Temptation (25 page)

‘Thank you, Bob,’ I said, relief washing over me like a high intensity shower.

‘I’m not through, David.’

‘Sorry.’

‘As I said, I don’t think that McCall’s case against you is either fair or just. The problem we have now, however, is one of credibility. And like it or not, once McCall’s column hits the streets on Friday, you are going to be tainted merchandise . . . ’

‘But Bob . . . ’

‘Let me finish,’ he said sharply.

‘Sorry . . . ’

‘This is the situation as we see it. You can explain away one case of unintentional plagiarism. But
four
additional cases?’

‘Four goddamn lines,’ I said. ‘Nothing more.’

‘Four goddamn lines that McCall’s pushed into print, following on the four lines from
The Front Page
 . . . ’

‘But don’t you see that this asshole is trying to be Kenneth Starr . . . taking the flimsiest of evidence and transforming it into Sodom and Gomorrah.’

‘You’re right,’ Brad said, finally entering the conversation. ‘He is an asshole. He’s a character assassin. He’s decided to fuck you over. And, I’m afraid, your scripts yielded just enough
minor
evidence for him to taint you with the plagiarism brush, and get away with it.’

Bob came in here. ‘More to the point, I promise you that his very long article will be picked up by every news organization imaginable. It’s not only going to leave you looking like damaged goods, it will also decimate the credibility of the show.’

‘That’s crap, Bob . . . ’

‘Don’t you fucking dare tell me what’s crap,’ he said, the anger now showing. ‘Do you have any idea of the damage this has done? And I’m not simply talking about yourself and your show, but also to Tracy? Thanks to that shithead McCall, her credibility has been wrecked too . . . to the point where we’re having to accept her resignation . . . ’

‘You’re resigning?’ I said looking at Tracy, wide-eyed.

‘I have no choice,’ she said quietly. ‘The fact that my one-time “adulterous” involvement with Craig Clark was revealed . . . ’

‘You’ve done nothing wrong, Tracy,’ I said.

‘Maybe – but the
perception
is that I called an ex-boyfriend to write a sympathetic puff piece on your behalf.’

‘But
he
called you.’

‘Doesn’t matter – the perception’s otherwise.’

‘What does Craig say about all this?’ I asked.

‘He’s got his own problems,’ Tracy said. ‘
Variety’s
just fired him too.’

‘You have not been fired,’ Bob said sharply to her.

‘No – I’ve just been given the bottle of whisky and the gun with one bullet, and told to do the honorable thing.’

She looked like she was on the verge of crying again. Brad squeezed her arm as an attempted gesture of support, but she shrugged him off.

‘I don’t need anyone’s sympathy,’ she said. ‘I made a stupid call, and now I’m paying the price.’

‘I’m appalled by all this,’ I said.

‘You should be,’ Tracy said.

‘I can’t tell you how sorry I am. But as I said before, I didn’t mean . . . ’

‘Understood, understood,’ Bob said. ‘But you also have to appreciate our tangled position right now. If we don’t let you go . . . ’

Even though I had been expecting it, the news still hit me like a slap across the face.

‘You’re firing me?’ I asked, my voice hushed.

‘Yes. With the deepest regret, I should add, but . . . ’

‘That’s not fair,’ I said.

‘It might not be,’ Brad said, ‘but we have our own credibility to consider.’

‘I have a contract with you . . . ’

Bob shuffled some papers and pulled out a document.

‘Yes, you do – and as I’m certain Alison will explain to you, there is a clause that voids the contract should you be found to have falsely misrepresented your work in any way. Plagiarism would certainly qualify as a major misrepresentation . . . ’

‘What you’re doing is wrong,’ I said.

‘What we’re doing is unfortunate, but necessary,’ Bob said. ‘For the good of the series, you have to go.’

‘And say Alison and I take you to court?’

‘Do what you want, David,’ Bob said. ‘But our corpor ate pockets are far deeper than yours. And you won’t win this one.’

‘We’ll see about that,’ I said, standing up.

