Sex & Genius

by Conrad Williams

  'I've been in love!'

  'You'd be superb,' said Frances.

  Hilldyard was expressionless.

  'I understand your book, thank you very much.' She was galvanised now, revved up to maximum. 'I understand Anna's feelings. She feels love. But she's not going to be a man's salvation in some dated way. And no man is going to be hers. She'll experience love and life on her own terms and what is so compelling is the separateness of those realities.' She hesitated, seeing Hilldyard cup his forehead and look away. 'And Shane—' She was proving herself now, driving home what she knew, what she was worth. 'Shane understands Josh's character. Oh yes. The pathos of missing out on the great love, the person who makes you into yourself. Love is exactly what we understand this book to be about. And at a time when the identity of the sexes is changing, and the whole assumption of enduring relationships seems challenged by everything going on around us, your novel is like an experiment with the condition of love in modern times. There's no reassurance, no happy ending, no boy-gets-girl structure, and if that's a reflection of a modern reality, then the only way we can ever get something that subtle and true on the screen is to tell them, ''James Hilldyard wrote this. Don't mess with it. It's the world we live in.'' That's what Shane wants to do. Make something unique. Something that you've given us.' She grappled with her napkin. 'And I admire him for it. I think it could be an overwhelming film.' She looked sideways, something vital discharged. She had said what she wanted to say and her expression now was of a nature opened out, fully evoked, glowing with adrenalin. She had done justice to herself, whatever the consequences. She had not surrendered.

  Hilldyard was crumped down, mouth behind hand, eyes veiled, as if Adela had been addressing someone else. What she said had not revived him. He was deflated by the energy and sincerity of her speech.

  Michael was demoralised by the sense of having no grip or purchase on the flow of things. He looked on as Hilldyard drew himself up from the chair, bringing his elbows and the whole forward weight of his authority on to the table, as if in a final settlement of the matter. He gazed heavily at Adela.

  'I acknowledge your enthusiasm.' The voice was colourless. 'I credit you and Shane Hammond with the best intentions. I am prepared to concede that something of the book might translate if your aspirations were magically converted to celluloid.' He coughed lightly, drily. 'But I know about films, Adela. Yes, I do. A few years ago a book of mine was murdered. Mutilated. By very good people. Talented people. And I learned then that between the initial ''passion'' ' ± he spoke the word distinctly, deliberately – 'and the final cut come a sharp-suited throng of execs and marketing ghouls and other busybodies whose job it is to make money for the money by planing off every nob and barnacle of originality until the film is a synthetic unit of product fit for consumption by some normative cinema-goer, some bland, average, plastic non-person they call their audience.' He splayed his palm on the table, pressing the point down. 'Your best intentions are worth nothing to me.'

  'We've more than best intentions,' she said tumultuously. 'We have Shane Hammond, who has good taste and incredible leverage.'

  'An overpaid actor.'

  'Who can get the best scriptwriters and directors,' she pleaded. 'Who has script approval on every movie he does. Whose judgement is so good people trust him implicitly.'

  'How can I rely on the taste of a man I've never met who owes me nothing?'

  Adela hesitated. She was astonished by Hilldyard. He seemed to offer no good faith, no trust in others. His scepticism was unmannerly.

  She glanced at Michael, then back at Hilldyard. 'You want insurance?'

  'Insurance! I want to burn the blasted book.'

  She blinked. 'Option the rights to Michael. Let him produce the film.'

  'Michael!'

  Michael felt blood rushing to his face as if he had been in some way compromised.

  Hilldyard showed the horror of total astonishment.

  'Michael's a producer,' she said quickly. 'He'd be perfect.'

  'Adela . . .' Michael sat up. He was completely unprepared.

  'Michael?' Hilldyard's expression demanded an immediate denial.

  'And he knows your writing backwards. He's the best person in the world to develop the film. It strikes me as obvious.'

  Hilldyard was scrutinising his reaction, as though Michael were involved in a pact. 'Is this your idea?'

  She kicked him under the table.

