Читать книгу How To Lose Weight And Alienate People - Ollie Quain - Страница 12

At 1.50 p.m., I am sat on a wooden bench outside The Lansdowne having a single vodka on the rocks and sucking on Smints. At the table next to me, a couple are enjoying a relaxed alfresco pub lunch. I can smell pork belly. Did you know, Cameron Diaz stopped eating pig when she read an article that swine have a mental capacity similar to a three-year-old child, and can master very basic maths?

Since I have been here only two cars have gone past: a retro convertible of some sort and a vintage Jaguar. There is no noise bar the gentle burr of conversation and laughter emanating from the pub. This is typical Primrose Hill. It came as no surprise when Barb told me that Maximilian lived here. If a bomb was dropped on this villagey part of North London it would decimate the British film-making community. Richard Curtis would literally have no one left to star in his heart-warming ensemble pieces except possibly Emma Thompson, who no doubt would survive the explosion thanks to her British fighting spirit and thick helmet of hair. Bayswater – where Adele and I live – is hardly slumming it, but Primrose Hill has an air of effortless sophistication and moneyed calm. Luvvies love it.

The couple next to me finish their main courses and ask for a dessert menu. It looks extensive … and gooey. I am pulling a pack of cigarettes out of my bag when a black people carrier draws up on the pavement. The electric window whirs open and I immediately recognise Barb Silver in the back seat wearing her bug-eyed sunglasses and trademark vampiric blood-red lipstick. The PR mogul looks no different to how she did back when she was directing movies. When I was at drama school, I remember an interview with her in an industry magazine where she said, Most freakin’ film stars aren’t actors, they’re simply professional narcissists … She is gripping an iPad and shouting into a BlackBerry.

‘Problems? Maxy’s problems are over, for sure. You know you can trust me, JP, we’ve got history. I wouldn’t be telling you the kid was ready if he wasn’t.’ She pauses briefly. ‘He’s not a risk. Last night, last shmite! Minor hiccup, and you know it. He’s good to go. End of.’ But clearly it isn’t because then she adds, ‘Look elsewhere and you’ll regret it, big time – you’ll kill the franchise. Maxy is Jack Chase. Wait there …’ She pauses again, peers out of the window over the top of her sunglasses and squints at me. Her forehead doesn’t move. ‘Vivian?’ I nod. ‘Barb Silver. Get in the car, kiddo, and don’t you dare fire up that freakin’ death stick.’ She points at my packet of Marlboro Lights. ‘I haven’t spent forty thousand dollars on surgery to smell like a goddamn ashtray.’ She shuffles along the seat and gets back to her telephone conversation. ‘Don’t disappoint me, JP. Let’s nail this today.’

She hangs up as I get in the people carrier. Safe to say it is far more comfortable than Luke’s car, which is always knee deep in club flyers, plastic bottles and discarded snack packaging. This vehicle has a cream leather and walnut finish, pleasantly squidgy seats with television monitors on the back of each headrest and a selection of newspapers and film magazines fanned out on the back shelf. Actually, it’s far more comfy than Luke’s actual flat. As soon as I am sat, Barb hands me News Today open at Clint’s Big Column. STIR CRAZY FRY HITS ROOF AND DEFENCELESS WAITRESS! screams the headline.

‘That Parks is a cretin,’ she says. ‘He should get his facts straight.’

‘He’s not a cretin, but yeah, he should get his facts straight,’ I tell her. ‘Clint knows full well I am a hostess, not a waitress. There’s a big difference between the two. The waitress has to take the drink order, then the food one, deliver both to the table, check what condiments are required, continue to monitor the customer requirements throughout their meal, clear away the crockery, make coffee, organise the bill and prepare the table for the next set of diners. The hostess just watches.’ I laugh.

Barb snatches back the paper. ‘I wasn’t referring to your job title. I meant the way he’s making out my Maxy is madder than a box of frogs. We really don’t need this kind of bull at the moment.’

‘I thought any publicity was good publicity.’

‘Not these days, kiddo. The money guys are nervous about expensive over-runs and rescheduling. In the old days, a bit of chaos was part of the fun. When I worked on set I didn’t care what my leading man was doing – usually me, ha! – as long as he delivered. Everyone is so precious now. Which reminds me, you need to sign this before you see Maxy. It’s a confidentiality agreement … regulation procedure with the big stars. But I guess you’d know that,’ she smirks, ‘what with you being in the industry yourself.’

I cringe as she pulls out a document and a gold fountain pen from her red Hermès Birkin bag. As I’m signing, her BlackBerry buzzes and she checks the caller ID. I glance at it too. It says ‘Achilles’.

‘Woah, someone’s keen.’ She cackles satisfactorily but then zaps the call with a scarlet fingernail. ‘I’ll make him sweat, though. Some model I met last night,’ she explains. ‘I’ve got a good feeling about this one.’

‘Boyfriend material?’

‘Sheesh, no! I’ve got handbags older than him. The prognosis for relationship age gaps is never good in the entertainment industry … no matter how much the more mature party spends on cosmetic surgery. I mean look at Demi Moore. She looked younger than Ashton Kutcher by the time they hit their fifth wedding anniversary, but he still celebrated it in a Vegas hot tub with someone other than his wife.’ She cackles harder. ‘I meant I’ve got a positive hunch about the kid’s career.’

‘Is he an actor too, then?’

“Course he is, all models are actors. At least, they all think they could be. Trust me, if I had a dollar for every clothes horse I’ve screwed that wants to play a misunderstood junkie in some leftfield art-house movie opposite Chloe Sevigny I’d be a lot richer than I already am.’ She removes her shades and raises her eyebrows at me. Well, judging by the expression in her eyes I assume that’s what her brows would be doing if the surrounding area wasn’t paralysed with Botox. ‘Take us round the back, sugar …’ She taps the driver on his left shoulder. ‘There are paps outside the front gate.’

‘But you think this one does have talent, Barb?’ I ask.

‘From what I’ve seen so far? I reckon he’d be hard pushed to show grief at a funeral. But you know what, sometimes they don’t need any real ability for a crack at a screen career. Okay, so in shelf-life terms we’re not talking canned goods, but they can make a few dollars. Way more, if they really luck out. Enter stage left, Channing Tatum!’

‘Did Maximilian ever model?’

‘No goddamn way … Besides, he’s more than an actor.’ Her voice becomes serious. ‘He’s an artist. What he does is who he is.’

She inserts a piece of gum into her mouth and as she breaks it in we drive down a road lined with stucco-fronted five-storey white houses, then turn down a back street behind them and stop outside a wide iron gate. The driver jumps out of the car, enters a code into a security box and the gate swings open to reveal a decked garden full of exotic-looking flowers and a big lily-covered pond with its own fountain. Next to the pond is a giant bronze Buddha.

‘Just what this house needs,’ I deadpan. ‘A tranquil point of worship to help combat against the surrounding chaos and disorder of Primrose Hill.’

Barb smiles. ‘I bought Maxy that statue. Personally, religion gives me the willies. I used to sneak out of Sunday School and go to the flicks. But hey, if it provides him with a little tranquillity then I’m not going to argue.’ She turns to the driver. ‘I’m going back to The Dorchester in a couple of hours, so you might as well wait here.’ He nods and doffs his cap at her. ‘Payton, sugar, how many times do I have to tell you not to do that? I’m not the Duchess of goddamn Cornwall. Chill!’ She beckons to me. ‘Come with me, kiddo …’

I follow Barb as she stalks up a decked pathway, round the pond, across a flagstone patio and into the house through a set of French windows at the side. She glances at me over her shoulder.

‘So, this is my Maxy’s place …’