by Shari Low
Well, I tried everything: from gentle bribery through cajoling, coercion, and leading up to blatant threats of adoption. Nothing worked. It was a siege situation and the negotiator was out of ideas.
Twenty minutes later, I sought out Sam in his study.
‘Do you want the good news or the bad?’ I asked him.
‘Give me the good,’ he said with a grin.
‘I think you’re a lovely person and I’m sure you’ll go to heaven for all the very nice things you do for your friends.’
He still had that gorgeous, knee-trembler of a grin on his face.
‘Okay then, let me have it. What’s the bad news?’
I grimaced. Twenty-four hours under the man’s roof and already we were causing chaos and mayhem.
‘Benny’s locked in the toilet. I’ve tried everything to get him out and he’s not budging. I think we’re going to have to break down the door.’
Ten minutes, a loud crack, several splinters and a bruised shoulder later, we finally broke through enemy lines. Buzz was eventually defeated, leaving only one severely upset wee boy who probably wouldn’t talk to me again until he hit puberty and needed pocket money for drugs.
We bundled the boys in the car, with Sam probably wondering what the hell he’d let himself in for, and headed towards Beverly Hills for my meeting. My nerves were shot. My heart was racing. But hey, compared to the savage, danger-fraught minefield that is motherhood, breaking into the movie industry should be a doddle.
Family Values Magazine
PUTTING THE YUMMY IN MUMMY
THIS WEEK…MY HEART, MY HUSBAND
Ladies, remember that first flush of love? The butterflies in the stomach, the breathless anticipation of the first kiss, the spa days to whip yourself up into an irresistible frenzy, those romantic seductions by the fireside in an Aspen lodge…Oh, aren’t courtships wonderful? And then there was the engagement, the wedding, the holiday homes in Paris and Milan (so useful for the seasons) and then the most amazing gift of all–the children. Where there used to be two, there are now three–or four, five, or six in the case of multiple births and devout Catholics. As we all know, ladies, even with a full complement of nannies and a night nurse to ease the burden, those early days are simply exhausting: so many people to receive, thank-you cards to write, baby clothes to choose. But in the midst of this dramatic adjustment, we mustn’t forget the other person whose life has changed forever–your partner. The man who was once the centre of your universe has made way for another person to take a piece of your heart. This we must acknowledge and reward. Never lose sight of the person whose love has brought you the miracle of family.
Now, girls, we’re not in the Forties any longer. The days of standing by the door to greet your husband with his slippers and a drink are long gone (although Harrods are currently doing a roaring trade in the most incredible chichi suede mules for men–apparently David Furnish is a fan). However, simple touches will keep the sparkle in your relationship: perhaps run your beloved a bath after a long flight, have the housekeeper prepare his favourite meal, and, most importantly, remember never to reject the intimacies that you once shared.
The Forties may indeed be gone, but perhaps today we could learn something from our forebears’ mantra that ‘a happy husband is a happy home’.
Step Five
‘Okay, Sam, advice, coaching, therapy, Prozac…hit me with anything you’ve got,’ I wittered as he dropped me off at the hotel.
He laughed. ‘Relax. Ike’s a good guy–if you like ruthless megalomaniacs who’d sell their granny for a deal.’
‘What?’
‘I’m kidding! He’s a good guy, honest. Now don’t worry, just smile, go in there and be yourself.’
Myself. A woman who was wearing grown-up clothes for the first time in years, who was so excited that her heart was ready to pound right out of her push-up bra and who hadn’t quite recovered from a wrestling bout with a fictional spaceman.
Not to mention a woman who was so damned irresistible that her husband would drop anything just to be with her. Not.
Yep, Mr Tusker was sure to be bowled over.
‘Right, boys, be good. Remember your manners, tell Sam when you need the toilet and DO NOT ask Spiderman to reveal his true identity, okay?’
‘Spiderman, Spiderman…’
Benny was off again and the doorman at the Peninsula was giving me strange looks.
I kissed the boys, gave them a hug and told them I loved them. I got the usual chorus of ‘Love you, Mum’ in return. I know they say it in mantra fashion with no discernible emotion or meaning, but I care not a jot. Heart melts. Every time. I kissed Sam on the cheek. ‘Thanks for this and…everything.’
