‘What are you lasses up to?’
‘Trying to figure out how to drag this place into the twenty-first century,’ says Astrid. ‘Mr Love is “making cuts”.’
‘Oh aye.’ He reaches for a muffin.
‘Ooh, Aidan,’ I say, suddenly inspired. ‘You could help.’
‘He could?’
‘We need a website, right?’ Astrid nods. ‘And our Facebook and Twitter need an overhaul. Aidan could help us with that, right?’
‘Could you?’
‘Of course,’ he says.
This is the amazing thing about Aidan, it doesn’t matter how busy he is with his own stuff he’ll always find time to help someone else.
‘Fantastic!’
Astrid leans in for a peck, which Aidan turns into a full-on snog. ‘Get off!’ she laughs, pushing him away.
From his bag, Aidan takes a can of pop which he opens with a satisfying crack and fizz. ‘I saw Will last night.’
The mention of Will puts me immediately on the defensive.
‘As if Nina cares!’
I shrug unconvincingly, reminded that Sunday is boys’ night, when Aidan, Will and Ed head to the pub, a tradition that started when they were at university together and shared the flat in Stockwell.
A feeling of annoyance creeps through me. It irritates me that Will has gone out. Going out for beers with the boys means he’s fine, and I don’t want him to be fine. I want him to regret what he did; I want him to want me back so that in some small way I can hurt him the way he hurt me.
‘He asked me to say hello if I saw you. So, hello.’ Aidan waves at me.
‘Nice to know life goes on without me. Pilchard!’
‘Moron!’ Astrid rubs my arm supportively.
‘Twerp,’ I say. ‘If this place goes under and I can’t pay my rent after he’s left me high and dry, I’m really up shit creek.’
‘Aren’t you forgetting how rich you’re going to be when you sell your script?’ asks Astrid. ‘You won’t be slumming it here any longer, you’ll be living it up in your New York brownstone with your Ephron romantic hero.’ For as long as I can remember I’ve dreamt of an Ephron-esque brownstone.
‘Ha!’ I laugh, wishing this were true, and knowing it’s time I cracked on with the ending.
5
‘Over to the right a bit,’ says Astrid, instructing me exactly where the gilt, mantelpiece mirror, which we’ve just brought back from the Portobello Road Market, should be positioned. It felt good to close the shop for the afternoon and spend it doing something different with Astrid.
‘Like that?’
‘Exactly like that.’
I stand back to take a look. It’s great. No more gaping hole, no more evidence of faded paint, just a lovely mirror reflecting my spruced-up kitchen. After a good scrub the cabinets look almost new. Astrid bought me a herb planter, Narissa donated her ‘old’ coffee machine, and I’ve placed my yellow Le Creuset pot, which Mum and Dad gave to me for my last birthday, on the cooker.
‘The old place is really beginning to look like home again,’ says Astrid, moving a skinny glass vase next to the mirror, fractionally to the left of a squat ceramic one.
‘Pity I’m unlikely to be able to stay.’ I’m reorganising the shelves the way Astrid taught me to by breaking up books and DVDs with photos and vases, and alternating books between standing and lying. I add the things Will never liked: the ceramic roses and porcelain trinket box that my grandma gave to me before she died, and the three little ivory mice, which sat above Grandma and Grandpa’s fireplace.
‘It’ll be fine,’ she says, though she can’t quite hide her lack of conviction.
‘I only have enough savings to cover Will’s share of the rent for a couple of months, then it’s either bye-bye Brixton or hello second job.’
‘It won’t come to that.’
‘Are you sure?’ I call from the hallway, putting my umbrella collection into the brass umbrella stand Astrid and I picked up for a fiver.
‘There will be other options.’
‘Oh, you mean like Will’s flatmate idea?’ I reach the feather duster into the furthest corner of the hall for a cobweb that’s been there as long as I can remember.
‘I was thinking more about you moving back in with your parents.’
I baulk at the idea. ‘You and I both know that’s never going to happen. I’d rather sleep rough than move back home!’
