The Making of Minty Malone

by Isabel Wolff

  ‘Do you come here a lot?’ I asked him.

  ‘Most days. I’m rewriting my re-writes.’

  ‘Well, if you do see Joe Bridges, please would you give him a message? Would you tell him that Minty’s staying at the Four Seasons.’

  ‘Sure: Mindy’s at the Four Seasons.’

  ‘No, Minty’.

  ‘That’s what I said: Mindy. But if you’re staying at the Four Seasons you should ask people there – in the bar. Just go right up to them and ask. It’s a small town. Everybody knows everybody. It’s like, complete Rumoursville here,’ he went on. ‘It’s Chinese Whispers. People gossip constantly. So if you get chatting, I’m sure someone will have met him. Or you might even see him walk in.’

  So that evening, when we got back to the hotel, we changed into our smartest gear. I’d put on a cocktail dress, and Amber was wearing a linen trouser suit. And I was just applying a bit of make-up in the bathroom, because obviously I wanted to look my best when I saw Joe again, when I glanced at my watch and saw that it was eight p.m., which was really four in the morning for us.

  ‘You know, we’re lucky the jet-lag hasn’t hit us too badly,’ I called out as I put on some mascara. ‘I mean, to us, it’s really the middle of the night, isn’t it? But I think we’re coping pretty well, aren’t we, Amber? …Amber? …Why don’t you say something?’

  I stuck my head round the door. She was lying face-down on her bed, asleep. And I felt exhausted too. A wave of fatigue knocked me down like a brick to the head. Joe would just have to wait, I thought wearily, as I put on my pyjamas. Never mind, I said to myself philosophically. Tomorrow is another day.

  ‘Go-od morning, you’re listening to KCRW public radio, it’s Friday the seventh of May, it’s six a.m., and it’s another LA day. The sun is ju-st coming up and smog levels are going to be good …’ I got out of bed, opened the balcony doors and stood there watching the sky turn from russet pink to pale turquoise to a searing Yves Klein blue. Then I heard Amber stir and we went down to the open-air fitness centre on the fourth floor. We lapped the pool for half an hour, then sat in a cabana sipping coffee.

  ‘Nice, isn’t it?’ said Amber as a hummingbird hovered by an adjacent orange tree.

  ‘It’s lovely,’ I said. And then I glanced into the gym, which was already in use despite the early hour. We could hear the whir and bleep of the machines.

  ‘Sporty Spice!’ I whispered in the hushed, reverential tones David Attenborough uses when he’s just spotted some rare species of tropical bat.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Sporty Spice – there, in the gym.’

  ‘My God!’ breathed Amber. ‘So it is. She’s up early.’

  ‘So are we. And isn’t that …no, it can’t be …but it does look like …?’

  ‘Who?’ said Amber, squinting.

  ‘Seinfeld!’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Yes. There – on the far jogging machine.’

  Amber’s eyes narrowed to slits.

  ‘So it is. Gosh! I dare you to go and talk to him.’

  ‘Talk to him?’

  ‘Yes, I dare you. To ask his advice.’

  ‘You dare me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘OK then, I will.’

  ‘Go on, then.’

  ‘I’m going to.’

  ‘I’m watching.’

  ‘I’m going to go right up to Jerry Seinfeld and talk to him about Joe.’

  ‘Let’s see you.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Off you go, Minty.’

  My stomach was churning like a cement mixer and my legs seemed to have turned to marshmallow.

  ‘Any day now,’ I said.

  ‘Go on. But wait till he comes off the running machine.’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘Don’t want to annoy the guy.’

  ‘No.’

  Five minutes later Seinfeld’s jogging machine slowed, and stopped, then he stepped off.

  ‘Right,’ I said, breathing deeply. ‘Here I go.’ I straightened my hair, wrapped my bathrobe around me, and went right up to Jerry Seinfeld. I did it. At first he looked taken aback, so I said, ‘Mr Seinfeld, I really don’t want your autograph, but do you mind if I just ask you something?’

  ‘Er …sure,’ he said uncertainly, still clearly not convinced that I was neither deranged nor a stalker. So I explained. And this time I got my spiel down a bit shorter, because obviously I didn’t want to take up too much of the guy’s time and irritate him. And now he no longer looked alarmed; he looked interested and was politely nodding his head.

  ‘Well, that sounds like a great script,’ he said.