A very loud horn blared from a Maserati that was waiting behind us in the driveway. I resisted the urge to give him the V sign and it was just as well because I suddenly went blind–not because of some sudden neurological failure, but the result of half a dozen flashes shooting like bullets from the bushes nearby. Paparazzi again. Bloody hell, how did Sam live like this–it was a scandalous state of affairs that raised some serious questions about the modern-day obsession with the cult of fame. Were we going to be faced with constant intrusion into our privacy? Was there nothing they wouldn’t do to get a good shot? Did the public thirst for salacious details have to extend to a breach of a celebrity’s human rights? And most importantly, did they get my best side?
I rushed inside. Oh, it was posh. Cream marble floor, columns, gold décor–if they moved the bloody great vase of lilies from the middle of the foyer they’d have the perfect setting for a stage version of The King and I. Right, I will not be so impressed that I crumble into a blabbering mess, I vowed, throwing back my shoulders, pouting my lips and doing that walk I’d seen on the fashion channel where you sway your hips while adopting the gait of a two-legged Bambi. I was working it, working it, oh yeah, baby, working it…right up until I walked past a queue at reception, tripped over someone’s laptop case and missed cracking my teeth on the edge of the reception desk by an inch. Only catlike reflexes saved me as I reached out and grabbed the marble desktop with two hands. There I was, near horizontal, white-knuckled and suffering from severe mortification–another one of life’s little moments of dignity. Before I could straighten up, the receptionist leaned over the desk to see who the knuckles belonged to, as if this happened on a regular basis. ‘Can I help you, madam?’
I shuffled to my feet, wondering if my blazing face was an attractive contrast to the décor. ‘I’m meeting Ike Tusker.’
‘Ah, Mr Tusker, he’s already in the restaurant. If you’d like to go back across the lobby, and just before you reach the entrance turn right. Go along to the end of the corridor, turn right again and the maître d’ there will be able to assist you.’
I ignored the fact that half the people in the vicinity had witnessed my triple salchow and scored me zero out of ten for artistic impression. They probably all thought that I’d escaped during the night from a Malibu rehab clinic and was under the influence of mind-altering substances. Sod it. Rehab was trendy. If it was good enough for Kate Moss…
Head held high once again, I strutted back across the lobby, ignoring the curious stares. I was cool, I was calm, I was Jackie Collins’s biological daughter, I was in Beverly Hills and I was meeting Ike Tusker, agent to the stars. It was going to take more than one minor incident of public humiliation to take the shine off my day.
When I reached the restaurant, the maître d’ was there waiting. Strange, he looked exactly like the bloke at reception. Twins. How unusual for them both to be working in the same place.
‘Hi,’ I greeted him. ‘I’m here to meet Mr Tusker.’
He eyed me with confusion. ‘Pardon me, ma’am?’
Suddenly, I realised the problem. I’d experienced this very same syndrome when I lived in New York. The Scottish accent–if it didn’t sit somewhere between Sean Connery and Braveheart then some Americans had trouble deciphering it.
&n
bsp; I repeated the request, this time speaking slower and more clearly. Nice maître d’ man flashed Jojo-esque teeth at me then led me over to a corner table. I tried not to look to the left or right while I was en route. Sam had told me that this was THE place for the big names in the movie industry to meet, so I didn’t want to run the risk of seeing Liam Neeson sitting at a table and being compelled to fall at his feet and offer him sexual favours in front of every mover and shaker in Hollywood.
Ike got up as I reached the table, snapped his mobile phone shut and held out his hand. Christ, he had Jojo’s teeth too. Was there a shiny teeth supermarket around here?
‘Carly, Ike–pleased to meet you,’ he announced as he shook my hand–firm grip, but not in a ‘I’m trying to reinforce my masculinity and let me tell you I can bench-press 400 pounds’ macho kind of way. Just strong. Firm. Controlled.
‘Thanks for seeing me–I know you’re busy so I do appreciate it,’ I replied.
