Just what was it with these journalists and their amateur character analyses? What gave them the right to decide if a person was complete or not?
Work in progress!
Anyone would think she was propped up here in her office like a blob of marble awaiting the finishing hand of today’s answer to Michelangelo, whoever that might be. And how would she know when she barely had time to read all the scripts piling up in her office, or to get to the screenings and shows her clients were in, let alone worry about traipsing round art galleries trying to figure out which way was up.
As she waited to connect to her e-mail she took a
mouthful
of the café latte she’d brought in with her, quickly checked her watch and jotted down a couple of reminders to herself. It was just after seven in the morning. As usual she was the first in the office, but this early couple of hours, before everyone else arrived, were often two of the most valuable in the day. It was a time when she cut the jumble from her mind, pasted it to the computer and attempted to make some sense of actors’ demands, writers’ unreliabilities, directors’ contracts, the other agents’ needs for decisions or backup, and the company’s ongoing performance.
Of course there were a zillion other things to deal with as well, and there was no question that, as a boss, Sandy Paull was as hands-on as an eager lover. And she knew all about
them
. At least she used to, but there wasn’t much time for them these days. Or maybe there wasn’t the need, as just about every lover she’d had since she’d abandoned her mother’s crappy little terraced house in the Midlands to come and make it big in London, had been paired up with her through an escort service. That was in the days when she’d had no other way of paying the rent, or even eating. And the truth was she hadn’t always slept with her ‘dates’, unlike Nesta, her best friend and flatmate, who was still an escort and proud of it.
In fact, Sandy wasn’t particularly ashamed of this episode in her past, especially when it was through the escort business that she had met Maurice Trehearne, the property tycoon, and her own personal mentor. The magazine article hadn’t mentioned him, because no-one knew about him. It had mentioned the fact she was unattached though, phrasing it in a way that had made her feel like the star prize in one of life’s smaller lotteries, which was just typical of a skin and bone Sloane whose idea of style owed everything to Laura Ashley, with knickers and tights from Next. At least she’d managed to get Sandy’s couturiers right, Ralph Lauren for weekends – though that could change now that Lauren had done a
deal
with Tesco! – Chanel, Dior or occasionally Max Mara for the office; Donna Karan or Dolce and Gabanna for evenings; undies specially imported from France.
In her description of Sandy’s looks the journalist had been almost magnanimous, calling her an ‘exceptionally attractive blonde (not natural), with surprisingly long legs for a woman of only five feet four, handspan hips and a bust (natural) that’s as arresting, and perhaps as predatory, as her piercingly turquoise eyes’. Bitch! Still, what could be expected from a woman who had no more to put in a bra than a limp pair of nipples and a few stray hairs.
Going back to Maurice, without him there was just no way Sandy would be where she was today, for it was his skill and fortune that had put her in a position to ruin Michael McCann, the boss who had flirted with her, screwed her, then cruelly fired her when she had become an embarrassment. In fact it was only a little less than six months ago that she’d come so close to destroying him that the fall-out had already begun. But then, at the very last minute, Michael had performed a miraculous feat of recovery that had not only regained him control of the agency, but of World Wide Entertainment and American Talent International, one of Hollywood’s biggest agencies. Exactly how he had managed to pull it off was still a mystery to Sandy, and one she remained determined to uncover, even though in her heart she was glad Michael was back at the top, for, if she had a weak spot anywhere, it was very definitely where he was concerned.
He was living in Los Angeles now, with Ellen Shelby, an American who was gorgeous, talented and the newly appointed Head of Development for World Wide Entertainment. Michael was CEO. Ellen oozed the kind of sophistication that Sandy would kill for, and made love every night with the man Sandy would die for. Hating Ellen wasn’t just something Sandy did, it was
something
she thrived on. But quietly, subtly so: watching, storing and waiting for the day to dawn when she could not only push Ellen aside, but actively crush her. And that day was going to come, for the seeds were already sown.
Noticing a light flashing on her console Sandy picked up the call, while continuing to read her e-mail.
