The Go-To Girl

by Louise Bagshawe

  I wrestle with myself. ‘I guess so,’ I say, eventually.

  What did Kitty mean by that? Going without me? I suppose she had asked for a meeting with the writer, and after all, I wasn’t in the office. She could have told me, but maybe the news about Swan pushed it out of her mind.

  Look, she gave you that raise, I tell myself. No need to be so bloody paranoid.

  ‘She told me all about how she got Greta, and how she’s going to be producing,’ Trish says, looking sidelong at me under her dark lashes. ‘She said she’s the one I can trust.’

  ‘Well, so you can,’ I tell her, loyally.

  ‘She didn’t mention you,’ Trish says.

  ‘No need. She gave me a raise,’ I feel compelled to add. ‘She’s letting me work on the project too. Casting, directors, everything.’

  ‘No need to get all snippy,’ Trish says, shrugging her slender shoulders. ‘Long as you’re cool with it.’

  ‘I’m totally cool with it,’ I say. ‘Kitty’s championed the script to Eli Roth, and she attached Greta.’ I’m blushing and wondering why I sound like I’m trying to convince myself. I flag down a taxi.

  ‘Jump in,’ I tell her. ‘Big meeting to get to.’

  ‘Mmm,’ Trish says happily, sliding herself onto the battered black leather. ‘Moody genius Mark Swan and Trish Evans, D’you think he’ll like me?’

  I look at her and imagine her tiny, slim frame next to Mark Swan’s huge one, like a ballerina draped over Arnold Schwarzenegger (in his Total Recall days).

  ‘Oh yeah,’ I say, a touch darkly. And who can blame me? ‘I bet he’ll love you.’

  * * *

  This meeting is obviously going to be big. Kitty is pouting because it’s not going to be in her office; Eli Roth has insisted we all take it upstairs to the fourth floor. She is, however, determined to run the show anyway.

  ‘Trish, darling,’ she says, when I turn up with the writer in tow. ‘What an amazing look, that’s just fabulous. Eli will absolutely love.’

  She herself is particularly resplendent today in a fitted suit in yellow wool, pearls the size of marbles, her canary diamond, and towering stiletto heels in lemon leather, with a white quilted Chanel bag slung over her shoulder. She looks like a terrifying, power-mad daisy.

  ‘Greta will be here any minute,’ Kitty promises, twitching to look over her shoulder at the lifts. She’s like a girl in a club casting around for a richer man. Trish is nice, but she won’t rate the full court press today. ‘And Mark Swan.’ I wonder, if they arrive together, whose ass will she kiss first? ‘Anna, bring your notes up, would you? And John, bring my pad.’

  ‘John?’ I ask. What the hell is John doing in this meeting?

  ‘Of course, Anna,’ says Kitty with the kind of forced brightness that means if I open my mouth again she will kill me. ‘John’s on the team too!’

  John smiles snidely at me. ‘Right away, Kitty,’ he says, obsequiously.

  I try to smile. I suppose I’m just being paranoid. John does work for Kitty. Perhaps she’s found him something to do. Maybe he’s been contacting, I don’t know, location scouts, costume designers …

  ‘Trish, you go with Anna, darling. Get introduced to Eli,’ says Kitty, anxiously. She obviously wants to lose us so she can be the only one welcoming Greta. And Mark.

  I take Trish upstairs to Eli Roth’s palatial fourth-floor suite. And for the first time, it dawns on me that I might actually be going to get a film made. Because this place seems a million miles from our chaotic little offices downstairs. It just reeks of corporate money. Already Roth has ripped out the Winning logo and installed art with Red Crest’s logo on it. There is soft, white wall-to-wall carpeting that deadens your footfalls, a Japanese style flat stone wall with water cascading soothingly down it, and little topiary sculptures in terracotta pots. The phones are still buzzing, but they have a special, muted ring to them, and the secretaries are not frazzled and hunted like Claire but supremely confident thirty year olds in twinsets and neat little flats.

  ‘So,’ Roth says, welcoming us at the door. He has tinted floor-to-ceiling windows up here and LA-style southwestern furniture. He ignores John and me and smiles at Trish. ‘This is the writer,’ he says. ‘You have a fabulous vision for the piece.’

  Trish takes in his even-featured, rather anodyne good looks and grins.

  ‘Should do, shouldn’t I?’ she asks. ‘I bloody thought of it.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Roth says, soothingly. ‘And we only have a couple of notes…’

  My heart sinks. He’s going to rip it apart, and it’s almost perfect just as it stands. Why do producers do this? Fall in love with a script, buy it and then change everything about it until it’s unrecognizable and really sucky.

