Fiona

by Gemma Whelan

  In the shower later that evening, Fiona allowed the warm water to gently lull her. Maybe the film would be the clincher and get her career back on track—and maybe it would also reactivate the muse. She had escaped from the meshes of her existence in Ireland ten years before and ensconced herself in the safety of her East Coast refuge. As she recalled her beloved nest, she reflected on how it had cradled her. She had woven her way in there and she was part of the fabric of the wood, of the walls, and the bookcases and the old oak desk, just as years back she had bound up her existence and her breathing and her thinking with the oak of the treehouse cocoon. But, as she luxuriated in the shower in the light of the West Coast evening, she thought of her chosen home and wondered if it might have also stifled her. She had now headed west, to the sun. She had put the whole mass of the United States between herself and New York. She had left the Atlantic Ocean, shared between Ireland and the East Coast, for the new and foreign Pacific. Half way round the world, she was still running headlong into her past.

  CHAPTER TEN

  REVISITINGS

  “If you bring out what is within you,

  it will save you.

  If you do not bring out what is within

  you, it will destroy you.”

  GNOSTIC GOSPELS

  The next morning, Fiona was awakened from a deep sleep by the sound of the telephone. At first she was disoriented as she looked around at the unfamiliar room. She started to recall the bits she had read from her Dad’s diary before drifting off to sleep and the sense of love and loss that pervaded them. She had a panicked thought that the underlying truth of her novel was all wrong and that she had to let Sean know so that it could be adjusted. Then she roused herself and made her way to the ringing phone, which sat on the desk in the lounge. “Hello?” She always expected bad news if the telephone rang early in the morning or late at night.

  “Fiona, is that you, Fiona?”

  She froze. How did Uncle Frank know where she was?

  “Hello?”

  “Yes, yes, I’m here, Uncle Frank . . . where are you?” She fought back the irrational thought that he was in the U.S.A.

  “I’m here at home, of course. Mr. Stanley is keeping track of your whereabouts due to his responsibility over the timing of the will, you know.”

  She began to breathe again. Tried to steady her voice.

  “You’re the first one to ring.” She knew that sounded lame. “I just got the phone connected.”

  “And you’re in Los Angeles with Declan. That’s grand, that is. Have you two talked yet?”

  “Yes, I mean, no. We haven’t come to any agreement yet. I’m out here working . . . ”

  “On the story, yes. The same one you wrote?”

  Did he think she would change it? Add more details? Shame herself by writing about such unspeakable happenings.

  “Yes, it’s the same.”

  There was a silence on the other end. Fiona wondered if she imagined that he breathed a sigh of relief. Then back to his jovial self.

  “The clock is ticking, you know. Don’t leave it too long.”

  “Well, we have ‘til the end of the summer, don’t we? We have some time.”

  “But time has a way of getting past you. And you know that you don’t have to worry. You have me on your side no matter what. You don’t have to worry.”

  Fiona felt sickened. Her violator was offering her protection twenty-seven years after the fact. She needed to get it over with. To remove him from her life forever.

  “I’ll work with Declan. And if we can’t work it out, as you said . . . ”

  “I have the tie-breaker.”

  He sounded triumphant. Fiona hated giving him the satisfaction of knowing he had the upper hand.

  “We’ll let you know.”

  “Good then. So long. I have your number now, and you know where to reach me.”

  Fiona pounced on the answering machine the second Frank hung up, and she began to lay down a message.

  Sean had scheduled a mid-morning meeting with the film producers and invited Fiona to come. She thought for a brief moment about canceling, and then decided against it. Sean had a way of breaking through her defenses without even trying. There was an ease of presence, a sense of him being there and not preoccupied, a feeling that she didn’t have to make small talk but could go directly to whatever needed to be said. And a relaxation. This last was the most refreshing for Fiona who was anything but relaxed in her own body and mind. She would have to talk to him about a possible change of direction in the script anyway.

