office in a little row of pastel-coloured mews houses in Notting Hill. After spending ten years in LA working with some of the biggest names in the film industry, she had returned to her home town to set up on her own. Right now, Imogen was the hottest casting agent in the capital; she was the woman who producers and directors turned to when they were looking for hot British talent.
&nbs
p; ‘So, tell me about yourself, Summer. Your likes, dislikes. What you want to do with your life,’ said Imogen, smiling kindly at Summer Sinclair. In her twenty or so years in the business, Imogen had seen hundreds, if not thousands of models, desperate to move into acting. While most of them had a face that the camera loved – big mouths, button noses, perfect ivory teeth – only a handful of them had the x-factor to make them into stars. Imogen had already seen Summer’s showreel before she had got here – just a few rushes from some cable TV show which was endearing in its raw naïvety, but Summer’s beauty was unmistakable and she certainly had on-screen charisma. The question was: could she act? If she could, thought Imogen, Summer Sinclair could make the hottest entrance to the movie scene since Cameron Diaz blasted onto the screen in The Mask.
‘Tell you about myself?’ smiled Summer trying to relax into her brown leather armchair. ‘Well, as I’m twenty-four, I guess I’m a geriatric model. I came back from Japan to ease myself into retirement, but my TV career has kind of taken off. I got my break into TV when the “On Heat” presenter literally jumped ship; she’s cruising the Med with her multimillionaire lover as we speak,’ she smiled wryly.
Imogen nodded, urging her to say more.
‘Likes and dislikes? I like being in love, chocolate biscuits and sailing. I don’t like sitting in front of you with no acting experience to my name. But I’ve spent a lifetime on photo-shoots and I feel like I’ve spent my whole life playing a part as Molly Sinclair’s daughter, even though I don’t really like parties and the London social circuit.’
Summer looked at Imogen anxiously, having no idea whether she was making a good impression or embarrassing herself totally.
‘My dear, most of us spend half our lives acting, even if we don’t realize it,’ she said, taking a sip of water. ‘As for your lack of acting experience, we’re not looking for someone with a CV as long as Julia Roberts’. This is going to be a blockbuster movie, but the producers and the director are looking for an unknown or a relative unknown for the female lead.’
‘How come, if it’s a big-budget picture?’ asked Summer, confused.
‘Unknowns are getting more of a shot in bigger roles in Hollywood these days,’ Imogen explained. ‘Traditionally the studios wouldn’t take a chance on an actor with no track record: big names equalled big box office. But when half the budget is going on special effects these days – and Krakatoa is going to have incredible special effects – the studio might not want to pay a big A-list female lead twenty-five million dollars.’
‘I suppose not, when she’s going to get upstaged by a volcanic eruption,’ smiled Summer.
They both laughed. Imogen liked her and she knew Luc, the director, would like her too. Summer’s was a fragile, refined beauty, but there was a toughness behind her eyes that suggested she had been through a lot. And she was going to have to be tough if she wanted to survive in the Hollywood jungle.
Imogen passed Summer a copy of the script; she could almost feel the pages crackle with excitement and promise.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Imogen, ‘this is just a read-through, we’re not doing it to camera or anything. So take your time and start whenever you’re ready.’
Summer looked down at the pages intently, although she did not need to read the words. She had received the script a few days before and had repeated them over and over until they had become part of her. The scene was powerful, packed with emotion. In it, Marien, the character she was auditioning for, had just survived the initial blast of the volcano, but she had just found her sister dead and was screaming her anger and frustration at the sky. Summer took a small breath and closed her eyes just for a moment, thinking about her experience at Ricardo Lantis’s mansion and that night in the pink bedroom, and suddenly the rage welled into her throat. She opened her mouth and the words poured out. It was like music to Imogen Sanders’s ears.
Wow! thought Imogen, unable to take her eyes from Summer’s face. This girl is fantastic!
53
As Adam’s Learjet banked into Moscow’s Domodedovo Airport, Karin leant over to peer out of the window. The city was one of her favourite places in the world with its romantic wedding-cake buildings and tsarist glamour, today lit up by bright sunshine. She had grown up in the dying days of the Cold War, when Russia was seen as a sinister state, a vast nation that had presidents with their finger on the nuclear trigger, bread queues, cold winters, wolves and snow. But a very different Russia now lay a thousand feet beneath her. A country of division. Poverty still gripped the nation, but there were pockets of immense wealth and luxury. Moscow was now a city where armour-plated Hummers and Bentleys drove the freeways, where beautiful girls dressed in Prada and Gucci and where the chic restaurants rivalled those in Manhattan. The price of a Karenza swimsuit, however, sold in the grand GUM department store, was still a good deal more than the average annual wage.
