‘Sure,’ she said, with another meaning look at his fly, ‘down the corridor, second left. Here’s the key.’
Brendan took the key and went along to the men’s room. It was already locked. He waited. After ten minutes no one came out and he went back to Kevin Clint’s office.
‘There seems to be someone in there,’ he said, feeling foolish; he would like to have left it, but his bladder was almost unbearably full.
‘There often is,’ she said, and went back to her typing.
Brendan went back to the men’s room; after about another ten minutes the door opened and two men came out. They were both giggling; they stopped when they saw Brendan, looked him up and down and then at each other and broke into fresh fits of laughter. Brendan, who knew the effects of marijuana when he saw them, looked at them tolerantly, smiled, and went in. ‘Hey, he’s pretty,’ said one of them as the door swung behind them.
Kevin Clint finally saw Brendan after two and a half hours. He sat, behind a vast white desk bearing three white and gilt telephones, on a black swivel chair; the room was otherwise bare, apart from two white leather couches, and a low black and chrome coffee table. There were several more photographs on the walls.
He gestured at one of the sofas. ‘Hi, I’m Kevin,’ he said. ‘Sit down.’
Brendan sat.
Kevin Clint was small and neat; he had dark eyes, rather pale, soft skin, and very shiny black hair. He was dressed in a dark suit with a light grey waistcoat, a purple and white striped shirt, a purple tie, and a pearl tie-pin; he wore a gold watch, pearl cufflinks, a heavy gold bracelet, and smelt strongly of aftershave. He was very patently homosexual.
‘I’m sorry to have kept you waiting,’ he said, with a smile that showed very even, neat white teeth. ‘I’ve been on the phone to LA.’
Brendan didn’t believe this, but he smiled politely back and sat down on the couch.
‘About you,’ went on Kevin Clint.
Brendan believed this still less; he didn’t even bother to extend his smile.
‘Drink?’ said Kevin Clint.
‘Yes, please.’
‘What do you like? Bourbon? Martini?’
‘Do you have a beer?’ said Brendan.
‘I do,’ said Kevin with a just audible sigh that spelt out his disapproval, and poured Brendan a Budweiser. He made himself an elaborate martini, and took a cigarette from a gold cigarette-box on his desk. He offered one to Brendan.
‘Now then,’ said Kevin Clint, inhaling deeply, sucking his cheeks in, ‘let’s talk about you.’
‘That would be good,’ said Brendan.
‘I had a call about you. Yesterday.’
‘From?’ said Brendan.
‘From a talent scout at Fox.’
‘Fox?’ said Brendan.
‘Yeah. As in Twentieth Century.’ Clint smiled; he liked seeing these new young guys stupefied.
‘Can’t have been,’ said Brendan. ‘Not about me.’
‘Sure was. The New York guy, that is. He’d seen you in The Man Who Came to Dinner, didn’t think much of you, then saw that spread in Seventeen. He says you have an interesting look. I think so too,’ he added, his eyes lingering briefly on Brendan’s. Brendan looked hastily away. ‘He thinks you should maybe test.’
‘Test?’
‘Yeah, you know, a screen test. For the movies. You know?’ He was beginning to grow impatient; Brendan was proving dumber than most.
The room spun briefly round Brendan. He gripped the arm of the couch to steady it. ‘Yeah. Sure. Sorry. I must sound stupid.’
‘A little.’ Clint smiled slightly coolly.
Brendan pulled himself together. Alongside the fear of looking a fool, a greater one that the whole thing might be pie in the sky had shot into his consciousness. He met Kevin’s cool with ice. ‘Well I’d naturally like to know who your colleague from Fox is. Before we go any further with any of this. I mean I have heard this kind of thing before. It’s kind of turned out disappointing.’
‘Really?’ said Kevin. He was clearly not remotely deceived by this. ‘Well, yes, of course I’ll tell you. It’s Hilton Berelman. Does that reassure you? About any disappointment that might be coming your way?’
Hilton Berelman. Jesus H. Christ. Brendan remained silent with an effort. Hilton Berelman was just about the best-known talent scout in New York. Agents sent photographs and résumés to him endlessly, automatically, hopelessly. He had a great deal of power and influence; he was also one of the best-known homosexuals in New York. He managed to look steadily back at Kevin.