  ‘Oh yes, it is,’ I replied. ‘It’s absolutely brilliant. But I’m just wondering where I might find Joe, because I’ve only got four days left and I haven’t a clue where he is.’

  ‘Well, you’ve got to go to the places where the movie people go,’ he said. ‘I’d try the Polo Lounge at the Beverly Hills Hotel, a lot of film people go there. And there are plenty of other places too, like the Sky Bar and the Ivy. What was his name again?’

  ‘Joe Bridges.’

  ‘And he’s British?’

  ‘Yes. Anyway, thanks very much for your help,’ I said. And then I rejoined Amber by the pool.

  ‘I just talked to Jerry Seinfeld,’ I said wonderingly.

  ‘I told you there’s nothing to be scared of,’ said Amber.

  ‘Absolutely,’ I said. ‘I couldn’t agree more.’ Though my right hand was shaking as I picked up my cup of coffee.

  When we got back to the room. Amber booked a table for lunch at the Polo Lounge and then I got out the business phone book, looked up some of the other agencies, and made some more calls about Joe. By this time I was getting really good at the spiel – in fact, in a funny sort of way, it was almost as though I was doing the pitch myself: ‘English writer/Joe Bridges/brilliant script/Poland/little boy/dog/autism/snow/Joe Bridges/Minty Malone/Four Seasons.’ I reckon each call took less than four minutes, and I must have made over thirty. And no, none of them had heard of him, but they all said they’d ring me back if he got in touch.

  ‘At least you’re covering a lot of ground,’ said Amber, as we headed off to the Polo Lounge at twelve thirty. ‘No stone unturned, and all that. Do you know I’m really enjoying this,’ she added, as we made our way through the opulent backwaters of Beverly Hills. She’d bought a map – Movie Stars’ Homes – which she consulted as we drove along.

  ‘Now, that house there – that long, low, white one with the pillars – that’s Julia Roberts’,’ she said knowledgeably. ‘And that one with the huge Star of David over the door – that belongs to Shirley Maclaine. Now, the big one with the tall gates,’ she said, taking her right hand off the steering wheel to point it out, ‘that’s Phil Collins’ place. And number 927 – where’s number 927? – oh yes, there it is! – That belongs to Robert Redford.’

  ‘You should do this for a living,’ I said.

  Five minutes later we drew up outside the Beverly Hills Hotel, a vast pink plaster palace set in several acres of garden. Amber handed the car keys to the doorman for valet parking, then we walked up the long red carpet, under a green-striped awning into the plushy pink and green interior.

  ‘This place belongs to the Sultan of Brunei,’ she said, as we checked our appearance in the lavishly appointed loos. ‘According to the guide book it cost 180 million dollars to restore.’ She turned on a gold-plated tap. ‘Apparently, Elizabeth Taylor spent five of her honeymoons here.’

  ‘Well, I spent my honeymoon at the George V!’ I exclaimed with a boastful smile. And I realised, then, in that instant, how far I’d come in ten months. Not only had I got over Dominic and fallen in love with Joe, I was actually able to make a crack about my dreadful, ruined wedding. I suddenly felt like a veteran of some futile, distant war.

  ‘Have you got the mobile phone?’ Amber enquired as we walked along the thickly carpeted corridor towards the restaurant. I nodded. A tiny cellphone was
provided by the Four Seasons as an extension to the phone in our room. I looked at it and just prayed that Joe would get one of my many messages and call.

  We sat outside on the terrace, where crisp white cloths flapped stiffly in the dry Californian breeze, and pink bougainvillaea trailed delicately along whitewashed walls like a feather boa on pale shoulders. Beautifully dressed women kissed the air and clutched little bags proclaiming ‘Tiffany’ and ‘Giorgio’. Jewels winked slyly at wrist and throat and sparkled on perfectly manicured hands.

  ‘Wonderful World,’ I said, dreamily.

  ‘Yes. But I think it would probably pall after a while.’

  ‘No, the pianist. He’s playing “Wonderful World”.’

  ‘Is he? Oh yes. So he is. This is where all the movie-execs power lunch,’ Amber explained as she put on her shades. ‘Imagine all those multi-million dollar deals being sealed over eggs Benedict.’

