'Just a minute . . .'
'Anything you say in relation to that title is bonded by confidentiality. Don't read it. Don't copy it. It's not on the open market. Michael, I want you to erase Last Muse from your mind and not discuss it with anyone. We have rights and we are going to protect them with whatever it takes and then some. That's what you need to know.'
Michael scratched his leg. His skin was salty and dry. He needed a bath.
It was strange to be lied to outright by a man he had never met. His response was impulsive. 'My information is quite different.'
'Then it's wrong.'
He hesitated, swallowed. 'Adela Fairfax told me your agency failed to acquire the rights.'
Weislob snapped out a laugh. 'She told you that?'
Michael looked down at the bedcover, at the pattern on the material. 'And so did Basil Curwen.'
'Michael, listen.' The tone was patronising. 'Adela is a wonderfully enterprising gall and I think she's a swell actress with a beautiful body and a great future, but the babe is not state of the art when it comes to movie deals.'
'Yes, well, maybe Basil Curwen knows a thing or two about movie deals?'
'Baz and I talk daily. We're doing the deal right now. This is a very complicated financing structure, and he's hanging in there for his client's best interests. Off of the record I'd say we'd be signed and notarised in a week. We have no need of other partners.'
He had certain knowledge of the truth, a sense of it being pushed around, the swell of indignation.
'Hilldyard told me! He turned you down personally!'
'False.' Weislob was hard, buzzed up. 'Hilldyard vetoed certain elements but has not categorically blocked the project. He's a talented man, and we respect his views. This is a collaborative process and there's nothing you can add. Like I say, this is a totally go project.'
Weislob had his story worked out and Michael was stunned by the mendacity of it. No way could Curwen bind Hilldyard without consent. He had never consented to a six-month 'window'. The agent was daringly and assertively lying.
He clenched the phone, hardly believing the exchange. 'Why are you calling me?'
'Courtesy. I'd hate for you to be misinformed or waste your valuable time in any way.'
'Courtesy?'
'Hey, Michael. Private function. No crashers.'
There was a pause. They measured each other's silence.
'If you guys are trying to get rich on this movie, forget it.' His rudeness was confident, brinkmanlike, right in the face.
Michael let the breath come out of him slowly. He looked around at the bare hotel walls, at the wardrobe and writing desk.
'I want you to call off Nick Adamson. Tell him there's a mistake. Tell him to, like, lose it.'
Adamson had put Weislob in play, and Weislob had shown his hand to Michael. Beyond the smokescreen of legal rights was something harder, more determined: vested interests, territory. Weislob was drawing a line.
'You there, Michael?'
It came to him as he sat with the phone on his cheek that things had changed. Things were re-aligning.
He blinked, a heart flutter. 'Who's attached to this project?'
'Uh?'
'Who are your elements and financiers?'
'You don't need to know that.'
He looked at his hands. He had held her waist in these hands.
'Michael, I'm going to put this in writing. I want this conversation on record.'
He thought of the expression on her face as she turned. Everything he might feel was contained in that moment.
'I'm asking questions because I think you need help,' he said.
'Wrong again.'
'Hammond won't appreciate a second fuck-up.' His anticipation hovered over the line.
'Excuse me?'
'You'd lose your job.'
There was a theatrical gasp, then a professional silence. Weislob's tone was measured. 'I don't think you're getting the message here.'
'The message is bullshit.'
'What!'
'Your clients are interesting. Your tactics are crap.'
The agent was loud-voiced. 'I'm pulling in our attorney. Janine, conference Gloria. We'll spike this right now.'
'I'm producing this film.' He was bent over the phone, wrestling into the call, fist tight on the receiver. 'I'll talk to you about casting. I'm interested in actors and directors, certainly, but I don't want to hear any more shite about your so-called rights. You have no rights.'
His heart was pounding. Through the riot of adrenalin he could sense Weislob's confusion.
'You can skip the pressure-silence, Rick.'
'I'm . . . This is unbelievable. Really! I'm appalled.' The voice was trumpety, strident. 'This is one hundred per cent my baby and there's no way, Jose´ I'm letting some small-time British producer leech on to it. This is a done deal. The fees are designated. Budget's closed. We have a producer. We have all the elements. There's no fat on this picture. No pickings for late-comers . . .'
'Make some.'
'Hey! Who d'you think you are, bozo? A no-credits no-track get-out-of-our-faces nonentity. From where I'm standing you're totally invisible. We don't need you. We don't want you. Keep your head down and step out of it, because Frank Coburn is not into jerking off Britpack wannabes.'
'Take it or leave it.'
'No, sucker. You clear out.'
'I'm not clearing out.'
'Don't fuck with us. We'll freeze your company. We'll injunct you off of the fucking map. Take on Frank, he'll rip your cock off and shove it up your ass. You got nothing!'
'I've got the option.'
'What!'
'Signed.'
Weislob was mute. Michael could hear him breathing through his mouth.
'Don't believe you.'
He had put himself in play, and the implications were proliferating.
'An option agreement. Signed today.'
The agent could neither believe nor ignore such a statement.
'What is signed?'
'An option agreement.'