  ‘No problem,’ Trish says, looking trustingly at me. She smiles flirtatiously at Roth but he doesn’t seem to notice. Business is business, I guess.

  Kitty bustles in without knocking, shepherding a woman dressed head to toe in black and wearing dark wraparound glasses.

  ‘Greta,’ says Roth, with a delighted smile. He crosses the room at the speed of light and links his arm in hers, taking her towards the sofa. Kitty scowls. ‘What a pleasure. What an honour.’ He then kisses her hand.

  ‘I’d like a coffee,’ says the great lady, distantly.

  ‘Of course,’ Roth says. He snaps his fingers. ‘Get Ms Gordon a coffee.’

  Nobody moves.

  ‘Don’t just stand there, Anna,’ says Kitty. ‘You heard Eli, didn’t you?’

  I am just getting to my feet to go play dogsbody once more when the door opens again and Mark Swan walks through it.

  ‘Sorry I’m late,’ he says.

  ‘You’re right on time,’ Kitty says warmly, darting towards him and thrusting out her jewel-encrusted claw. ‘I’m Kitty Simpson, Mother of the Bride is my baby,’ she says, smiling sweetly. ‘This is Trish Evans, who wrote us such a fabulous script, of course we have just a few teeny changes, and this is the great Greta Gordon, who I’m sure you know…’

  ‘We’ve not met,’ says Swan, inclining his head down towards Greta. ‘But I’ve always admired your work.’ Gosb, he’s tall, isn’t he? He has to be at least six five. And so broad-shouldered. He’s not pretty, like Eli Roth, but still, powerful. Strong-jawed, dark-eyed. Thick eyebrows. Yet I notice that Trish, me, Kitty, even Greta, we’ve all straightened our shoulders a bit since he walked in here. We’re all standing a touch better, more self-consciously.

  ‘And your script is fantastic,’ Swan adds to Trish.

  ‘Great to meet you, Mark,’ says Roth, shaking his hand. I can see that Roth doesn’t enjoy having Swan tower over him, but he handles it well. ‘I love all your movies. Voted for you in the Academy.’

  ‘Thanks very much,’ says Swan. He casts a sidelong glance at me, winks. I stare at my shoes, trying not to smile. He winked at me! Mark Swan winked at me!

  Kitty notices. Of course. She never misses a trick.

  ‘You’ve met Anna, who works for me, and this is John, who also works for me,’ she says, smiling. ‘Anna was just about to go for coffee, would you like some?’

  I blush. I’m being introduced as the dogsbody I am. It doesn’t seem fair. How about ‘This is Anna, who found the script’? But of course we can’t say that. It needs senior backing, that’s what Kitty told me.

  ‘Well, since Anna’s completely responsible for getting me to read the script and attach myself,’ says Swan, easily enough, ‘I think someone should be getting her coffee.’

  I can’t believe he just said that! Oh! I love him.

  ‘That’s OK,’ I say, going scarlet. But now Eli and Kitty are falling over themselves to agree.

  ‘Ha ha ha, of course,’ says Kitty. ‘Go and get everybody coffee. John.’

  ‘Right away,’ says John, fawningly. ‘How do you like it, Mr Swan? I’m such an admirer. Really. Such a pleasure to get your coffee.’

  ‘Black’s fine,’ says Swan. He looks at me again as if he’s barel
y controlling an impulse to roll his eyes.

  I stare at my pad. Am I mental, or is Mark Swan actually trying to bond with me? I can see both Eli and Kitty noticing, and the vibes coming my way aren’t exactly appreciative.

  ‘So, the good news is, I ran the package by Paramount this morning,’ says Roth briskly, dragging Swan’s focus back to him. ‘And they’re willing to go for it.’

  ‘That’s good of them,’ says Swan, sarcastically. He’s the hottest thing in the UK film industry and he knows it. Of course any studio would jump at the chance to bankroll the next Mark Swan film.

  ‘What I thought would be useful was to get you and Greta together with us, and we can present our vision to the writer,’ says Roth. ‘Have her change the script.’

  ‘Do you have a notepad?’ Kitty asks Trish. ‘Here’s one, if not. You’ll want to take very careful notes.’

  ‘The part of Elsie needs to be beefed up,’ says Greta. ‘And in the first two acts made more sympathetic.’