  When Sean arrived by cab at 9:30, Fiona was still reeling from the phone call from Uncle Frank. She grabbed her bag, now heavy with his script of her story, and jumped in beside him. The driver was a woman in her mid-twenties, tall and tanned and blonde and wearing a fuchsia halter-neck t-shirt and khaki shorts. She sported a peaked cap which matched her shirt. Her long shapely legs seemed to dance suggestively as she drove. It turned out she was an actress and had figured out Sean was a director, so she was doing all she could to impress him with her acting abilities.

  Fiona felt overdressed in her long sleeves and modest cotton skirt, especially in contrast to the chauffeuse. She sank into her seat and let the driver babble away, half listening to the drone of voices as she looked out the window at the Los Angeles skyline. They were whisked away from the beach with its clusters of houses, hotels and condominiums, and soon approached the downtown area with its interwoven tapestry of freeways and an endless stream of cars. The buildings were shiny and modern and seemed the opposite of New York because of their newness. Even though New York had a multitude of new buildings, the prevailing sense was of oldness and history. To Fiona, Los Angeles seemed all about novelty, and it was typified by this perky cab driver who was seriously hustling for a job. Most of the New York cabbies were not American-born, were covered up, perpetually hassled, and gave off an aura of having been cabbies all their lives. This would-be movie star was the epitome of youth and health and freshness and seemed bound and determined to not stay a cab driver for a second longer than she could help it. As they pulled up to the studio, she extracted a head-shot and résumé from a portfolio cover on the passenger seat and handed it to Sean. He accepted gracefully as they disembarked.

  “Sorry about that.” He grinned. “Par for the course!”

  “I kind of enjoyed it.” Fiona admitted. “Part of the culture!”

  “Are you okay?” Sean looked concerned.

  Fiona thought she had managed to cover her upset. She nodded.

  “Are you sure? Ready for this?”

  She assured him she was fine.

  Fiona absorbed the impression of light, wood, glass and piles and piles of scripts as the two producers, Leonard Shaw and Les Graves, greeted them at the door. The office was spacious and filled with mid-morning Southern California sunshine. Leonard was tall, gangly and lightly tanned and spoke with a relaxed California accent. His partner was short, stocky and very pale and spoke with a heavy Boston accent. They seemed to be identically dressed in a smart casual manner, immaculate tan trousers and light blue, perfectly pressed, short-sleeved shirts. They both wore ties which admittedly were not identical. Leonard’s was a slightly deeper shade of blue than his shirt and decorated with tiny film cameras. Les’s was brown with a blue speckled pattern. They greeted Sean warmly and Fiona with a less gushing but still friendly reception.

  “Ms. Clarke, it’s a real pleasure.” Leonard shook her hand vigorously.

  “A pleasure.” Les echoed and motioned them both to sit down.

  Fiona and Sean sat on one side of a very long table filled with neat piles of documents. The two producers sat side by side opposite them. They had a copy of the screenplay that they shuffled back and forth between them. Leonard led off.

  “Ms. Clarke—may I call you, Fiona?”

  “Please.” Fiona was relieved.

  “And please address us as Leonard and Les.”

  Fiona nodded, amused by th
e formality of the invitation to informality.

  “First, I want to let you know how pleased we are that Sean here is going to helm this project.” Leonard paused and fingered the script.

  Les reached out and pulled the script towards him and added, “Based on your most interesting story.”

  “Most interesting.” Leonard nodded. And he continued. “The timing is perfect for an Irish script. There’s a resurgence of interest in all things Irish—in music . . . ”

  “U2, Celtic Music in general. In dance . . . ” Les interjected.

  “Irish dancing—it’s a phenomenon here; everyone loves it . . . ” Leonard continued.

  “Irish theatre is big on Broadway—lots of young playwrights, . . . ”

  “It’s a Renaissance . . . ” Leonard continued.

  “A Celtic Renaissance . . . ” Les added.

  “And the perfect time for a lovely script with a rural angle.” Leonard began to conclude.

  “For your script, Fiona. Sean.” Les looked at them.

  “For your script.” Leonard finished.

