He paused. “Okay, this afternoon’s meeting. Mr. Ross… Hey what do I call you? Is it still Superintendent?”
“Not for a while now; Ricky usually gets my attention.”
“Fine. Ricky, I want all your people here, so that everyone knows from the start who’ll be looking after them and who’s looking after everyone else. We’ll start at two-thirty sharp. I’d have made it two, but our star is having lunch with his agent.”
He made a sound that I took to be disapproval and glanced at me. “Have you met Capperauld yet?”
“No, only his dead cousin.”
“You may have seen the family at its best,” he said, emphatically.
“Uhh?”
Miles grinned. “Maybe I’m being unkind. Ewan’s an “Actor”, of the old school… or he thinks he is at least. I’m a movie-maker; I haven’t been on the boards in twenty years, and I’ve never done anything like the West End or Broadway. I’ve used him once before, and he was a royal pain in the ass; he made it clear that he didn’t regard me as qualified to direct him. I made it clear that I was qualified to pay his fee, and that that allowed for everything else.”
“He’s going to look down on me from a great height, then.”
“He’d better not try; I don’t allow that on my movies, from anyone. But the word on the grapevine is that he’s usually in humble mode just now, being nice to everyone, because he’s next in line for a knighthood. A couple of the old acting “sirs” have fallen off the perch lately, so there’s maybe a vacancy.”
“Who’s his agent, that he has you reschedule for him?”
“For her; it’s his wife, Margaret.”
“You’re kidding. Couldn’t they have had a working breakfast, then?”
“A good question; but Ewan said that she’s going back to London to work on the negotiations for his next two projects and that they have a lot to discuss. She’s a very capable woman, is Mrs. Capperauld; she’s as imposing as he is in her own way. They make quite a team.”
He chuckled. “Fuck it, Oz, I’ll humour him for now. Once I start spending real money, I’ll have less time for any shit. But the thing is, he’s the obvious man for the part. I wouldn’t have done this project if I hadn’t been able to get him. You’ve read Skinner?”
I nodded.
“He is Skinner.”
In that case, I thought, he must be one impressive actor.
Twenty-Eight.
He was. When he walked out of the lift and across the hall into the apartment, five minutes after two-thirty, I almost said “Hello, Bob.”
I’d seen him on screen before, and on television, in costume parts, contemporary parts, comedy and tragedy. In all of them he’d looked handsome and slightly patrician, a tall dark-haired man in early middle age.
The Ewan Capperauld who walked into my apartment was tall, okay, around six-two, but that was as far as the comparison went. His hair was steel-grey, flopping loosely over his forehead. His shoulders were wide and he walked loose-limbed, almost like a gunfighter. It was a mild autumn day, yet he wore a long black leather overcoat.
He looked as if he had stepped straight off the front page of Skinner’s Rules.
“Hello, Mr. Director,” he said, spotting him across the room and extending a hand. His accent had the same rough edges as the rest of him. I took a closer look at his face, and found myself wondering if his nose had always been just a bit off the straight, or if he’d had that done for the part as well.
“Hi, Ewan,” Miles responded. He looked him up and down, then smiled. “I knew you’d put in an appearance.” He turned to me. “I cast this guy in Kidnapped and he turned up for the first meeting in highland dress.”
He glanced around the room; everyone else had turned up on time and was munching on sandwiches and drinking champagne. The conversation had stopped, though; they were all staring at the newcomer. Scott Steele was standing at my elbow. “Fucking poser,” he muttered; he was enough of an actor to make sure that his voice carried, but Capperauld never even twitched.
“Can I have your attention, please?” Miles called out, unnecessarily. “Dawn, Scott, you’ve worked with Ewan before, but let me introduce everyone else.” He went round all the cast members, one by one; the star greeted us with a nod of the head, held eye-contact for precisely two seconds, then moved on to the next.
When the ‘hellos’ were over he crossed to Dawn, took her hand and kissed it. “My dear,” he murmured, ‘how good to see you again.”
