Читать книгу Close-Up - Len Deighton - Страница 10

I have a washbasin but no shower in my office. Dory [Schary] has a shower but no bathtub. L.B. [Mayer] has a shower and a bathtub. The kind of bath facilities you have in your office is another measure of the worth of your position.

Gottfried Reinhardt

No oriental potentate had a more attentive retinue than followed Leo Koolman through the London offices of Koolman International Pictures Inc that Wednesday afternoon. And, like the entourage of an Eastern ruler, this following was entirely male. Koolman lived in Santa Monica, but he also lived in London. Because so many KI films had been shot in Spain he used some of the tied-up money to buy a house in Marbella too. Each of his houses provided cars, horses, paintings, servants, food and love. And such was the style of Koolman’s life that for three or four years at a time, all of these elements would remain unchanged.

However, most of his year was spent in New York. For that was where he found the computers and the accountants and the men from the banks and investment companies, and that therefore was the centre of power. Call him president, chairman or production chief, in the Koolman company it was the man who sat in New York who called the tune. So his European executives kept close to Leo Koolman that afternoon. They made sure that no possible whim might be frustrated or allowed to cool. Cigarettes – always Parliaments – and cigars – Monte Cristo – appeared and were lit by steady hands almost before they reached his mouth. Stiff Martinis were delivered in heavy cut-glass goblets, tinkling with ice. Inside each was a row of olives transfixed by a plastic spear with The Long Tornado embossed upon its stem. The Long Tornado was KI’s latest film; Leo Koolman liked to be reminded of what his advertising men were doing for it. He used the spears to emphasize his words, and he punctuated his theories by biting into the olives with strong white teeth.

The men in the room were curiously alike. They were slim and healthy: tanned by lamps and exercised by machines. They wore expensive suits of dark wool or tailor-made blue-flannel blazers. White shirts set off club ties both real and ornamental. Their hair was short, and more than half of them were wearing tortoiseshell-rimmed spectacles. Their fingernails were manicured, their faces showed a trace of talc and their voices were soft and sincere and, because the Englishmen tried to speak like the Americans and vice versa, it was difficult to tell which were which. They moved constantly, turning so as to keep Koolman in sight. None sat down. They conversed and laughed and drank and patted shoulders, but it was all done in a rehearsed and subdued manner, being little more than displacement activity for men who knew that their livelihoods could depend upon a murmur or a gesture from Leo Koolman. So only Koolman could look where he liked, and he moved among them talking in the soft sympathetic tones of a Schweitzer among incurables.

Leo Koolman was a tall man in his late forties. He wore a dark-grey silk suit and a cream shirt with a Palm Springs Raquet Club tie. He had a thin bony nose and a large generous mouth which a small scar caused to pucker on one side. His eyelids were heavy, which prevented any but the lowest-placed lights reflecting from his eyeballs. It gave him a dead-eye appearance. Photographers used eye-lights to avoid such a look, and thus portraits of Leo Koolman made him look younger and more active than he looked in life. But those unlit eyes were not dead; they studied the men in the room. He looked at their ears and their shoes and their spectacles and the knot of their tie and all the time he judged their capability and remembered their salaries. Koolman was an attractive man: few men and even fewer women resisted the spell of the energy he generated and wasted with profligate disregard. He slept less than four hours a night, and could get off a transatlantic plane looking as neat and tidy as ever he did, and be ready to confute teams of lawyers single-handed. He played tennis like a pro, swam, danced and rode a horse with far above average skill. What he could never get from reading books, he got from reading accounts, and he’d add up columns while talking. His memory was a widely discussed phenomenon. By any standards Koolman was a remarkable man. If he had failings – and few of his associates believed that – they were an indifference to books, a hostility to serious music and no discernible sense of humour. Koolman laughed only at disasters; particularly those of his rivals.

If the last of the Hollywood czars has gone, then Koolman was one of the first Stalins. Perhaps by the turn of the century even journalists will be suspecting that such men are with us to stay. Stalins don’t live by movies alone. Koolman’s contemporaries governed conglomerates and were as interested in car rentals, airlines, frozen food and computers as they were in movie-making. Koolman International also owned subsidiaries, but Leo Koolman had grown up in Hollywood and he never forgot his childhood, and never ceased to implement his dreams.