‘Sandy? Is that you?’
‘Nesta?’ Sandy responded in amazement. ‘Where are you? I thought you were in Hong Kong.’
‘I was. I got in an hour ago and was just on my way back to the flat when I realized I’d …’
‘… forgotten to take your keys,’ Sandy finished.
‘Are you going to be there for a while?’ Nesta said. ‘I could get the taxi to stop by to pick up yours.’
‘Bring me another latte and a Danish,’ Sandy replied, and rang off.
She wasn’t normally so brusque with Nesta; in fact she’d really missed her this past week, and was looking forward to seeing her, it was just that damned article! Just who the hell did that weedy little hack who made a good case for female Viagra think she was, criticizing her for still sharing a flat with her best friend? So what if she was rich enough to buy a house in Belgravia, or a luxury apartment right here on the river? If she chose to stay in the two-bedroomed flat she and Nesta had had virtually since they’d met, that was her business. And besides, it wasn’t just any old flat. It was in a listed building just off Sloane Square, and was big enough to swallow up her mother’s council house a couple of times over.
She turned back to the computer, busied herself with a few instant replies, downloaded the rest of her mail and took a couple of videos from her briefcase ready to hand back to her assistant. They’d been sent in by a young director, fresh from film school, who’d been referred to her by an existing client. As she mainly represented directors – though she had a few actors and
a
couple of writers on her list too – she had taken the videos home the night before. She’d watched both short films right the way through, and in her opinion nothing in them had shown the kind of flair that would persuade her to take this newcomer on.
She never allowed herself to become personally involved with all the rejections she sent out, if she did she’d never keep McCann Paull at the top. The article had accused her of being ruthless, but since when did that budding little profiler with her queer, fuzzy hair and red-hot freckles have to deal with a persistent bombardment from the nation’s young wannabes or sad has-beens who believed Sandy Paull was the entertainment industry’s answer to the Second Coming? Anyway, since the accusation had been coupled with a more or less flattering description of the way she looked, she was prepared to accept the remark with less indignation than the others. In fact, she had to admit she was pretty ruthless, but she’d also been the power behind a dozen or more dazzling success stories these past couple of years, not just her own. She definitely had a knack when it came to spotting talent, not only in actors but in writers and directors too. Even Michael, with his killer reputation, hadn’t launched as many careers as she had in such a short space of time, nor at such a young age, and, being Michael, he was the first to admit it.
Waiting for the computer to search out some contract details she needed, she took a moment to turn in her chair and look out of the window. It was a beautiful morning, rich with sunlight, sharp with cold. The sky was brazenly blue and the buildings across the river looked somehow less depressed, more alive than usual. The river itself was a wide band of sludge-coloured liquid with a couple of old barge wrecks thrown up on its banks, stripped bare and left to rot like plundered chests. Sandy loved this view, night or day, rain or shine. It was her view.
Once it had been Michael’s, before he’d gone to LA. This office had been his too, and still could be for she’d changed nothing, not even the framed photographs on the walls that showed a heartstoppingly handsome Michael with any number of famous faces. Of course Sandy was in some of them too, it would be too weird to have only pictures of Michael on her wall, she just wished there was one of the two of them together. The large mahogany desk was in the exact same position Michael had chosen, in front of the window, facing towards the inner office of the agency where bookers, secretaries, agents’ assistants, contracts managers and accounts clerks all had their desks. The agents in the offices that ringed the inner well were all agents Michael had employed. The computer terminal she used was the one Michael had used; the books on the shelves were the same, though added to now; even Jodi, Michael’s personal assistant, was still in the next room. Jodi was the agency manager now, and shared her office with Stacy, Sandy’s personal assistant, one of the very few changes that had been made to McCann Walsh when it had become McCann Paull. Dan Walsh, Michael’s brother-in-law, and the agency’s chief accountant, was still a shareholder, but he had had no problem with having his name removed from the title when Sandy and Michael had merged their agencies.