‘Right,’ she says, clearly thinking I’m an idiot. Astrid’s always been oddly fond of my parents. Dad and Astrid’s mum, Anke, met at work; he was a geography teacher, she was an art teacher. Anke and Amir came to our place for dinner one night and the four of them have been best friends ever since. It’s hard to recall a weekend or childhood holiday where they didn’t feature.
Astrid hands me one of my new Penguin book mugs, replacements after she threw out the Mr and Mrs ones, and takes a seat on the sofa, which she’s transformed with new cushions and throws.
‘You can have more hours at the shop; with Christmas coming up I could use the extra help.’
‘Thanks, Astrid. I can always depend on you.’ I join her on the sofa, putting my feet up on the coffee table.
‘How are you getting on with the script?’
‘Not great. The ending needs to be happy and the two I’ve come up with are far from happy.’
Astrid curls her legs underneath her. ‘Explain.’
My finger circles over the slices of pie we bought at the market. They all look amazing. After much rumination I eventually decide on the pecan.
‘The first ending, Truman marrying Anna after finding out about Harry’s divorce, would feel really forced. He’s too pessimistic to commit to a marriage, which is now statistically bound to fail.’ Mum’s comment about offspring of divorced parents planted that seed.
‘So make him more of an optimist,’ she says, as if it were the simplest thing in the world.
I savour a piece of sweet shortcrust pastry, procrastinating about whether I’ve made Truman too much like Harry. ‘I guess if he had some of Sally’s optimism he’d be more positive about marrying Anna and their chances of making it.’
‘And what’s the problem with the other ending?’
‘That one’s harder. I can’t have Harry and Sally remarry when Ephron was so opposed to them marrying in the first place. But leaving them divorced is commercially the equivalent of putting a loaded gun to my head.’
‘Can’t help on that one, I’m afraid. More tea?’
I nod absently, then head to the loo.
By the time I’m back, Astrid has made another pot of tea and replenished the cakes. Halfway through a slice of pumpkin pie something occurs to me.
I reach for my laptop and put on the copy of When Harry Met Sally that’s burnt on the hard-drive. I skip through to the final chapter with the director’s commentary and listen to him discussing how the ending was changed several times.
‘Maybe the ending that I write now isn’t critical. So long as the bones of the piece are there it might be okay to go with Harry and Sally remaining divorced.’
‘But still friends?’
‘Of course!’ I flex my knuckles as if warming up for a fist fight. ‘You think I don’t know how to use my talent, Will Masterson? Well, I’ll – show – you,’ I say, tweaking the end of Act 3 until it reads:
ACT 3 – THE NEXT DAY
Scene 20:
The wedding party gathers.
Truman and Harry & Sally haven’t yet returned.
Scene 21:
George tells Anna about Truman doing a runner.
Anna is distraught.
Scene 22:
Truman, Harry & Sally arrive.
Anna launches into Truman. Truman gives a big speech about how much he adores her. Anna forgives him.
Scene 23:
Harry and Sally agree that the wedding weekend has brought them closer and they resolve to be friends again.
Scene 24:
The we
dding takes place.
Scene 25:
The film closes with Harry and Sally looking out over the wedding party as friends.
‘What do you think?’ I ask.
Astrid reads it over my shoulder. ‘It’s great. How does the final scene play out?’
‘Let’s see.’ I begin to type.
FADE IN:
EXT: BACKDROP OF WEDDING PARTY, BRIDE & GROOM DANCING CHEEK TO CHEEK.
Harry and Sally standing side-by-side surveying the happy event.
HARRY
So there it is, another happy ending.
Sally looks at Harry dubiously.
HARRY
(continuing)
What?
SALLY
It’s just so unlike you.
HARRY
What is?
SALLY
To be so… optimistic.
HARRY
What can I tell you? Age has softened me, just like you.
SALLY
(lightly infuriated)
You always do that.
HARRY
(playing the innocent)
What?