All the executives in the room had once been agents, lawyers or actors. Koolman had found another way of calling the tune in the movie business: he’d inherited the president’s chair from his Uncle Max, who’d formed the company when both the movies and the accountants were silent.

These men were Koolman’s janissaries: men he’d brought from New York and California, the dukes of distribution and the princes of publicity. Perhaps they too lit Koolman’s cigars back there on Fifth Avenue but here in London they enjoyed a different, vicarious power. They were praised and pandered to. For they would have Koolman’s ear in the days to come, when he was deciding what he really thought about his European offices and the men who manned them.

At five-thirty Koolman retreated beyond the ramparts of the outer office, through the anteroom where Minnie guarded the sofa worn shiny by nervous behinds, and to the extraordinary art-encrusted office which was kept for his exclusive use. He spoke to New York and California, as he did every day from wherever he was. He retired to his private bathroom, took a shower and changed his clothes. By six o’clock he was ready for the audience.

An agent brought a director who wanted to do a musical about Marx and Engels and a girl who’d spent all afternoon painting her eyes. A Cockney actor was modelling his Biafra hairdo. A producer showed everyone a photo of his new house in Palm Springs and a scriptwriter in a studded leather jacket brought the eighth rewrite of Copkiller – Anarchy Rules in Youth’s New State.

‘There’s a frisson or two there,’ said the scriptwriter modestly. He took off his dark glasses and scowled. Koolman flipped it carelessly and read a line. ‘It’s good,’ said Koolman, although the line he read had remained unchanged in all eight versions. In fact Koolman had read none of them: his script department took those sort of chores off his back. He looked around the room. A girl in a see-through dress embraced the European head of publicity enthusiastically enough to break a shoulder strap. Suzy Delft brought a friend named Penelope and they both kissed Leo Koolman, who blushed.

The gathering continued for two hours, although few visitors stayed that long. Agents paraded their clients and cued their exits. One of the first people to leave was a pretty young girl named Josephine Stewart. She was one of the few people in the room to address her host as Mr Koolman and yet the very formality of that might have indicated the influence she wielded. Not only was she a beautiful young wife with a wealthy family and a brilliant Oxford degree not so very far behind her, she was also an active campaigner against the bomb, apartheid and censorship. She was in addition one of the most influential London film critics.

She gave her readers sociology, history and art for the price of a film review. She could recall shot by shot a Jean Vigo masterpiece, relate it to the abortion rate in pre-war California and explain how Vigo took the idea from a Kurt Schwitters collage before excoriating a director for its misuse in the film she was reviewing.

To Koolman she said, ‘I loved The Sound of Music. Don’t quote me, but I loved it. Three times I’ve taken my little daughter back to see it.’

‘Did you pan it?’ Koolman asked.

‘Nowadays directors think only of foreground action – television directing – they can’t handle big scenes.’

‘You panned Sound of Music, didn’t you?’

‘Beautifully photographed, superbly edited, with jump-cutting at least ten years ahead of its time.’

‘Did you pan it?’

‘I can’t afford to tell my readers to go and see schmaltz.’

‘Do you think they haven’t taken their kids three times, too?’

‘They probably have. But that doesn’t mean they want me to tell them to.’

Phil Sanchez brought drinks for them: whisky and soda for Jo Stewart and tonic water for Koolman. ‘Thanks, Phil.’ Koolman grasped the girl’s arm and turned her so that he was looking directly into her eyes. In some other environment such passion might have attracted comment, but here it was strictly professional. Koolman said, ‘One of our companies did a market survey about the way people borrow money. People preferred to go to a moneylender than to a bank, even if the bank gave them easier terms. They felt inferior in a bank, they felt out of place there. But in the money-lender’s office they felt morally superior.’

Jo Stewart said, ‘That’s fascinating.’

‘You critics go to your Press shows at the nice comfortable hour of ten-thirty A.M. Champagne, lobster sandwiches…’

‘When was that?’

‘OK, but you do get a carefully matched print, a chosen track. No adverts or people coming in halfway through.’