‘Yes. Yes, of course it does.’
‘Naturally,’ said Kevin, lighting another cigarette and gazing through the smoke at Brendan with a mixture of amusement and disdain, ‘you may still be in for a great deal of disappointment. Mr Berelman may not find you quite as promising as he had hoped. There are a lot of young actors trying to get to Hollywood you know. You have a long way to travel before you even get on the plane. Perhaps,’ he added, with just a flicker of the mean little smile, ‘perhaps you would like to call him. Just to check I’m on the level. Do. Feel free.’ He pushed the phone towards Brendan, and sat back in his chair.
Brendan felt his bowels begin to melt; he also felt he might be sick. ‘No,’ he said, ‘no, of course I don’t want to call him. Thank you. And I do realize that – well, I’m very fortunate that Mr Berelman wants to see me.’ He could hear himself beginning to sound humble again; he swallowed.
Kevin suddenly took pity on him. ‘Anyway,’ he said, with a broader smile, a pat of Brendan’s hand, ‘what he wants is for you to go along to this studio, and have some shots done. Then he’ll send them down to LA.’
Brendan felt a strong urge to withdraw his hand; he resisted it, left it on the desk. Kevin Clint’s settled just slightly more firmly over it.
‘Right, then,’ he said, fighting to keep a tremble out of his voice, ‘of course I’m terribly interested, and of course I must go and get these shots done. Now? Today?’
‘No time like the present,’ said Kevin Clint, brisk and suddenly warmer again. ‘I’ll just give him a call. Then you can go and see the guy from Fox on Monday. OK?’
‘OK,’ said Brendan. He smiled again.
Clint made the call. ‘Bernie? Yeah, it’s Kevin. I’d like to send someone over right away. For some shots. You can’t? Why not?’ There was a silence. Kevin smiled into the phone. ‘I see. Well of course not. Sorry to interrupt. No, sure. Well when can you? In the morning. OK, fine. I’ll tell him. Good. Bye, Bernie. Bye.’
He smiled at Brendan. ‘He’s busy right now. But he’ll do the shots in the morning. Here’s the address. Now take along a few changes of clothes. Casual, smart, maybe a tux. OK?’
Brendan looked at him blankly. Panic was setting in again. He was wearing the only change of clothes he had. The most his bank balance could stand was probably a new pair of socks. ‘I don’t think . . .’ he began.
Kevin looked at him, recognized the panic, and smiled rather distantly. ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘maybe you don’t have that many clothes. If it’s a problem, take what you can and just hire a tux from somewhere.’
‘OK,’ said Brendan, wondering how he was even going to find the money for hiring. He was beginning to feel rather odd.
‘Holy shit!’ said Kevin Clint. ‘Holy fucking shit. Florence, get Hilton on the line, would you?’
He was holding Brendan’s pictures, just delivered by hand from Bernie’s studio. There were three: one of Brendan in a dinner jacket, looking extremely serious and smooth; one of Brendan in a dark suit (belonging to Edna’s husband) lighting a cigarette, his eyes coolly amused through the haze of smoke; and a third of Brendan in a pair of Levi’s and a white cotton shirt open at the neck, sleeves turned up, smiling his impressive smile. In all of them, something was goin
g on between Brendan and the camera; something had interceded, something charming, attractive, and yet not entirely respectable. It was, together with spectacular good looks, precisely what Kevin and Hilton Berelman devoted their working hours to finding.
Brendan had been visiting Kathleen in the hospital when Kevin Clint phoned. Fleur, who was well trained, took the message carefully.
‘Mr Clint called,’ she said. ‘You’re to go and see him tomorrow morning. At ten. He sounded real creepy,’ she added.
‘He is,’ said Brendan. ‘Did he say anything else?’
‘Nope. Nothing.’
‘Oh, well, I suppose it’s good news he wants to see me.’
‘Yeah, I guess. How was Grandma?’
