by Judy Nunn
‘But we’re not Hollywood,’ Emma countered. ‘We’ll show him Halley’s and Blue Water History and tell him that we’re putting all of that original approach into a movie about the environment. A movie about a man committed to the welfare of the planet and his fellow man.’
‘Yes, that’s it,’ Michael agreed. ‘Appeal to his vanity and his ambition. He’s probably after a career in politics – we tell him he can use this as his personal springboard – ’
‘Wrong,’ Emma interrupted. ‘Very wrong. He’s an idealist, not personally motivated at all. What’s more, he’d be deeply insulted if you inferred he was. He’d run a mile. Haven’t you read anything at all about him?’
Mandy arrived with the file. ‘Of course I have,’ Michael answered, ‘but it’s bullshit. The man’s protecting his image.’ Emma was shaking her head in disagreement. ‘Oh, come on, Emma,’ he insisted, ‘anyone can be bought.’
‘Just look at him,’ Mandy interrupted as she spread the photographs out on the table. ‘That’s what I call sex appeal. What a hunk!’
The photos showed a tall man in his mid-thirties with a granite face, a rather large nose and a head of thick, greying hair. It wasn’t a conventionally handsome face but there was a sensitive curve to the lip and the eyes were enquiring. It was an intriguing blend of the patrician, the sensual and the intelligent.
‘I agree,’ Emma said. ‘He’s a hunk, all right. If we get Gireaux we get everything we want in the one actor.’
‘What do you think, Stanley?’ Michael asked.
‘Does he do his own stunts?’ Stanley was feeling a little out of his element. The plotting and scheming and conniving wasn’t his area and he was more than happy to admit it.
The others laughed. ‘Marcel Gireaux it is then,’ Michael announced.
They started on a treatment that same afternoon, and a month later they had a first draft script. But, as they’d anticipated, the script was not the problem. The problem was the contracting of Marcel Gireaux. ‘Monsieur Gireaux is not interested in making an American film’ was the terse reply from his agent in Paris.
Michael responded by sending the agent tapes of Halley’s and Blue Water History together with a synopsis of the newly titled Earth Man and the assurance that it would be shot primarily on location in the South Pacific by a European director mutually agreed upon by both parties. The response was a little less terse but predominantly the same. ‘Monsieur Gireaux found your films well-made and the premise of Earth Man sound but he regrets he is not interested in making an American film.’
Emma was prepared to give up but Michael refused. ‘We have to see him personally,’ he insisted. ‘He has to realise that we’re not Hollywood producers, that we’re not brash and materialistic and –’ Emma couldn’t resist a smile. ‘OK,’ Michael grinned back, ‘so I’m brash and materialistic, but you’re not. You’re the one, Emma. You go to Paris and get the man on side.’
‘Me?’
‘You. Start packing, you’re off to Paris.’
A fortnight later, having secured an agreement from the French agent that Monsieur Gireaux would at least grant an interview with Miss Clare, Emma was on her way.
It was business, she reminded herself as she boarded the plane. Purely business. She was to hand over the final script to Marcel Gireaux and she was to acquire the actor’s services. But she couldn’t deny the thrill of anticipation. Paris! She was going to Paris.
The day after she arrived, she booked out of the suite Michael had arranged for her at the Hilton – ‘I know you want to mingle with the peasants, Emma, but it’s not good for the image,’ he’d insisted – and she found herself an attractive little bed and breakfast place which catered for four guests only. It was in the Latin Quarter, a minute’s walk from the embankment and, through her bedroom window, if she leant out far enough, she could catch a glimpse of Notre Dame Cathedral. Emma was in seventh heaven.
She walked and walked until her feet ached. For a full two days she explored Paris by foot, both the tourist spots and the backstreet alleys. On the third day, she prepared herself for her appointment with Marcel Gireaux.
His agent’s offices were on the second floor of a gloomy little house in a gloomy little lane behind the Rue Lafayette and they consisted of a tiny reception area with a tiny receptionist and the ‘inner sanctum’. The inner sanctum was a room barely larger than the reception area with just enough space for a sizeable desk, an office chair and two rather uncomfortable seats for guests. It was fortunate, Emma thought, that the agent, a bony man called Jean-Pierre, was as petite as his receptionist.