‘Going out halfway through sometimes.’

‘You are confident and at ease. Right? You had a nice printed invite to go and you’re being paid to be there. You welcome a stimulating film and you’ll judge it in intellectual terms. You’re looking for talent. You’ll respect a film that you have difficulty in understanding and maybe you’ll give it the benefit of the doubt. Right?’

Koolman raised an admonitory finger alongside his ear. No imitation of him omitted this hand movement. With the right timing any wag could use it to raise a smile or a shudder. For Koolman’s finger jabbed at heaven suggesting that he was in close collusion with God. ‘Right?’

Koolman said, ‘But my audiences are in their neighbourhood movie houses, sitting in wet coats, after a day’s work, maybe tough manual work. They don’t need mental challenge by some smart little movie-maker. They don’t want to feel inferior to a film’s intellectual content. They want a laugh and a bit of excitement. They’ll forgive a movie that is predictable, slick and superficial because those very faults will make them feel superior.’

‘That’s a gloomy policy for a movie-maker.’

‘It’s a realistic policy,’ said Koolman.

‘I never know when you are teasing,’ said Josephine Stewart.

‘I’m never teasing,’ said Koolman.

Weinberger came into the room warily. He reached inside a fake bookcase and opened the refrigerator. He poured himself a bitter lemon and sat down in the corner. Koolman squeezed Jo Stewart’s arm as she said goodbye and waved hello at Weinberger. He looked around the room to see if there was any unfinished business. Having decided there was not, he looked at his watch. He used a fob watch so that he could look at it without any danger of the gesture passing unnoticed. Dennis Lightfoot noticed and took it as his cue. ‘It’s about time, Leo,’ he said loudly. Lightfoot was the executive in charge of European production. He could OK anything with a budget under two million dollars. Leo Koolman was here to see how Dennis Lightfoot’s guesses were making out.

Koolman put his arm around Lightfoot. ‘Let’s go, everyone,’ he said softly. The roomful of people began to move. The lift gates were open and the canned music was moaning softly. The men who travelled in the elevator were relaxed and smiling and yet they were as alert as the Secret Service men who guard their president. Only Weinberger and six chosen executives took the lift to the basement where the viewing theatre was situated. The others wandered down to the lobby where they chatted and laughed, sub-divided and re-formed several times until they were in three mutually agreed groups. Only then did they make their separate ways to three very different restaurants.

The viewing theatre had thirty seats. Two of them were already occupied by Edgar Nicolson and the director of Silent Paradise, the film they were about to see. Nicolson was sitting at the console tapping his fingers on the projection room phone. Koolman guided Lightfoot to a chair and then sat between him and Nicolson. The rest of the men seated themselves in the four corners of the theatre, knowing that whether the film was good or bad it was just as well to have a row of seats between oneself and Koolman.

‘Everyone here?’ said Koolman. Silent Paradise had finished shooting over three months before and still was not ready. His voice clearly implied that no one was going to leave the room until he knew why.

‘Everyone is here,’ said Lightfoot.

‘Where’s Marshall Stone?’ said Leo Koolman.

‘He’s coming straight from the location, Leo,’ said Weinberger. ‘He said to start.’

‘He said to start,’ said Koolman. He nodded. Weinberger realized that that had been a tactless way of putting it. ‘Then let’s start.’

Nicolson picked up the red phone and pressed the button. ‘OK, Billy, let’s go.’

The room lights dimmed slowly and a beam of light cut a bright rectangle from the whorls of cigar smoke. The KI trademark came into focus and Nicolson pressed the buttons to make the curtains divide. He was a little late. By the time they were fully open, the trademark – a large tome with ‘Koolman International Inc Presents’ written on it in Gothic lettering – had cut to some second unit footage of a street in Anchorage.

‘No titles?’ said Koolman in a loud whisper.

‘They come at the end,’ explained Nicolson.

‘At the end,’ said Koolman affably. ‘Is this for the Chinese market, this movie?’

‘No, Leo,’ said Nicolson and then he laughed. ‘Ha, ha, ha.’

‘Chinese market,’ said Lightfoot, his words ending in the sibilant hiss of a man desperately trying to suppress his merriment.