There had been another change. A very major one in fact, and that was the acquisition of the offices on the floor below which housed the business managers, finance experts and freelance personnel of World Wide Entertainment. But other than that almost everything was the way Michael had built it and left it. In fact it was all so very reminiscent of the days he had worked there that there were even times she was sure she caught the scent of him drifting in the air like the passing of a ghost. And then the memories would come flooding in. She didn’t often think back though, they weren’t happy
days
, nor did they get better with the convenient gloss of time.
Abruptly she turned back to her desk. Nesta would be here any minute. She’d deal with her then call Michael in LA. She was certain he had something big cooking for World Wide, and though she knew better than to push Michael until he was ready to tell, she was on the phone to him regularly knowing that he would include her in his plans any time. The fact that Ellen was doubtless already involved incensed her to the point of fury, but she’d have no problem walking right over Ellen when the time came, and if there was any glory being handed out she’d take whatever steps were necessary to make sure she was the one who shone in Michael’s eyes, never Ellen.
Getting up from her chair, she kicked the bin and its magazine out of sight. There was no doubt the article was right when it said that success helped to smooth the rough edges of life: what it had failed to point out, however, was that it did nothing to lower the heat, or temper the madness of obsession.
‘Remind me, what time do you have to be at the airport?’ Ellen said.
‘Four o’clock,’ Matty answered. ‘Can you manage it?’
‘I think so. How long are you going to be in Florida?’
‘A month. Then we’re in Denver for a couple of weeks. I guess it’s a silly question to ask if you’ll be able to make it out to the set?’
Ellen laughed, then quickly flung out an arm to prevent her cousin stepping off the sidewalk into the path of a speeding car. She was about to take the lead in a major new mini-series, so having her in one piece would be helpful.
They were currently power-walking through the early morning streets of Beverly Hills, something they tried to do at least three times a week. Lately, if they managed
one
they were lucky. Still, for the time being at least, they were both in pretty good shape. Ellen’s sensuously curvy figure was enhanced by her soft mane of chestnut waves and haunting hazel eyes. By contrast Matty was much slimmer, with narrow, boyish hips, small breasts, endlessly long legs, and sleek, dark brown hair that framed her lovely face in short feathery spikes.
‘I had a call from your mother last night,’ Ellen said.
‘Mmm, me too,’ Matty responded.
Ellen smiled. ‘It’s hard to imagine Aunt Julie being nervous about anything, but she sure sounded that way.’
‘Well, it’s been thirty years since she married my dad and caused a rift between him and your dad. Who’d have thought having a sister-in-law who was once a showgirl in Paris could upset Uncle Frank so much?’
‘Oh come on,’ Ellen laughed. ‘You know my dad. He’s as stubborn as he’s puritanical, and he’s got more pride than a congress full of hypocrites. Still, it’s good that they’re all meeting up at last. Mom is really looking forward to it. They don’t have too many visitors to the farm these days, so it’ll be good for her to have some company.’
‘Yeah. And it’s about time Dad and Uncle Frank got together again. Your mom says they were pretty close when they were young. I guess finding out that he couldn’t live your life for you, made him realize that he couldn’t live my dad’s life for him either.’
‘It’s all based in love,’ Ellen said. ‘He just wants to protect those he cares about. And finally coming to terms with the fact that I now live in LA and won’t be returning to Nebraska to marry a neighbour and take over the farm, doesn’t mean that he’s stopped worrying. About either of us.’
‘Tell me about it,’ Matty groaned. ‘He’s set me a dozen passages of the bible to read while I’m away, did I tell you that?’
Ellen laughed. Then changing the subject as they crossed the road she said, ‘Did I mention we’re moving the World Wide offices over to the ATI building on Wilshire today? Michael’s going to be working from home while I run around like a lunatic making sure it all happens.’
Matty cast her a look.
‘Actually, he’s pretty stressed out with everything right now,’ Ellen explained. ‘Raising development funds isn’t proving as easy as he’d hoped. And he hasn’t had a call from Tom Chambers in over a week.’
‘But Tom’s in Colombia, right?’