'Approval?'
'Of his vision.'
His heart sank and he laughed softly.
'Michael, I know the contract says script approval.'
'It does.'
'Can we make that vision approval instead? You've heard his ideas. They're great ideas. You know the way we're headed. What I would really like is for you to endorse the American-version coverage which we can annexe, so's right from the start we're on track.'
He spoke emptily. 'If I don't like the script?'
Mahler pursed his lips. 'You tell us, and we talk about it.'
He massaged his eye-sockets. 'Just talk?'
'Hey! You wouldn't tell Henry Ford how to make a motor car! Shay has to have' – he was hushed – 'approval over everybody. Because Shay is . . . the movie.'
Michael hesitated. There was nothing he could say.
Mahler patted his arm. 'Gloria will amend. Hey, chief, got your contract-signing pen?'
'Sounds good,' said Hammond.
'I think a celebration is in order.' Mahler turned to Adela. 'The lady is looking beautiful, and I have a thirst coming on.'
She smiled, took herself to the edge of the terrace.
Michael stirred himself to get up and walk around the pool and make his call to Adamson.
As the mobile processed the digits he gazed at the tableau by the pool. Hammond reclining in his bright white shirt; a waiter departing for champagne; Mahler by the table's edge, rubbing his hands and joking with Weislob; Adela in her blue, wind-wafted dress, leaning on the rail before the halcyon panorama, hair incandescent in the low light. On the pool's other side, an elderly German couple lay on deckchairs, fully clothed, eyes shut.
'Shit,' said Adamson, over the poor line.
That was it; they were defeated.
'Let's hope they make it.'
After the call, he drifted back. A row of champagne flutes was being filled. An ice bucket was on standby. Mahler had two chairs drawn up to the table, two sets of agreements placed on the cloth, two attendant pens, like cutlery, next to each contract.
'Take a seat, Michael.'
He wanted to say something, like a man in the dock, before going down.
'One swell place,' said Mahler, relief in his voice.
Hammond followed Adela to the balcony. He stood next to her, hands behind his back, falling into her scene as if for the camera's eye.
Michael raised his pen. He looked again.
'How about lunch?' said the film star softly.
She turned to him and smiled. Michael had seen the smile before.
'Sign here. Initial there.' Mahler's finger touched the page.
'That would be great,' she replied.
Hammond said something. He could not hear what. Soon they were talking.
He let the nib down, still waiting. Out of the corner of his eye he saw rising champagne bubbles. They trickled upwards from the bottom of the glass, gasped on the surface.
He signed his name carefully, laboriously, as though his consent were held back to the last letter. It was strange to be tied for ever in the loops of one's name to a company called Cine Inc; strange to become no more than a link in the chain of title, a channel for the passage of rights.
Shane strode back at Mahler's calling, made a performance of signing, grabbed a champagne glass for a high-handed toast and slapped Michael on the back en route. His signature had just dispatched a hundred thousand dollars from an account somewhere, owned by one of his companies – part of a tax structure that his accountants and lawyers understood, in the scheme of things now he was big. Such transactions were fiscally shrewd, for him to sign off on and for the suits to get right.
'This is the life,' said the actor, giving Adela a glass. He toasted her. 'Where is Positano?' he said.
She laughed. 'Italy, you fool!'
'I know that, ma'am! Where's Rome from here?'
'Behind you.'
He glanced over his shoulder.
'About two hundred miles.'
'By the way, you're looking very lovely today.'
She smiled.
He laughed heartily. 'Hey, Tom!'
Mahler was alert.
'Every single time we meet, you're drinking vintage champagne on expenses.'
Mahler cracked a smile. 'There's always something to celebrate when you're around.'
'Platinum-tongued Yank.'
Mahler laughed louder. Being with Shane was great.
'Beats Perrier in the Polo Lounge. I'm telling you, Adela, never have so many sharks drunk so much fizzy water. You guys should relocate here. Get some grappa under your belts.'
'Pass,' said Weislob.
'Really, Rick! You do surprise me.'
