*
That evening, with nothing but doodles on my notepad, I was elbow deep in the kitchen sink scouring the crispy lasagne bits off the oven dish when I got a call from Alice. Knowing I owed her (and my bank account) that book, I debated whether to let it go to voicemail and go back to scrubbing, which presented far more enjoyment and satisfaction.
But in the end I picked up, already dreading her pep talk about how a husband like Phil had given me the material to write hilarious stuff, which had been my lottery win.
‘Finally!’ she cried. ‘I have news for you, my girl! News that will blow your bloody mind!’
‘Oh, God, just give it to me straight – my sales have completely tanked, haven’t they?’
‘Nope!’
‘You’re dropping me?’
‘Silly. Try again.’
‘Someone – that horrible reviewer who always gives me one-stars – she’s written the review that will destroy my career once and for all, hasn’t she?’
‘You’d better sit down.’
‘I am sat down,’ I lied.
‘Okay! You are not going to believe this! Written In The Stars…?’
Meaning my very first book. The heroine is in dire straits (sound familiar?) and writes a book about meeting an American poet, her true love. Who turns out to be a real arsehole. In the end she returns to her cottage in the English countryside with her two children and marries the village butcher. The meat man, not the assassin. Or had I changed him to a vet? Yes, I think I had. I never reread my books once they’re published, because by the time I’ve written and done all the edits, I’m sick to the back teeth of them.
‘Yeah…?’ I prompted.
‘Brace yourself! I got a call from a Hollywood producer. He wants to turn your book into a movie!’
I sat down with a thump, nearly missing the chair. Someone wanted to turn my book into a movie? A Hollywood movie, with real actors and sets and… real royalties? But how could that be? There were millions of books out there – how did mine attract the attention of a Hollywood producer? That kind of stuff only happened, to the point, in the movies, and certainly not to someone like me.
I instantly thought of J.K. Rowling. Sure, my books had nothing to do with the Harry Potter series, but if a movie had changed her entire life, maybe mine would go through some sort of improvement as well? I mean, anything was better than this. But to have your book become a film was every writer’s (especially a poor writer’s) dream.
‘Alice, if this is your idea of a joke or some sick, twisted way to get my creative juices flowing again, I swear I will choke you with your own hair extensions. I will shove them down your throat and watch you turn five thousand shades of purple.’ It was time to dump your agent when she started playing with your feelings.
She laughed. ‘I’m not joking, promise. Things are about to change for you. Big time.’
I pulled off my sudsy rubber gloves and took her off speakerphone. ‘He read the book and he loves it. He wants you to work on the script with— Nina? Are you still there?’
I was still there, in the parallel universe where my life had taken all the right turns and I hadn’t met the wrong man and I was no longer a struggling single mum. Images of me striding into the secretary’s office at Northwood and dropping a fat cheque onto the desk crammed into my mind, alongside thoughts of taking the kids to get new uniforms, new sports equipment, getting the piping and roof fixed once and for all, seeing a proper, specialist doctor about Ben’s leg and maybe one about my allergies. Oh, and paying off the mortgage. Hell, no, move straight into a new build. One with a huge garden, the right postcode and… I had to calm down. There was no point in putting the cart in front of the horses.
‘How… how has this even happened, Alice?’
‘Does it matter, Nina? He’s flying us first class to LAX next week!’
‘Next week? I can’t believe it…’
‘Believe it. And get your hair done.’
‘My hair? What for? Besides, which producer are we talking about here?’
‘His name is Ben Stein.’
Ben. Like my son. That had to be a good omen.
‘What difference does it make anyway?’ she wanted to know. ‘He’s a Hollywood producer!’
‘What difference does it make? If he’s some flake the whole project could go down the toilet – that’s the difference. I need someone with some clout.’
‘Listen to you, already making demands and you haven’t even left Cornwall yet.’
I still couldn’t believe it. ‘Please tell me again that this is not a joke?’
Alice giggled. ‘I’ll send you your tickets.’
‘Tickets? Plural?’
‘I told them you have two kids. They’re flying all of us.’
‘But… the kids… school…’
‘So take them out for the week! It’s almost summer, anyway. Now go get your hair done.’
‘Again with my hair. Why do I even have to meet these people? If they like my book can’t I just sign by proxy and—’
‘Nina, stop! Listen to yourself. Your book is going to be a movie. Your whole life just got made, and you don’t even want to meet Daddy Long Legs?’
I was hoping for a female director. Someone fantastic like Nancy Meyers. Someone who knows What Women Want, that It’s Complicated and that, eventually, Something’s Gotta Give.
‘Of course
