During the meal service, she told Peter how effective all this was when seen through the eyes of a boy. “All he lost, and then even his hopes were dashed.”
It was during dessert that Peter raised the problem of money. None of the major screen owners were committed to fixed payments. Pegasus had planned to land the film right at theaters with a satellite dish. They would show it only as long as people came to see it, so the payback was completely uncertain.
“We were going to keep cost down to minimize the financial risk,” he reminded her. “Now, with all that’s been spent, we’re awfully vulnerable.”
The next day, in their afternoon meeting, the movie venture was the first item on the agenda. The accountants tallied the amount already plowed into the company and its two films, then added in the budgeted amounts still left till completion. The smaller film would pay for itself and recover about half of what had been invested in Leprechaun Productions. The Irish film didn’t have a prayer.
The recommendation was brutal. Finish the movie quickly with no further investments in sets, costumes, or special effects, then sell it to normal distribution channels for whatever it would fetch. Adding in video and television revenues, a studio could make money, and Padraig’s production company might escape with a $20 million loss. According to the accountants’ best projections, completing the film risked a $50 million loss. Going on with the project would make sense only if the movie took in better than $180 million.
Catherine tore into the projections, arguing that the loss would be smaller and would really be an investment in developing the new satellite-distribution business. Jennifer countered that the smaller film would give them all the information they needed about satellite distribution of movies. Peter sat in judgment until all sides of the argument were exhausted. Then his glasses came off and his fingers squeezed into the bridge of his nose.
“Personally,” he said, revealing his thinking, “I wouldn’t invest another dollar with Padraig O’Connell. As to the choices we’ve been offered, it’s really a case of making a very big bet on a long shot or a much more modest bet on a contender. The latter is a better idea.”
“Meaning?” Catherine said.
“Meaning that we complete the picture at minimal cost and try to sell it. But that we bring in a new line producer to replace Padraig. Otherwise, I have no confidence that he’ll complete the picture at any cost.”
Catherine raged. She and Padraig would never vote to replace him, so Peter might just as well forget that idea. And she wouldn’t vote for bare-bones completion. They should invest in the best picture they could make and then bet that the public would come in droves.
“That’s the long shot,” Peter said.
“And that’s the way Padraig and I are voting.”
Peter nodded. “Then my vote is that Pegasus advance no more money to Leprechaun. Which will mean scrapping the picture and swallowing the loss.”
Peter and Catherine were suddenly locked in a power play. Catherine could outvote Peter on Padraig’s role. But Peter, along with Jennifer, could kill the entire project. Which did Catherine want? The truncated movie without Padraig, or no movie at all?
She snatched up her things and stormed out of the office. None of the heads at the meeting dared to turn and look after her.
Peter thanked the accounting group and saw them to the door. Then he turned back and dropped into the chair next to Jennifer.
“Why not let Padraig finish it up?” Jennifer asked.
“Because I think he’ll go through whatever amount we give him and be back in three weeks for more.”
They were silent for a few seconds. Then Jennifer asked, “Is that the only reason? Is it just profit and loss?”
“No,” he answered without an instant’s hesitation. “I’d be lying if I said it was only dollars and cents. I hate the man because he tried to kill you. And if that wasn’t enough, he tried to have Catherine killed.”
“I don’t think he did,” Jennifer said.
Peter turned to face her. “You’re not still trying to convince yourself that your crash was an accident?”
“No, it wasn’t an accident. Someone tampered with the brakes. And the Italian police caught the guy.”
He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “The police? How do you know?”
“I had to know. Was it an accident or was someone trying to kill me? I called the police inspector in Positano every day for the first week, and then a few times a week for the next several months. He never had anything to report, so eventually I gave up. But, last week he called me. They had caught a burglar trying to blow his way into a vault. The man made a deal and turned in all his associates for a lighter sentence.”
Peter’s eyes were narrow. He didn’t understand where Jennifer was leading.