‘Do you think this is fun for us?’ Brad said. ‘Do you think anyone in this room is pleased with this situation? I know you’re the creator of this show . . . and, believe me, you’ll still get your creator credit and a cut of budget. But the fact is, there are seventy other people involved in
Selling You
– and I’m not jeopardizing their positions by fighting your corner. Your current position in indefensible. You didn’t just get caught with the smoking gun, David; this time, it was a smoking bazooka . . . ’

‘Thank you, Mr Loyalty . . . ’

Long silence. Brad’s hand twisted tightly around a pen. He took a deep steadying breath, then said, ‘David, I’m going to put that remark down to the high emotional temperature we’re all running right now, as I have shown you loyalty to the nth degree. And before you start lashing out at any of us again, do remember one thing: this is a fuck-up of your own making.’

I was about to say something loud and emotional and incoherent, but instead I simply stormed out of the office, stormed out of the building, fell into my car, and started driving.

I drove for hours, roaming the freeways without plan or logic. I did time on the 10, the 330, the 12, and the 85. My itinerary was a masterpiece of geographic illogicality – Manhattan Beach to Van Nuys to Ventura to Santa Monica to Newport Beach to . . .

And then, finally, my cellphone started ringing. As I
grabbed it off the adjoining seat, I glanced at the dashboard and noticed it was three-ten. I had been driving aimlessly for five hours.

‘David, are you okay?’

It was Alison, sounding half-awake, but worried.

‘Hold on,’ I said. ‘Got to pull over.’

I turned the car into a lay-by and cut the engine.

‘You’re out? Driving?’

‘Seems that way.’

‘But it’s the middle of the night.’

‘Yeah.’

‘I’m just up, and I just got your message. Where are you right now?’

‘I don’t know . . . ’

‘What do you mean, you don’t know? What’s the name of the road, the highway?’

‘Don’t know.’

‘Now you have me worried. What’s going on?’

That’s when I started to sob . . . when the entire horror of what had happened finally hit home, and I suddenly couldn’t deny it. I must have sobbed for an entire minute. When I eventually brought it under control, Alison spoke.

‘David, my God, tell me, please . . . what the hell’s happened to you?’

I told her everything – from the extensive plagiarism accusations in McCall’s new column, to Sally’s inimical reaction, to being fired by Bob and Brad.

‘Jesus fucking Christ,’ Alison said when I finally finished, ‘this has gotten completely out of hand.’

‘I feel like I’ve opened a door and walked straight off a skyscraper.’

‘All right, first things first. Do you know where you are right now?’

‘Somewhere in town.’

‘You’re sure you’re in LA?’

‘Yeah – that I’m pretty sure of.’

‘You think you’re okay to drive?’

‘I guess so.’

‘Right – here’s what I want you to do. Get home. Safely, I should add. If you’re in LA, you should be there within an hour. And as soon as you’re home, e-mail me McCall’s column. I’ll be heading out to Kennedy – because I’m getting on the nine am flight back to LA. I should be able to go online at the airport and read the column, then I can use the AirPhone on board after we’ve taken off. All going well, I should land around noon LA time, so why don’t you plan to meet me at the office by two. In the meantime, I want you to do one thing . . . which is sleep. Do you have anything at home to knock you out?’

‘I think there’s some Tylenol PM.’

‘Take three.’

‘Please don’t tell me this is all going to look a lot better after sleep. Because it won’t.’

‘I know that. But, at least, you’ll have had some rest.’

I made it home within forty minutes. I e-mailed the story to Alison. As I sat at the computer, the bedroom door opened and Sally came out. She was just wearing a pyjama top. My first thought was: she is so beautiful. My second thought was: will this be the last time I ever see her so intimately?

‘You actually had me worried,’ she said.

I kept staring at the screen.

‘Would you mind explaining where you’ve been for the past seven hours?’ she asked.

‘I was at the office, and then I was driving.’

‘Driving where?’

‘Just driving.’

‘You could have called me. You
should
have called me.’

‘Sorry.’

‘So what happened?’

‘If I’ve been driving for half the night, you know what happened.’

‘You’ve been fired?’

‘Yes, I’ve been fired.’

‘I see,’ she said, her tone flat.

‘Tracy Weiss has also gotten the bullet.’

‘For giving the exclusive interview to her ex-guy?’

‘That was the crime.’

‘This is a tough business.’

‘Thank you for that blinding glimpse of the obvious.’

‘What do you want me to say, David?’