‘Miss Clare, come in, come in,’ he said, gesturing toward one of the uncomfortable chairs and sidling his way around the desk. The walls were smothered with photos of actors and, dead centre, in pride of place, larger than all the other photographs, was a portrait of Marcel Gireaux. It was obvious he was the star attraction of the agency. Emma didn’t know whether it was a good sign or not. In fact she didn’t know what to make of the entire situation. She certainly hadn’t expected such a seedy set-up for France’s premier classical actor.
‘Marcel has just telephoned,’ Jean-Pierre said in his fractured English, ‘he is on his way. Cafe?’
‘Thank you, yes.’ Ten minutes later, and several sips into a mug of lukewarm, muddy coffee (fancy a French person making bad coffee!’ she thought) the door was flung open and Marcel Gireaux arrived.
He was too big for the office, she thought. Not that he was physically enormous. He was relatively tall, and his build was certainly in proportion to his height, but it was his presence which was too big for the office.
‘Bonjour, Jean-Pierre. Miss Clare.’ He shook her hand without waiting for an introduction. ‘I am sorry. I have kept you waiting.’ The voice, too, was big. Big and magnificent.
‘That’s perfectly all right.’ She gestured to her coffee mug. ‘Monsieur Marchand has been looking after me.’
‘Hah. Filthy stuff, yes? Come. I shall buy you some excellent coffee and croissants at my favourite patisserie.’
‘No really, I’m … ’ She looked at Jean-Pierre to see if he was offended but he was nodding benignly. Meetings at the agency were only ever a ruse for Marcel. If Marcel sat down in the uncomfortable chair to chat it meant he wasn’t interested and it was Jean-Pierre’s signal to get rid of the other party as soon as was politely possible.
‘I may call you Emma, yes?’ Marcel was assisting her to her feet and she was at the door before she knew it.
‘Yes, of course. Thank you for the coffee, Monsieur Marchand, I’m sorry to – ’
‘And you must call me Marcel.’ He pointed at the briefcase she was carrying. ‘You have the script?’
‘Yes.’ Three steps and they were through the reception area.
‘Good, good.’
Marcel took her to his favourite sidewalk cafe in the Rue Lafayette and ordered croissants. Then he held out his hand. ‘The script?’
‘Oh. Yes, of course.’ She opened the briefcase and handed him the script. He sat forward in his seat, hunched over the table, and buried himself in it, oblivious to all else.
Emma looked at him for a moment. He’d forgotten she was there, the concentration was so intense. She turned her attention to the passers-by. It was a beautiful autumn day. A clear blue sky and a nip in the air. And the Rue Lafayette was a passing parade. She could sit here forever, she thought.
‘Croissants, M’sieur?’ They’d been so tied up in themselves that they’d both failed to notice the waiter standing by, patiently, waiting for a space to be cleared on the table.
‘Oui. Merci.’ Unfazed, Marcel closed the script, pushed it to one side and sat back in his seat.
‘You are very young,’ he said and she wondered whether she should be offended by the accusation.
‘I’m nearly twenty-four,’ she answered. ‘And I’ve been writing for television and film since I was seventeen.’
‘Good, good.’ He apparently failed to notice her d
efensive tone. Or if he did notice, he chose to ignore it. ‘This is good.’ He bit into a croissant. ‘I like it.’ He tapped the tabletop and she realised that he meant the script. She was about to reply. ‘Tell me about yourself,’ he said. And she changed tack. She was quickly realising that the way to get through to Marcel Gireaux was to be flexible. She was aware she was being tested and she was quite prepared to go with the punches.
The attention he’d previously directed to the script, Marcel now turned upon her. She was under scrutiny and was obviously expected to discuss her personal life in detail. With the exception of her relationship to Michael and Franklin Ross, she did. She even touched upon the death of her fiance, Malcolm O’Brien, four years ago. At which point, Emma decided to put an end to the examination.’
‘What about you, Marcel? You’re married, aren’t you? For how long? You have children, don’t you? How old?’
