Frank
as an action film.
I joined her as our waiter arrived.
“Just coffee for now,” I said.
“Black,” intoned Claire. The waiter withdrew and she went on, “Black—like the black, pitch-dark heart of General Snelling,
a heart never pierced by the radiant light of love or the sunshine of kindness or even a faint tender ray of —”
“All right. You finish it?”
“Yes. I decided to just read the verbs and it flew by. Have you by chance spoken to our collaborator this morning?”
“I left a message.”
“When he calls back tell him please to swing by. And ask if he’d be so kind as to bring a garrote.”
Our coffee came and we consumed several cups as we probed the mystery of our hiring. Everyone insisted we’d been chosen on
the basis of our brilliant spec, a script Claire and I had confidently assumed to be our own
Mrs. McManus
. This now seemed decidedly less likely. Why would Bobby, seeking to adapt this brutally unfunny book, hire a team whose spec
was a lighthearted comedy? We wondered if perhaps Gilbert hadn’t been lying and the spec really
was
his, a notion we swiftly rejected as too preposterous to entertain.
Claire opined that it might just be flat-out nepotism, Max asking Bobby to hire Maddie’s son in exchange for some favor from
Max. In that scenario Bobby wouldn’t much care what the spec was and might not even have read it. I said I didn’t see what
good it did Bobby to hire writers he didn’t believe in.
“Oh, darling,” she drawled with maddening condescension, “you don’t think Bobby plans to actually
film
what we write? You know how it works out here. Nothing makes it to the screen until at least a dozen ink-stained wretches
have had a whack at it. So if we agree to actually do this—”
“‘If’?” I repeated, startled. “What do you mean ‘if’?!”
“I’m sorry, but I’m not sure I want any part of this.”
“But you can’t quit!” I said, panic and caffeine sending my already cantering heart into a brisk gallop. The task of adapting
Greta
would be hellish enough even with Claire’s help and unimaginable with no one’s “assistance” save Gilbert’s. “I mean, I’ll
grant you it won’t be a picnic—but, God, hon, think of the money!”
“I have. I’ve thought of it a great deal. I’m just not sure if it’s worth spending the next few months writing adorable dead
moppets and, what’s-his-name, Nazi with the Laughing Eyes.”
“I am begging you!” I said, clasping her forearms. “Do not consign me to everlasting Gilbert!”
“I don’t want to, dear. I’m just not sure I have the stomach for this.”
I whined, wheedled, and cajoled but to no end. Claire insisted she’d make no decision until we’d met with Spellman and ascertained
how much of the book he was married to. I could only bow to this and pray that Bobby would not prove so insufferable as to
obliterate all hope of keeping her on board.
I tried Gilbert again and once more got his voice mail.
“I wouldn’t bother,” frowned Claire. “He’s obviously gone to ground.”
I tended to agree. Gilbert had known when he’d dropped them off just what lurked in those envelopes. He would not, as such,
care to face us again till we were seated in Bobby’s office and could smell the ink on the paycheck.
T HE TAXI DEPOSITED C LAIRE and me at the famed main gate of Pinnacle Pictures promptly at two. A guard gave us directions to Bobby Spellman’s office,
which we reached an acceptable five minutes late. Gilbert had not yet arrived.
The outer office was quite large, its walls predictably crowded with posters for Bobby’s shrill blockbusters. The absurdly
beautiful woman behind the desk informed us that her name was — what else?— Svetlana and that Bobby was finishing a call.
Would we care for something to drink? We declined and sat to wait for Gilbert, who showed up five minutes later carrying a
briefcase.
“Have a seat, dear,” said
as an action film.
I joined her as our waiter arrived.
“Just coffee for now,” I said.
“Black,” intoned Claire. The waiter withdrew and she went on, “Black—like the black, pitch-dark heart of General Snelling,
a heart never pierced by the radiant light of love or the sunshine of kindness or even a faint tender ray of —”
“All right. You finish it?”
“Yes. I decided to just read the verbs and it flew by. Have you by chance spoken to our collaborator this morning?”
“I left a message.”
“When he calls back tell him please to swing by. And ask if he’d be so kind as to bring a garrote.”
Our coffee came and we consumed several cups as we probed the mystery of our hiring. Everyone insisted we’d been chosen on
the basis of our brilliant spec, a script Claire and I had confidently assumed to be our own
Mrs. McManus
. This now seemed decidedly less likely. Why would Bobby, seeking to adapt this brutally unfunny book, hire a team whose spec
was a lighthearted comedy? We wondered if perhaps Gilbert hadn’t been lying and the spec really
was
his, a notion we swiftly rejected as too preposterous to entertain.
Claire opined that it might just be flat-out nepotism, Max asking Bobby to hire Maddie’s son in exchange for some favor from
Max. In that scenario Bobby wouldn’t much care what the spec was and might not even have read it. I said I didn’t see what
good it did Bobby to hire writers he didn’t believe in.
“Oh, darling,” she drawled with maddening condescension, “you don’t think Bobby plans to actually
film
what we write? You know how it works out here. Nothing makes it to the screen until at least a dozen ink-stained wretches
have had a whack at it. So if we agree to actually do this—”
“‘If’?” I repeated, startled. “What do you mean ‘if’?!”
“I’m sorry, but I’m not sure I want any part of this.”
“But you can’t quit!” I said, panic and caffeine sending my already cantering heart into a brisk gallop. The task of adapting
Greta
would be hellish enough even with Claire’s help and unimaginable with no one’s “assistance” save Gilbert’s. “I mean, I’ll
grant you it won’t be a picnic—but, God, hon, think of the money!”
“I have. I’ve thought of it a great deal. I’m just not sure if it’s worth spending the next few months writing adorable dead
moppets and, what’s-his-name, Nazi with the Laughing Eyes.”
“I am begging you!” I said, clasping her forearms. “Do not consign me to everlasting Gilbert!”
“I don’t want to, dear. I’m just not sure I have the stomach for this.”
I whined, wheedled, and cajoled but to no end. Claire insisted she’d make no decision until we’d met with Spellman and ascertained
how much of the book he was married to. I could only bow to this and pray that Bobby would not prove so insufferable as to
obliterate all hope of keeping her on board.
I tried Gilbert again and once more got his voice mail.
“I wouldn’t bother,” frowned Claire. “He’s obviously gone to ground.”
I tended to agree. Gilbert had known when he’d dropped them off just what lurked in those envelopes. He would not, as such,
care to face us again till we were seated in Bobby’s office and could smell the ink on the paycheck.
T HE TAXI DEPOSITED C LAIRE and me at the famed main gate of Pinnacle Pictures promptly at two. A guard gave us directions to Bobby Spellman’s office,
which we reached an acceptable five minutes late. Gilbert had not yet arrived.
The outer office was quite large, its walls predictably crowded with posters for Bobby’s shrill blockbusters. The absurdly
beautiful woman behind the desk informed us that her name was — what else?— Svetlana and that Bobby was finishing a call.
Would we care for something to drink? We declined and sat to wait for Gilbert, who showed up five minutes later carrying a
briefcase.
“Have a seat, dear,” said
Similar Books