“The crook mentioned that he had cut the brakes on a car at the San Pietro Hotel. The inspector remembered me and called back to tell me that it had been no accident.”
“Which is what I’ve been saying all along,” Peter reminded her.
“Yes, but you said Padraig had hired the guy while we were traveling on the Amalfi Coast. The safecracker said that the arrangements had been made from New York.”
“So what?” Peter asked. “Padraig was here in New York with us when we raised the issue of the marital agreement. That’s when he made the arrangements.”
“Not likely,” Jennifer said. “I’ve been giving this a lot of thought. He couldn’t have told the man where the car would be while we were in New York because we didn’t know where we would be staying in Italy. How do you a hire a person to do something when you can’t tell him where or when?”
Peter thought. “Maybe you just tell him what to look for. Padraig O’Connell driving a red Ferrari shouldn’t be too difficult to spot. Then all the guy would have to do was follow the car to see where you were staying.”
“Could be, but that’s not what the safecracker told the inspector in Positano. You see, the man is actually French. And his first instructions were to get to the car in Ireland. You remember Padraig and I were in Ireland. But then we left there suddenly to come back to the States. Then, when we decided to go to Amalfi, the man was told to get to the car in Italy.”
“So what?” Peter asked. He still didn’t understand.
“Well, it was Padraig’s idea that we go to Ireland. So why would he tell someone to kill me in Ireland, then suddenly leave Ireland before the hit man got there? Isn’t it pretty obvious that whoever hired the man didn’t know about our travel plans? And, of course, the one person who certainly knew was Padraig. He was making the plans.”
Peter was once again massaging his nose. “Then who?”
Jennifer shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe someone who works for me. Or one of our competitors. Or maybe Catherine, or maybe even you. I have to tell you, Peter, you moved up the list when Padraig had a near-fatal accident the day after you arrived.”
He nodded. There was nothing wrong with Jennifer’s analysis. “Do you really believe that I would try to kill you?”
“No,” she answered instantly. “Otherwise I wouldn’t be sitting here with you now. No, I think whoever cut the brakes on the Ferrari was after Padraig. He was supposed to be the one driving the car that afternoon. My shopping trip was just a spur-of-the-moment thing. In fact, he had called the garage to tell them precisely when he would need the car. He even wanted it washed. No one could have known that I would be the first to drive it.”
“So then the attack on Catherine?”
“If there’s a connection, you’d have to look for someone who wanted to get rid of Padraig, and once Catherine joined with him, decided to get rid of her.”
“And that would be me?” Peter challenged.
“Maybe,” Jennifer answered. “As I said, Padraig’s helicopter crash makes you a prime suspect. But it could also be someone out in Hollywood who has it in for Padraig. His enemies are a cast of thousands. Or I could be the one who went after Catherine
and then Padraig. No matter who cut the brakes on the Ferrari, I would certainly have reason to get back at my dear sister and my soon-to-be ex-husband.”
“Well, you can put your mind at ease,” Peter said. “I didn’t try to kill anyone.”
Jennifer laughed. “That’s what you’d have to say. I didn’t try to kill anyone, either, but of course that’s what I would have to say. So it all gets pretty confusing. The one thing I’m sure of is that Padraig didn’t cut the brakes on the car. He didn’t try to kill me.”
“I still don’t trust him,” Peter answered.
“I know,” Jennifer said. “But in this decision I’m going to side with my sister. We’ll go for the smaller budget and then try to sell the project. But I’m not going to kick Padraig out. Not when the only thing he might be guilty of is trying to make a great movie.”
Padraig went to work immediately, not cutting his budget but trying to build a case for all the money he would need. He would cancel the reshoot of the helicopter scene immediately to show Peter and Jennifer that he had gotten the message. With more close cuts to the boy and the dog, he could make do with the footage from the other two helicopters.