He stared back at her and she wondered if she’d overstepped the mark. Then he burst out laughing. ‘Yes, fourteen years, two children, twelve and ten.’ Despite the compulsion of the tabloid press to spread rumours and to insinuate affairs with leading ladies, it was known amongst the profession that Marcel was a happily married man, as deeply committed to his family as he was to his causes.
An hour later, he excused himself. ‘I must have my rest before the evening performance,’ he said. ‘You will come and see me?’
‘Yes, I’d love to.’ Emma had done her homework. She knew he was playing the title role in Tartuffe and that all of Paris was raving about his performance.
T will arrange tickets. You wish to bring someone?’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t know anybody in Paris.’
‘Ah, in that case, Jean-Pierre will … ’
‘No thanks. I’m quite happy to come along on my own.’ He was about to insist. ‘Really,’ she assured him. ‘I enjoy going to the theatre alone.’
What a peculiar thing for a woman to say, Marcel thought. Peculiar and very interesting. No French woman would say it. Well, she might say it, but she wouldn’t mean it, and this young woman obviously meant it. The American women he’d known, and there had been many, wouldn’t say it or mean it either. He supposed it must be because she was Australian. Very interesting.
‘You know Tartuffe}’ he asked.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I know it’s a Moliere play. I saw a production of The Miser once.’ Marcel laughed out loud. The girl was truly delightful. ‘Sorry,’ she smiled. ‘To be honest, I’m not that crash hot on the English classics either. Well, I’m fine on the literature side,’ she added, aware that she mustn’t sell herself too short. ‘But the theatrical classics I’m afraid I … ’
‘No matter. You write a good movie.’ He pushed the script across the table to her.
‘But you haven’t finished reading it.’
‘My mind is in Tartuffe now. I will read it tomorrow.’ He rose from the table. ‘And I will see you after the performance, yes?’
‘Yes. Thank you for the coffee and croissants … ’ But he was gone.
Emma understood barely a word of Tartuffe. She tried to apply her schoolgirl French but the actors spoke at such speed it was impossible to discern anything more than the occasional phrase. She vaguely followed the plot and she bought a programme hoping that it would help her fathom the intricacies which clearly abounded, but it didn’t. The words off the page were just as confusing to her as the words in the air. But there was one thing of which she was certain. One thing which transcended the language barrier. Marcel Gireaux. He was magnificent.
‘You were magnificent,’ she said as he poured her a glass of champagne in his dressing room. A group of admirers had just left and he’d insisted she stay with him while he take his make-up off.
He looked at her for several seconds. She meant it. Many people told him he was magnificent. The word was easy for them. But it wasn’t a word which sat naturally with this young woman. And that made it valuable. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘You will have croissants with me tomorrow? At noon?’
‘Yes. Thank you, and I’ll bring the script, you can – ’
‘I will make your film.’
‘But you haven’t finished the script, how can you – ?’
‘I like it. I will make your film. Tomorrow? Noon?’
For three-quarters of an hour she watched the passers-by in the Rue Lafayette and cast surreptitious glances at Marcel as he gulped his coffee, bit into his croissants and assiduously studied the script of Earth Man.
‘Yes, it’s good, I like it,’ he announced finally. ‘What are your plans for the rest of the day?’
‘Well, I thought I’d go to the Louvre. But don’t you think we should discuss business? My partner and I – ’
‘The Louvre. An excellent idea. I shan’t accompany you, I must rest for this evening’s performance, but perhaps a walk in the Tuileries Gardens before you visit the galleries?’
‘Yes, I’d enjoy that, but shouldn’t we get the business – ’
‘I never discuss business. We leave that to your Mr Ross and Jean-Pierre. Shall we go?’
They did, however, discuss the film as they walked through the Tuilleries Gardens. Emma was not only impressed by Marcel’s comprehension of the script – he saw angles which even she and Michael had not envisaged – but by the man’s perception as to his role in the casting of the film.
