“You’re going to London now?”
“Yes. Now.”
He finds his bag, his phone, his car keys. And he’s gone.
Laura doesn’t understand why he isn’t more disturbed by the loss of her ring. But maybe he’s right and it’ll just turn up.
A tap on the back door. It’s Terry Sutton.
“Just come to fix that orchard gate,” he says.
“Oh, right,” says Laura. She has no idea what he’s talking about.
I put the ring in my Moroccan box. I know I did.
She returns to the bedroom. There lies the contents of the box, spread out on her dressing table; but no ring. She takes the box itself and shakes it. She tugs out its blue silk lining. There beneath the lining is a folded paper napkin. She opens it out, and sees on it writing from long ago.
Will you marry me?
She gazes at it. Then she starts to cry. She sits in front of her dressing-table mirror, weeping silently, because seeing the writing on the paper napkin pierces her heart. She never cried back then. But somehow the years in between have granted the moment retrospective weight, as if her future with Henry is laid out in a few faded ink strokes on that soft white paper. And that blue biro tick by the box labeled Yes, made by her more as an act of faith than love, was the first real step in the creation of what is now her entire life.
34
Alan comes to the end of the script emailed him by Jane Langridge. He’s only skimmed through it, not wanting to torment himself with too close a knowledge of what has been changed. Most of all he has avoided the speeches of the dog. All the time that he was working on the screenplay, mocking himself for colluding in its absurd premises, he was finding ways to channel his true self.
So deep down I’m a sheepdog with a talent for financial trading. Who knew?
But of course it’s not the financial skills or the dog-ness, it’s the view of the world. “The trouble with people is they’re always on heat. They need a good long rest from thinking about sex.”
Jane has sent the new script with a disingenuous cover note implying it’s still a rough draft, despite the fact that it says on the title page: SHOOTING SCRIPT. And as it happens they’re out there right now, shooting it.
Liz looks in at the door.
“I have to go out.”
Alan knows Liz is still cross with him, but the need to vent his feelings is too strong.
“This is it,” he says, holding up the new draft. “A quirky character comedy now stripped of quirkiness, character and comedy.”
“I have to go,” says Liz.
“Where are you going?”
“To a donkey sanctuary the other side of Hailsham.”
“Why?”
“You know the Russians who made a donkey parasail over a beach? The Sun has rescued the donkey. So now Mark wants a piece on rescued donkeys.”
Henry finds this hard to take in.
“Does anyone care?”
“Mark does.”
Alan wants to talk to her about his screenplay.
“They’ve made the dog American,” he says. “The only thing that was ever funny about the dog swearing was that he was English.”
“Don’t tell me. Tell them. Go and tell them.”
She’s heading for the front door, bag swinging. He follows her into the hall. Caspar is there, gazing at him.
“I’ll tell them, Dad.”
“What?”
“I’ll tell them Rocky has to be English.”
The front door closes. Liz has gone. The phone rings. It’s Bridget, worrying about Liz’s mother.
“She hasn’t phoned,” says Alan, speaking more sharply than he needs. “The whole point is to get her to realize for herself that she needs help. She’s got her emergency-call button if she gets into trouble.”
He puts down the phone.
“If you’re going to the filming,” Cas says, “please take me with you.”
Alan draws a long breath to calm himself. He doesn’t like it when there’s unresolved business between him and Liz.
“I’m not going,” he says. “It’ll only make me angry. There’s no point.”
“Yes, there is. You have to tell them.”
Alan looks down at his son. No self-doubt there, no self-punishment.
Maybe I should go back. Something has to give.
The mix of rage and powerlessness is making him ill. And he doesn’t want to sit around the house feeling sorry for himself, waiting for Liz to come home.
Maybe I should have a private word with Jane. Ask her why they did it behind my back, as if I don’t exist. No, not that. Express concern. My fear that the story might have lost some originality. Might have turned into a crock of shit.
Cas is still staring expectantly up at him.
“If I let you come, you’re to buzz off when I tell you, okay?”
“Okay.”
So Alan sets out like a soldier going to the wars, and Cas runs along after him like a soldier’s son who wants to go to the wars too.
The sun is bright, high in the sky. The morning golden hour is long over, the evening golden hour is yet to come. Today is scheduled to be the last filming day on the Downs. Alan wonders if they got the light they wanted on Wednesday, or yesterday. It hurts him so much, not being a member of the unit, sharing their daily triumphs and disasters, on this story that has been a part of his life for over two years.
“Dad,” says Cas as they drive. “You made Rocky up, didn’t you?”
“Yes, I did.”
“So you’re the most important person of them all.”
“I don’t think they think so.”
“But you are. If it wasn’t for you, none of them would be there, doing the filming.”
“They’d be doing some other film. There are so many films.”
“But not this film,” says Cas firmly. “This film is only being done because of you.”
“That is perfectly true,” says Alan.
When they get to Cuckmere Haven they find no one controlling the entrance to the film-unit car park, and they drive in unhindered. There’s a crowd of crew round the catering van.
“Mid-morning break,” says Alan.
