Angels
Page 44
‘I thought you didn’t believe in chakras,’ I said. ‘And don’t you hate all that New Age stuff?’
Her answer humbled me. ‘When you’re desperate, you’ll try anything.’
In the end, I talked Emily into wearing her new outfit. She brushed her hair for the millionth time, put on the umpteenth layer of lip-gloss, then we squared our shoulders and sallied forth. Just in time for the sprinklers to spring into sudden life and launch their jets directly at Emily. As her hair expanded like bubble bath, she almost had hysterics.
‘It’s a disaster,’ she shrieked. ‘I’m going to have to cancel!’
‘Quick, back to the hairdryer,’ I suggested.
‘We don’t got time,’ she wailed. ‘The only thing I can do is to keep combing it. But I’ve got to drive!’
‘We’ll take my car.’
‘We can’t bring your crappy hire-car – what’ll they think of us?’
‘Actually, we can’t bring my crappy hire-car because our parking space is allocated for your reg. number,’ I remembered. ‘I’ll drive, you comb.’
We sped across LA, Emily talking to herself, her face like flint, me combing energetically and doing my best to ignore the startled looks we were getting at stop lights.
The studio, like most of the studios, was in a place called ‘The Valley’. From what I could gather, most people would rather live in a cardboard box in Santa Monica than in a five-bathroomed mansion in The Valley. Apparently it was naffer than Liebfraumilch, Andrew Lloyd Webber and mullet hairdos put together, and one of the worst insults you could level at anyone was ‘Valley Girl’.
After we’d been driving about forty-five minutes, Emily interrupted her affirmations. ‘This is The Valley.’
For all the talk, it didn’t look that remarkable, to be honest. People weren’t lining the streets guzzling Blue Nun, dancing to Phantom of the Opera and teasing their neckcurls, as I’d almost expected.
‘Nearly there now,’ Emily said, heaving a breath from her diaphragm.
Just then we ran into heavy traffic.
‘Come on, come on, come on! Oh, Jesus!’ Agitatedly, Emily pounded her steering wheel, then handed me her cellphone. ‘Give Flea a buzz and tell her we’ll be five minutes late.’
‘Flea? You mean that’s really her name?’
‘Yeah, Flea.’ Emily sounded impatient.
‘Like the insect?’ I couldn’t let it go.
‘No. F-L-I. It’s short for something. Felicity, maybe.’
‘Right!’ Short for something. Felicity, maybe. Not making fun of the poor Irish eejit just off the plane!
Then we were driving through the gates, then the man was checking our name was on the list, then we were parking in the special space that had been allocated for us. It was like an out-of-body experience and, despite my anxiety, a long-forgotten feeling stirred – excitement. For months – though it felt more like for ever – my positive feelings seemed to have been running on half-power; I hadn’t been able to spark up any genuine unbridled joy or excitement.
But I couldn’t get too carried away, because I knew how important this was to Emily’s life. She was nearly out of money and chances, and she’d be going back to rainy Ireland and working as a checkout girl if she didn’t pull this one off.
Then we were walking through the glass doors – for a moment, I thought Emily was going to faint. Then we were looking at posters on the wall of box-office-breaking movies the studio had produced – which was my cue to think that I might faint. Then we were introducing ourselves to the nauseatingly thin, beautiful, unfriendly receptionist hidden behind the enormous flower arrangement on the curved wooden desk. As soon as she heard Emily’s name, her implacable expression lit up.
‘Hiiiiii. I’m Tiffany. I love your script,’ she said warmly.
‘You’ve read it?’ I was impressed. Even the receptionist had read it.
A startled, caught-in-the-headlights look skipped across Tiffany’s gorgeous face, and when she spoke she sounded as though she’d been inhaling helium. ‘Sure,’ she squeaked nervously. ‘Sure. I’ll tell Mr Russell you’re here.’
As Tiffany clicked down the marble-floored hall, Emily said, between angry lips, ‘She hasn’t read it.’
‘But she–’
‘No one has read it. Except the person whose job it is to reduce 190 pages of screenplay to three lines.’
‘Shush, she’s coming back.’
‘Mr Russell will see you now,’ Tiffany said.
Emily and I rose slowly and followed her back down the hall, passing more framed posters of famous movies as we went. My ears pounded and there was a loose-hinged wobbliness about my knees. I couldn’t even begin to imagine how Emily must feel. So much depended on this.
Tiffany opened a door into a tastefully understated room, where three men and a dinky blonde girl – Fli? – were grouped around a table. They stood up and one of them, all teeth and tan, extended his hand and announced himself to be Mort Russell. He was a lot younger than I had expected, but he had that fear-generating charisma that very powerful people have.
‘Emily O’Keeffe,’ he proclaimed, making it sound like an accolade.
‘Guilty as charged.’ Emily stepped forward with a confident smile, and I relaxed just a tiny bit. She seemed to have a handle on things.
After Mort had loved-up Emily a little, he introduced her to the other people there. The girl was indeed Fli and the two other men were vice-presidents of some ilk. Which wasn’t necessarily as impressive as it sounds. In the States, you could be a tea lady and be called Vice-President of Beverage Providing. (Indeed, I’d once been a vice-president myself.)
Then Emily shoved me and my empty folder at them and they professed themselves to be ‘So, so happy’ to meet me. You’d swear it was one of the nicest things that had ever happened to them.
‘Nice to meet you,’ I replied. I was under strict instructions to say nothing else.
Coffee was offered and accepted – no Hobnobs, or bikkies of any kind, unfortunately, but other than that the mood around the table was friendly and informal, and the four of them couldn’t have been nicer. Loudly, enthusiastically, they all professed how much they loved Plastic Money.