SALLY
Say things that sound like a compliment but aren’t.
HARRY
(teasingly, referencing the conversation from Central Park when Sally is dressed like Annie Hall)
You know you were hard as nails.
SALLY laughs nostalgically.
HARRY looks out to the happy couple.
HARRY
They’ll be fine.
SALLY
(sceptically)
You mean like us?
HARRY
We’re not fine?
SALLY
We’re fine.
HARRY
I’m glad we’re friends again.
SALLY
I am too.
HARRY
You reckon we’ll stay friends this time?
SALLY
(lightly)
I think the odds are in our favour.
Camera pans out, showing them standing gazing over the party.
‘THE END’, I say, wishing I could pull out a piece of paper from a typewriter with a flourish and position it on top of a perfectly neat ream of completed pages. Nora would have done that.
‘Nice one, Nina.’ Astrid smiles proudly at me.
‘I will bring Harry and Sally back to life. I will get this film made.’
‘You will realise your dream! And totally prove Will I’m-a-schmuck Masterson wrong!’
‘Well, maybe…I mean, what are the odds, really, that anyone at any production company will read it?’
‘Who knows?’ she shrugs, wiping her hands of crumbs. ‘But if you don’t send it, its chances are none.’
‘I think I’ll leave it a while, just till I’m certain it’s right.’ I’m always happier to have time to think through every eventuality, ramification and implication of my actions. Will’s voice pops into my head, telling me my indecisiveness always gets in the way, but I push it away. After printing it I slide the document into a brown envelope on which I write the address of my agent, Caroline.
Caroline – a large-earring wearing, cat-loving fifty-something – scares the hell out of me. She took me on, years ago, straight out of college when I had some minor success with a radio play. I promised so much and delivered so little, it amazes me that she still represents me.
‘Suit yourself,’ she says, tidying up the tea tray. ‘But someone might just want to read the full script as soon as they read that treatment.’
‘And snap it up within hours of reading it and want to start filming ASAP!’ I laugh, enjoying being sucked into Astrid’s optimistic world.
‘And what about after it’s been a huge success at the box office and nominated for countless Golden Globes?’ she asks, joining me again on the sofa.
‘Then the Oscars!’
‘Dress?’
‘I’d go with a Kate Hudson Versace approach to timeless elegance.’
‘Disappointing. Not a Bjork swan dress?’
‘You could wear that as my date!’
‘I’d be your date?’
‘Of course! Who else am I going to take? Will?!’
‘Wally.’
‘Deadbeat.’
‘Loo-ser,’ laughs Astrid, smacking a big L with her fingers on her forehead.
‘We’re so out of date with our putdowns,’ I chortle, shaking my head.
‘What is that, Ace Ventura: Pet Detective, circa 1994?’
‘I think it might be.’
‘Yikes. Well, I guess there’s only one thing for it… speech!’
‘You mean I win?’ I gasp, hand on my chest, feigning shock. ‘I win the Oscar for best screenplay?’
‘You’d better get up on that stage and start talking, before they start playing the “beat it” music!’
I take a deep breath and scan the room as if it were the Dolby Theatre.
‘Thank you,’ I begin, imagining myself clutching the Oscar and dazzling in some couture gown and diamonds that have been loaned to me for the evening. ‘Thank you to the Academy for this very great honour, which I dedicate to the late, great Nora Ephron. Nora was the driving force behind this film, without her and her characters it wouldn’t exist. I am indebted to her for ever. There are too many people to thank here tonight but allow me to thank the two most important. The first person I’d like to thank is my best friend, Astrid, who encouraged me to finish the script and who supported me throughout.’ I pause and pretend to gesture to her in the audience. She beams with delight. ‘And second, to the greatest director I know, Rob Reiner, and everyone at the production company who believed in this project from the start.’
Astrid applauds heartedly, pretending to wipe away a tear.
‘Of course,’ she says, breaking the role play. ‘If you don’t post the treatment, none of this has any chance of coming true.’
