The Go-To Girl

by Louise Bagshawe

  ‘These aren’t for you, sugar britches,’ he says. ‘These are for me.’

  Oh. I sit back in my seat, feeling like a total idiot.

  ‘Your paella, señor,’ says the waiter, arriving with more food. ‘Your cold meats … your fried artichokes…’

  The little dishes are placed down in a seemingly never-ending stream. ‘And miss, for you?’ he asks.

  I shake my head. ‘I’ll share some of his.’

  ‘Very good,’ the waiter says, putting down a large carafe of red and withdrawing.

  ‘Sorry,’ I mutter.

  ‘Who said you could share mine?’ Swan asks lightly, picking up a sardine and crunching it in his mouth. He pours a glass of wine for himself. ‘I wouldn’t want to intrude on your culinary decision-making.’

  ‘You love making me sweat, don’t you?’

  ‘Mmm,’ he says, winking at me. ‘You make it so easy.’

  He’s so gorgeous. So tanned and huge and self-confident. And the way he’s mocking me, so lightly …

  I swallow hard against the overwhelming wash of desire that rips through me. Don’t be bloody stupid, Anna, I tell myself. I reach for the little dishes, helping myself to food, pouring the wine, anything to distract myself.

  ‘That’s what I like to see,’ Swan says. ‘A girl with a good appetite.’

  I glance down. My plate is heaped with sausages, pancakes, rice, olives, fish, cheeses, all in a big pile as if I was a starving refugee let loose at an all-you-can-eat buffet. I imagine the girls Swan’s been seeing in LA. All blonde Heather Locklear clones whose idea of lunch is two lettuce leaves, no dressing. He’s probably looking at me right now and going ‘No wonder she’s such a fat knacker’, I think miserably.

  Well, too late now.

  ‘Thank you for what you did,’ I say. ‘In the office today. And you know, thank you for the Final Draft.’

  He nods, acknowledging this gracefully. ‘Always happy to help out a friend.’

  ‘I won’t let you down,’ I say.

  ‘You’re still planning to use it, then?’

  I blink. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You’re going to try and write? Not quit your job?’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ I say. ‘Why does everybody keep asking me that? Why would you ask me that?’

  ‘Hey.’ He holds up his hands. ‘Just checking you’re not being pushed into something you might not want to do any more.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t I want to write? You said I had talent. I’m almost halfway through it already,’ I tell him proudly. ‘And you told Frank Giallo all about me. He said he’d read my script.’

  ‘Don’t bet on it,’ Swan says, demolishing a stuffed mushroom.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I ask. ‘He said he would.’

  ‘Don’t you know, in Hollywood nobody ever says no? They say yes even when they mean no. Giallo would say anything to please me.’ He shrugs. ‘Most likely, he forgot about you in five minutes.’

  ‘Right.’ I feel very small. The man is such a good friend to me. Look what he’s doing for me. And all I can do is go around being hostile and prickly.

  ‘Can you do it?’ Swan asks. ‘You think you can write a good screenplay?’

  ‘Oh, absolutely.’ I smile at him, back on solid ground. Movies. My career. ‘It’s a great premise.’

  ‘Tell me,’ Swan says. Not a request. His dark eyes are holding mine, assessingly. As if he is about to weigh my talent in the balance. The man who can make me or break me.

  I realize he holds my future in the palms of his hands.

  ‘It’s not a very arty film,’ I begin. ‘It’s just a little comedy really and—’

  He holds up a hand. ‘Stop. You don’t do it that way.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You don’t begin with an excuse. You have a story to tell, tell it. Don’t start out by saying how bad it is. Or how good it is. Just tell it.’

  ‘OK,’ I say. Suppressing a wild urge to say, ‘Yes, sir.’ He’s speaking with such authority, it’s insane.

  ‘And,’ he adds, with a grin, ‘especially don’t start out saying what cross it is.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘“This is Die Hard meets Rambo,”’ he quotes. ‘“This is Gladiator meets Pretty Woman.”’

  ‘That one sounds quite good, actually.’

  ‘Doesn’t it? Might have to do that one myself.’ We smile at each other and I feel relieved. Despite all the teasing, and the massive help, he’s seemed a bit cold. And I’ve been so ungrateful and snappy. I love it when he smiles at me. It feels like it used to. Because I value his friendship.