‘Titles go in the front of a movie,’ said Koolman patiently.

‘I think you’re right, Leo,’ said Nicolson. ‘It was just an experiment.’

‘Tell them you’re going to tell them. Tell them. Then tell them you told them,’ said Koolman. ‘Don’t say you don’t know that basic rule about the movie business.’

Nicolson didn’t answer but Lightfoot gave a hint of a chuckle.

On the screen there was a helicopter shot of an Arctic wasteland. ‘Great camerawork, Nic,’ said one of the Americans.

‘Did it in Yorkshire,’ said Nicolson.

‘No kidding,’ said the American.

‘Had to remove four hundred telephone poles,’ said Nicolson.

‘Don’t you have a music track?’ said Koolman.

‘We have a wonderful track but we thought we’d try and get a feeling of emptiness and loneliness right here.’

‘That’s the feeling we’ll get all right,’ agreed Koolman, ‘emptiness and loneliness – right there in the movie theatres,’ he gave a grim mirthless chuckle.

‘It’s a great soundtrack, Leo,’ said Nicolson. He turned up the volume control and hoped it would start. It did. There was an eerie sound as massed trumpets began the musical theme.

‘It’s not bad, that tune,’ said Koolman.

‘It’s just running wild at present,’ said Nicolson.

‘It’s great,’ said the same American as before.

‘It’s a catchy tune,’ said Lightfoot modestly.

‘I’ll tell you what to do with that…’ said Koolman. He leaned aside to Lightfoot.

‘Edgar,’ supplied Lightfoot, and Koolman leaned back to Nicolson again.

‘I’ll tell you what to do with that, Edgar,’ said Koolman.

‘Yes, Leo?’ said Nicolson as if he really wanted to know.

‘Lyrics: get some kid singing it. Look what that tune did for Dr Zhivago.’

‘Great idea,’ said Lightfoot.

‘We’ll give it a try,’ said Nicolson.

‘Don’t give it a try,’ sighed Koolman, ‘just do it.’

‘It could be great,’ said Nicolson doubtfully.

‘Da, da, di, da, da, daaa, daaa, daaaaaa I could be a lonely man.’ Koolman tried to improvise words to the theme which was now being repeated for the tenth time.

‘This is just the rough track,’ said Nicolson. ‘It will have a big orchestra when we do the real one.’

‘Get that lonely feeling in the words,’ said Koolman. ‘All these kids love to feel sorry for themselves.’

One of the Americans was head of the KI Music, Koolman’s sheet music and recording company. He said to Nicolson, ‘You give me your wild track, I’ll talk to my people in New York.’

‘Thanks a lot,’ said Nicolson. ‘A tape will be on your desk tomorrow, that’s a promise.’

The film cut to a studio interior. Four actors in fur clothing were seated around a table. The door opened and a fifth man came in along with a handful of effects snow from a wind machine. Through the door there was a glimpse of a polystyrene ice-face and a painted back-cloth that wasn’t sufficiently out of focus. The fifth man pushed his snow glasses off his face and pulled back his fur hood. It was Marshall Stone. He’d just returned from a vacation in Nice when they shot the sequence: one of the first they did. Stone looked tanned and lean and very fit. He’d had a small hairpiece fitted for the role and he looked as handsome as he’d ever been.

‘That’s Marshall Stone, isn’t it, Nic?’

‘He looks wonderful, Jacob,’ Koolman said to Weinberger.

Weinberger said nothing. Koolman said to Nicolson, ‘Do you want to make that music a little quieter? I can’t hear myself speak.’

Nicolson twisted the offending control viciously.

On the screen Marshall Stone said, ‘Why couldn’t they find oil in Maidenhead or Cowes or somewhere decent?’

‘Now I can hardly hear the track,’ said Koolman.

‘This is just a guide track,’ explained Nicolson.

‘Maidenhead,’ said Koolman, ‘was that in the script?’

‘It’s a place near London,’ explained Lightfoot.

‘I know it’s a place near London,’ said Koolman irritably. ‘I’ve got one of my boys at Eton, haven’t I? But what about the audiences in Omaha?’