  'You want to adapt my book? You want to go to Hollywood?'

  'I'm sure he does. This could be Michael's big break.'

  Michael laughed, blushing again. 'I've never even considered it.'

  'Consider it now,' she said.

  'You don't seriously believe in adapting my work for the screen?'

  Michael could not catch up with himself except to realise that Adela's nerve was incredible.

  'I haven't thought about it.'

  'D'you need to think about it?'

  They stared at each other in a crisis of misunderstanding.

  'I wouldn't contemplate anything without your approval.'

  'D'you want me to approve? Is that what this is all about?'

  Hilldyard had made a false connection.

  'I don't . . . It's not about anything.'

  'Isn't it?' He nodded at the actress.

  'Michael loves the book. He's a distinguished producer. And if somebody wants to finance a film with top casting he's the best man for the job.'

  'Let him speak for himself, please.'

  He was being tested on a question of principle, a test he had not invited, had no preparation for.

  'Michael would be terrific,' she said.

  It was almost as though Hilldyard had caught on faster, seen into the possibilities for him, was already abreast of his feelings and wanted to ward him off.

  'You wouldn't consider it?'

  'It's not a taboo,' said Adela.

  Hilldyard's eyes glimmered with resolution, the desire to influence, to counteract.

  Michael scratched his head, felt Adela all over his face, latched to him. 'I'd do whatever's in your best interests.'

  'Don't equivocate.'

  He would not undermine her completely. He had his own stance. 'A good film could sell millions of copies.'

  'Of a book I don't want to publish!'

  'Well . . .'

  'This your recommendation? You, of all people?'

  'James, please. I . . .'

  'Ganging up with that lot?'

  He was mortified. It was like a slap on the face.

  'I'm trying to see it from every angle.'

  'See it from the angle of taste and say no.'

  He had lapsed unforgivably, had shown doubt when he should have been certain.

  'Then, no.'

  'Taste,' said Frances, 'has nothing to do with it.'

  'I entirely respect your feelings. You know I do.'

  'What about morals, James?'

  A look passed between author and niece. Hilldyard's expression was electrically serious. Frances had said enough and he wanted her to shut up.

  'Our great novelist is a coward who can't bear to think the world will find him out.'

  He was opaque, expressionless.

  'But people will find out. Sooner or later. You can't escape from your own life.'

  'Be quiet!'

  Frances smiled across the table.

  'I'm not interested in producing this film,' said Michael. He looked at Adela.

  'The trouble with James is that he wants everyone to believe in the moral superiority of the novelist.'

  'Nonsense!'

  'But it's a little difficult to be this exalted, elevated figure' – Frances addressed the others, eyes bright with mockery – 'when your private life's a scandal. That's the only reason you won't publish. You're worried about your reputation. You are a fraud, James.'

  The blow of her rudeness left a hiatus of shock.

  Frances caught Michael's eye as though she were inspired
. 'All your aesthetic ideals would sound a bit hollow if people knew what you'd been up to.'

  'I've never set myself up as . . .'

  'Quickly! Publish before the newspapers find out. Then at least you won't be accused of hypocrisy.'

  Hilldyard gave her a glinting, sidelong look. He had lost all authority.

  'Somebody'll blag. You'll be written up as a Graham Greene sex-fiend.'

  His cheeks reddened. He was lost for words.

  'It's worth good money,' she said, puffing on a cigarette, her sharp elbows on the arms of the chair.

  Hilldyard was silently appalled, and averted his eyes from any contact with Michael's or Adela's as the first course arrived on the arms of two waiters, and suddenly bread-baskets were swapped, wine bottles exchanged and a conjuring of arms brought seafood and salami, and the embracing warmth of Italian service, all eyelashes and teeth and quick glances at the voluptuous miracle of Adela, sitting with swirling hair and ripe bosom before her place-mat.

  'Go and make the film, Michael.' Hilldyard bumped the table with the edge of his fist.

  Michael's hairline retracted.

  The author turned on him, confronted him across the table, his energy repossessed.