He sees no one he knows. They park at the far end to be out of everyone’s way, and walk back to the cluster of production trailers. Alan’s plan is to locate Jane Langridge and speak to her in private. He doesn’t want to see either the director or the new writer.
Caspar is looking round for Billy. He can’t see him anywhere.
“Can you ask, Dad?”
Alan asks a member of the crew who is standing in line for coffee, but the crew man doesn’t know. Then Alan sees a trailer just ahead that says on its door: PRODUCER—Jane Langridge. He crosses, and is about to tap on the door when it opens. Out steps the young man with the dark curly hair. The new writer.
He gives Alan a questioning look, tipping his head on one side.
“I’m guessing you’re Alan Strachan.”
“Yes,” says Alan.
The young man shoots out his hand.
“Harlan,” he says. He gives Alan a crinkly smile. “I’m the jerk who’s fucking up your story.” He sees Caspar behind Alan. “Hey, sorry about my language.”
“Caspar,” says Alan. “My son.”
“Your dad did a great job,” says Harlan.
“If it wasn’t for him,” says Cas, “none of you would be here.”
“Hundred percent true,” says Harlan. “He’s the giant. We’re the pygmies, standing on his shoulders.”
None of this is what Alan has expected. He doesn’t know how to respond.
“Hey,” says Harlan, “come on in. Have a coffee.”
“Do you know where Billy is?” says Cas.
“Billy?”
“The dog actor who acts Rocky.”
“Oh, sure.” He calls out to a young woman in the line for the catering truck. “Greta. Show this young man where the dog handlers are pitched. He’s a VIP vis
itor, so make nice.”
Caspar runs off with Greta. Alan follows Harlan into the production trailer. They have it to themselves. There’s a table with a laptop open on it where Harlan has evidently been working. A coffee machine in the galley kitchen.
“Your first screenplay, right?” says Harlan.
“Yes,” says Alan.
“You did a great job.” He pours strong black coffee. “The morons have no idea. They fly me over to give it what they call topical edge—” he makes the phrase sound like a fashion accessory—“which turns out to mean referencing a movie made all of sixteen years ago. The dog has to say, ‘Greed is good.’”
“I saw,” says Alan.
“This dog,” says Harlan, “is so fucking self-aware that if he were ever to say ‘Greed is good’ he’d say it like with an up-tick, you know? Greed is good? Like he’s amused by the old-time religion of it all. But try explaining that to Nancy Kravitz. You’ve met Nancy?”
“Only on the phone.”
“Nancy has all the thrust of the first stage of a Saturn rocket. Her job is to blast off and then fall away. She has no idea what’s up there in the nose cone.”
He gives Alan a polystyrene cup of coffee and throws himself across the couch at one end of the trailer.
“Stretch out. Put your shoes up on the soft furnishings. We’re just here for the ride.”
Alan sits down, sips at his coffee. He pulls a face at the bitter taste.
“Yeah, even the coffee’s shit,” says Harlan.
“So,” says Alan. “How long ago did they bring you on to this?”
“I guess it must be three months now. No one told you, of course.”
“No.”
“Welcome to the movie business, where every call is a good-news call. We don’t do criticism. We do praise, and we do silence.”
“Have they done it to you?”
“Fuck, yes. I’ve had one screenplay made, which tanked, by the way, and no surprise to me because the director rewrote all the key scenes with his own unique brand of corpse-speak. And I’ve had, Jesus, I don’t know how many not made. You could line the walls of a crematorium with the pages of my unmade scripts.”
“But they still hired you for this.”
“Yeah, I know. It’s loony tunes. But that’s how they think. It’s almost touching, really, the way hope springs eternal in the studio breast. This writer hasn’t quite got us there, but the next writer’ll crack it. Or the next. No amount of evidence to the contrary can convince them otherwise. It’s new, see? What’s new is better. That’s America. I told them when I read your drafts, I said, Stay with this guy. He’s got the voice you need. Just get him to goose it up a little.”
Alan doesn’t believe this, but he appreciates the courtesy.
“I don’t know that I’m up to goosing,” he says. “I expect they’re better off with you. This isn’t really my scene.”
“But you still show up for the races.”
“For the money.”
“Precisamento. It’s just a job. Never forget that, my friend. It’s like going down a mine. You do your day’s work and you take your day’s pay and you go home and take a shower and pour yourself a drink and you let it all float away. It’s just a fucking job.”
“I guess it is,” says Alan.
“I’ve done what I can to keep your best stuff in there. Not that they’ll ever know. Me and Colin work it together. I slip him some of the original pages and he asks for this speech or that speech to go back in. Colin is extremely smart.”
Somehow including the star actor makes it all believable. He wouldn’t make that up, would he?
“I suppose I should thank you,” says Alan. “You’ll just have to give me a moment to swallow a few preconceptions.”
“What did you think? That I was part of the demolition crew? I’m a writer, Alan. I’m on your side. All writers get fucked over. But we know good stuff when we see it.”
“I suppose I assumed you’d want to take over. Make it your own.”
“When the project’s rolling? No way. All I can do is stop them screwing it up. Then maybe the movie comes out halfway decent and does some business. Which is good for me and good for you.”
“Yes. I suppose it would be.”
