Carrie finished her conversation and hung up. “Oh, you’re awake. Good morning. Your housekeeper made me tea and toast.” She began pulling on clothes. “I’ve got a dance class in half an hour, then I’m meeting my designer at the apartment. I’d like you to attend my three o’clock meeting with Mark Goodwin, if you’re available.”
Stone pressed the button on the remote control that raised his bed to a sitting position. “Good morning, Carrie,” he said. “I should tell you that I have no experience with theatrical work, so I’m not sure what use I’d be to you.”
“I just want you to represent me in dealing with Goodwin. I’m told he has a boilerplate client contract that isn’t entirely client-favorable, and I think I need some help with my negotiations with him.”
“Okay. What time?”
She handed him a slip of paper with the address. “Three o’clock. Be five minutes early, will you?” She bent over and kissed him. “You were just great last night; now I’ve gotta run.”
“You’re going to a dance class in an LBD?”
“I’ve got dance clothes in my locker at the studio. Bye-bye.” Then, with a wave, she fled downstairs.
Stone shaved and showered, got dressed, had some breakfast, and went down to his office. Once again, “Page Six” in the Post awaited him:
Last night at a black-tie dinner for fifty at the home of Broadway angels David and Shirley Medved, Carrie Cox, the new girl in town, continued her sweep through Broadway circles by signing with superagent Mark Goodwin on a handshake. We hear that, before the day is out, he’ll have her signed to her first major role.
My God, Stone thought. How does she do this? His phone rang. “Hello?”
“It’s Dino. You seen the Post?”
“Yeah, just now.”
“How does she do this?”
“I was just wondering the same thing. I was with her continuously from seven last evening until about an hour ago, and I never saw her make a phone call until this morning. She must be communicating psychically with ‘Page Six.’ ”
“Don’t get knocked down in the whirlwind.”
“I’ll try not to.”
“Dinner?”
“See you at eight thirty.”
“Are you bringing the girl?”
“I don’t know yet.” Stone hung up.
MARK GOODWIN’S SUITE of offices was upstairs over a big Broadway theater and reached by a tiny elevator. Carrie was sitting in his reception area, flipping through a fashion magazine.
“Oh, hi,” she said. She turned to the receptionist. “Now you can tell Mr. Goodwin we’re here.”
The woman spoke on the phone. “You can go right in,” she said.
Stone followed Carrie into a large office overlooking Schubert Alley. Mark Goodwin kissed Carrie, shook Stone’s hand, and waved them to a sitting area with a sofa and chairs.
“I had lunch with Del Wood,” he said. “My girl is typing up the contract now.”
“Contract?” Carrie asked.
“Two contracts, actually,” Goodwin replied. “One between you and Del and one between you and me.”
“Tell me about the one between Woodie and me.”
“Oh, we sorted things out over lunch and worked out what may be the best deal for a first-time starring role in the history of the Broadway theater.”
“Tell me about it,” Carrie said.
“It’s a one-year contract with an option for another three months. He wanted a run-of-the-play deal, but I nixed that; you may be getting even better offers after the West Coast crowd sees you onstage. Hollywood is going to be interested, I can promise you.” He ran through the salary and other conditions.
“That does sound good,” Carrie said.
“Listen, I already know Del ’s production costs, the number of seats in his theater, and the kind of money he’s paying the rest of the cast, some of whom are my clients; believe me, this is a good deal.”
“Wonderful,” she said. “Now tell me about my deal with you.”
A young woman walked into the office and handed him a file folder. “Here’s my standard client contract,” he said, handing her two sheets of paper, which she turned over to Stone without looking at them.
Stone read quickly through the agreement while Carrie and Goodwin sat silently, waiting. “Two things,” Stone said. “There’s a paragraph in here that says you take a commission on anything she ever does involving somebody you introduced her to. That won’t do.”
“It’s standard,” Goodwin said.
“The other thing is, you can fire her as a client whenever you like, but she has to give you a year’s notice. That won’t do, either. We want termination on thirty days’ written notice by either party, and the other paragraph comes out.”
“Can’t do it,” Goodwin said.
“I’m so sorry we couldn’t reach an agreement, Mark,” Carrie said, “but I think Stone’s points are valid.” She got to her feet.
“Sit down, sit down,” Goodwin said. “For you, I’ll do this.” He made some notes on the contract and buzzed for his girl. “Make these changes pronto,” he said, and then turned back to Carrie. “Here’s your contract with Del Wood.” He handed it to her, and she signed it without reading it.
“You don’t want your attorney to read it first?”
“Not necessary,” Carrie said, handing the contract back to him. “You represent me to others.”
The secretary returned with the other contract, and Stone looked it over and handed it to Carrie. “Looks fine with me,” he said.
Carrie signed it and handed it to Goodwin. He signed both contracts and handed copies to Stone, then he handed Carrie a script and another thick booklet. “Carrie, here are your script and score. You start rehearsals Monday morning at Central Plaza, ten o’clock sharp. You should learn the first act by then, and you should run through the score with a pianist, so that you’re familiar with it.”
“Who’s directing?” she asked.
“Jack Wright,” he replied.
“Oh, good.” She stood up. “Thank you so much, Mark. I look forward to working with you. By the way, I don’t need my hand held; I’ll call you if I have any problems with Woodie.”
Goodwin stood up. “Remember not to call him that,” he said. “He doesn’t like it.”
“I’ll be nice to him, if he’s nice to me,” she said.
“If he gets mad and fires you for any reason, don’t worry about it, just call me.” He handed her a card. “Here’s my BlackBerry number. Memorize it, then eat the card.” He offered Stone his hand. “Nice working with you, Stone. I take it you’ll be Carrie’s personal attorney from here on.”
“That’s correct,” Carrie said, not giving Stone a chance to reply. “Bye-bye, Mark.”
They left the office. Stone looked at his watch: They had been there for twenty-seven minutes. “You do business briskly,” he said to Carrie.
“You have no idea,” she replied. “Please bill me for this and any other work at your usual hourly rate. Now come with me.”
They hailed a taxi, and five minutes later they were at Carrie’s new address. “I want you to see this,” she said, getting out of the cab.
“I saw it last night, remember?”
“No, you didn’t,” she said. She let them into the building. The double doors to her apartment were already open, and some men were carrying boxes upstairs.
Stone’s jaw dropped. The living room was completely furnished, down to small objets d’art on side tables, and there was a Steinway grand piano in a corner. It looked as though Carrie had lived there for a year.
“Like it?” she asked.
“It’s gorgeous. How did you do it so fast?”
“A friend of mine is the best theatrical designer in town. I told him to do it fast, with the best stuff he could find on short notice. I had the pictures and some smaller things in storage.”
“It took me two years to get my house to this state,” Stone said.