‘I want you to come over here, put your arms around me and tell me you love me.’

Long silence. Finally she said, ‘I’m going back to bed.’

‘You think they’re right to fire me, don’t you?’

‘I suppose they have a point.’

‘Really – all for a couple of unintentionally borrowed lines?’

‘Did they say anything about your compensation package?’

‘That’s Alison’s department – and she’s in New York right now.’

‘But she knows?’

‘We’ve spoken.’

‘And?’

‘She wants me to get some sleep.’

‘That sounds like a very good idea.’

‘You think I’m in the wrong here, don’t you?’

‘It’s late, David . . . ’

‘Answer the question, please,’ I said.

‘Can we do this tomorrow?’

‘No.
Now
.’

‘All right then. I think you’ve blown it. And yes, I’m very disappointed. Happy now?’

I stood up and walked past her into the bedroom. I undressed. I found the Tylenol PM in the bathroom. I popped four tablets. I got into bed. I set my alarm clock for 1pm. I switched the phone on to voice mail. I pulled the covers over my head. I passed out within a minute.

Then the alarm went off. I saw a note on the pillow next to mine.

Off to Seattle tonight. Will be gone two days. Sally
.

I squinted at the alarm clock. One pm. I forced myself to sit up in bed. I picked up Sally’s note and read it again. It was the sort of note you leave the maid. I suddenly felt very alone, very scared, very desperate to see my daughter. I picked up the phone. There were none of the usual telltale beeps informing me that I had messages. I dialled my voice messaging system nonetheless. The recorded voice informed me what I already knew: ‘
You have no messages.
’

Surely, there must be some mistake. Surely some of my friends and colleagues, having already learned about the McCall column, had then called to show support.

But they all phoned two weeks ago. Now, in the face of
multiple plagiarism charges, I was out on my own
.
Nobody wanted to know.

I picked up the phone again. I called Lucy’s house in Sausalito. Even though I knew Caitlin was at school, her voice was on the answerphone and I wanted to hear it.

But after two rings, Lucy picked up.

‘Oh, hi . . . ’ I said.

‘What are you doing, calling in the afternoon? You know Caitlin’s at school.’

‘Just wanted to leave her a message, saying I missed her.’

‘Suddenly all homesick for your former family, now that your career is dead?’

‘How did you know . . . ?’

‘You haven’t seen a newspaper this morning?’

‘I’m just up.’

‘Well, if I were you, I’d go right back to bed. Because you’re third page news in the
San Francisco Chronicle and
the
LA Times
. Nice one, David – stealing from other people’s work.’

‘I didn’t steal . . . ’

‘Yeah – you just cheated. Like you cheated on me.’

‘Tell Caitlin I’ll call her later.’ And I hung up.

I went out into the kitchen. There, on the counter, was our morning’s copy of the
LA Times
. Sally had thoughtfully opened it to page three, where the top right hand corner headline read:

SELLING YOU
CREATOR ACCUSED OF MORE PLAGIARISM

Beneath this was a short, five-hundred-word précis of the McCall demolition job . . . evidently rewritten at speed late
last night (when the advanced copies of
Hollywood Legit
must have been leaked to the papers). After recounting all the charges McCall made against me, the paper stated that, contacted late last night,
Selling You
producer Brad Bruce said ‘This news is a tragedy both for David Armitage and for the
Selling You
family’ and that a formal statement from FRT would be issued later today.

Nice strategy, Brad. First come on touchy-feely about what had befallen me, before issuing the press release that I had been fired off the show.

I raced over to the computer. I went online. I checked out the
San Francisco Chronicle
website. The article was also a rushed job by their LA correspondent, featuring the same rundown of the accusations and the same quote from Brad. But what truly unnerved me was the discovery that, in my AOL letterbox, there were already half a dozen e-mail requests from assorted journalists, asking for an interview . . . or, at the very least, a comment about my reaction to McCall’s column.

I picked up the phone and called my office. Check that: my
former
office. Jennifer, my
former
assistant, answered.

‘I’ve been instructed to pack up your office,’ she said. ‘I presume you want everything delivered to your apartment?’

‘Jennifer, you could at least say hello.’

‘Hello. So is the apartment the place to send everything?’