‘Thanks for coming, honey,’ said Adam, smiling over from the cream leather seat opposite her. ‘You know I’m grateful.’
‘My pleasure,’ smiled Karin. She wanted to reassure him but, looking at his drawn face, she could tell he was anxious. Only six weeks earlier, the Midas Corporation had put forward a bid to build a huge skyscraper in the centre of Moscow. It would have been a vital foothold in Russia’s burgeoning luxury real-estate market for Midas – much desired by the company. But Adam’s tender had been turned down; Moscow still fiercely guarded its own territory, and contracts were routinely handed out to the richest, best-connected Russian developers. Adam had been bitterly disappointed until Mikhail Lebokov, an oligarch with interests in everything from oil to construction, had called about the possibility of subcontracting the development to the Midas Corporation. Mikhail had requested a meeting at his dacha – his second home just outside Moscow – to discuss it further.
Adam had been excited by the call and was confident of reaching a deal; Mikhail had purchased three Midas penthouses in Miami and New York, and was known to be a big fan of the company’s work. But the fire in the Kazakhstan mine had changed everything. The Russian newspapers had jumped on the story and Adam had spent the last week on a damage-limitation exercise, trying to demonstrate that there was no breach of safety regulations. But he had no idea whether it would affect Mikhail’s desire to work with the Midas Corporation.
‘Do they live nearby?’ asked Karin. She was already hot, despite the air-con in the back of the car. Summers in Moscow could be sweltering, and today was sticky and warm, with no breeze. She had changed into her most glamorous Russian wives outfit: tight Dolce & Gabbana black trousers and a Chloe vest with a smattering of diamonds around her neck and wrists.
‘They have an apartment in Moscow,’ said Adam, watching the city fly by. ‘But no Muscovites of their wealth stay in the city in the summer. They all have dachas just outside in the countryside.’
They travelled for thirty minutes west of the city down the Rublovka highway. Here the buildings thinned and made way for heavy woods of birch and pine, the strong sunshine making patterns through the branches on the road in front of them. After half an hour, they turned off the highway and wound through a series of smaller roads dotted with clusters of expensive-looking dwellings. Karin peered over the top of her sunglasses. She had never been this far out of Moscow before. She had always imagined Russian country homes to be like Hansel and Gretel cottages, but these were like small but showy mansions, albeit surrounded by redcurrant bushes and a clear, cloudless blue sky. She pressed her nose against the black glass as they drove past, taking in the high walls, security cameras and iron gates.
‘Is it one of these?’ asked Karin.
‘These are probably worth ten million dollars a throw, so I doubt it,’ smiled Adam. ‘I think Mikhail will have gone for something a little more impressive.’ The car took a right-hand turn up a gentle slope into a more thickly wooded area and they stopped outside a huge pair of cherry-wood gates. As these swung open, Karin had to gasp.
‘You’re right, i
t is impressive,’ she said. ‘I think I’m going to like it here.’
Mikhail Lebokov was around forty. He had dark hair flecked with silver and, although he was not a handsome man, his muscular physique and alert blue eyes gave him a striking look. His wife Daria was even more impressive. In her mid-to late twenties, her dark blonde hair fell straight and glossy down her bare back. Her face was heart-shaped, her lips were full and smiling. She was beautiful.
‘Welcome Adam and Karin,’ said Mikhail, leading them into the house. There was a Japanese theme throughout. The floors were made of cherry-wood and bamboo. In the heart of the dacha was a courtyard walled with glass, at the centre of which was a steel pond of koi carp and water lilies. On the way out to the terrace, Daria told Karin there was a whole wing for staff at the back of the house, which included a French chef, Thai masseur and an English butler, who had once served in the household of a minor royal.
‘You must be hungry after the long journey, da?’ said Mikhail, motioning into the vast grounds. A sumptuous lunch had been spread out on a long cherry-wood table, covered with an ivory parasol the size of a parachute.
As Karin sat down she took a moment to assess Mikhail. He was polite and gracious, she thought, watching him direct the butler to bring them cold drinks, but there was a distance to his manner that suggested Adam might have an uphill battle securing the skyscraper contract. She was glad she was prepared.
‘Karin. I saw you looking at the art on the way through the house,’ said Mikhail. ‘You like the Bacon and Warhols?’
‘Of course,’ she said. She had heard that Mikhail was an important collector of art; he was the rumoured buyer of a $50-million Picasso at auction, and she had been genuinely impressed by what she had seen on the walls. ‘However I like the Russian art even more.’
Mikhail looked confused. ‘The Kandinskys and Chagalls are in the bedroom and library. I don’t think you have been there yet.’
‘I actually meant the two works by Nesterov in the corridor behind us and the Grigoriev over there. That one was painted during the artist’s time in France, I believe.’
Gold Diggers Page 35