'Know what, chief, this place is like Deadsville.'
Hammond laughed. 'Adela, where can we go for a nice quiet lunch?'
Michael sat at the table, listening. He was cast adrift, inert, and then he saw James Hilldyard.
He wore a linen jacket, baggy trousers, and was being directed to their group by a waiter. He stood for a moment on the far side of the pool; and then he saw Michael and started making his way towards them. He moved quickly along, as though arriving late, and Michael saw him and the shock of it made him dizzy. He was caught at it, witless, unable to think.
Nobody else noticed Hilldyard before he passed the champagne table, and by then he was heading so quickly towards the man in the white shirt his intrusion was completed before it could be stopped.
The author stood there, vibrant with indignation. His eyes glistened as he spoke. 'Are you Shane Hammond?'
The actor turned. 'I am he. What can I do for you?'
Michael saw Adela's face.
'Excuse me, sir, this is a private gathering,' said Mahler.
'Fuck off back to La-La Land.'
Hammond's eyebrows skipped up.
She was speechless too long.
'Tom.' Hammond shrugged. 'Can we lose the stand-up comedian?'
'Sir, this is . . .'
'James Hilldyard. Sir.'
Hammond changed colour. 'Oh God! I'm so sorry. I had no idea. It's a privilege to meet you.'
Hilldyard looked severely at the extended hand.
Mahler was wide-eyed.
'I do not wish to be met.'
Hammond was open-mouthed.
'Shane.' Adela came off the balcony.
'How can you help me, indeed?' Hilldyard was precipitate. 'By removing yourself and your entourage from this town and understanding that you will never make a film based on my book, and that I curse any attempt to persuade me to grant an option, that I detest adaptations, and am horrified by the behind-the-scenes manipulation that has gone on around me and my guest. My head is not turned, and never will be, by the interest of famous actors or the wiles of young actresses. I hold Hollywood in contempt and regard this gathering as a disgrace. Is that completely unambiguous?'
Michael buried his face in his hands.
Hammond's confusion was undisguised. He glanced at Mahler and Weislob, sharing shock.
Mahler got moving, bringing himself around to face Hilldyard where his conciliatory body-language and sincere respectability could have its best effect. 'Mr Hilldyard. Please forgive us. I think there has been a misunderstanding.'
'There has. It is yours, and I have ended it.'
Hammond flinched. 'I'll be damned.'
'You will be damned.'
'Rick, get a chair.'
'Don't patronise me!'
Hammond swallowed his pride. 'Please . . . these are my representatives. Tom Mahler, Rick Weislob. This is my attorney. They've flown here from LA.'
'Not at my behest.'
'Excuse me! You've signed an option agreement. Tom!'
Mahler, like a clerk of the court, passed the option agreement to Hammond.
'Here it is. Signed in your own fair hand.'
Hilldyard did not react.
'Am I right or am I right?'
Michael boiled in shame. He glanced at Ad
ela. Her skin was pale; her forearms were tense.
Hilldyard had absorbed the challenge and now stepped closer to the actor. He looked at him unwaveringly before he spoke. 'Which would you rather believe, the author in person, or a piece of paper?'
Hammond stared at the old man, an uncomprehending stare.
'Mr Hilldyard.' Mahler made his entry again.
'I don't need the agent when I can talk to the principal!'
'This is a binding document!'
'Would you bind me against my will?'
Hammond's expression corrupted as he registered the strength of Hillyard's feelings.
'Sir, your will is expressed in this contract. You know what it is to sign a legal document.'
'And if I signed the blasted thing by mistake–' He turned pained eyes on Mahler. 'Surely you'd let me withdraw from the agreement? Surely, Mr Hammond, you'd leave my poor book alone if I asked you politely?'
Hammond frowned. 'Politely? You just said fuck off!'
'I'll take that back.'
'Please note, Gloria.' Mahler cupped his chin. 'Signature admitted.'
'Yes, I do admit it.' He was vehement. 'I signed the thing yesterday evening at eight o'clock and since then I've had second thoughts and the law of contract is one thing but ordinary human decency is another. As far as I'm concerned the thing in your hand is morally void.'