“I’m pleased you remember me, Ewan,” I heard her answer. I guessed she was speaking the truth, for she had told me five minutes earlier that she had never exchanged a word with Capperauld while they were making Kidnapped.
I hadn’t been sure how Dawn would greet me, but she’d been okay. “Have you heard from Prim?” I’d asked her.
“I saw her the day before we left.”
“Is she happy?”
“She says so; are you?”
“I think “slightly stunned” covers the way I feel. The baby is just great, but I don’t have to tell you that.”
“And her mother?”
“She’s great too.”
“That’s good; I hope it works out for you. It’s best that the pretending’s over between you and my sister. Actors do enough of that in their working lives, without having to face it at home too.”
That was the most profound thing I’d ever heard Dawn say. When I met her she was just an exceptionally pretty face; now there was a lot more going on behind it.
“Okay,” Miles called again, ‘attention please, everyone. There’s a lot of us here, and I want everyone to know where everyone else fits in. For a start, there’s the author of the book we’re filming.” He pointed briefly to his left, towards a big, grizzled, middle-aged guy, with a Mediterranean tan, who was leaning against the wall, nursing a glass of champagne, which he waved vaguely, in acknowledgement. “He isn’t going to be riding shotgun on the production, but he’ll be free to join us on set, any time he likes.”
He turned and beckoned towards a corner of the big room. “Now, I want to introduce Mr. Richard Ross; he’s our head of security, and he’s going to explain a few things to you. He’s a former Edinburgh detective; I guess you could say he used to be Bob Skinner in real life.”
Ricky liked that one; I could tell as he stepped into the circle. “Thank you, Mr. Grayson,” he began, then looked around the group. He was dressed to impress, but in a different way from Ewan Capperauld. He wore razor-pressed slacks, and a double-breasted blue blazer with gold buttons, embossed with a crest, which I guessed belonged to one of Edinburgh’s better golf clubs.
“I’ll begin by putting you at your ease; my firm hasn’t been hired because of any perceived security threat. We’re here as a precaution to guard against one that comes out of the blue. Our remit is to ensure that everything goes smoothly for the production, and for its key people as individuals.” Good pitch, Ricky; I was feeling reassured already.
“I’ll have a staff of five attached to the production; they’re all ex-police or ex-armed forces, they’re all here, and I want to introduce them now. First, Mike Reilly.” A stocky man, with light red hair and piercing blue eyes, stepped forward and nodded. “Mike will be responsible for Mr. and Mrs. Grayson’s welfare; round the clock.
“Next, Glen Oliver.” Big, muscular, fair-haired, late twenties, soft features, hard eyes. “Glen will cover Mr. Capperauld.
“Third, John Takei.” Oriental, a small, dark-haired package. “He’ll be looking after Mr. Katayama.” The Japanese actor, a beaming man in his late fifties, nodded to his minder and bowed.
“Finally, Alan Graham and Mandy O’Farrell.” The first, early thirties, sloping shoulders, tired eyes; no obvious threat, but he wouldn’t have been there if he didn’t possess one. The second, late twenties, around six feet tall, blonde and tanned, angular features, long, hard-edged martial artist’s hands. “Alan and Mandy will be responsible for Mr. Steele, Mr. Massey, Ms Waitrose
and Mr. Blackstone.” Ricky looked around us all. “They’ll never be far away and you’ll be given mobile phone numbers you can call if you feel under threat, or you’re being harassed by a persistent member of the public’
Rhona Waitrose grabbed my arm and squeezed. “Hey, this is cool,” she whispered. “I’ve never had my body guarded before.”
I looked down at her; in the flesh she was much shorter than she appeared on screen, but just as pretty. “You’ll have had volunteers, though,” I murmured.
“Yes,” she chuckled, ‘but I find that conscripts are best.”
Ricky looked across at Liam Matthews; the wrestler was standing beside Masahi Katayama. Before the briefing had begun they had been speaking in Japanese; Liam spent a few years on their sports entertainment circuit, which can be very bloody indeed. “I hope you don’t feel left out, Mr. Matthews,” he said. “I’ll give you cover while you’re here if you’d like it, but I assumed you can handle your own security.”
