“I’ve missed you too.” She slipped her arm through mine. “Let’s go to my room, we can talk there.”
As we moved towards the building, a call boy came running out. “Miss Rae,” he said, a little breathlessly. “Mr. Highams wants you right away.”
Carol snapped her fingers. “Oh, Clive, what a bore. But come with me. I want you to meet Mr. Imgram.”
I hung back. “You don’t want me around, Carol,” I said. “You’re busy now, aren’t you?”
She pulled at my arm. “Its time you met the fellows,” she said severely: “Jerry Highams is an important person. He’s our production chief and you ought to meet him.”
I allowed myself to be persuaded and followed her through the endless maze of wide passages until we reached a polished mahogany door on which was written in neat black letters Jerry Highams.
Carol went straight in.
Peter was sitting in an armchair with a mass of papers in a leather bound folder on his knees. By the window was a big fat man with hair like straw and tobacco ash all over his white and yellow sweater. He turned as we entered. I noticed his slate grey eyes. They were humourous, sharp and penetrating.
“Jerry, this is Clive Thurston who wrote “Angels in Sables” and the play “Rain Check”,” Carol said.
He looked swiftly at me and I could feel his eyes probing inside my skull. He took his hands out of his trouser pockets and came over! “I’ve been hearing about you,” he said, shaking hands, “R.G. was saying you were working on a script for him.”
Gold seemed to be generally advertising me. I didn’t know whether to be pleased or not.
“Sit down. Have a cigarette,” Highams went on, waving me to a chair. “What’s the angle on this script? R.G.”s acting mysterious.”
“She’ll tell you,” I said waving to Carol. “After all, it was her idea.”
“Her idea?” Highams’ face brightened. “Was it, Carol?”
“Well I did suggest that Clive should write a satire on men and use his title “Angels in Sables”.”
Highams shifted his attention to me again. “Are you doing that?”
I nodded. “That’s the idea.”
“Well, that isn’t so bad.” He looked hopefully over at Peter.
“The idea’s right, and if Clive turns in a script like “Heaven Must Wait”, it’ll be terrific,” Peter said, putting the folder on the desk.
“Then why’s R.G. being cagey?” Highams demanded.
“It’s time he put one over you,” Carol laughed. “Maybe he knows it’s good and wants to surprise you.”
Highams stroked his chin. “It could be that.” He wagged his finger at me. “Now look, friend,” he said, “I want you to get this straight. The people who’ll make your picture’ll be Peter and me . . . not Gold. Before you turn your treatment over to Gold, let me see it. I’ll help you in any way I can. I know what we can do and what we can’t do. Gold doesn’t. And if Gold doesn’t like a treatment, he’ll kill it. Let me see the treatment first and I’ll vet it for you. You have a good idea to work on. Don’t spoil it and don’t listen to Gold. Okay?”
I nodded. “Okay.”
I felt that I could trust him. He was sincere, and if he said he would help, I was sure he would without expecting anything in return.
A knock came on the door and when Highams called out, a thin little man, in a shabby suit edged cautiously round the door.
“Am I late?” he asked, looking at Highams anxiously.
“Why, come in,” Highams said, going over to him. “No, you’re all right. This is Clive Thurston. Thurston meet Frank Imgram.”
I could scarcely believe that this insignificant little man was the author of The Land is Barren, the book every film company had fought for, and which, it was rumoured, Gold had finally bought for 250,000 dollars.
I got to my feet and offered my hand. “Glad to meet you, Mr. Imgram,” I said, looking with interest at his pale, sensitive face.
He had large protruding blue eyes, a big forehead and thin, mouse coloured hair.
He looked at me searchingly, smiled nervously and turned back to Highams. “I’m sure Mr. Gold is wrong,” he said, with a kind of feverish anxiety. “I’ve thought about it all this morning. Helen can’t be in love with Lancing. It’s too ridiculous. She could never have any feeling for such a complex character as Lancing. It’s simply pandering to the happy ending.”
Highams shook his head. “Don’t worry,” he said, soothingly. “I’ll talk to R.G.” He looked over at Carol.
“You had an angle, didn’t you?”
Imgram went to her eagerly. “I’m sure you’ll agree that I’m right,” he said. “You’ve agreed with me up to now. Can’t you see how impossible it would be?”
“Of course,” Carol said gently. “The theme’s so big I’m sure we could let the ending stand. Don’t you think, Peter?”
“Yes, but you know what R.G. is about that kind of an ending.” Peter looked worried.
I felt out of this. “Look,” I said, “I’ll leave you to it . . .”
Imgram immediately turned to me. “I’m so sorry,” he said.
“You see, I have so little experience and it all rather worries me. Don’t let me drive you away. Perhaps, you can help us. You see . . .”
I stopped him. I had quite enough on my mind and I wasn’t going to take on Imgram’s headaches. “I’ll only be wasting time,” I said, smiling at him. “I know less about this than you do. And besides, I’ve a lot of things to do.” I turned to Carol. “When do we meet?”
“Must you go?” she asked, disappointed.
“You want to get on and I’ve things to do,” I said. “But, let’s fix a date.”
The three men were watching us. I could see Carol wanted me to stay, but I had enough of this concentrated interest in Imgram.
“Today’s Thursday, isn’t it?” She frowned over at the wall calendar. “Tomorrow? Will you come tomorrow evening? I’m working tonight.”
“Swell, I’ll be there.” I nodded to Highams, shook Imgram’s hand and waved to Peter. “Don’t worry,” I said to Imgram. “You’re in very good hands.” I tried not to sound patronizing, but it was there all right. Perhaps, it was his shabby suit that gave me a superior complex.
Carol came with me to the car. “He’s so honest and sincere,” she said as I slid under the wheel. “I’m so sorry for him, Clive.”
I regarded her serious, upturned face with amusement. “Imgram? You should worry. He’s bitten Gold for a quarter of a million, hasn’t he?”
She waved this aside. “R.G. says he has no ideas, but he is full of them. Good ideas — great ideas, but R.G. doesn’t understand them. If we left him alone, I do believe he’d make a far greater picture than anything Peter or Jerry could do. But Gold keeps interfering.”
“Odd little guy, isn’t he?”
“I like him. He’s straight and this all means so much to him.”
“Well, he needs to have something,” I said coldly. “Did you notice the suit he was wearing?”
“It’s not the suit that matters, Clive,” she returned, colour coming to her face.
“Well, have it your own way.” I reached forward and stabbed the starter button. “Don’t work too hard. I’ll see you around eight tomorrow.”
“Clive.” She stepped up onto the running board. “What did Gold arrange with you?”
“He wants me to do a story,” I said carelessly. “I’ll tell you about it tomorrow.”
“About this woman?”
I twisted in my seat. “What woman?”
“When I suggested the idea, I knew I had made a mistake,” she said a little breathlessly. “You want an excuse to see her, don’t you? Oh Clive, I know you so well. You’re just pretending that you want to write about her, but it isn’t that. It’s something far more complex than that. But, be careful, won’t you? I can’t stop you, but do be careful.”