But he had no intention of compromising anywhere else. Within a few days he had revised shooting schedules for the rest of his story. Then, with all the film in the can, he would go back to Peter and Jennifer with a simple choice. They could let it die or put up the additional costs for editing, sound, and the rest of the postproduction.
Catherine, who had returned to Ireland with the company’s decision, balked at his plan. “They’re not stupid,” she reminded Padraig. “Peter will see exactly what you’re doing and will cut you off at the knees. And this time Jennifer won’t bail us out. She’ll feel lied to and betrayed.”
“I told you to fire the bastard. Without him, there wouldn’t be any problem.”
“Firing Peter would change nothing. It would still leave Jennifer and me equal partners. She’d still be able to vote us out of existence just by withholding funding.”
“Well then, darlin’,” he said, patting her backside, “I suggest you get back to New York and go to work on your sister. Because she’s going to get a bill in less than thirty days, and she damn well better be ready to pay it.”
“Padraig, nothing would give Jennifer greater pleasure than to have me beg her, except the joy of turning me down afterward. Jennifer hates me.”
He rolled his eyes. “How could she hate you when you said yourself it was her vote that saved us?”
“She didn’t save us, Padraig. She saved you. She agreed with Peter about getting out and cutting losses but wouldn’t go along with firing you on the spot.”
“Ah, then she still has a soft spot for me.”
Now it was Catherine who rolled her eyes. “All she was doing was apologizing for having accused you of murder.”
“True,” he admitted. “But who does she suspect now? Our dear friend Peter?”
“Maybe, but it’s much more likely that she suspects me. So if you’re going to need more money, you’re going to need another plan.”
PART THREE
FOURTEEN
Nothing really changed as we got older. My sister and I were still bitter rivals. The only difference was that we covered it up better. We were arm in arm at openings and charity events. We leaned in close to smile at cameras. We were always pleasant in the office. Some people even commented how nice it was that sisters could be best friends. But the bottom line is that were still fighting tooth and nail. She pretended to be proud of my accomplishments, and that might have fooled a lot of people. But I knew her better.
I remember my first industry award, when Pegasus II went up. The trade magazines made me “Man of the Year.” Actually, they had to change the title to “Person of the Year.” No woman had ever won it before. It was no big deal. I was on the cover of the magazine, got interviewed on television, and then they awarded me a plaque at the annual banquet. Nice, but not like winning the Nobel Prize. I don’t remember the name of the person who won it before me, and I have no idea who won it after me. You see what I mean. It was nice, but in the long run nobody really cared.
Except for her. It galled her that they had picked me instead of her. Oh, she didn’t let on. She didn’t come right out and say that her contribution was more important than mine. But you could see it in her eyes. She was sick with jealousy. So she came up with a fantastic scheme to ruin it for me.
The night before the award banquet, my dear sister collapsed at her desk. She buzzed her secretary, said she didn’t feel well, then grabbed her stomach, let out a shriek, and did a swan dive right out of her chair. You can imagine the drama of it all. EMS people charged into the room with their equipment, gave her shots, put her on oxygen, and then wheeled her down the hallway while her whole staff stood watching. “She hasn’t been looking well,” her secretary said. Of course she hadn’t. She was green with envy.
At the banquet, she was the only one they talked about. They made a big thing of playing down the award. “How small it seems when your sister is in grave danger,” the MC said as he handed me the plaque. Then he went on to talk about what she meant to our industry. She ended up getting more praise than I did.
And do you know what it was? She had appendicitis! Everyday, run-of-the-mill appendicitis. A fifteen-minute operation. God, you don’t even have to be a doctor to perform those things.
And then came the hypocrisy. She spent the next month telling anyone who would listen how terribly she felt for ruining my big day. And of course I had to gush with concern. How could she possibly think of my award when her very life was at issue? That’s what I mean. The rivalry was as intense as ever. What was different was that we both had learned to cover it up.