  Fiona experienced both déjà vu and unreality. Maybe it’s a flashback to Alice in Wonderland, she thought—this scene did have the semblance of a Mad Hatter Tea Party! She smiled her thanks for the compliments to the two men. They smiled back and continued.

  “Good. Well. Location. We need to pin that down, Sean, as soon as possible.” And he and Les together attacked one of the piles and began to lay out photos, similar to the ones Sean had shown Fiona at their first meeting. Green rolling hills, flat lush landscapes, perfectly manicured farmyards. Fiona glanced at Sean, but, before he could speak, Leonard launched into an enthusiastic appraisal of the proposed locations.

  “These are all available to us. Our scouts have sussed them out and several of them could work, in our opinion.”

  “These ones here,” chimed in Les, “of Montana, are perhaps the most perfect, don’t you think?” But he didn’t look up to see if they did.

  “The lush greenness, lots of rain.” Leonard pointed out.

  “Almost forty shades, don’t you think?” he remarked, again, without checking.

  “Just look at those hills, adorable, picture perfect.” And then as if on cue, they both swiveled the photos around so that Sean and Fiona could see them better. Fiona wondered if they actually rehearsed these speeches, or were they just so in tune that they knew when the other was finished? She politely glanced at the photos and waited for Sean to speak.

  “I had a discussion with Fiona earlier in the week,” Sean began, “and she had a question regarding authenticity.” You could hear a pin drop. Sean continued. “She felt, and still does,” he looked at her for assurance, “that these don’t convey the gritty sense of Irish country life, especially rural life, in the 1960’s and 1970’s. That they are missing—reality.” Again he checked with Fiona. She nodded agreement.

  Les and Leonard had recovered from their shock and found their voices again.

  “But,” as always Leonard led off, “are we talking location here or cinematography? You know that light is magic Sean. With a good D.P., Director of Photography,” he added for Fiona’s benefit, “with a good D.P . . . ”

  “And Ryan is the best . . . ” added Les.

  “The very best . . . ” agreed Leonard.

  “With a good, knowledgeable D.P. like Ryan, you can achieve whatever look you want. He can give you authenticity.”

  “But . . . ” Fiona summoned up the courage. “Is there really any substitute for the real thing? The actual place, the soil, the light, the colors? I wonder if you can really capture that, no matter how skilled the crew is.”

  “Of course you can, of course you can.” Leonard again. “That’s our business; it’s what we do. We deal in illusion, but we convince you it’s real.”

  “And these pictures,” Les indicated them, “these pictures are perfect.” He placed his palm on one of them and continued emphatically. “This is Ireland. I’m from Boston, for God’s sake. I know Irish when I see it.”

  Fiona swallowed. She didn’t dare make eye contact with Sean. She was afraid she might either laugh or cry. Leonard went on.

  “We have to remember our audience here, Sean, Fiona. With all due respect, most of them won’t be able to tell Montana from County Kerry or Cork or whatever.”

  “But surely,” Fiona continued, “surely, you don’t want to feed them images that make them think Montana is the same as Cork or Kerry or any Irish county. Sean told me that he gets a lot of his information about places like Ireland from books and films. If you keep shooting Irish films in Montana or a place where the landscape vaguely resembles Ireland, then they really won’t be able to tell the difference—but can you want that? For it to be fake? For people to never see the authentic landscape? For it to become this generalized lovely green pasture like every other green countryside place? I know I’m not a filmmaker and don’t know the ins and outs of creating mood and texture and the feel of a place with light and angles and so on, but I think there’s no substitute for being in the actual place itself, if you’re trying to capture the quiddity, the real nature of a thing, it’s essence.”

  There was a long pause. No one spoke. Les and Leonard had their eyes fixed on her, but she had no notion what they were thinking. Sean was still and present. It was too late to retreat so she pushed to the finish. “I know it’s a lot more money, maybe it’s not in the budget, but I believe that this film will be stronger and richer and more believable if you shoot it in Ireland.”

  The team of two unlocked their eyes at the same time and then re-focused them on Sean.

