Deleval shook his head. “But Mac, these lines, they just don’t stand up as they are. I’m not sure they even make sense.”
“Little late to decide that now, isn’t it?”
“I didn’t even see them till yesterday. Somebody’s changed them since the run-through.”
“Somebody?”
“Yes.”
“Any idea who?”
Robert Deleval looked at the producer for some seconds before replying, “No,” he said.
“I’ll talk to Harold about it, don’t worry. Leave it to me. We’ll get something sorted.”
“It’ll need a rewrite.”
“Leave it to me.” Mackenzie held out his hand and waited for Deleval to give him the half-dozen pages. He waited until Deleval had left the room and walked along the corridor before tearing the pages into two, then two again and dropping them into the nearest bin.
“Writers!” he announced to the empty office. “The world would be a better place without them.”
Harold Roy had forgotten the arrangement with his producer. He had woken up late, sweating and appalled by the smell of his own sheets. Maria was swanning around in that housecoat of hers, looking abstracted, except when she was gazing at herself in mirrors. There was still a missing kilo of close-to-pure cocaine hanging over Harold’s head, and each time he turned a corner or went through a door he was expecting to come face to face with its owner.
“Come on, Harold,” the man had argued. “What have you got to lose? I’ll tell you-nothing. But on the other hand, what have you got to gain? Huh? To gain. A percentage, free, more or less free, call it a little storage charge, holding charge. I just can’t look after it at the moment. I’ve got problems, you know how it is. I’ve got to move out, this woman I’ve been staying with, hey, that’s what happens, right? This and that. I’ll find somewhere else, a flat, a room, move into a hotel if I have to. All I want you to do is keep this safe. No touching, no sneaking off the top. You’ll get your share. That I promise. A couple of weeks’, no, a month’s supply. Look, Harold, it’s good stuff. You know it’s good stuff. You should remember that, huh? Look, you don’t, over here, try that, there, one, two, a couple of lines. Hey! Isn’t that just amazing!”
And Harold had left with the kilo in his case, wedged between his Filofax and camera scripts. If only to stop the man talking: once he’d got wound up, once he’d had a snort himself, he was like a creature with three mouths.
Couldn’t shut him up.
“You’re late, Harold.”
“I know, Mac, I’m sorry.”
“Okay, don’t worry.” Mackenzie threw an arm across Harold Roy’s shoulders. “Let’s go and get some breakfast.”
“I already had it.”
“So did I. Let’s get some coffee.”
“I thought we had a meeting?”
“So we have.”
“Then why are we going off for coffee?”
“We can talk there more easily.”
“What’s wrong with here?”
“Nothing.”
The production associate and the production secretary stared at the green screens of their VDUs, fingers poised over the keyboards, not moving.
“This is the production office, isn’t it?”
“What’s that supposed to mean? You know it is.”
“And that’s what we’re going to talk about?”
“What else?”
“Then let’s do it here.”
Mackenzie drew a breath. What had got into the little snot this morning? “You want witnesses, is that what you’re saying?”
“I’m saying, this discussion, this meeting, I want it to be here. There’s something wrong with that?”
“Nothing.”
“Fine.”
“You don’t think coffee would be a better idea? The canteen.”
“Mac.”
“Yes.”
“Whatever you’re going to say, say it.”
“I’m bringing in another director.”
“What?”
“I’m bringing in …”
“You’re doing what?”
“Bringing in another …”
“You can’t.”
“Harold …”
“There’s no way you can do that.”
“Look, Harold, if you’ll give me a chance to explain.”
“Explain, shit. This is my series.”
“No, Harold, you’re the director.”
“Exactly.”
“It’s my series.”
“You hired me.”
“I know that.”
“I have a contract.”
“I know that also.”
“Then you know damn well there’s no way you can bring in another director.”
Mackenzie shook his head. Why hadn’t he realized it would be like this? “Harold, it’s done.”
“What do you mean, it’s done? What’s done? Nothing can be done. There’s nothing to fucking do!”
“We have to sit down and talk about it. Work …”
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
“Work it out.”
“Nothing to work out.”
“Harold, he’s starting this morning.”
“Who is? Who’s starting this morning? Who?”
“Freeman Davis.”
“Freeman Davis?”
“He’s flying into East Midlands from Glasgow. Eleven-oh-five. I’m sending a car to meet him.”
“Freeman Davis can’t direct traffic.”
“He won an award at BAFTA.”
“The skill is not to win an award at BAFTA.”
“Cheap shot, Harold.”
“He’s a cheap director.”
“No, Harold,” Mackenzie sneered, “you were cheap. How else did you swing this job in the first place? What is it? Fifteen years or more of credits and you’re still cheaper than a Clapham Common scrubber on a slow Saturday afternoon. Davis has cost this production money it can ill afford.”
“Then instead of sending a chauffeur, send a message. Go back to Glasgow. The Scots need you.”
“We need him. Which is why, however expensive he is, hiring him is cheaper than seeing the whole series go under.”
“That’s absurd. There’s no way that could happen. Not this far along.”
Mackenzie took an envelope from his pocket. “The company had a special meeting in London yesterday. If we go as much as a half-day behind they’ll cancel and cut their losses.” He tapped the envelope. “This was faxed up to me at the hotel last night.”
He offered the envelope to Harold, who shook his head and stared at the ground.
“We’re not firing you, Harold.”
Slowly, Harold raised his eyes.
“Don’t think that. No way. You couldn’t have imagined that. No. You’ll work together. Freeman and yourself. One of you can be rehearsing the actors, stay down on the floor while the other’s in the control room. Freeman can do editing, not the fine cut, nothing like, just an assembly so that we can see where we are, how much we need. Your supervision, of course. You’re the senior partner, Harold, Freeman understands that. I wouldn’t have offered him the job if he hadn’t agreed to that I think that’s the main reason he accepted, the chance to work with an experienced director like yourself.”
Harold knew that they were looking at him, all of them, waiting for him to speak, but he no longer knew what to say. He’d stood his ground, argued his case, no one could say he’d done less than that. Now the inside of his body felt hollow and if he did open his mouth he was afraid that whatever sound came out would be too faint for anyone else to hear.
After some moments he turned around and quietly left the room.
Mackenzie tossed the envelope he’d pulled from his pocket across to the production secretary. “Better file that. Never know when we might be needing it again.”
When the secretary slid the folded piece of paper from inside the envelope it was blank.
It was a red VW with a soft top, and a green sticker on the side window proclaiming the use of unleaded fuel. The driver was tall, five eight or nine, and the shoes that she wore added an inch of their own. She grabbed a creamy white three-quarter-length coat from the back seat and slipped it over her shoulders; the doors locked, she dropped the keys down into the leather case she was carrying, dark and soft and with a strap that swung low as she walked with it tucked beneath her arm.
“Do I know you?” she said, barely breaking her stride.