  ‘The script’s too long. You’ll need to chop off ten pages. And we should work on a zinger chart,’ Roth says. ‘A zinger scene every ten minutes, that’s the formula. Ten pages, zinger. Ten pages, zinger,’ he repeats, ignoring Trish’s horrified face. ‘You’ll get the hang of it.’

  ‘Elsie needs to be much nicer. And much more attractive,’ Greta says. ‘Perhaps she should be some sort of model for older women. Highly successful. And a philanthropist. And she needs a wonderful career. How about a judge? I know I look good in black,’ she muses.

  ‘Coffee,’ sings out John. He has returned with a tray laden with cups and saucers and little jugs of milk. They all match, too, unlike the plastic spoons and chipped mugs we have downstairs bearing legends like ‘If I Want Your Opinion I’ll Give It To You’ and ‘Old Stockbrokers Never Die, They Just Freeze Their Assets’. ‘Get it while it’s hot,’ he sings, arching his wrist to pour in the warm froth of milk and setting down some of those little cocktail sticks encrusted with sugar crystals. John is unbelievably camp.

  ‘I don’t know about all them changes,’ says Trish dubiously. ‘Anna said she liked the script how it was.’

  ‘Whatever Anna thought, writers always have to make changes,’ Roth says.

  ‘Yeah, but all them changes to Elsie? She’s the whole thing. It’ll ruin it.’

  ‘You’ll make the changes, Trish,’ says Kitty, smiling at her like a crocodile. ‘Your job is to execute our vision.’

  ‘I’m going to be playing the part. I think I know what’s best for Elsie,’ says Greta, majestically.

  ‘But Anna said—’

  ‘Anna’s not in charge here. I am,’ says Kitty, with soft menace that Trish takes no notice of. Eli Roth clears his throat. ‘And Eli, of course.’

  ‘Actually,’ Mark Swan says, ‘I’m in charge.’

  Kitty, Eli and Greta all look over at him.

  ‘Well, of course,’ says Kitty placatingly, ‘once filming starts, Mark.’

  ‘No. Through the whole thing. Pre-production to final cut.’ Swan shrugs. ‘I don’t work any other way. Any script changes will need to be approved by me; casting, crew hire, everything. I run my movies. It’s my name on the film. When it says “A Mark Swan Film”, that’s the truth. I get the blame if it all goes wrong, and I take credit when it all goes right. Which means total control, or I don’t attach. If you aren’t up for that, it’s been nice to meet you all, and I’ll just go home.’

  Greta shakes her head, frantically. She has no intention of losing the man who can single-handedly revive her career.

  ‘That’s fine with me,’ she says instantly. ‘You are the maestro!’

  ‘That’s right,’ Kitty says at once. ‘Whatever you say, Mark.’ She looks nervously at Roth, who gives a curt nod and a forced smile.

  ‘No problem, no problem,’ he says, spreading his manicured hands. ‘Trish, let me rephrase. Your job is to execute Mark’s vision.’

  I don’t know where to look. The atmosphere in here is as tense as a Florida election. You can almost feel the loathing crackle under the fake smiles pasted on Kitty and Eli’s faces. You can almost smell the fear seeping out from Greta Gordon. And Trish is just bewildered and resentful.

  The only person who seems completely relaxed about the whole thing is Swan.

  ‘I signed up because I liked Trish’s vision,’ he says. ‘Although why we all toss around the word “vision” is beyond me. It’s only a bloody movie.’

  Trish cackles with laughter, and I can see Kitty and Roth suppressing their winces.

  ‘Fuckin’ ’ell,’ she says. ‘You’re all right, mate. You’re almost normal!’

  Swan chuckles. ‘Well, cheers.’

  ‘I thought you were a moody genius,’ adds Trish. ‘But Anna said not. She said you weren’t moody, anyway.’

  Swan turns round to look at me properly, and I have to force myself not to stare at my shoes. He’s such a hulk of a man. And he’s a bit of a legend. More than a bit.

  ‘Did she?’ he says. ‘Well, I’m not a genius either, Bud Fox.’

  I can’t look at him.

  ‘Wall Street,’ says Kitty instantly. ‘Such an amazing film! Such a powerful vis— er, movie.’

  ‘The first two thirds are great,’ says Swan. ‘Which was your favourite scene?’

  Kitty starts to flush. ‘Ahm…’ She looks helplessly around. She hasn’t seen the movie. I suddenly wonder when was the last time she saw any movie that wasn’t one of ours.

  ‘You were telling me you loved the scene where Bud Fox walks into Gordon Gekko’s office,’ I pipe up.