  'If that's what you really want.'

  He did not understand, could not grasp it.

  Adela seized his arm. She was stiff with excitement.

  Hilldyard had not defended himself. He had collapsed prematurely.

  'I didn't say I wanted it!'

  'It's yours for the taking.'

  Frances's eyes glimmered victoriously. She clutched her cigarette in the steepled fingers of both hands, a spasm of self-applause.

  'I wouldn't go against your wishes.'

  'Forget my wishes.'

  Adela squeezed his arm, holding him in place.

  'Think about it, James.'

  'It's your turn to think.'

  'Sleep on it!'

  'You sleep on it! You're taking my life in your hands.'

  'Let's order champagne,' said Adela. 'I've got an Amex.'

  Michael held the author's eye and felt the transmission of something cold, as though, suddenly, they were strangers.

  Chapter Eleven

  'Well . . . ?'

  She was inflamed, radiant; her eyes glittered excitedly.

  They had been walking, it seemed, to her hotel, but had drifted through the piazza with its taxi rank and cambio sign and lamplit streams of bougainvillaea to the Via dei Mulini, which took them down to the bottom of town, to its basement of steps and narrow passages and the harsh brightness of shops, restlessly open.

  He had managed the odd tight remark, holding himself in until he knew what to say. Adela walked ahead with all the pride of a woman in a beautiful dress, alive to the fragrance of night and the special romance of a Riviera town.

  'Well!' She turned to face him. A flight of steps ran down to the restaurants on the front: Chez Black's, Da Peppino, Tre Sorelle. 'Fancy a drink?' She let down her hair, shaking it loose on her shoulders.

  'Adela!' It was almost a shout.

  She was startled.

  'You had no right!'

  Adela frowned at the harsh loudness of his voice.

  'What were you doing?' he said.

  She was shot up, panicked by his anger. 'I thought you'd be pleased!'

  He was possessed by an almost uncontrollable indignation. 'Pleased!'

  'I'm sorry!'

  'Adela!'

  She had come between them, he realised.

  'You never even consulted me!'

  'It was only a suggestion.'

  'Only a suggestion! Only a suggestion! Are you really that desperate?'

  Her pleading expression clouded and she turned away from him suddenly.

  'Yes, probably.'

  'Oh God!'

  Hilldyard had gone quiet for the rest of the meal. Afterwards they had shaken hands, but without warmth. The author had turned away with old man's eyes.

  It had never occurred to him that Hilldyard might be Adela's victim, rather than she his. And what maddened him was that he had sided with her, or seemed to. Something had prompted him to support her side of the argument, to strike an independent note for the sake of debate – a terrible mistake.

  'What a bloody mess!'

  She caught his sleeve, made him look at her. She was abruptly determined. 'This bloody mess could be your big chance.'

  He could smell her perfume, her make-up.

  'This could be so good for you.' She held him, shaking the point in.

  'How would you know what's good for me?'

  'Let's find out. Let's talk about it.'

  She was suddenly vulnerable in her low-cut dress, out here in the cool and the darkness, her skin exposed to the night.

  'There's nothing to talk about.'

  She tugged his arm. 'Come for a drink!'

  'I don't want a drink!'

  'Walk with me!'

  She squeezed hard, a pleading pressure. She brushed hair off her face so he could see her properly, the eyes looking up at him, the raised chin. She was almost courageous, standing firm and braving his anger head on; though in her look of determination he saw something frightening. Only he stood between Adela and the film.

  'Can we talk about it, please?' she said.

  'Forget it.'

  'Just walk with me.'

  She took his hand and pulled him in the direction of the steps.

  He followed reluctantly down the steps and along the concourse to the edge of the beach and the fairy-lit pines. The night gathered over them, taking off into limitless black from the line of restaurants on the front. The sea continued its lull of white noise, a subdued roar and crash that mingled with the voice of a singer in Chez Black's.