  Leonard spoke. “Are you in agreement with this, Sean? You said you discussed it.”

  “Yes, I am. Fiona has convinced me. Maybe we could work out some economical ways to get the footage. The exterior scenes at least.”

  “Hmm,” Leonard demurred and looked longingly at the photographs. Les echoed his “hmm” and he, too, glanced sadly at the photos, as if trying to understand how they could lack the essence of Ireland.

  “This wasn’t budgeted for, as you said, Sean. This is not a big budget film, as you know I’m sure, Fiona. There aren’t any car chases or explosions, so we’re not appealing to a mass audience here. We can’t expect a big return. We’d have to think it over.”

  “Talk it over. Check with our backers.” Les added.

  “But we can’t promise. It’s a bit of a surprise, frankly. It may not happen—so don’t get your hopes up. Either way . . . ”

  “Either way, we’re sure we can produce a fine film.” Les concluded. He looked at Leonard, and they nodded as if to agree that this topic had been dealt with.

  The meeting continued on as the men discussed details of the crew, logistics and time lines. Fiona let herself sit back and listen to the timbre of the voices: Leonard’s elongated vowels and flowing sentences, Les’s more syncopated rhythm and harsher sounds uttered in shorter phrases, Sean’s cool and assured but slightly urgent speech. The sun rose in the sky, the shadows shifted in their lazy progress across the room, and Fiona basked in its luminosity. As she drifted in and out of awareness of the conversations around her she reflected on her passionate call for a film that reflected reality. She had surprised herself and experienced a tug-of-war between aspects of herself, her desire to alternately conceal and reveal. She also had no desire to go back to Ireland herself but was advocating strongly for authenticity. Her drive towards the truth was asserting itself through this story.

  Sean touched her shoulder. The meeting was over. Les and Leonard shook hands and thanked them, and she and Sean left the sunny air-conditioned room and emerged into the mid-afternoon heat.

  “Are you okay?” Sean asked.

  She nodded. “Yes. I’m fine. Maybe a bit overwhelmed.”

  Sean proposed a bike ride.

  “I hope I remember how!” Fiona joked. “I haven’t been on a bike since I was about seventeen.”

  She realized that it would be good
to get some exercise and that she wouldn’t need to talk unless she wanted to. It was Sean’s way of letting her have room to breathe and to think.

  They rented bikes and went cycling on a bicycle path along the beach front from Santa Monica to the Marina del Rey. Along the way, they passed joggers and walkers and skaters and other cyclists. Fiona and Sean rode at a leisurely pace. It was a glorious morning, and, though initially a wee bit shaky, Fiona quickly regained her poise. She revelled in the sheer physical pleasure of pedaling and sailing along. They rode in tandem for a while, and then Sean pulled up beside her.

  “I think the meeting went very well. I’m pleased overall with the progress we made.”

  Fiona nearly swerved into him. “Really? You considered that progress? I thought it was disastrous!”

  “But we did make progress,” he insisted. “Although the idea of shooting in Ireland was a bit of a shock!”

  Fiona put on a fake authoritative voice and her version of a West Coast accent as she mimicked Leonard Shaw. “We have to remember our audience here, Sean.” She began with a slight shake of the head. “Most of them won’t be able to tell Montana from County Kerry or Cork or wherever!”

  Sean got into the spirit and played along, imitating Les Graves in a passable Boston accent. “I mean, these pictures are perfect. This is Ireland. I’m from Boston, I know Irish when I see it!”

  Both Sean and Fiona nearly toppled off the bikes, they were laughing so hard, but they steadied themselves and rode along slowly, enjoying the bit of fun. Fiona was getting in her stride.

  “Is it that hard to at least shoot exteriors in Ireland?” It just dawned on her that she might have inadvertently jeopardized the film by inserting this new request. “There is so much farmland, I imagine lots of people would give permission to shoot.”

  “Les and Leonard will look into it. They must have some contacts. It’s probably mostly a budget issue, and it may involve some union issues, too, with crew.”