Then there was the space-suit nonsense. It was a silly little thing, but it shows how vain she’s always been. Even when the good of the company was involved, she couldn’t stop thinking about herself.
The ad agency wanted to do something to make Pegasus really stand out, but how do you advertise a satellite service? You can’t photograph the damn things. They’re out in space. And you can’t show the results. If you show a kid watching television, you don’t know whether his show came from our satellite or a VCR. They were trying everything, even gluing wings on a horse. But nothing showed any promise.
Then they came up with the space sisters. They designed these space outfits made out of aluminum foil that we were supposed to wear. The sets were right out of Star Wars. A big air lock would open and the two of us would walk out. Or we’d both suddenly appear in a glass cylinder as if beamed down from space. Then we’d have this little dialogue about the wonders of space communications and assure the viewers that their traffic was safe and secure with us. Sure, it was over the top. But the agency felt it was strong brand identification, like the Marlboro Man.
Even though I felt a little embarrassed, I would have gone along with it. But not my sister. You’d have thought they wanted her to appear nude. The suit looked stupid, she said. It was too masculine. It would make her a laughingstock. No matter how many people they brought in to persuade her, she wouldn’t budge. Then one of them suggested that they use a model to play her part. The agency was trying to save the idea, but I think they only made the situation worse. They should have known there was no way she’d let me be the company spokesman without her.
She came up with all sorts of business reasons. She claimed the ads would hurt our credibility if they substituted a phony sister. She knocked the whole idea as the worst kind of gimmickry. But everyone knew the real reason. She didn’t want to look silly for even a second – that was her vanity – and she didn’t want me going ahead without her; that was her jealousy. So the whole idea, with all the creative sketches and all the media plans, had to be scrapped. I can tell you that there were a lot of agency people who gladly would have thrown her out a window. But even then I defended her. After all, she owned half the business and was entitled to her vote. I
was seething, but I never once let it show.
She covered up her feelings, too. Even when she wanted to kill me, she kept a sweet smile and a soft voice. It was like she was biding her time. I knew that her jealousy was pushing her beyond all reason. I knew that sooner or later she would explode. I should have tried to get her help, but how do you say things like that to someone?
The best example was probably the Venetian glass vase. It was a beautiful piece, about two feet tall, wide at the base and narrow at the neck, with handles on the sides like a Greek urn. While it was still being fired, the glassblower had twisted it so that it seemed to be swirling upward. The colors were extraordinary. Deep cobalt at the base spinning into purple, and then red, and the red fading into yellow. At the very top the glass was absolutely clear. You couldn’t tell where the vase ended. It seemed to vanish into thin air.
Our father had seen it during one of his European business trips and brought it back as a gift for our mother. I think he paid $2,000 for it, which was the most he ever paid for a piece of art. It was pretty, and he liked it. The fact that it had been done by Antonio Serini meant nothing to him. Serini had just gotten started, and his glass was virtually unknown.
After Mother died, Dad kept it on a table in the corner of his study. It wasn’t on display. No special lighting or anything. Only a vase on a table. I’ve already mentioned how my sister sucked up to our father. She visited him a few times a week when he was sick and kept telling him how much she liked the vase. I don’t think she ever mentioned that Serini had become world-famous and that the vase was worth a small fortune. So, one evening he picked it up and handed it to her. “Here, take it,” he told her. “You like it, so you ought to enjoy it.” Like it was an old soda bottle or something. He just handed it to her.
It didn’t become part of our father’s estate and was never even mentioned in his will. He had given it to her, so it was hers. It was a beautiful piece that we both loved. In all fairness, I should have had an equal claim. And at the time, glass by Serini was going for up to a quarter million in the galleries. So it should have been part of the estate assets. I thought it was mean-spirited of her, to say the least, and downright theft if you wanted to get technical. But as I said, I had gotten very good at keeping up pretenses, so I never said a word.
Good Sister, The Page 18