  They walked past fishing boats and harbour lanterns and found themselves rising on a ramp that led away from the beach to the cliffside walkway. The sea spread its docile murk below. Trees braced the path. Night came down to snaffle the weak bloom of an iron lamp, and soon they were walking through a tangy, moist darkness, behind coastal turrets and wind-worn pines.

  Adela stopped to sit on a parapet, inclining her ear to the sound of the sea. Her arms were luminous. She hummed a tune caught from Chez Black's.

  He stood back from the ledge, keeping a distance. He was unsure of her now. Adela had changed.

  'You know . . .' She faced him in the darkness. 'I really want to get in that water.'

  He shook his head.

  'We could swim out and see the lights.'

  'It's October,' he said tightly.

  'Skinny-dip.'

  She went on ahead and he followed her reluctantly into the darkness of crowding trees.

  They crossed a creaking bridge and went past the restaurant on stilts, a wooden structure, exposed to the heavens, deserted. Soon they were on jingling pebbles, treading across the long crescent of the beach. The waves broke on the ledge of wet stones, making all their daytime sounds, but seeming ominous now, as if the water at night were something alive, restlessly active under the cover of darkness. He had no idea where they were going, except away from the lights and the restaurants.

  She dropped down on to the shingle, arms bracing legs, moonlight touching her brow. 'Are you going to talk to me?'

  He stood with his hands in his pockets, gazing into gloom. He was still angry, but his anger took a different tack – contempt for her naivety, her childlike optimism.

  'OK, great. So what happens when the film is crap?'

  'The film will be wonderful.'

  Hilldyard would never forgive him, he thought.

  'It'll be your creation. Your movie.'

  He laughed harshly. 'Adela. I've never made a film.'

  'Believe in yourself, Michael.'

  He did not believe in himself remotely, but that had nothing to do with it.

  'How on earth could a first-time film producer hold out against people like Shane Hammond and Frank Coburn and all those Hollywood shysters? I could
n't promise James anything. It would be a double betrayal. Producing the film at all and then losing control of it.'

  She was calm. Her voice was placatory. 'Shane needs you.'

  'Oh, please! Shane Hammond doesn't need me. No movie star needs Michael Lear! Don't be ridiculous.'

  'Nobody else can get the rights. Only you.'

  She turned, and although her face was shadowy in the dark, he could feel the intentness of her regard. A notion was growing inside her.

  'You're in a strong position.'

  Michael said nothing. He could hear her breathing deepen.

  'Michael! You're in a position of incredible leverage.'

  The echo of Nick Adamson. At first he did not follow her line of thought. He kicked back in reflex.

  'I don't want incredible leverage.'

  'Michael! Concentrate!'

  He stared at her, his heart racing.

  She was realising the logic of her own suggestion, catching up with Adamson's assessment, lapping it.

  'Shane will be eternally indebted to you. You can dictate your terms.'

  'Oh, money . . .'

  'Creatively! This could be your film.'

  He laughed again, this time warmly. Adela was losing the plot. The idea was degenerating into farce.

  'Hey, movie stars don't really dig ultimatums.'

  She cocked her head – special insight. 'He doesn't have the choice.'

  'What!'

  'If he wants the film.'

  'He'll run a mile if I . . .'

  'You're not going to betray Hilldyard. That's a given. Shane's only chance is to get the book on your terms. He'll accept because he'll understand you won't compromise. Your position's non-negotiable.'

  He stood on the pebbles, tensely poised, the sea wind in his face.

  'Michael, I know actors.'

  Her voice was gently insistent. She believed what she was saying.

  'Shane's . . . quite isolated.'

  He sat down on his own patch of pebbles, put his hands on his knees.

  Her hair was being lifted by the breeze into a flickering taper. Moonlight caught the edge of the arm she was leaning on, the planes of her cheek and forehead. She was sculptural in profile, shoulders contoured in light and shade.

  'And he's pragmatic,' she said firmly.

  Her insight arrested him. She saw more deeply into the situation. He wondered for an instant whether she had pushed him by chance or cunning into the centre of her plans. She was perceptive and quick and may have followed the logic of the situation intuitively.