“But, sir,” Liam replied, at his most Irish. “Didn’t Oz tell you? It’s all faked.” That got a laugh, but I’ve seen my friend in real action; I know what he can do.
“When the crew is at work,” Ricky continued, ‘our people will be there. We’ll work in co-operation with the police of course, and between us we’ll see to it that you can work without interruption.
“Any questions?” he asked. I stuck my hand up.
“If we are harassed by a persistent member of the public, what will your people do?”
He looked at me, dead-pan. “Deal with it.”
“How?”
“By whatever means is appropriate, within the letter of the law.”
“Okay, suppose my sister visits me one day and has a go at me, as she often does; I’m concerned about the form of your reaction. Will you do anything without my say-so?”
“Absolutely not, Oz.”
“Thank Christ for that; you don’t have enough people here to handle my sister. I wouldn’t like to see any of them getting hurt.”
Ricky gave me a weak smile; Mandy O’Farrell shot me a look that said, “I could take your sister any time.” I doubted that, but I grinned back at her.
“Okay,” said Miles, seizing the moment to move on. “That’s security; now the rest of the team.” He went on to introduce Ben Cain, the production designer, Dario de Luise, the chief cameraman, Phyllis Baxter, the unit publicist, who’d been given a reprieve after the dropped ball over the Scotsman story, and Gail Driver, his and Dawn’s personal assistant. I knew all of them from previous projects, and so did most of the cast.
“The rest of the people on the team you’ll meet on Sunday.” He paused and looked around us. “Yes, folks, Sunday; that’s the big day. Filming begins at seven a.m.” in Advocates’ Close, off the High Street. Those of you who are involved… that’s Ewan, Dawn, and Oz… who don’t know the layout should familia rise yourselves with it before then.
“Tomorrow, we begin rehearsals, scene by scene.”
Ewan Capperauld frowned. “Rehearsals?” he boomed… without a trace of a Scottish accent. I thought of Dame Edith Evans, and handbags.
“That’s what I said. That’s the way I plan to do it; I’ve hired a first-floor auditorium in the Assembly Rooms in George Street for the purpose. I want everyone there tomorrow at nine. No excuses.
“Now enjoy the food and the fizz… especially the fizz. It’ll be the last you see for a while. Anyone who’s worked with me before will know that all my sets are dry’ As he finished he looked at our star, then, beckoning him to follow, moved towards the window, where Scott, Rhona and I were standing.
“Here,” the actress whispered. “Have you read the script?”
“Yes,” I replied.
“What about our scene, where we get up close and intimate? That’s not in the book.”
“True.”
“What’ll the author think?”
“The money he’s getting, he won’t think a fucking thing.”
Rhona chuckled. “I’m looking forward to it, mind. We can rehearse in private if you want.”
“Would that make me a conscript?”
“It might.”
I thought about that for a while. When I looked down again, she wasn’t there; I hadn’t seen any signal, but I guessed there had been one, for she was off, heading for Dawn, Bill Massey and Masahi Katayama, leaving Miles, Ewan, Scott and me in a group.
I’ve never seen Miles Grayson lose his cool but that doesn’t make him any sort of a soft touch. When he was younger, in his pre-acting days, he did some stuff with the Aussie special forces, and he is a very tough guy indeed.
“Listen, Ewan,” he said, very quietly, but in a way that got my attention straight away. “We’ve had this argument once before; let’s have it again, one last time. I do not believe in going to sleep on a grudge, far less going into a multi-million dollar project on the back of one. So if you’ve got something to say, spit it out.”
All three of us looked at Capperauld. He stared out of the window for a few moments, then shrugged his shoulders. “Okay, Miles, if you insist; I believe that film should be spontaneous. I do not think that professional actors necessarily need to rehearse every minute scene before they step on to the sound stage, and I regard the suggestion that we do as mildly insulting…” He paused. ‘.. . To Steele and me, at least.”