Nicolson said, ‘When we loop it, we’ll change it. Stone can say London.’

The director spoke for the first time. He was seated at the back. They were all surprised to hear his voice emerge from the gloom under the projection light. He stuttered slightly, ‘It will show. You can’t loop London into a close-up like that and have it lip-synch.’

Koolman turned around slowly. The director was a white haired old man who had promised Nicolson that he wouldn’t say a word throughout the screening.

Koolman looked at him. Koolman didn’t know much about the technical side of movie-making but he knew sufficient of the basic principles to win arguments with directors. ‘You mean you haven’t got any cover?’

‘I don’t cover everything. It would be too expensive.’

‘We got cover, Tony,’ shouted Nicolson, leaning back to grab his director’s arm in a warning hug. ‘We got cover: a tracking shot, a two-shot, lots of stuff. We can loop it for London OK. We are still doing the loops.’ He bound his left hand tightly with a silk handkerchief.

‘Shoot it again if you have to,’ said Koolman slightly mollified by Nicolson’s anxiety. ‘Basic rule in movies: plenty of cover.’

‘This is a great sequence, Leo,’ promised Lightfoot believing the sequence was Marshall Stone punching an Eskimo stunt man in the head. They all watched attentively while Marshall Stone and two extras plodded over a hillock of special effects snow. Now it was Lightfoot who twisted his hands in silent prayer.

‘Yeah, great,’ said Koolman. ‘Really terrific: it builds.’ He’d hardly spoken when the film cut to a two-shot of the men, to a close-up of Stone, then the long-shot in which stunt men substituted for the actors. There was a brief exchange of blows after which a man wearing Marshall Stone’s distinctive red gloves somersaulted to the bottom of a snow drift. Lightfoot slowly released the breath that had almost exploded his lungs.

‘You’ll have to get rid of that,’ said Koolman. He flung the words over his shoulder. He sensed that the old director was his only vocal opposition in the theatre.

‘I thought it was pretty good,’ said the director.

‘Corny,’ said Koolman, ‘acrobatics.’

‘I think it should… stay in,’ said the director.

Koolman turned to Lightfoot. ‘Who have you got editing this picture?’ They both knew that it wasn’t the sort of information that Lightfoot was likely to have in his mind, so they waited until Nicolson said, ‘Sam Parnell, an old-timer, a really great editor.’

Koolman made a whirling movement of his finger as a signal to Phil Sanchez, his personal assistant. ‘I’ll talk to Parnell before we go back.’ He turned to Nicolson. ‘That be OK with you, Edgar?’

‘Sure thing, Leo,’ said Nicolson. ‘Anything you’ve got to say, we can always use advice.’ Phil Sanchez made a note in his little book. Nicolson unbound his bloodless hand.

‘I think we can do something with this movie. We can shape it into something,’ said Koolman. No one spoke.

On the screen Marshall Stone had lost his goggles and was feeling around in the snow between brief cuts of lens flare to show that the reflections were blinding him.

‘Great performance from Stone,’ said Koolman. ‘Now there’s a man who’s really learned his trade, eh, Edgar?’

‘Great performance, Leo,’ said Nicolson. ‘He gives gives gives all the time. This could be one for a nomination.’

‘Best actor,’ mused Koolman.

Weinberger said, ‘He’s had three nominations. This one could do it for him.’

‘What do you think, Arty?’ asked Koolman of one of his publicity men.

‘If we play it like that, then this movie is going to need some special nursing, Leo. We’ll need serious interviews, woo the egg-heads a bit. Even then I’d say this movie doesn’t stand a prayer for a “best picture” award – the whole membership…’ he wiggled his outstretched hand. ‘A “best actor” for Stone… maybe. But it will cost us, Leo.’

Nicolson said, ‘If we were going to go for an Oscar, that will control our release.’ He rubbed his hand to help the circulation. It began to tingle.

‘Sure,’ said Lightfoot. ‘Thirty days of exhibition in Los Angeles before the end of December. That would be quite a rush.’

‘We could do it,’ said Nicolson. ‘We’re close to dubbing.’

‘It wouldn’t stand a chance the following year unless we held it until fall.’