  ‘Go on,’ he orders.

  ‘All right.’ I swallow nervously, but there’s nowhere to bolt to. ‘It’s called Mrs Watkins.’

  ‘Shit title.’

  ‘I know, I have to think of something better. Anyway, it’s about these two antique dealers who go around ripping off old ladies and housewives and buying their antiques for nothing. And one day they buy this old Welsh dresser from this old lady. And they take it away but it’s haunted. And the ghost is making their lives miserable so they try to return it. But the old lady’s moved, and they can’t sell it or dump it so they have to drive round the country looking for her…’ I daren’t look at him. I stare at one of my delicious mini-pancakes, even though I’m far too nervous to eat it.

  ‘And hilarity ensues?’ he asks, deadpan.

  I sigh. He hates it. I might have known. ‘Yes, hilarity ensues,’ I admit, feeling about as hilarious as Eeyore on a particularly gloomy day.

  He doesn’t say anything, so I push my food around my plate, glumly.

  Swan reaches out and puts a calloused fingertip under my chin, tilting my head up so I have to look at him.

  ‘Anna, that’s not bad,’ he says.

  I start. ‘Really?’

  He nods. ‘It’s an old-fashioned caper. It’s fresh, it’s funny – at least as a premise. You have a long way to go before anybody buys it, but I’d be at least interested, based on the pitch.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say.

  ‘Don’t thank me,’ he says, sipping his wine. ‘Just finish the script. Make me proud.’

  My throat thickens. I so badly want to make him proud.

  ‘I will.’

  ‘That’s if you’ve got time, of course.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well,’ says Swan, looking me over. ‘You’ve got to spy on me for Winning.’

  ‘Red Crest.’

  ‘Whatever. And of course you’ll be spending a lot of time with your new interest.’

  ‘My what?’ I ask, blinking.

  Swan raises a craggy eyebrow. ‘Your fiancé. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten about him already?’

  ‘Oh.’ I start. ‘Of course not.’

  ‘It’s a very nice ring,’ he says cordially.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘When were you going to tell me about this?’

  ‘It only happened last week,’ I say, defensively. ‘I was going to tell you today. But Michelle beat me to it.’

  ‘So she did.’

  There’s a long pause. I eat a giant olive to fill it. It’s absolutely delicious, but it tastes like ashes in my mouth. I don’t want to discuss Charles with him. Because Charles and me is too private, I tell myself.

  ‘I hope you’ll be very happy,’ he says.

  ‘Do you want to know who it is?’

  ‘I already know who it is,’ he says. ‘Charles Dawson.’

  I blink. ‘How do you know Charles’s name?’

  ‘I have my sources,’ he says.

  There’s another pause. He disapproves, I think nervously. Maybe he’s like Lily and Kitty and thinks I’m going to drop my career.

  ‘So you know about Chester House and all that,’ I gabble. ‘But it’s not going to affect me at all.’

  ‘Of course it’s going to affect you.’

  ‘I’m still going to work. I still want to write movies,’ I protest. Why do I suddenly feel
like crying? I blink it back, furiously. ‘I have my own dreams,’ I insist.

  ‘I’m glad to hear it.’

  ‘Aren’t you going to congratulate me?’ I ask, and hope I’m not sounding too whiny and shrill.

  ‘No,’ Swan says. ‘I’m going to wish you joy. That’s from a Jane Austen adaptation I directed in college. They used to wish the women joy. Only the men were congratulated, because they had been lucky enough to win the hand of the woman.’

  I try not to stare at him. ‘That’s very … chivalrous.’

  ‘I’m old fashioned in many ways,’ Swan says, and looks away from me.

  ‘Many…’ I can’t stop myself, it’s like worrying a tooth. ‘Many people have been, you know, congratulating me because Charles is well off.’

  ‘A bit more than well off, I believe.’

  ‘Yes,’ I admit.

  ‘What does that have to do with anything?’ he says, and looks at me, and now his eyes are narrowed.

  ‘Nothing,’ I say hastily. ‘That’s what I’m trying to tell you. Nothing. I’m not going to become a rich country lady and not bother with the scriptwriting.’

  ‘So, you’re not marrying the guy for his money?’

  ‘I would never do that!’ I say, angrily. And this time I really am angry. My eyes are flashing. I can’t stand it that Swan would say that to me. I don’t care when other people suggest it, but him? ‘Never! Never.’