“Hey boy!” Scott bristled, but I put my hand on his sleeve to stop him. “Whereas for a fucking amateur like me, it’s okay, yes?” I asked.
The way Ewan looked down his slightly crooked nose at me, I thought about bending it some more, to really make him look the part. “If you put it that way, far be it from me to contradict,” he exclaimed, loud enough for Ricky Ross and Glen Oliver to look in our direction.
“Okay,” said Miles. “Now that shit’s been dumped, let’s flush it away, okay. The last thing I’m going to do, Ewan, is tell you how to act, so you afford me the same courtesy. In three out of the last five years, I’ve directed the world’s top grossing movies; that indicates, to me at least, that I know what I’m doing. So if I say we rehearse every scene, that’s what we do.
“Furthermore…” A big word for an Aussie, I thought. ‘.. . I’ve cast every featured player in this project personally. Forget what it’ll say on the credits; the agency found the bit players, that’s all. You might be getting more money than anyone else, Ewan, but every member of the cast has equal status in my eyes, and… this is the really important bit… in each others’ eyes as well. When we worked together before, you were in and out in a couple of days, so maybe you weren’t there long enough to get to understand what I’m about. My father’s a socialist politician in Australia, and that’s how I was brought up. There’s no class system in my life or on my sets; I’ve never hung a star on a dressing-room door in my life, and when it’s been done for me, I’ve ripped them down.
“For the record, Oz is here because he’s fucking good, just as everyone else is. He can play Andy Martin better than you or Scott, just as you can play your parts better than him, because you’ve each been chosen specifically for them.” He fixed Ewan with a steady eye. “So, mate, this is how it is. I wouldn’t have started this project if you hadn’t agreed to do it. Now I’m committed, but I won’t do it with a star who’s disrespectful to his fellow actors, or who tries to undermine me, as producer or director.
“If you can’t live with that, I’ll negotiate the terms of your withdrawal with Margaret.”
I felt Scott stiffen beside me; I held my breath. I could barely believe it, but Britain’s number one A-list movie actor had just been threatened with his P45.
“And who’d play Skinner?” asked Capperauld, icily. Clearly, he didn’t believe it at all.
“The biggest name in movies,” Miles replied, “Miles Grayson. I’ll make an early script change to account for the accent, and I’ll do your part myself.”
I think Ewan was about to tell him that he couldn’t do that, when he realised that he coul
d. In the event he stopped himself at, “You ...”
We had one of those long silences, the kind in which you swear you can hear people’s brains whirring and clicking. Miles stood there, straight-faced, with his back to the window. Capperauld looked at him, then through the glass, at the Scott Monument, then at Scott Steele, who can be a bit of a monument himself at times. Finally he did something that took me by surprise. He turned to me and offered his hand.
“I’m sorry, Oz,” he said; the Scottish accent was back. “I guess I’ve been living in London too long; sometimes I forget myself and turn into a real fucking lovey. That was an insult, and I apologise; to you too, Miles.”
I looked at him to be sure he wasn’t taking the piss; when I was, I accepted his handshake.
“I got my first job by accident,” he went on, ‘as a boy, in the very early days of Take the High Road… you know, the Scottish soap. A couple of years later, I landed a film part. I’ve seen your first movie; you were a fucking sight better in that than I was in mine… and I’ve still never been to drama college.”
Miles patted him on the shoulder. “That’s why you don’t believe in rehearsals, mate.” He flashed him a grin: the one that lights up rooms and makes him tower over everyone around him, even though he’s really shorter than most of them. “Now that’s sorted, you guys get to know each other. Scott, you come with me, and meet Masahi.”
“Son,” the venerable actor beamed, “I did a war movie with him in Malaysia, over twenty years ago, when you were still working on the docks in Sydney. You come with me, and I’ll introduce you properly.”
They wandered off, leaving me alone with Ewan, half hoping that Rhona Waitrose would come back. She didn’t, though, not then.
“How did your Toronto stint go?” he asked, conversationally.
“Pretty well, I think. The offers are rolling in, anyway. I’m going back to Canada after this one.”
Poisoned Cherries Page 14