'Michael!'
Hilldyard blinked, glancing hesitantly at Michael, and then looking away again.
'Can you tell us what the fuck is going on?'
They were looking at him now. He had no voice. He was paralysed. Hilldyard was defying him to lie before the others and betray him in public. He had second-guessed him, knowing his true nature, had come here with courage and resolution.
He felt Hammond's eyes drilling into him. Hammond had not backed down. He was standing on his rights, displeased and unbending. He refused to defer to a man who showed no respect.
He saw it now, everything.
'Easy, Michael,' Mahler dapperly interceded, palms pressed tight. 'Whatever Mr Hilldyard is alluding to, it is not in your power to revoke an agreement which has been assigned to a third party. Legally, we own the option, and Mr Hilldyard's change of heart is irrelevant to that fact.'
'Oh for God's sake, man! This isn't a game! The contract's totally void. Meaningless. Tell him, Michael!'
'Michael, I'd counsel silence, in your own best interests.'
Hammond stood straight, alert and inflexible. 'Michael can deny it.'
'You can certainly deny it,' said Mahler.
By the balcony, hands tight on the rail, she was intensely willing him to speak. Her mouth was ajar; eyes brilliant.
His mouth was parched. He tried to swallow.
'Void for duress,' said the author quietly.
Mahler theatrically turned. 'That's a very serious allegation. Prima facie slanderous. You wanna take it back?'
'Take back the truth?'
Mahler slapped his pants. 'Michael, you are being accused of unconscionable pressure in getting Mr Hilldyard to sign a contract. If that damaging assertion is true, and I sincerely hope Mr Hilldyard is mistaken, you are exposed to legal action not only from the victim of the duress but from the assignee of your option rights. I can't believe that a producer of standing and integrity would put himself in that position. Can you please give me reassurance that this is not the case?'
Hilldyard averted his eyes, as though he knew Michael's character and did not need to encourage a response.
'Are you going to sit there like a stewed prune,' asked Hammond, eyes bloodshot with flu, 'or are you going to put the record straight?'
Michael could not defend himself, and he could not speak against Hilldyard. He was dissolving.
She came across from the rail, walked between Hammond and Mahler, strode towards Michael, put herself between him and the others.
It was all falling through for him.
'Come on,' she said.
He gave her a look.
'Say something!'
He could smell the perfume in the folds of her dress.
'Michael!'
She would have him say what he knew, deflect Hilldyard with allusions to this or that, hints of exposure. She wanted him to use his secret.
'Michael has been defending your best interests right through this meeting.' Mahler raised a judicious finger. 'I'd like to record that.'
'And I'd like to erase you!'
'Jesus, Tom!' Hammond snapped. 'I thought this was sewn up.'
'Shay, for Christ's sake! This is news to me.'
'That's the trouble with you guys. You're always one step behind.'
Mahler gaped with panicky embarrassment, swapped glances with Gloria.
Weislob came over, face notched with anger, mouth stretching and warping around the shapes of unspeakable words.
'Come on, Mikey baby. We ain't wiring that hundred grand till you start telling the truth.'
'Easy, Rick.'
'Hey, man, say the words!'
'Michael's in a sensitive position. And we must be tactful in taking his loyal reticence as a polite denial of Mr Hilldyard's allegation. Mr Hilldyard, sir, if you hold a grievance against Michael, it is your right to have recourse against him. Meanwhile we, as bona fide purchasers for value without notice, own the rights, which we intend to exploit with or without your blessing. And frankly, sir, I don't see any court on this earth voiding a contract because of your indecision. This is the real world, and in the real world honourable men are bound by their signature.'
'I told him' – Hilldyard let the air run out of his lungs – 'personal confidences which he threatened to expose if I didn't sign. The contract is void. He has assigned you a void.'
'You fucking little hypocrite,' Weislob hissed at Michael.
'This man is the hypocrite.' The author pointed at Hammond.
'Don't slander my client!'