  There’s another horrible pause, then he says, ‘I believe you, Anna.’ And signals for the waiter, who is at our table in less than five seconds with a bill. Swan doesn’t even look at it, just hands over two fifty-pound notes, which the waiter pockets and disappears as fast as he’d come. Nothing on that menu cost more than four quid.

  Swan stands up, grabbing his coat.

  ‘I’m beginning to see why you get such great service,’ I joke. He smiles down at me, but it’s distant. Withdrawn.

  ‘I’ve got to get over to the editing suite,’ he says as we emerge from the restaurant. ‘Can I drop you at Red Crest?’

  ‘No need,’ I tell him. ‘I’ll make my own way. It’s just round the corner.’

  Swan nods and hails a taxi. He drives off without looking back.

  * * *

  When I get back to the office I fling myself into my work. Which is to say I type up some bullshit about our ‘working lunch’. That gives me an hour or two to work on my script. It’s the only thing that eases the stresss. The second act is flowing now. My fingers hammer over the keyboard, and when I finally take the floppy disk out I exhale. At least that’s something done today.

  Next I bite the bullet and call my parents. They’re delighted, Dad blustering on about how lucky Charles is, and my mother giving me the third degree about his money; honestly, she’s worse than Lily. I make an appointment to take Charles round tonight. Best to get it over with.

  ‘Anna.’ It’s Claire, looming over me.

  ‘Here it is,’ I sigh, holding out the ring for her inspection.

  ‘Yes, it’s really nice,’ she says, awkwardly. ‘Really nice. But actually, can you go upstairs?’

  ‘Upstairs?’ I stare at her. ‘What for? I have to work,’ I say severely, minimizing my Free Cell before she can get a look at my computer screen.

  ‘Eli Roth wants to see you,’ Claire says, apologetically.

  I feel a shiver of apprehension. ‘Why?’

  Poor Claire is practically hopping from foot to foot. She looks as if she’s desperate to tell me something, but she doesn’t open her mouth. And then I see Kitty behind her, standing in the open door of her front office, hovering. Giving me what can only be described as an evil smirk.

  My heart thuds. ‘Claire, what is this?’ I whisper.

  She shakes her head miserably. Obviously terrified to say anything with Kitty watching. This is not good.

  ‘OK,’ I say, nervously. ‘I’ll be right there.’ Is there anything I need to take off my computer? I wrote my script on a floppy, thank God, I think, as I slip the disk into my pocket. What else? Any emails saying John is a pretentious idiot or Mike is a sexist wanker … or …

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Claire mutters, ‘but you have to go up right now and I have to escort you. Otherwise…’ She jerks her head behind her and I see two security guards standing in the corridor, looking over in my direction. And, as I turn my head about the office, I realize that everybody has stopped what they’re doing and is staring at me.

  You don’t need a degree in office politics to figure this one out.

  ‘I’m getting fired?’

  ‘Please, Anna,’ pleads Claire, unhappily.

  ‘I’m getting fired,’ I say wonderingly. A strange sense of calm comes over me, which is jolly surprising, as I would have thought I’d be crying buckets right now and begging for my job.

  ‘Are you coming?’ Claire asks.

  ‘No, I don’t think so,’ I say. I stand up and pull my bag out from under the desk.

  ‘But you have to,’ says Claire, almost crying.

  ‘No I don’t,’ I tell her. ‘They’re going to sack me for something. Whatever it is, it isn’t fair. I’m the only one in this whole office who’s done anything worthwhile for ages. And I don’t think I’m going to change their minds. I mean, I can’t do a better job than this. I found a great script and a great director. If that’s not enough then no amount of talking from me’s gonna change a damn thing.’

  ‘But what shall I tell Mr Roth?’ wails Claire.

  ‘Tell him he can stick his lecture up his arse,’ I suggest. ‘You have my home number. No hard feelings, OK?’

  ‘OK,’ snuffles Claire, looking at me admiringly. As, I notice, are all the people working within range. But nobody says ‘Well done’ or ‘You tell ’em’ or even ‘Goodbye, Anna’. They all want to keep their jobs. I pick up my handbag and head for the elevators. There’s nothing I absolutely need to take with me, thank God, and if the tech guys unearth that long email about fancying Rufus Sewell, well, they can just enjoy it.

