‘Good girl. I’ll call you tomorrow with an update.’ And she rang off, leaving me sitting alone in the darkening kitchen still holding my sudsy rubber gloves and a greasy pan, and with a pounding heart.
If any of this was true and the film actually made it to the cinemas (because we know all too well what happens to some movies that never make it off the producer’s desk) our whole lives would indeed be made.
I’d be able to afford the kids a new lifestyle and be a new, angst-free mum who smiled a lot and took them to marvellous places and fed them good-quality food bought from Waitrose and independent shops and not the local joint down the road where you had to bring your own boxes.
*
When the kids were asleep, I sat back in my writing chair under the dining room window. Maybe this really was my lucky chair after all. It had seen me pound out the three novels that, as it turned out, gave me the much-needed money, my only money.
I had already made a mental list of the improvements I’d make in the children’s lives and in our home. Even Minnie and Callie would get the best dog food, rather than the cheap store brand they seemed content with. Yes, life was looking like it had remembered me after all.
But then I fell into my own trap and started wondering all sorts of things, like how much of a say I could have in the script? I wasn’t a scriptwriter. And how faithful would the movie be to my book? Who would they cast? Jesus, Nina, came Alice’s voice in my ear. Who the hell cares?
But one thing I did care about. Would the kids recognise the storylines I’d so diligently disguised as some other poor cow’s misfortunes and resent me talking like that about their father? Just how similar was my anti-hero Bill to Phil? Because while all my hatred for Phil was safely tucked away in between the discreet pages of a book and out of my children’s hands, we were okay. But even they would recognise their dad’s character on screen: gorgeous and totally useless. I wondered who could play his role? Jude Law would have been perfect. But he was too talented to want to portray a loser like Phil. I mean Bill.
The next morning before the kids were even up, I got another call from Northwood, and my hands began to sweat at the sound of the secretary’s voice. All I needed was a little more time. Just a little more. I was trembling so badly I almost dropped my phone.
‘Ms Conte?’
‘Uh, yes, hello there…’ I tried to sound cheerful and confident (you know, project some of that good karma while it was still around).
‘Ms Conte, I just wanted to confirm that your payment has been received.’
What? How? ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘The fees, Ms Conte? We’ve received them. Thank you.’
‘Oh. Okay.’
‘Sorry for the misunderstanding.’
‘No – uh – problem.’ I put the phone down, my heart beating to a million different rhythms. What the hell was that all about? How the hell had the money got there?
I called my bank immediately and spoke to someone named Parminder Rabash, whose name I’ll never forget, because he kindly explained to me that I had received an advance of ten thousand pounds from my agent, Alice Hopkins. I thanked him, blessed him, anointed him with all my best wishes and dialled Alice’s number.
‘Have you gone absolutely mad?’ I cried. ‘You know I can’t pay you back.’
Alice laughed. ‘I don’t expect you to.’
‘Alice, thank you from the bottom of my heart. But what if my deal falls through?’
‘It won’t. But, honey, let’s ride the wave for now, yeah?’
I closed my eyes and grinned, breathing deeply. ‘Yes. Thank you so much, Alice.’
‘No problem. Now go and buy yourself and the kids some snazzy duds. You can’t wear your wellies or your Crocs in LA.’
I grinned. ‘Why not? I’ve seen the way the stars dress there.’
‘Well, first of all because there’s no mud in LA. None that you’d see, anyway. Oh, speaking of stars, I need you to send me a new pic.’
I snorted. ‘How are those two thoughts even remotely connected? Besides, what’s wrong with the old photo?’ I didn’t have a new one, nor did I have a stitch to wear, and my hair, despite Alice’s advice, still needed a good cut. Better to keep the money for important things.
‘I like my old one, Alice. I look young and happy in it.’ Six years younger, give or take. Forget that I was miserable, but surely youth could sometimes hide the effects of stress? And as long as it didn’t catch up on me suddenly the minute I hit fifty, we were cruising.
‘Honey, believe you me, from now on, you will be taking only happy pictures. And the resolution on your old one isn’t high enough.’
‘Resolution? For what?’
‘For your promo pages. Wikipedia and stuff.’
I laughed. ‘Wikipedia?’
‘Will you stop echoing everything I say? I opened a Wikipedia page for you, so that when people look you up now, they’ll see your backlist titles.’
‘Huh. I hadn’t thought of that.’
‘That’s why you pay me ten per cent. Also, you need to update your website. I had a look at it and it screams the word “Forgotten”.’
Yikes. My website. She had a point. The last time I’d even looked at it was when I’d added the banner “Sunday Times Bestseller”. And that was many, many Sunday Times ago. Did I even remember my password? I must have scribbled it on a piece of paper somewhere, possibly on the back of an old recipe.
‘Right. I’ll see what I can do.’
‘It doesn’t have to be too staid this time. Actually, make it romcom-y, to reflect the Hollywood vibe. Wear a pink blouse or something.’
‘Alice, I love you, but I don’t do pink.’
‘Oh, honey, you may not understand it now, but your life is about to change. Big time.’
