An hour later, I’m sitting in the Four Seasons restaurant, feeling like a movie star. Greg Walters is tall and tanned and has already dropped the name of every TV network I’ve ever heard of.
“You’re hot,” he now keeps saying, in between bites of croissant. “You realize that?”
“Erm… well…”
“No.” He lifts a hand. “Don’t be coy. You’re all over town. Folks are fighting over you.” He takes a sip of coffee and looks me in the eye. “I’ll be frank — I want to give you your own show.”
I stare at him, almost unable to breathe for excitement.
“Really? My own show? Doing what?”
“Whatever. We’ll find you a winning format.” He takes a gulp of coffee. “You’re a political commentator, right?”
“Um… not really,” I say awkwardly. “I do personal finance. You know, mortgages and stuff?”
“Right.” Greg nods. “Finance. So I’m thinking… off the top of my head… Wall Street. Wall Street meets Ab Fab meets Oprah. You could do that, right?”
“Erm… absolutely!”
I beam confidently at him and take a bite of croissant.
“I have to go,” he says as he finishes his coffee. “But I’m going to call you tomorrow and set up a meeting with our head of development. Is that OK?”
“Fine!” I say, trying to look as nonchalant as possible. “That would be good.”
As he walks off, a huge grin of delight spreads across my face. My own show! Things are just going better and better. Everyone I speak to seems to want to offer me a job, and they all keep buying me nice meals, and yesterday, someone said I could have a career in Hollywood, no question. Hollywood!
I mean, just imagine if I get my own show in Hollywood! I’ll be able to live in some amazing house in Beverly Hills, and go to parties with all the film stars. Maybe Luke will start a Los Angeles branch of his company. I mean, people out there need PR — and he could easily switch from finance to movies. And… yes! We could set up a film production company together!
“What a pleasant surprise,” says a cheerful voice, and I look up dazedly to see Michael Ellis pulling out a chair at another table.
“Oh,” I say, wrenching my mind away from the Oscars. “Oh, hello. Do join me!” And I gesture politely to the chair opposite.
“I’m not disturbing you?” he says, sitting down.
“No. I was having a meeting but it’s over.” I look around vaguely. “Is Luke with you?”
Michael shakes his head.
“He’s talking to some people at JD Slade this morning. The big guns.”
A waiter comes and clears away Greg’s plate, and Michael orders a cappuccino.
“So — how are things going?” I ask, lowering my voice slightly. “Luke told me about one of the backers getting nervous.”
“Right.” Michael nods gravely. “I don’t know what the hell’s going on there.”
“But why do you need backers?” I ask. “I mean, Luke’s got loads of money…”
“Never invest your own money,” says Michael. “First rule of business. Besides which, Luke has very grand plans, and grand plans tend to need a lot of capital.” He looks up. “You know, he’s very driven, that man of yours. Very determined to succeed over here.”
“I know,” I say, rolling my eyes. “All he ever does is work.”
“Work is good,” says Michael, frowning into his coffee. “Obsession is… not so good.” He’s silent for a moment, then looks up with a smile. “But I gather things are going well for you?”
“They are, actually,” I say, unable to maintain my calm. “In fact, they’re going brilliantly! I’ve had all these fantastic meetings, and everybody says they want to give me a job! I just had a meeting with Greg Walters from Blue River Productions — and he said he was going to give me my own show. And yesterday, someone was talking about Hollywood!”
“That’s great,” says Michael. “Really great.” He takes a sip of coffee and looks at me thoughtfully. “If I could just say a word?”
“What?”
“These TV people. You don’t necessarily want to believe every single word they say.”
I look at him, a little discomfited.
“What do you mean?”
“These guys like talking big,” says Michael, slowly stirring his coffee. “It makes them feel good. And they believe everything they say at the time when they’re saying it. But when it comes to the cold hard dollar…” He stops, and looks up at me. “I just don’t want you to be disappointed.”
“I won’t be disappointed!” I retort indignantly. “Greg Walters said the whole town was fighting over me!”
“I’m sure he did,” says Michael. “And I very much hope they are. All I’m saying is—”
He stops as a uniformed concierge stops by our table.
“Miss Bloomwood,” he says. “I have a message for you.”
“Thanks!” I say in surprise.
I open the envelope he gives me, and pull out the sheets of paper — and it’s a message from Kent Garland at HLBC.
“Well!” I say, unable to stop a smile of triumph. “It looks like HLBC wasn’t just talking big. It looks like they mean business.” I give the piece of paper to Michael Ellis, wanting to add, “So there!”
“ ‘Please call Kent’s assistant to arrange a screen test,’ ” reads Michael aloud. “Well, looks like I’m wrong,” he says, smiling. “And I’m very glad about it.” He lifts his coffee cup toward me. “So here’s to a successful screen test.”
OK. What am I going to wear tomorrow? What am I going to wear? I mean, this is the most important moment of my life, a screen test for American television. My outfit has to be sharp, flattering, photogenic, immaculate… I mean, I’ve got nothing. Nothing.
I leaf through all my clothes for the millionth time, and flop back down on the bed, exhausted. I can’t believe I’ve come all this way without one single screen-test outfit.
Well, there’s nothing for it. I’ve got no choice.
I pick up my bag and check that I’ve got my wallet — and I’m just reaching for my coat when the phone rings.
“Hello?” I say into the receiver, hoping it might be Luke.
“Bex!” comes Suze’s voice, all tinny and distant.
“Suze!” I say in delight. “Hi!”
“How’s it going?”
“It’s going really well!” I say. “I’ve had loads of meetings, and everyone’s being really positive! It’s just brilliant!”
“Bex! That’s great.”
“How about you?” I frown slightly at her voice. “Is everything OK?”
“Oh yes!” says Suze. “Everything’s fine. Except…” She hesitates. “I just thought you should know, a man phoned up this morning about some money you owe a shop. La Rosa, in Hampstead.”
“Really?” I pull a face. “Them again?”
“Yes. He asked me when you were going to be out of the artificial limb unit.”
“Oh,” I say after a pause. “Right. So — what did you say?”
“Bex, why did he think you were in the artificial limb unit?”
“I don’t know,” I say evasively. “Maybe he heard something. Or… or I may possibly have written him the odd little letter…”
“Bex,” interrupts Suze, and her voice is quivering slightly. “You told me you’d taken care of all those bills. You promised!”
“I have taken care of them!” I reach for my hairbrush and begin to brush my hair.
“By telling them your parachute didn’t open in time?” cries Suze. “I mean, honestly, Bex—”