‘Not very well,’ said Brendan briefly, trying to dispel the memory of Kathleen breathing fast and lightly, with the high colour of fever in her face, reaching constantly for the oxygen mask; and of the old women in the beds around her, many of them plainly senile, and the strong stench of incontinence in the air.
‘I wrote her a poem. Could you take it when you go over tomorrow? And I thought I’d get her some flowers.’
‘Fleur, you don’t have any money for flowers.’
‘I know, but there’s lots in the park.’
‘You mustn’t take flowers from the park.’
‘I don’t see why not. Grandma needs them more than any of the people who go there and don’t look at them.’
‘Well don’t let anyone see you picking them,’ said Brendan, He didn’t have the heart to chastise her any more.
‘OK. Daddy?’
‘Yeah, what is it, honey?’
‘Daddy, could I maybe go to summer camp this year?’
‘Summer camp? Fleur, I don’t know, it’s very expensive.’
‘It is? Oh, OK, forget it then.’ She smiled at him bravely, but he could see she minded badly.
‘Do you want to go particularly?’
‘Well yes, but it doesn’t matter.’
‘Tell me why.’
‘There’s one in New Jersey where you can do baseball all day and every day. I thought it might help with Mr Hammond and the Little League.’
‘I’m sorry, darling, I can’t afford it. Not at the moment.’
‘OK.’ She smiled again, an odd little twisty smile. ‘I think I’ll go up and do some reading for a bit.’
‘All right, Fleur.’
When she came down to supper, she was very cheerful, but he could see she had been crying.
‘The pictures weren’t bad,’ said Kevin Clint carefully. ‘Hilton wants to see you.’
‘Sure.’ Brendan was being equally careful.
‘Of course there’s a lot of guys with not bad pictures.’
‘Of course.’
‘But maybe if Hilton likes you . . .’
‘Yes.’ Brendan’s direct blue eyes met Kevin’s veiled brown ones. ‘Should I maybe talk to my agent now?’
Kevin looked at him blankly. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘I mean shouldn’t I tell my agent what’s going on?’
‘Why? What does he need to know?’
‘Well, clearly he’ll need to be involved. Looking over the contract, talking terms, all that sort of thing.’
‘Brendan,’ Kevin spoke very slowly and patiently, ‘as from now I am your agent. I thought that was understood.’
‘No,’ said Brendan. ‘Not understood at all.’
‘Ah. Well, clearly we have been talking at cross-purposes.’
‘We haven’t been talking at all.’ Brendan felt panicky, he wasn’t sure why.
‘So what did you think?’
‘I thought – well I thought, I suppose, that you and my agent would work together.’
‘You did?’ Kevin smiled his most economical smile; his mouth broadened slightly, his eyes remained cold. ‘Then I had better explain. If you are to’ – he paused – ‘if you want to go this route with Hilton and myself, then you sever any contact you have with any current agents. I imagined you would have realized that.’
‘No,’ said Brendan. ‘No, I didn’t.’
‘Brendan! Really! You surprise me. What do you think I’ve been doing all this for?’
Brendan was silent.
Kevin gave him a slightly menacing look. ‘No, from now on – providing, that is, that all goes well – I am your agent.’
‘And if you’re not? If I don’t agree? John Freeman has been very good to me.’
‘Oh, I have no doubt. And he’s done a lot for you, hasn’t he? Two radio commercials and a lead part in the Christmas Grotto at Macy’s. Quite a year’s work.’
Brendan didn’t realize how much they knew about him. ‘Well, it’s been a bad year. I don’t want to walk out on him.’
‘Well then, perhaps we should forget the whole thing. I’ll call Hilton now.’ He looked at Brendan coldly. ‘It’s a pity.’
‘I still don’t see why John can’t deal with Hilton Berelman,’ said Brendan stubbornly.
‘Because,’ said Kevin Clint, very patiently, smiling again, ‘because Hilton wouldn’t like John Freeman. In fact he doesn’t like him. He’s met him already.’
‘And you’re saying there’s no way I can get this screen test without Hilton? And you?’