  But I was simply trying to imagine whether or not I’d ever get to speak to Joe again. And what would it be like, when I did? Would we be ecstatically reunited like Jimmy Stewart and Deanna Carroll in It’s a Wonderful Life!? Or would we bid each other farewell forever, on some misty airstrip, like Bogart and Bergman in Casablanca? After the way I’d shouted at him, it was more likely that he’d take one look at me and say, ‘Frankly, my dear …’

  ‘You must find him quickly,’ said Amber, as she snapped a breadstick in half. ‘Otherwise some other woman will snaffle him. Straight men are at a premium here,’ she announced confidently, ‘because, of course, most of the men are gay.’

  ‘Are they?’

  ‘Or ambisextrous.’

  ‘I think you’re thinking of San Francisco. I say, hasn’t Melanie Griffiths lost weight?’

  Amber glanced casually at the blonde woman three tables to our left. ‘Mmm – suits her. Though I don’t think she should lose any more.’

  ‘I agree. Should we tell her?’

  ‘I leave it to you.’

  Suddenly my handbag began to warble. I grabbed the mobile phone and flipped it open.

  ‘Yes?’ I said, my heart pounding.

  ‘Is that Minnie?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘This is Cathy from CAA – we spoke yesterday. I’m just calling to say that I have a contact for Joe Bridges.’

  ‘You do? That’s fantastic!’ I exclaimed. My heart was pounding as I groped in my bag for a pen.

  ‘He’s staying at the Chateau Marmont Hotel. Let me give you the number, it’s 213 626 1010.’

  ‘Oh, thank you,’ I said again. Then I went into the corridor and dialled the hotel.

  ‘Please can I speak to Joe Bridges?’ I said. My pulse was racing. My palms felt slightly damp. There were butterflies tap-dancing on my heart. I was about to speak to Joe! He’d be so surprised. In fact, he’d be astonished, but hopefully he’d be quite happy too and he’d –

  ‘I’m sorry, ma’am, but Mr Bridges checked out six days ago.’

  ‘Oh.’ My heart sagged, like a sinking soufflé. ‘Did he leave a forwarding address?’ I asked.

  ‘No, ma’am. He stayed here ten days, and then he left. I’m sorry, ma’am, but that’s all the information I have.’

  ‘Oh. Well, thanks.’ I snapped the phone shut, then returned to the terrace.

  ‘He was staying at the Chateau Marmont,’ I said as I sat down. ‘But now he’s checked out, without leaving a forwarding address.’

  ‘He’s probably found a flat,’ Amber said.

  ‘If only I knew where.’

  ‘The Chateau Marmont has a bar. We could go there tonight and ask. He might have got talking to someone and told them where he was going.’

  ‘Maybe,’ I said.

  ‘I mean, we don’t know where he is right now,’ she said as our hors d’oeuvres arrived. ‘But at least we know where he’s been. It’s a kind of start, Minty.’

  This was true. So at six o’clock we pulled up in the parking lot opposite the Hollywood Hounds Poodle Parlour – ‘The Ultimate in Canine Coiffure’ – and entered the Chateau Marmont Hotel. It was like something out of the Munsters. The Gothic interior was dim to the point of darkness. The walls were a deep, oxblood red. Heavily fringed lampshades hung from the ceiling. I half expected to find a seance in progress. But the atmosphere was lively despite the Stygian gloom.

  ‘Gloria Swanson used to stay here,’ said Amber, reading from the guide book as we sat at the long mirrored bar. ‘And Errol Flynn. And Boris Karloff. Apparently, it’s haunted.’

  For me, it was haunted only by Joe. He’d probably sat at this very bar, on the very stool I was sitting on right now. But where on earth was he?

  ‘Excuse me,’ I said to one of the cocktail waitresses, ‘I’m looking for a friend of mine. He was staying here, but he checked out six days ago. He’s English and his name’s Joe.’

  ‘Joe …’ she said. ‘Joe from London?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Joe from London. And he’s a scriptwriter and he’s written a film set in Poland about a boy and a dog.’

  ‘I do remember him,’ she said, as she mixed me a Martini with a lightning flick of the wrist. ‘He was in here a few times. Mid thirties. Kinda cute.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Do you know where he’s gone?’

  ‘No. I’ve been off mosta the past week. Auditions,’ she confided. ‘Hyundai. But Leo might know.’

  ‘Leo?’

  ‘Yeah. I think I saw him talking to Leo.’

  ‘Leo who?’