Good start, I thought–a touch on the grovelling side but not so obsequious that he thought I was star-struck. Although, naturally, I was. I was desperate to check if Mel Gibson was tucking into his brekkie at the table behind me. Was Travolta sucking up decaf just behind that pillar?
I sat down on the green padded banquette and immediately the waiter appeared. Wow, triplets. What are the chances? Come to think about it, Ike had a few similarities too. Tall, broad-shouldered, great tan. Dark hair, not too short, gelled back but in a Beckham/Brylcreem way as opposed to dirty mac/hangs out in a park kind of way. Startlingly blue eyes and, of course, Jojo’s teeth. Yep, there was definitely a similarity thing going on here between several of the guys…Maybe they were cousins.
The waiter gave us both menus and I immediately opened mine. Oh, I could murder a big breakfast. How long had it been since breakfast didn’t comprise a bit of toast clenched between my teeth while pulling on two children’s jackets, grabbing bags and sprinting to the car? I was going to have the works. I’d have bacon. I’d have eggs. I’d have sausage. Wonder if they did fried bread? Oh I’m sure they would if I asked. Maybe a potato scone was pushing it, but mushrooms and…
‘Three-egg-white omelette, herbal tea,’ Ike announced without even glancing at his menu.
‘And you, ma’am, what can we get for you this morning?’
Pants. Now I was going to look like a prime candidate for Overeaters Anonymous if I went for the full shebang. And I’d already escaped from one rehab that morning.
‘Er, I’ll have the same please,’ I said with a smile. Although I knew it didn’t have the same dazzling effect as everyone else in LA because I seemed to be the only person in the city without Jojo’s bloody teeth. I made a mental note to ask Sam where I could get them.
‘So, I’m really excited about your book and I definitely think we can do something with it. It’s high concept and that’s exactly what everyone is looking for right now.’ Ike stormed right in there like the movie-industry equivalent of the SAS.
‘Great,’ I replied enthusiastically, trying not to show that I wouldn’t know a ‘high concept’ if it arrived on top of my three-egg-white omelette. ‘I’m thrilled that you think it’s got potential. And excuse my naïveté, Ike, but what exactly will happen from here?’
He went on to explain the master plan. The all-important strategy. The vital essence of our route to success. And I tried to listen, I really did, but I was sure now that it was indeed Mr Gibson at the next table, although I might have been a bit out on Travolta. Either that or he had a great make-up person on Get Shorty 2 and had just spent a month in a pie shop.
However, I got the gist of the plan. Ike had couriered the book over to some contacts from the major studios and production companies the previous afternoon. It had also gone to a handful of actors that they represented. In total it went out to about ten people. They’d then come back to him if they were interested and he would set up introductory meetings with me.
I suddenly felt deflated. He’d only just sent it out? But these people could take weeks to read it. Months, even. I’d come all the way over here and all I’d achieved was a new hairdo, one meeting with an agent and a potential divorce.
Gasp–it was Travolta, definitely. And he certainly wasn’t ageing as well as Olivia Newton John.
But back to…oh, that’s right–I’d come all the way to LA thinking I was going to get snapped up the minute I stepped off the plane and the whole pitch process had only just kicked off. Mark was right. Argh, I hated that! But he was right. I should have waited until the interest was a little more definite. Instead, I’d been so desperate for a bit of glamour and excitement that I’d jumped the gun quicker than Dick Turpin after a case of Red Bull.
‘So, I’m hoping that we’ll get some feedback by the middle of next week. Of course, if it was already in script format then I’d definitely say we’d have our responses by Monday, but my assistant has put together a great synopsis and some key excerpts so I don’t think the fact that it’s in novel form will be too much of a problem.’
Next week? Good grief. I couldn’t get Sainsbury’s to deliver my groceries in that timescale and here he was saying that we could send out a book to some of the busiest people in a crazy-busy industry, and they’d read it and get back to him with an answer.
‘But…but…That’s great, Ike. Amazing. I’m just startled. I thought the whole process would take a lot longer.’
