although Frank had told him he’d be stopping at motorway services, likely more than once.
‘Expect me when you see me, Lol,’ he’d told him. It might be an overnight, if he really needed to lay it on with a trowel and take the mother for dinner. Although he definitely needed to be back and rested by tomorrow lunchtime because he was booked to take out another client who needed as much time and attention as he was about to dedicate to Lallie. Being a good agent, as he always said, was like having a big family where every child was your favourite.
The traffic wasn’t too heavy up the M1, and past Watford Frank relaxed enough to concentrate on the situation as it stood. LWT were cutting up rough about another series, although the contract still had two years to run. Light Ents wanted to axe the show in favour of a couple of specials; ‘showcase’ was the word theyhad used. Frank’s unusually hairy ears (he kept them trimmed) filtered euphemism with one hundred per cent efficiency; he knew the score. Lallie wasn’t getting the audiences they had imagined – Bruce and
The Generation Game
were just too strong. But it needn’t be the end of the world, as he and the Head of Light Ents had agreed. Frank was committed to emollience because he was in the process of finessing a tasty contract for another of his clients, a club comedian who was ripe for a TV breakthrough. LWT was dangling a cast-iron game-show format for him tantalizingly out of reach; the crucial distance was Lallie’s mum’s compliance in the conversion of Lallie’s contract from a series into two of these so-called showcases a year. As a bonus, they were willing to release the kid for film work and fit the timing of the shows around it.
Frank knew that LWT was a bit nervous about the current film. Disney was one thing, the dirty-mac-artsy-fartsy brigade was another. Still, he was very hopeful about a contract with one of the American studios, if not Disney itself. It wasn’t for nothing that he’d said to the mother, Katrina, when they’d been approached about the film, it could well be a springboard to greater things. And the director, whatshisname, couldn’t have been more enthusiastic when Lallie had read for him. (Now there was a man who could do with a hit.) Of course, hearing him on the phone raving about Lallie after the audition had come as no surprise to Frank. As he’d attested himself in more than one interview, the first time he’d seen Lallie, singing in a Tyne Tees TV rehearsal room, the hairs had stood up on the back of his neck (also kept trimmed). You just knew. A star was a star, aged eight or eighty-five.
But the American business, although highly promising after the letter that had landed on his desk yesterday, was also tricky. How old had Hayley Mills been when Disney got her for
Pollyanna
? Twelve? And she was pure blonde Anglo-Saxon peaches and cream. Lallie’s dad had some Mediterranean blood inhim from somewhere – hence the name – and puberty was bound to be around the corner. Not that Frank claimed to be an expert on these matters, far from it, thank God, but the costume department on the show had already moaned about how much she was growing during the last series. Maybe Katrina could fill him in more precisely about Lallie’s development, if that was the word he was looking for. The things he had to worry about. A grown man.
Making good time, Frank stopped at the Leicester services to stretch his legs and ring the office. He sorted Veronica out with the calls she could safely make, and made three himself, one of them quite tricky. He got to the set towards two, Lol’s sandwiches untouched on the passenger seat beside him. There was no excitement for Frank in visiting a set; he considered them the most boring places in the world. But, jaded by his unremitting professional routine of rich restaurant lunches, he had an unadmitted weakness for the blandness of catered food. He’d been looking forward to lunch
‘Expect me when you see me, Lol,’ he’d told him. It might be an overnight, if he really needed to lay it on with a trowel and take the mother for dinner. Although he definitely needed to be back and rested by tomorrow lunchtime because he was booked to take out another client who needed as much time and attention as he was about to dedicate to Lallie. Being a good agent, as he always said, was like having a big family where every child was your favourite.
The traffic wasn’t too heavy up the M1, and past Watford Frank relaxed enough to concentrate on the situation as it stood. LWT were cutting up rough about another series, although the contract still had two years to run. Light Ents wanted to axe the show in favour of a couple of specials; ‘showcase’ was the word theyhad used. Frank’s unusually hairy ears (he kept them trimmed) filtered euphemism with one hundred per cent efficiency; he knew the score. Lallie wasn’t getting the audiences they had imagined – Bruce and
The Generation Game
were just too strong. But it needn’t be the end of the world, as he and the Head of Light Ents had agreed. Frank was committed to emollience because he was in the process of finessing a tasty contract for another of his clients, a club comedian who was ripe for a TV breakthrough. LWT was dangling a cast-iron game-show format for him tantalizingly out of reach; the crucial distance was Lallie’s mum’s compliance in the conversion of Lallie’s contract from a series into two of these so-called showcases a year. As a bonus, they were willing to release the kid for film work and fit the timing of the shows around it.
Frank knew that LWT was a bit nervous about the current film. Disney was one thing, the dirty-mac-artsy-fartsy brigade was another. Still, he was very hopeful about a contract with one of the American studios, if not Disney itself. It wasn’t for nothing that he’d said to the mother, Katrina, when they’d been approached about the film, it could well be a springboard to greater things. And the director, whatshisname, couldn’t have been more enthusiastic when Lallie had read for him. (Now there was a man who could do with a hit.) Of course, hearing him on the phone raving about Lallie after the audition had come as no surprise to Frank. As he’d attested himself in more than one interview, the first time he’d seen Lallie, singing in a Tyne Tees TV rehearsal room, the hairs had stood up on the back of his neck (also kept trimmed). You just knew. A star was a star, aged eight or eighty-five.
But the American business, although highly promising after the letter that had landed on his desk yesterday, was also tricky. How old had Hayley Mills been when Disney got her for
Pollyanna
? Twelve? And she was pure blonde Anglo-Saxon peaches and cream. Lallie’s dad had some Mediterranean blood inhim from somewhere – hence the name – and puberty was bound to be around the corner. Not that Frank claimed to be an expert on these matters, far from it, thank God, but the costume department on the show had already moaned about how much she was growing during the last series. Maybe Katrina could fill him in more precisely about Lallie’s development, if that was the word he was looking for. The things he had to worry about. A grown man.
Making good time, Frank stopped at the Leicester services to stretch his legs and ring the office. He sorted Veronica out with the calls she could safely make, and made three himself, one of them quite tricky. He got to the set towards two, Lol’s sandwiches untouched on the passenger seat beside him. There was no excitement for Frank in visiting a set; he considered them the most boring places in the world. But, jaded by his unremitting professional routine of rich restaurant lunches, he had an unadmitted weakness for the blandness of catered food. He’d been looking forward to lunch
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