‘That is correct. The three of us would be working very closely together. Very closely. I thought you realized that.’ He looked at Brendan thoughtfully, his eyes skimming over his body; lingering on his mouth, his crutch. He walked over to the couch, sat down beside Brendan, his thigh against Brendan’s, and put his hand gently on his shoulder. ‘I think it could be quite a partnership,’ he said, ‘the three of us. Now I shouldn’t be telling you this, but Hilton is quite certain that he actually wants to test you. Quite certain.’
Brendan swallowed. He tried to move his leg without appearing too aggressive. Kevin’s leg followed. ‘I’ll have to – think about it,’ he said.
‘Of course,’ said Kevin. ‘But not for too long. They want you over there next week.’ He smiled again, slightly less economically, moved his hand to cover Brendan’s, clasped together in his lap. ‘Oh, dear, I shouldn’t have told you that either. How indiscreet I’m being today. Now you go and have a think, and maybe a chat with your mother. I believe she’s in hospital?’
‘Yes, she is. How did you know that?’
‘Oh, this is a tiny little world, Brendan. Of course I knew. How is she?’
‘Not very well,’ said Brendan.
‘And which hospital?’
‘The state hospital. In Brooklyn.’
‘Now that can’t be very nice. Not for an old lady. If you were working with us, you’d have the money for a private hospital. Think about that.’
‘The hospital is all right.’
‘Oh good. I’m glad.’
‘Well, I’d like to think about it. For a bit.’
‘Of course. I certainly don’t want to rush you.’
Kevin’s mouth was now rather near Brendan’s. The smell of his aftershave was very strong. Brendan felt sick. He stood up suddenly and looked down at Kevin. ‘I’ll – I’ll call you then.’
‘All right, Brendan.’ Kevin looked up at him, confidently, almost trustingly. ‘No rush. There are plenty of others queuing up for screen tests. You must do what you think best.’
Brendan reached the street still feeling sick. All his life he had told himself there were certain things he could not, would not do. However great his need, however intense his desire. There were some prices that were too high. He must hang on to that. He had to. There was no way, no way on God’s earth he was going to act as whore to a pair of gays. Not to get star billing in Hollywood; not even for his mother; not even, no, not even for Fleur. In the long run it just wasn’t
going to be worth it. He saw Fleur suddenly, vividly, her thoughtful dark blue eyes looking at him from her candid, slightly tough little face, and thought how she would feel if she found out, later on, that her father had prostituted himself, betrayed her adoration of him, and knew that he could never, ever fail her. In that particular way. He might not be able to send her to summer camp, or keep her in blue jeans and baseball jackets, but he could stay the person she thought he was, that she loved. He could give at least that to her.
He made for the nearest bar, bought a can of beer, and stood there staring into it. He began to steady, to feel better, to see the nightmare recede. He looked at his watch: nearly two. He could go and see Kathleen if he hurried, before Fleur came home from school. Or he could take Fleur with him and they could go together. Kathleen would love that. But – no, maybe not. It would upset Fleur. He’d go right away. Then he realized the train fare downtown had just gone down his throat. Did he have to walk, right to Brooklyn? It was impossible. Completely impossible. God, he was a disaster. How did he get into this kind of mess? How was he going to explain to Fleur he couldn’t even pay his fare to visit her grandmother? After all the hope and excitement of the last few days. What would she think, what would Kate think? Shit, how did he get out of this one? There had to be something he could do. Was he mad, completely mad, turning down Clint and Berelman, looking their gift horse right in the mouth? Maybe he could handle the whole thing. String them along. They obviously wanted him pretty badly. It could all be a case of double bluff. And then possibly, just possibly, he’d been overreacting to Kevin Clint’s innuendoes. Maybe the guy was just a flirt. Testing him for his reactions. Yeah, that was probably it. Brendan drained the can, and decided that, actually, he’d been a fool to think otherwise. A complete fool. Thank God he hadn’t over-reacted, hadn’t gone rushing out of Clint’s office. What a fool he’d have looked. And tomorrow he’d tell him that sure, he’d be glad to have Berelman represent him in Hollywood, but that John Freeman was his agent, and he knew they were all going to have a great time working together. If they really wanted him, they’d buy that one, and if they didn’t he didn’t want to know.
AN Outrageous Affair Page 11