‘You guys work it out,’ said Koolman.

The music man said, ‘With great music like this maybe I’ll talk to Barbra or Andy.’

‘Or Sammy,’ said another voice. ‘Sammy’s a very good friend of mine: he comes to the house.’

‘Sure,’ said the music man, ‘Sammy, or better still Tom Jones might like to do an album, or Johnny Cash.’

‘Tom Jones is a wonderful person,’ said Nicolson, ‘and he would be great for the main title, we could use a vocal opening.’

‘Tapes or disc,’ said the music man, ‘but I’ll need them yesterday.’

They all laughed.

‘Great camerawork, Nic,’ said the only person still watching the screen. Marshall Stone had not found his goggles because they were caught on a crag which was kept in frame centre while Stone scrambled pitifully on the ground. Stone buried his head in his hands and gave a manly sob. The camera zoomed in to show the makeup department’s frostbite.

‘Do you want to turn that music down a little, Edgar?’

‘This is just a wild track. It’s not balanced or anything.’

‘Best actor,’ said Koolman softly. He leaned close to Lightfoot. ‘If we can get an Oscar for Stone it will make a great launch for the TV series, Dennis.’

‘Right, Leo, right.’ They both smiled at each other as though this idea had only just come to them.

There were eight motor-cars waiting outside KI Pictures in Wardour Street. Nine, if you count Jacob Weinberger’s chauffeur-driven Jaguar, although no one did count it because Weinberger said he had no car. This gave him a chance to ride with Leo Koolman in the Rolls Limousine. Also in the car there were Suzy Delft, her friend Penelope, Leo and Phil Sanchez his assistant. The girls had been waiting upstairs in Leo’s office.

When the convoy of cars arrived at Jamie’s Club, Leo was shown the big circular table set for ten. The two girls hurried away to repaint their faces. Koolman arranged the seating around the table. Nicolson and his director were across the table and Weinberger was two seats away, leaving an empty seat on each side of Koolman. When the girls returned Penelope was wearing a different dress. Koolman noticed this and remarked on it. The girl smiled. Koolman looked at the menu and patted the seat of the chair next to him without looking up. Obediently Penelope slid into it and gratefully took a menu from the waiter.

The New York executives alternated with their London equivalents. The seat between Weinberger and Koolman was held for Marshall Stone, who arrived with the wine waiter. Stone was in a dark suit with a stiff cutaway collar and a Travellers Club tie. A gold watch-chain on his waistcoat carried a gold nuclear disarmament medallion. He made a fine entrance. He walked up to Leo Koolman and stood with his hands stretched forward. He searched for words that might convey his sincere good wishes. When he did speak his voice was husky. ‘Leo, it’s good to see you. It’s damned good to see you.’

Koolman jumped to his feet like a bantamweight boxer coming out of his corner. ‘We saw a great performance tonight, Marsh. A truly great performance.’

Marshall Stone looked around the table with a quizzical smile on his face. ‘You’ve screened the new Richard and Liz film?’

‘We saw Silent Paradise, Marshall.’

‘You old bastard, Edgar,’ said Stone to Nicolson. ‘You might have told me.’

Nicolson said, ‘You were great, Marshall, we all thought so.’

‘It’s a great performance, Marshall,’ said Koolman. ‘Dennis thinks we should go after a best actor nomination and I agree.’ Dennis Lightfoot made a mental note of the fact that if anything went wrong with Koolman’s latest idea, it was going to become a Lightfoot idea.

Stone shook his head. ‘I was just part of a fine team, Leo,’ he said.

‘It’s time we got you one of those metal dolls, Marshall,’ said Koolman.

Stone sat down and blew his nose loudly.

The waiter asked Stone what he would have to drink. ‘Perrier water,’ said Stone. To Koolman he said, ‘I never drink when I’m making a picture.’ Stone looked around the table. ‘Darling,’ he called to Suzy. ‘That dress: sensational!’ He pretended to look around the room for the camera. ‘Are we doing the orgy scene?’

‘How is Stool Pigeon coming along, Marshall?’ said Koolman. The others went on with their conversations while keeping their eyes and ears on Koolman. Koolman said, ‘I like that moustache. That’s for the role, eh?’