  ‘Yes,’ she says, exhaling. ‘Love that scene! So funny! Great sense of humour.’

  ‘Funny?’ Swan asks, bemused.

  I shake my head imperceptibly at Kitty.

  ‘The … drama of it … I just found funny,’ she says, desperately.

  ‘Kitty thought the underlying satire was really well observed,’ I say.

  ‘That’s exactly right,’ Kitty agrees.

  ‘I see,’ says Swan, and I wonder if he’s going to wink at me again. Fortunately, he lays off. ‘Anyway, I want the lead role, Elsie, to stay as written. I’m surprised you’d want it changed,’ he adds to Greta. ‘If you’re coming back, it shouldn’t be with the same cute character you’ve always played. Elsie’s greedy, mean, selfish, pathetic – but that’s what gets Oscars.’

  ‘You really think I…?’ asks Greta, simpering.

  ‘Only if you work really hard at it, and take direction,’ says Swan bluntly. ‘You’ve got a bad rep, Greta. I’m the boss on my sets, and I don’t like prima donnas. You won’t get any special trailers or have somebody to pick out all the red M&Ms. Understand? It’ll be written into your contract, and if you throw tantrums, or try to hold up filming, I’ll sue.’

  Greta looks stunned, but then shakes herself. I can see the little hamster wheel turning in her brain, humming Oscar Oscar Oscar.

  ‘You’re in charge, Mark,’ she whispers.

  Eli Roth and Kitty look impressed. As well they should be. And Trish is starting to smile again.

  ‘Now, you,’ Swan says to her. ‘Same goes for you, sweetheart. I don’t want too many changes, but no bitching about the ones I do want made. I’ll listen to you, but I have final say and if you don’t like it we can hire another writer. Fair enough?’

  ‘Not really,’ says Trish, grinning. ‘But I s’pose I don’t have much choice, do I?’

  ‘None at all,’ says Swan, cheerfully. ‘And you,’ he turns to Eli and Kitty. ‘The budget’s low. That’s OK, I don’t care too much about my fee. Labour of love.’

  ‘I admire your passion for the work,’ Eli Roth says smoothly.

  ‘But the flipside is I get approval on the lot. And I probably won’t want too many suggestions from Winning.’

  ‘We’re Red Crest now,’ says Roth.

  ‘Whatever.’

  ‘But Mark,’ says Kitty tremulously, ‘surely you’ll allow us to sit in on meetings. The producers
have to be represented in the process.’

  ‘You’ve done fine, Kitty,’ says Swan easily. ‘Found the script, the star and the director, all for peanuts. The rest of it you can leave up to me. I don’t mind if you come to an occasional meeting,’ he says. ‘But no more than that.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but I have to put my foot down here,’ says Eli Roth, a bit anxiously. I can’t believe the transformation I’m seeing. Roth, with his beautifully cut, loose suits, his LA tan and his gold and diamond Rolex, up until today I thought was a powerhouse. He made even Kitty buckle and scrape. He exuded self-confidence. His glossy good looks and perfect grooming were exactly what you’d expect from one of Hollywood’s richest Young Turks. And now this scruffy, craggy man has him all nervous.

  Eli Roth is buff and probably has a hundred-dollar-an-hour personal trainer, but you’d take Mark Swan in a fight any day.

  ‘We have to be represented throughout the process of filmmaking,’ Roth insists. ‘I need to know what’s going on.’

  Swan pretends to consider it.

  ‘Well,’ he says eventually, ‘you can send Anna.’

  I blink.

  ‘Anna!’ Kitty explodes. ‘But Anna’s just a reader!’

  ‘Anna found me,’ Swan says simply, ‘and I like her.’

  ‘That was my idea,’ says Kitty, instantly.

  ‘No it wasn’t,’ says Swan. ‘You’d have gone through my agent, a serious development executive like you. Trying to sneak onto the set is the sort of mental thing only juniors do. It was a ballsy move,’ he says, turning directly to me. ‘If you sit in on meetings you can learn something about movies in the real world. It’ll make her a better producer,’ he says to Kitty.

  ‘She isn’t a producer. She’s just a reader,’ says Kitty, venomously. ‘And we don’t feel she’s ready to move on just yet. Nor does she, do you, Anna?’

  Of course I do! But I can see by the look in her eye that it’s not worth arguing the point.

  ‘No,’ I mumble, heart-sick.

  ‘I have all the experience. I can sit in,’ Kitty says, smiling winsomely. ‘And report back daily to you, Eli,’ she adds deferentially.