Weislob took a moment to file his response, a hiatus in which the call seemed cut off. Michael waited, tongue behind his teeth. He experienced direct power over a man five thousand miles away.
'Basil Curwen has not confirmed this.'
Curwen would need to be squared.
'Basil's in London.'
There was a gasp. 'You went behind the agent!'
'I have a close relationship with the author.'
There was another pause. Weislob was thinking on his feet.
'Can you fax me the agreement?'
Michael sucked his teeth. He felt dizzy. 'Confidential.'
'Then fax it ''in confidence''.'
'I don't think so.'
Weislob needed to adjust before he spoke. Instinct would have told him to close the call, to duck out and regroup; but he was too far in. When he spoke, his tone had softened. 'Michael . . . you're like talking to a guy who's been negotiating those rights every day for two months.'
'You don't believe me?'
'Seeing is certainly believing.'
He let the line run silent for a while.
Weislob laughed nervously. 'Man, wanna come to the table, gotta play your hand.'
'I don't want to come to the table.'
His statement was so stark, so upfront, such bad news for Weislob.
'You can't dig twenty million out of the UK.'
It was a weak point for him to make.
'It isn't twenty.'
'Sure it's twenty. This is a locomotive A-picture. What you doing? Cramming it with a wad of Blighty thesps, some kind of limited-theatrical-release deal?'
'I didn't say that.'
'Michael, we have a package of elements that'll kick this movie's ass into worldwide distribution and heavy box office. It's a custom-made love story for the big screen. Not some fringe festival bullcrap.'
Weislob had decided to believe him. There was a short interval of resolution before 'belief' r
egistered pragmatically.
'Would you consider a buy-out?' He was open, unabashed. He was not wasting time. 'Want me to pitch you some figures?'
'The author's overriding concern is fidelity to the letter and spirit of the book. If I have a better chance of achieving that with European partners, I'll go that route. If your team can make the commitment, let's talk. I'm not interested in an Americanised version of the story.'
'Oh absolutely,' he rallied. 'Like, this is cross-over art house. Totally. I have no problem with that, and come to think of it, I can't imagine an actor of Shane's status thinking any other way about the project. This is a book that's dear to him. And, you know, James Hilldyard is like the Big Cheese.'
Michael said nothing.
'He's the Dean.'
He was calm now. 'When you packaged the money, did they read the book?'
'Well, to be perfectly frank, with Shane attached we got a green pretty much off coverage. Reader's report plus director's notes.'
'Could you fax me them?' Already, he was thinking ahead.
'I'll trade the notes for the option agreement.'
The option agreement was essential to them. Michael could accept that.
'Let me give you a fax number.'
He was committing himself to Hilldyard's signature. To be a player one had to gamble and take the risk of one's negotiating stance.
Weislob read off the numbers. 'Know what, Michael? This is good development. I'm sure we can do some talking. I'd like to turn it over here with Frank and Tom Mahler, who are keenly involved in this project, bring the guys up to speed and get back to you tomorrow. I'll fax the notes, you do me the option, and we'll talk soon.'
'I'm glad we've spoken.'
'You bet.' He sounded bright, bushy. He had an urgent need to speak to his superiors. 'Ciao, my friend. Take care of yourself.'
He sat still with the telephone in his hand, noting a coldness in his frame of mind, as if he had become someone else. He wondered what he had done. It was certainly done and in full consciousness, and as he rose from the bed and walked around the room, he held on to an executive mode of thought.
Hilldyard would need to sign tomorrow. He needed to talk to Adamson, get a deal structure; he needed to brainstorm the film, have a vision, define parameters. He needed to evaluate the elements and consider the relationships. He would have to shortlist screenwriter alternatives and get wised up on production procedures under the American system. He would have to be different with these people: Hammond and Coburn, the financiers. In this line you had to have more energy than the people you were dealing with.
He sat down on the end of the bed. He had surprised himself. He had followed an impulse. He was held by the thought of it.
Later, he stepped out on to the balcony, reintroducing himself to the night air. Somewhere over the hill, beyond the lamps and window lights, she would be fast asleep.
While the bath ran, he regarded himself nude in the mirror, returning a self-portrait stare emptied of expression, as though in the mirror might be seen, almost by stealth, the person she had seen, looking back at him, reflecting his essence. And for a moment it seemed like the man in the mirror was staring back at him: staring him down.
Two calls.
The first in the night:
'Frank Coburn speaking.'
The voice was thick-cut and deep over the long-distance line. There was gravel in the back of it, a huge resonance on the phone.
'I'm told we have a problem.'
Michael's astonishment caused a hard beat against his chest. He pulled the sleep from his eyes.
Coburn had the voice of a god, tarry with authority. 'Either we dump the project or cut a deal.' Steady breathing. 'I kinda prefer the latter.'
He wanted to say something, assert himself.
'You're in Naples?'
'This . . . this is Positano.'
'Rick and I fly Naples Thursday. Friday we untangle this mess.'
'You're coming here!'
He pushed away the sheets, tried to quell the panic.
'You got the rights, buddy, we'll fly to Timbuktu.'
They had believed him outright. They were acting on his say-so, as if they understood the strength of his position better than he did.