‘You are obviously aware of my involvement with Greenpeace and other environmental organisations,’ he said. ‘That is good. It is clever: it will work in the selling of the film.’ She gave him a quick sidelong glance. He was not offended by such a commercial aspect and she was rather surprised. He caught her glance and smiled back.
‘I have to warn you,’ he said, ‘that not all your press will be necessarily good. There are factions, quite a number, I can tell you, who do not approve of me because I am so vocal about my causes. There are many critics who think actors should be dumb and pretty, yes?’
She laughed. ‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘And there are many producers who think there is no such thing as bad publicity. I’m afraid I should warn you that my partner is one of them.’ Emma didn’t even question the risk she might have taken. The man was being honest with her, he deserved honesty in return.
Marcel studied her shrewdly for a moment. No, it wasn’t a trick. There was no conscious attempt on the girl’s part to beguile him. But beguile him she did. ‘I shall look forward to working with you, Emma.’ He took her hand and pressed it gently to his lips. ‘Very much.’
Emma didn’t know whether to burst out laughing or to feel embarrassed. She wasn’t sure whether the gesture of mock-chivalry was intended to be humorous or serious but fortunately Marcel’s timing was as impeccable offstage as it was on and he didn’t leave her time to ponder the question. ‘Enjoy the Louvre,’ he said. ‘See you on location.’ And he waved to her as he walked briskly off across the lawns of the Tuileries Gardens, neatly avoiding a ‘Do Not Walk on the Grass’ sign.
‘We’ve got him. He’s ours!’ announced Emma’s triumphant fax to Michael. She’d booked herself back into the Hilton for the last two days of her stay. Michael was right; it was easier for business. She started negotiations with Jean-Pierre Marchand and sent endless faxes to Michael.
‘Paris is everything I’d hoped for, and more,’ she wrote. ‘Al1 the things one expects will disappoint, don’t. The Eiffel Tower is as outrageous and modern as it was over a hundred years ago and the Arc de Triomphe is as timeless and Sacre Coeur as awe-inspiring. And Notre Dame … Strange, bald-spired Notre Dame. I’d always thought it was quite ugly on postcards. Mammoth certainly, but – those nasty cut-off towers that look as though they should have delicate spires on top. Well, you should see it! All around the building are the statues of the saints. And they’re standing on the sinners. It’s not fair – these pathetic, twisted little creatures with these hefty great saints perched self-righteously on top. You want to yell, "Get off!" But they’re wonderful. So wonderful. I c
ould look at them for hours.’
‘Anyway, I had another meeting with Jean-Pierre this afternoon. Evidently Marcel is mad keen to do the movie. Of course Jean-Pierre is insisting that he must have total choice of director, right of veto over any script changes, and he won’t work in New York for more than a fortnight. All of which we’d anticipated, of course. And I don’t think he’ll cost nearly as much as we’d expected. Isn’t that great?’
‘We’ve got Marcel Gireaux,’ Michael announced. ‘Had a fax from Emma this morning.’
It was one of those occasional family dinners with Helen and Franklin in their apartment and Michael was delighted at the opportunity to steer the conversation into a positive business area. He knew only too well that Franklin was scrutinising him closely, assessing him all the while.
‘How’s your new project coming along?’ the old man had asked. So Michael pulled Emma’s fax out of his pocket and made the announcement.
‘Marcel Gireaux, really?’ Franklin was impressed.
‘He’s ours, Grandpa. Ours for the asking.’ Michael handed Franklin the fax. ‘Take a look. Emma’s sure of it. And she never exaggerates. Not the facts, anyway.’ He grinned at Helen. ‘She waxes a bit poetic about Paris, mind you.’
As Franklin started to scan the three pages of fax paper, his attention was caught. He had heard this before. Where? Then he remembered. Catherine. He could hear Catherine. ‘Paris is a glorious city, Franklin. A city designed for those who love beauty. There’s space to stand back and admire the light on the buildings and the statues. And the churches. Ah! The churches. Notre Dame with its saints and sinners.’
Catherine had said that. He’d been ten years old and they’d sat looking over the valley and she’d sketched the vineyards in charcoal.
‘I’m delighted to see things are progressing so well,’ was all he said as he handed the fax back to Michael.