‘It’s, ah…’ Mort sketched a shape in the air. ‘Gimme a word,’ he ordered one of his boys.
Her answer humbled me. ‘When you’re desperate, you’ll try anything.’
In the end, I talked Emily into wearing her new outfit. She brushed her hair for the millionth time, put on the umpteenth layer of lip-gloss, then we squared our shoulders and sallied forth. Just in time for the sprinklers to spring into sudden life and launch their jets directly at Emily. As her hair expanded like bubble bath, she almost had hysterics.
‘It’s a disaster,’ she shrieked. ‘I’m going to have to cancel!’
‘Quick, back to the hairdryer,’ I suggested.
‘We don’t got time,’ she wailed. ‘The only thing I can do is to keep combing it. But I’ve got to drive!’
‘We’ll take my car.’
‘We can’t bring your crappy hire-car – what’ll they think of us?’
‘Actually, we can’t bring my crappy hire-car because our parking space is allocated for your reg. number,’ I remembered. ‘I’ll drive, you comb.’
We sped across LA, Emily talking to herself, her face like flint, me combing energetically and doing my best to ignore the startled looks we were getting at stop lights.
The studio, like most of the studios, was in a place called ‘The Valley’. From what I could gather, most people would rather live in a cardboard box in Santa Monica than in a five-bathroomed mansion in The Valley. Apparently it was naffer than Liebfraumilch, Andrew Lloyd Webber and mullet hairdos put together, and one of the worst insults you could level at anyone was ‘Valley Girl’.
After we’d been driving about forty-five minutes, Emily interrupted her affirmations. ‘This is The Valley.’
For all the talk, it didn’t look that remarkable, to be honest. People weren’t lining the streets guzzling Blue Nun, dancing to Phantom of the Opera and teasing their neckcurls, as I’d almost expected.
‘Nearly there now,’ Emily said, heaving a breath from her diaphragm.
Just then we ran into heavy traffic.
‘Come on, come on, come on! Oh, Jesus!’ Agitatedly, Emily pounded her steering wheel, then handed me her cellphone. ‘Give Flea a buzz and tell her we’ll be five minutes late.’
‘Flea? You mean that’s really her name?’
‘Yeah, Flea.’ Emily sounded impatient.
‘Like the insect?’ I couldn’t let it go.
‘No. F-L-I. It’s short for something. Felicity, maybe.’
‘Right!’ Short for something. Felicity, maybe. Not making fun of the poor Irish eejit just off the plane!
Then we were driving through the gates, then the man was checking our name was on the list, then we were parking in the special space that had been allocated for us. It was like an out-of-body experience and, despite my anxiety, a long-forgotten feeling stirred – excitement. For months – though it felt more like for ever – my positive feelings seemed to have been running on half-power; I hadn’t been able to spark up any genuine unbridled joy or excitement.
But I couldn’t get too carried away, because I knew how important this was to Emily’s life. She was nearly out of money and chances, and she’d be going back to rainy Ireland and working as a checkout girl if she didn’t pull this one off.
Then we were walking through the glass doors – for a moment, I thought Emily was going to faint. Then we were looking at posters on the wall of box-office-breaking movies the studio had produced – which was my cue to think that I might faint. Then we were introducing ourselves to the nauseatingly thin, beautiful, unfriendly receptionist hidden behind the enormous flower arrangement on the curved wooden desk. As soon as she heard Emily’s name, her implacable expression lit up.
‘Hiiiiii. I’m Tiffany. I love your script,’ she said warmly.
‘You’ve read it?’ I was impressed. Even the receptionist had read it.
A startled, caught-in-the-headlights look skipped across Tiffany’s gorgeous face, and when she spoke she sounded as though she’d been inhaling helium. ‘Sure,’ she squeaked nervously. ‘Sure. I’ll tell Mr Russell you’re here.’
As Tiffany clicked down the marble-floored hall, Emily said, between angry lips, ‘She hasn’t read it.’
‘But she–’
‘No one has read it. Except the person whose job it is to reduce 190 pages of screenplay to three lines.’
‘Shush, she’s coming back.’
‘Mr Russell will see you now,’ Tiffany said.
Emily and I rose slowly and followed her back down the hall, passing more framed posters of famous movies as we went. My ears pounded and there was a loose-hinged wobbliness about my knees. I couldn’t even begin to imagine how Emily must feel. So much depended on this.
Tiffany opened a door into a tastefully understated room, where three men and a dinky blonde girl – Fli? – were grouped around a table. They stood up and one of them, all teeth and tan, extended his hand and announced himself to be Mort Russell. He was a lot younger than I had expected, but he had that fear-generating charisma that very powerful people have.
‘Emily O’Keeffe,’ he proclaimed, making it sound like an accolade.
‘Guilty as charged.’ Emily stepped forward with a confident smile, and I relaxed just a tiny bit. She seemed to have a handle on things.
After Mort had loved-up Emily a little, he introduced her to the other people there. The girl was indeed Fli and the two other men were vice-presidents of some ilk. Which wasn’t necessarily as impressive as it sounds. In the States, you could be a tea lady and be called Vice-President of Beverage Providing. (Indeed, I’d once been a vice-president myself.)
Then Emily shoved me and my empty folder at them and they professed themselves to be ‘So, so happy’ to meet me. You’d swear it was one of the nicest things that had ever happened to them.
‘Nice to meet you,’ I replied. I was under strict instructions to say nothing else.
Coffee was offered and accepted – no Hobnobs, or bikkies of any kind, unfortunately, but other than that the mood around the table was friendly and informal, and the four of them couldn’t have been nicer. Loudly, enthusiastically, they all professed how much they loved Plastic Money.
‘It’s, ah…’ Mort sketched a shape in the air. ‘Gimme a word,’ he ordered one of his boys.