'It's a long way to come for a conversation.'
'For a conversation, yes. For a deal, no. My secretary will call your secretary. Have a nice day.'
The line closed like a softly shut door.
The clock read 2 a.m.
The second interruption of sleep:
'What does this interminable number mean? The Caribbean? Grand Canary?'
His brother's voice resonated with full professional pomp, as though he had the ear of a junior clerk or instructing solicitor and were bringing to a perfection of articulate sonority the essence of his own greatness: a tone of inextinguishable confidence, of stealth and snobbery intermingled, of position self-regardingly won by guts and graft.
'Positano. Italy.'
'Very cultured. Where are you staying?'
'In a hotel.'
'A room with a view, no doubt.'
In London it was 7.30 a.m. and Cassian Lear QC was pushing another day forward with his entourage of case files and law reports. His face would be sallow, eyes drawn. But the voice was secure, and that was the noise, harshly incarnated in the earpiece of Michael's phone, that had jarred him awake with the edge of a fire alarm.
'Have you emigrated?'
He moaned at the shock of awakening. For a moment he was bleary, disorientated.
'Your mobile's dead.'
'My answerphone . . .'
'When was the last time you checked this answerphone of yours?'
'Is this early-morning cross-examination practice?'
'You seem unaware of developments.'
He said nothing.
'Michael, I don't understand how a managing director can be out of the country ten days after receiving a statutory notice.'
Michael, alone in his room, blushed.
'Who from?'
'You don't know?'
'Ah . . . yes . . .'
'Oh good. You recall owing somebody ten thousand pounds? That's marvellous. But you're unaware of the letters from a debt-collecting agency?'
There was silence.
'And the solicitor's letter from Customs and Excise? And the registered mail from NatWest. Well, you may be in blissful ignorance, but I'm not. I've had a four-hour meeting with your accountant and I've been through your office with your so-called book-keeper, and apart from the fact I'm distressed at the state of your business I'm quite frankly at my wits' end to know why you're holidaying at a time when your affairs are in a state of total buggery.'
'I'm not on holiday.'
'Michael, you've been on holiday for years.'
'That's not true.'
'You're down a hundred and twenty K and the plug is pulled by NatWest. Bang goes the house. Fancy doing that, Michael. Your one asset. Fool. And now there's this statutory notice, not to mention other creditors. You've got VAT arrears, unpaid instalments on service contracts, HP standing orders suspended, unpaid writers' fees, debt interest, accountant's bills. There are invoices going back to March in your file. And what are you doing? Cavorting on the Continent as if this disaster did not exist?'
The humiliation process had begun and he had to brace himself against the shame of it.
'That's why I'm here. I'm trying to do something about the situation.'
'Tell me about it.'
'I've been living with this nightmare for months.'
'So you're going into voluntary receivership, and we're folding the company with a debt position of 125 K plus costs. Bank gets your house, leaving fifty to sixty unpaid and lots of purple faces. You need to get out now in a responsible way, put your house in order and make it look more like a wind-up than a right royal fuck-up. Michael, d'you read me? Get the next plane back.'
He edged to the end of the bed and opened the window sh
utters with his free hand. Light cut diagonally into the room. A heavenly blue sky waited for him outside. He felt the day's brilliance on his cheek and it seemed to remind him of something.
Cassian had been supercilious at first, but now his anger was strong. The plumminess had fallen away. He sounded less like an advocate and more like an overworked civil servant in the middle of a departmental balls-up, unafraid to scatter copious expletives behind closed doors. He lived with pressure and it expressed itself through him.
Michael felt his own needs now, resistances that would meet Cassian head on. He had no desire for a clash; but no ability to back down, either.
'I can't come back just now.'
'You must.'
'There's something important . . .'
'What's more important than going bust arse backwards?'
'I've been meaning to call and explain what's happening.'
'Oh, here we go . . .'
'Listen!'
'Michael, I'm in court at ten. Cut the cackle and get back here.'
'Not possible.'
'For pity's sake.'
'Hear me out!'
He did not want to modify or edit what he had to say for Cassian's ear. He said what he said out of self-consistency. He expected nothing but resistant silence from his brother and that was what he heard as he explained the relationship with Hilldyard.
'What's that got to do with independent production?'
'We're talking about a major novelist.'
'Fuck that! I'm a major creditor.'
Cassian, too, had lent him money.
'An opportunity has come up.'
He tried to explain – simplifying for Cassian's sake – the extraordinary fortuitousness of his position, Adamson's input, the names of stars, Hollywood agencies, the call from Coburn.
'I have to see these people.'
'You can't go on pretending, Michael.'
'This is my last chance, for God's sake.'
'Your only chance is to come back.'
'Jesus, Cassian, will you believe what I tell you?'
'I'm not your bank manager. I don't have to believe a sodding thing.'
'Look, I've had a lot of bad luck, but now I've had some good luck.'
'Michael, I've been at my desk for half an hour. You're still in the sack in an earlier time-zone. How can I take you seriously?'
'You never understood how this business works.'
'Nobody gets rich by hanging out with novelists and feeling arty.'
Sex & Genius Page 17