He leaned towards me and lowered his tone slightly. ‘Look, normally it would, but to be honest, my main focus is on looking after my people so I don’t do submission work–I’d normally hand that over to another department in the agency. However, this time I’ve made an exception. I’ve already called everyone and primed them that this is on the way and it’s hot. I have to tell you that Cameron is already interested and I’ve told Demi that the mother role is perfect for her. She’s been wanting to play older for a while now–likes to keep on surprising people.’
If the waiter hadn’t broken the moment by appearing with my breakfast I would have keeled over. (And if that had indeed happened I’d like to think that Liam Neeson would have immediately sprung from a table and snogged me back to life. And if he wanted to cop a feel while I was semi-conscious that would have been just fine.)
Cameron. Demi. Last week the most exciting thing that had happened to me was a catalogue delivery and now I was sitting in Beverly Hills discussing how I was going to be Demi Moore’s new best friend. And Ike Tusker, agent to the entire stellar world, didn’t normally take on novels or submissions but he’d made an exception for mine. Mine! I was so lucky. I was gifted. I was special. I was spectacularly talented. I was obviously…Oh crap, I was deluded.
‘Ike, can I ask you something and would you be totally and utterly honest?’
He hesitated. Never a good sign. ‘Sure, go ahead.’
‘Are you only dealing with my book because Sam is your client and he’s pulled in a favour?’
Long pause. I’d hit the nail on the head. Hole in one. Bulls-eye. Bingo. Fuck.
‘Okay, Carly, let me be straight with you.’
My stomach lurched. Thank God I hadn’t gone for the fried bread and mushrooms. I hated it when people announced that they were going to be honest. I always wanted to interject and say, ‘No, please do humour me by telling me nice things. I couldn’t care less if they’re not true. Just patronise me and I’ll choose to believe you and that way we’ll all be happy.’
I nodded my head and not without considerable apprehension.
‘If you’d sent this book to my office it would never have got past my assistants. Even if it had, I’d never have got around to reading it. Did I look at it because Sam asked me to? Sure I did.’
There it was. I was the Hollywood-agent equivalent of missionary work. A charity case.
‘But at the same time, I’ve got a reputation and if I didn’t think it was great I wouldn’t have done anything with it. Carly, I laughed my ass off by page five. Laughed. My. Ass. Off. So did I take it on bec
ause of Sam? Yes. But do I genuinely think it’s got great potential? I do. I definitely do.’
Oh, he definitely did. I loved Ike Tusker. I loved Sam Morton. I loved Los Angeles. Strange, normally my buttocks were frequent visitors to the bitter-and-twisted bench and now suddenly I loved the whole wide world.
‘So, rewind a second, Ike. Tell me what else will happen. Hopefully we’ll get some interest and introductory meetings…’
‘I’d say that was pretty definite,’ he declared with confidence.
‘…So what will happen after that?’
‘Okay, the purpose of the introductory meeting is to run through the project as a concept, for you to meet them and for them to get a sense of where you’re coming from.’
London. Pissing-down rain. Overdraft.
‘Now, this is where it differs depending on who it is. As far as the names on our studio lists are concerned, we’re already talking heads of development, so we’ve cut out a few people on the food chain. And if those guys are interested, then they’ll make a recommendation and set up a further pitch meeting with the final decision-makers. If they like it then it’s that time…’
‘What time?’
He grinned. ‘It’s money time.’
Money time. Cash. Mucho dosho.
‘However, if we don’t get that far straight off the bat, then that’s where the talent comes in. If an actress reads it, loves it and thinks a role would work for her, then we can pitch it to a studio or production company with her name attached. The studio takes it on because with the star attached it’s already got weight. And then we’re back to money time,’ he finished with a grin.
Oh, that M word again. I liked that.
‘Ike, can you tell me what kind of figures we’re talking about here? Just, erm, ballpark. You know…is it new shoes, new wardrobe or new house?’
He laughed and for the first time I noticed that even when he smiled the corners of his eyes didn’t crinkle up. I spied with my little eye something beginning with B. And on a man, as well! Either he didn’t have kids or he’d been able to establish some other form of discipline. I must remember to ask him when I got to know him a bit better. Like after our herbal tea.