  ‘Where the hell do you think you’re going?’

  It’s Kitty. Like a vampire, she has moved at the speed of light, yet silently, from her position in her office doorway to block my path to the elevators. There’s a light of real malice in her eyes. So much for my being her right-hand woman and her go-to girl. But somehow I’m not in the least surprised.

  ‘I’m going home,’ I say simply. ‘See you.’

  ‘You can’t get out of this, Anna,’ she pronounces, and she’s speaking very loudly and clearly so everybody in the office will get it. ‘You’re going to be terminated whether you pretend to be off sick or not.’

  ‘I never said I was sick. I said I was going home,’ I tell her.

  ‘You always were a slacker,’ she hisses. ‘Aren’t you even curious as to why you’re being fired?’

  ‘Not really, no,’ I say. ‘It’s some line of bullshit you and Eli Roth have concocted so you can steal the credit for Mother of the Bride.’

  ‘That’s my project. I found the script,’ says Kitty. ‘And you agreed to that publicly,’ she reminds me.

  ‘Because you told me I had to.’

  ‘Oh, you’re just a fantasist,’ she says, scornfully. ‘You’re being fired,’ she adds loudly, ‘because you gave me a set of fabricated location reports yesterday. You weren’t at those locations!’

  I suppose she must have a spy who reported seeing me with Charles.

  ‘That’s true, I made them up,’ I say. ‘But taking a half day sick is hardly a sacking offence when I’m the sole person in this office to have come up with a viable project in the last six months.’

  ‘You had very little to do with this film. Really nothing.’

  ‘I found the script and the director,’ I say.

  ‘You provided a bit of coverage, and Mark Swan would have attached anyway. He did it for the script, not for you. He was already on our list to submit to. In fact, the way you circumvented his agent was most unprofessional,’ Kitty snarls
. ‘And as for the rest of your so-called contributions, you haven’t given us any usable information on the pre-production process. Eli and I are very disappointed in you.’

  ‘You’re just jealous,’ I tell her. ‘Jealous I can find good scripts, jealous Mark Swan likes me, and now you’re jealous I’m getting married,’ I say, suddenly understanding that it’s true. ‘Women are meant to help each other in business,’ I tell her. ‘But you’re just one of those sad old cows that can’t stand to have a rival. You only liked me when I was invisible and put-upon. As soon as I started to get somewhere you wanted to get me out of here.’

  ‘Don’t think Mark Swan will protect you!’ snaps Kitty. ‘He’s under contract now. We’ve got him,’ she adds, viciously. ‘He can’t just walk away to save the hide of the sixty-foot woman. Yes, that’s right, get lost,’ she shrieks, as I punch the button and step into the elevator. ‘Don’t you have to go and ravage Tokyo or something?’

  ‘Don’t you have to go and get some Botox shots?’ I retort. ‘Those wrinkles aren’t going to surgically eliminate themselves. Bye, Kitty. Enjoy being an old maid,’ I say loudly, and have the satisfaction of watching the look on her face before the doors mercifully hiss shut and I’m riding safely down to the lobby.

  I make it out into the sunny streets of Soho before I break down. Mostly because my devastation is mixed with shame. I threw the same kinds of insults at Kitty that everybody throws at me, insults to do with her face and body and lack of a man, when really I should only have insulted her bitter, selfish, vengeful personality. But I instinctively knew what would hurt, and I used it. Why not? Those insults really hurt me, after all.

  Attack of the sixty-foot woman. That was actually a pretty creative one, I tell myself, trying to laugh at it. To take away the sting.

  I decide to take the tube home, because then I’ll be crammed in with millions of people at lunch hour, and I won’t be able to cry.

  * * *

  Lily’s sitting on the couch when I get in, brushing her long waterfall of platinum hair with one hand, and holding the phone to her ear with the other.

  ‘Yes,’ she says, laughing. ‘Absolutely, darling!’ She looks over at me with disappointment. ‘Actually, she just walked in,’ she says. ‘Do you want to talk to her? Really? Oh, I suppose if I must let you go,’ she concedes, giggling flirtatiously. Then she holds out the receiver to me, giggling snapped off as if someone had flicked a switch. ‘It’s for you,’ she says crossly. ‘It’s Charles.’