  She gave me a puzzled look. ‘DiCaprio, of course.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Leo comes here quite a bit. He’ll probably be in later tonight. Shall I ask him for you?’

  ‘It’s OK,’ I said, ‘I’ll ask him myself.’

  And so we sat there sipping our drinks for another hour, and then the waitress gave us the nod.

  ‘He’s just arrived,’ she said. I looked, and there was Leonardo DiCaprio. And now he was coming up to the bar. So I quickly introduced myself, offered him a drink – which he politely declined – then asked him if he’d met Joe.

  ‘Joe Bridges,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Well, I was talking to an English guy called Joe a few nights ago. He’d written a film set in Eastern Europe or somewhere like that …’

  ‘Yes, that’s him. The film’s set in Poland.’

  ‘Snowy.’

  ‘Yes, very. And doggy. It’s about an autistic boy and a stray dog. Imagine Rain Man and Hope and Glory meets Snow Falling on Cedars and Lassie.’

  ‘Hey, that sounds pretty neat,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, it is, it’s brilliant. You see, I’m a friend of Joe’s and I’m trying to track him down.’

  ‘Well, I think I heard him say he was having talks with Ron Pollack,’ said Leo.

  ‘Who’s Ron Pollack?’

  ‘He’s a big producer. His production company fields projects to Columbia.’

  ‘Where does he work?’

  ‘On the Sony lot. He’s in the phone book, it’s called Lone Star,’ he said helpfully.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, thrilled with this new lead. ‘I’ll call him tomorrow.’

  ‘He won’t be there,’ he said. ‘It’s Saturday.’ Oh. Of course. I’d forgotten. But then my jet-lagged mind didn’t know what day of the week it was. I wouldn’t be able to do anything until Monday. I’d effectively have to waste two days out of my precious five.

  I was just feeling a bit low about this the following morning, and wondering what to do, when something wonderful happened. I got an unexpected phone call.

  ‘Mindy?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘This is Jed from Insomnia. I think I’ve got a contact for your friend Joe.’

  ‘You have?’

  ‘I saw a girlfriend of mine last night at a party, and she says she met him at a scriptwriters’ seminar. And they swapped addresses.’ Oh, they did, did they? My delight at being given a new lead for Joe was dampened by a fierce stab of jealousy.

  ‘He’s living in Venice Beach.’ />
  ‘Is there a phone number?’

  ‘No, the phone had been disconnected because the last guys hadn’t paid the bill. But I have the address. She wrote it down for me. Gotta pen? It’s seventy-nine Harbor Street. You’ll find it close to the ocean front.’

  Ten minutes later, Amber and I were speeding down Robertson Boulevard towards the coast. I was feeling elated – I was so close now to Joe.

  ‘Venice Beach was built by a tobacco magnate called Abbot Kinney,’ said Amber as we sped along.

  ‘Amber, please don’t read the guide book and drive at the same time. I’ll read it to you, OK? Right. Kinney wanted to create a Venice of America, complete with a system of canals and bridges, meandering streets and even gondolas. It says here that most of the canals fell into disuse and were condemned in the fifties, but a few survive and have been gentrified. It says that it’s a Bohemian, arty sort of place.’

  Half an hour later we drove into Venice, and found Harbor Street. Amber parked the car next to a yellow sign saying Dead End, and then we walked along looking at the numbers on the white clapboard houses.

  ‘Seventy-five, seventy-seven …here it is: seventy-nine.’

  It was a corner house, two stories high. I breathed deeply, then rang the bell.

  ‘Joe is going to get such a shock when he sees me,’ I said, smiling into the strong sunshine. ‘Do I look OK, by the way?’

  ‘You look fine. Ring the bell again.’ And I did.

  ‘You sure I look OK?’

  ‘You look great. Ring it again.’ And so I rang it again. Because Joe was taking a long time to answer. We waited another minute or two and then Amber knocked on the door.

  ‘Come out!’ she exclaimed with a giggle. ‘We know you’re in there!’ But still there was no reply. And then I rang the bell a third time. But answer came there none.

  ‘Well, he’s obviously out. Probably gone to Tesco’s or somewhere,’ she said. ‘Let’s leave him a message, go off and explore, and then we can come back later.’

  She found a piece of paper in the car, and I wrote, ‘Dear Joe, Amber and I are here! Please don’t go away – we’re coming back. Minty.’