He needled Hammond with a crooked finger half bent in Weislob's direction. 'This man represents you?'
'You were blackmailed, then?' said Hammond, with a raised eyebrow.
'Don't interrogate me! Who d'you think you are?'
'You're very rude, Mr Hilldyard, and I'm just wondering what God-given right you have to insult people you've never met before. You know, I'm beginning to think you're pulling rank because you've got no moral high ground to stand on whatsoever.'
'There speaks an over-priced actor. I'm no star-fucker, but I can tell you, go ahead and make that picture and the world will know how you and this actress preyed on this man, flattered, tempted and corrupted him with money and sexual favours so that he would put unbearable pressure on me to sign the option. If anyone has exerted duress it is you. It is your persistence, your greed and egotism that's caused this mess, and it's your image that will be ruined if you defy me.'
'You're blackmailing us!' She rounded on him, flaring with rage. 'You're slandering me! You have no right to say those things. I never corrupted Michael. I've never had sex with him. It's your imagination that's completely corrupt. And let me tell you, if it came to a contest between the world's good opinion of Shane and a man with your history . . .'
'Adela!' Michael rose suddenly.
'You wouldn't stand a chance.'
Hilldyard blinked. He realised that Michael had betrayed him a second time. He had not kept the secret.
She was flushed, hyperventilating, pent up with wrath.
'Adela!'
'If the world knew the truth about you, you'd be finished. About you and Frances. Talk about corruption. He fucked his fifteen-year-old niece on the bed of his dying wife!'
'Shut up!' screamed Michael.
'You filthy pervert. How dare you threaten us!'
'Michael!' Hilldyard stepped back, eyes burning with anguish.
'You have no respect for ordinary people. No respect for anyone but yourself. You're a monster, a sexual abuser, an adulterer, but you think you stand above us all because you write novels.'
&nb
sp; 'Oh God,' gasped Hilldyard, raising his right hand.
'Don't deny it. Michael told me everything. I mean, did your wife die of shock, or did she take pills? And what about Frances? How many suicide attempts have you inflicted on her?'
Hilldyard made a lunge, sending a hand through the air, as if to beat the sound of her voice, but groaned instead, clutching the back of the chair and looking at Weislob with an expression of agonised injustice. He held position for a moment, then flopped in a faint, gashing his head on the chair-arm as he went.
Michael dropped to his side.
Hilldyard's head rolled on the ground.
Mahler was on his knees. 'Loosen his shirt.'
The gash on his forehead was blue before it bled. Mahler pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, pressed it against the wound.
Hammond grimaced. 'Fucking hell, Adela!'
'Will you get some water, please,' said Michael, hands under Hilldyard's head.
'Ooh, nasty! Rick, hotel doctor.'
'Get some water, please!'
The face was a death mask, the eyes sunken, the jaw slack.
'Come on, old boy. You got a pulse?' said Mahler.
Michael wept as he felt under the sleeve, thumb seeking radial artery, skating on the feathery skin of his wrist.
Rick was shinning it round the pool, a short man in a dead-sprint.
'Michael!' She was desperate.
'He's breathing,' said Mahler.
The groan was ugly, inhuman, as Hilldyard gasped awake, rearing forward.
'Easy, easy.'
He touched his head, found blood leaking through his fingers.
'Don't move.'
Hilldyard struggled. He pushed Michael away, rolled sideways, managed to rise up. He got a hand to the chair but then his legs crumpled and his old shoulder went hard against the flagstones.
There were blood spots on Michael's shoe.
Hilldyard thrust himself up again, face contorted with effort. He panted as he rose, brushed his knees with a wince, stared at his palms. Then he turned and pushed his way through the group, staggering around the chairs and following the edge of the pool, heading out the same way he came in.
Michael caught up with him on the far side of the terrace. The author halted, eyes watery with pain, and thrust his hand against Michael's chest, knocking him back and propelling himself the final few yards into the building. He nearly smashed into an exiting waiter, averted, dodged a deckchair and disappeared through a doorway.
Sex & Genius Page 31