I take the envelope from the coffee table and look at it nervously. If it’s out there then I’ll have to accept its fate, whatever that might be, and I’m not sure I’m ready to yet. I fear for its future, like a mother fears for her child alone in the big bad world.
‘Come on, Nina. If not now, when?’
‘You’re right, I know, but…’
Before I can come up with a reason not to send it, Astrid snatches it from me, jumps up, runs out of the flat door and down the stairs. By the time I’ve caught up with her she’s outside and across the street, waving the envelope, grinning and pointing towards the pillar box. She throws up her arms in a gesture to say, ‘Can I?’
I let out a resigned laugh and put out an arm to say, ‘be my guest’.
I watch with butterflies in my stomach as she kisses the envelope, gives it a pat and slips it into the post box, sending it into the big bad world, and out of my control.
6
‘Have you got it?’ asks Mum, half dangling out of the loft, her hand clasping the top of their white Christmas tree.
‘I’ve got it,’ I say, forcibly. The implication being: let it go, you daft bat.
‘Make sure you don’t stand on the Welcome Santa.’
‘I won’t,’ I say, through gritted teeth.
This is the scene that happens every year on the last Saturday of November. My mother and I doing our best not to kill one another as we bring her gaudy Christmas decorations down from the loft. This year it’s the last thing I need after an anxious few days of hearing nothing about my pitch. Caroline assured me she forwarded the treatment to a long list of production companies, but for all I know it could still be languishing in her outbox.
‘You know how I love that thing,’ says Mum, coming down the ladder, with the accompanying plastic reindeer under her arm.
‘I know, Mum.’ I swallow back, you tell me every year.
‘Tra-la-la-la-lah, la, la, la, lah,’ she sings, dusting down her Rudolph jumper and unforgiving beige jodhpur-style trousers, which highlight her large bum and thighs. Mum�
��s tried every diet out there – the Fonda years when she bounced up and down in front of the telly in a leotard and legwarmers; the Conley ‘hip and thigh’ years, where she ate no fat all week then all but dislocated her jaw troughing chocolate at the weekend, and the Atkins diet, which left her borderline suicidal – sadly no diet can ever overcome her Griffin genes, and I should know.
We look at the spread of boxes, figurines and bin-liners bursting with tinsel, which cover the brown shagpile carpet of the narrow upstairs landing. I pick up several bags and the box that holds the fibre-optic nativity scene, and tramp downstairs, past the living room where Dad is sitting glued to a Channel 5 afternoon movie, and into the dining room with its hatch to the kitchen.
‘Uh, your father,’ says Mum, after we’ve been up and down the stairs several more times and Mum has put on Cliff at Christmas on her radio-cassette player in the kitchen. ‘You’d think he could get out of his chair to help bring things down.’
‘He’s happy,’ I say, trying to placate her before she starts a full-on rant. I’d never admit it to Mum but I do feel a bit bad for her. Since Dad retired from teaching two years ago all he’s done is watch television and play with his train set in what used to be Narissa’s room. It’s as if his brain is slowly turning to blancmange.
‘You’ve no idea what it’s like being suddenly lumbered with him about the house after thirty-five years of having it to myself.’ She attacks a box with a pair of scissors.
‘I know, Mum. He needs a new hobby.’ I remove the knife from her before she takes it to my father. She lifts out a plastic angel with tinsel-trimmed wings that Narissa made in primary school and smiles at it adoringly as I untangle a knot of Christmas tree lights.
‘Talking of which, do you mind if I clear your room? I’ve been putting off asking,’ she pauses, thinks of how to phrase something, then says carefully, ‘What with you and Will and all.’
My mother, though desperate to have me marry Will, wasn’t at ease discussing our living arrangements. ‘Living in sin’, as she put it, is not something she’s comfortable with; it implies sex, and sex, in my mother’s eyes, is only permissible after marriage. She acts a lot as if she’s Catholic; she’s not.
If Harry Met Sally Again Page 4