Marshall smiled at the other guests before he answered. ‘It’s not a film for over-sensitive people, Leo. It’s a tough, no-holds-barred story of what war is really like.’ He touched his moustache. ‘Yes, for the film.’

‘But are the kids going to like the film, Marshall?’

‘The kids will love it, Leo, because there is lots of fun in it too. And a challenge to authority.’

‘A film has got to have confrontation, colour and conflict,’ said Leo who had got that cinematographic philosophy from a film about a producer.

‘This has got it,’ said Marshall Stone.

‘Who’s directing?’

‘A new director: Richard Preston. It’s his first feature.’

‘A TV kid,’ said Koolman. ‘I hope we’re not getting too many flick zooms, whip pans and all that psychedelic crap. Are you watching that, Dennis?’

Lightfoot said, ‘You bet, Leo. I saw the rushes last week and it’s good solid footage and Suzy is going to be really great.’ His voice betrayed the doubts he shared about the picture.

‘Aren’t they three weeks over?’ He tried to recall the paperwork.

‘Weather trouble,’ said Lightfoot.

‘Don’t these guys who prepare your budgets know that it rains in England, Dennis?’ Lightfoot didn’t answer, so Koolman said, ‘I think it rains here now and again. I think I’ve heard rumours to that effect.’ He looked around the table and everyone smiled.

Lightfoot smiled too. He said, ‘We scheduled it so that we could go inside when it rains but we only have Marshall for three more weeks so we have to do his shots whenever we possibly can. That means holding the crew ready instead of doing the cover shots.’

Koolman nodded. ‘Location films, who needs them. We have the same trouble in New York. They tell me how much we save by not going into the studio and then they stand scratching their arses waiting for the rain to stop. So that’s saving money? If we must have location shooting, what’s wrong with California. At least you can bet on the sunshine.’

Stone said, ‘I’m so pleased that you liked Silent Paradise. Did you notice that wonderful performance by Bertie Anderson?’

‘Which one was he?’ said Koolman.

‘The truck driver in the first reel,’ said Stone. ‘A fantastic performance. Jesus, if I could act like that man…’

‘I don’t even remember it,’ said Weinberger, as soon as he was certain that Anderson wasn’t one of his clients.

Nicolson said, ‘It was the very old man who throws the mailbag on the ground.’

‘Oh, him,’ said Koolman. The part had only had about fifty seconds of screen time.

‘Almost eighty,’ said Stone, ‘a wonderful old man. I made Edgar give him the part.’ Stone took a bread roll from the waiter, broke it into three parts and spread some butter upon it. A careful observer would have noticed the care with which he did this, as if he had no other thought in his mind. And a careful observer would also have noticed how, in spite of all the activity, very little food ever got as far as Stone’s mouth. The little that did was bitten cautiously and probed with the tongue as if he expected to find some tiny piece of foreign matter there. Yet many times during the meal he remarked how fine the food was and how much he was enjoying himself and how little self-control he had when it came to watching his waistline.

‘A wonderful old man,’ said Stone again.

‘Do you know something, Marshall,’ said Koolman, ‘you’re a damned sight too modest, that’s your trouble.’ Koolman turned to Suzy Delft. ‘Only a real artist can talk that way: that’s what I love about this business.’

‘Artiste,’ she corrected him.

‘Is there something wrong with that drink?’

‘No,’ she said.

‘Then why aren’t you drinking it?’ He didn’t wait for a reply. He turned to Stone. ‘You’ll get the best actor nomination or I’ll know the reason why.’

All round the table there was the friendly buzz of people in agreement. Patiently the head waiter stood near to Koolman with pencil poised. Koolman said, ‘You know what they do very well here: chicken Kiev. Is there anyone who can’t eat a chicken Kiev?’

No one spoke. ‘And the borsht,’ said Koolman, ‘with the sour cream and the pastry things. OK, there you go.’

‘Thank you, Mr Koolman,’ said the head waiter.

‘I’ll be cutting away early,’ announced Koolman. To reinforce this decision he reached under the tablecloth and grasped at Penelope’s thigh.