Harlan leans forward and taps Alan on the knee, smiling.
“You look like you just walked in on your parents having sex.”
“I am having to make some adjustments.”
“I think this movie could make it through. Did you hear, Bobby de Niro’s agreed to voice the dog?”
“No.”
“Okay, so the dog should be a Brit. But we lost that one. So if you have to have American, Bobby’s as good as it gets. He’s got that world-weary schtick down. I can just hear him drawling, ‘Every sheep is born to die.’”
“Is that back in?”
“You bet your sweet tootsie it’s back in.”
“Will you get a credit?”
“See, that should have been your first question. Now you’re talking like a pro. Do I get a credit? The answer is no. By the rules I have to contribute fifty percent or more, not just to the dialogue, but to the plot structure and character creation. And that I have not done. So guess what, Shakespeare? You get sole credit. Meaning for all my work, as well as yours. So who’s the fucker here, and who’s tied to the bed taking it up the ass for nothing?”
“Except money.”
“You’re learning. I’ll probably make more than you on this gig. But with sole credit on a hit movie, your quote goes way up. Next time you cash in.”
“And the movie never gets made.”
“You’re there. Apprenticeship over.”
Alan shakes his head, marveling at it all.
“How long have you been doing this, Harlan?”
“Almost twenty years now.”
He sees the surprise on Alan’s face.
“Yeah, I look like I’m fresh out of school. I’m thirty-eight. I have this pact with the Devil. I never age, and he gets all the onscreen credits.”
“I’m thirty-nine,” says Alan.
“You’ve written a couple of good plays. One seriously good play.”
“Now I feel ashamed.”
“For wanting to make money?”
“For not taking the trouble to find out more about you.”
“Not much to know. Here’s something you won’t get from Google. When I was sixteen I wrote a story, it was a school assignment. My teacher said to me, Harlan, I’m not even grading this. This is the real thing. You’re that rare creature, Harlan. You’re a writer.”
The brittle tone falls away from his voice as he tells this story. His gaze holds Alan’s eyes.
“It was like he was saying to me, You’re an angel.”
“So maybe you are.”
“Yeah, sure. Maybe. You make your choices, you live with them. And we have some fun along the way, right?”
Tap-tap on the trailer door.
“That’ll be Cas,” says Alan.
He opens the door and there’s Cas all charged up with excuses.
“Billy had to go and I was thinking—”
“It’s okay, Cas. Come on in.”
Cas comes in, looking round at the interior of the trailer.
“Wow! It’s like a house!”
“How was Billy?” says Harlan.
“He was resting,” says Cas. “Actors have to have downtime.” He finds an iPad on the table. “Is this an iPad?”
“It is,” says Harlan. “Have a go with it.”
Cas sets to work at once, seeming to know by instinct how to operate it. Harlan watches him wistfully.
“You have children?” says Alan.
“One boy. He lives with his mother.”
“That’s hard.”
“Yes, it’s hard.”
His phone rings.
“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah. I’ll be right over.”
He gives Alan an apologetic shrug.
“Duty calls.
”
“Okay. We’ll get back. Cas!”
Cas jumps up, his fingers still on the iPad.
“It’s been a privilege, Alan.” Harlan offers his hand as he hooks up a bag full of scripts.
They go out into the now deserted space between the trailers. Harlan waves and sets off at a lope toward the film unit on the hillside. Alan and Cas walk back to the car.
“Did you tell him he’d messed up your script?” says Cas.
“No,” says Alan.
“Thought not.”
They’re both silent as they drive home, each deep in thought. Then Cas breaks the silence.
“I’d do anything in the world to have an iPad,” he says. “But there just isn’t anything, is there?”
“No,” says Alan.
“Thought not.”
35
Toby feels like all he’s done for days is sit on the floor in Carrie’s room and watch her cry. Time to move on, my friend. Always the same story.
Everything would be so easy if people would only let go. It’s the clinging on to things that makes all the misery in the world. You can’t hold living things, they’re in motion, if you want them to stay you have to kill them. But say this to someone and they hear something different, they hear, I want to leave you, and they start to cry.
So Carrie cries. I try to tell her, but all she hears is this won’t be forever, and if it’s not forever it’s going to end, and if it’s going to end it’s already dying. But hey, we’re all dying. Every day a step nearer the end. What’s new? But Carrie cries.
“You say I should live now,” she tells me, “now, you say, now. But you don’t live now. If you did, how would you know you’re going to leave? You wouldn’t know it until you were doing it. So why do you have to say you’ll leave?”
All of which is fair comment, but since when did I claim to practice what I preach? Since when did I preach? Say the first thing that comes into your head. Act without forethought.
Look, all I’m trying to do here is step lightly on the earth. Leave no trace. If I could shed my self I would.
“Don’t sit so close,” I tell her. “I need space.”
She moves away.
“Come closer. Lie down beside me.”
She lies down beside me. What does she want from me?
Her manner with him though not her words says, Do with me what you will. She plays at disagreement, but she has submitted. The pleasure this gives him dwindles day by day. She senses this and fears she’ll lose him. In her fear she seeks to please him more, and so he becomes cruel.