Tuesday Tale: Dinner is Served

“So, Sarah, tell us how it was that you managed to take your screenplay of ‘Last Stop Latvia’ to Hollywood?” The interviewer adjusted his headphones and invited me to speak into the microphone and into the homes of half a million listeners.

 

            “It’s an interesting story, Stuart,” I say. “I met with Warren Davies, who you know is associated with the best of British films like the recent BAFTA winner, ‘Arrivals’. Anyway, ‘Last Stop Latvia’ was a novel I had written and when DreamFilter bought the film rights, I got first dibs at doing the screenplay.”

            “Lucky you.” Stuart assures the listeners he’s still there.

            “Quite. But I had no experience with screenplays, so Warren, who’s also the producer, met with me to give me some pointers. He then sent me away for two months to work on the script...”

            “I always imagine writers sitting holed up in some wooden cabin somewhere, going for days without washing and hammering out their ideas on a typewriter.” Stuart laughed.

            “That would be true if I were Johnny Depp’s character in ‘Secret Window’, but...”
            “Guilty!” said Stuart.

            “But it was far less romantic. I was in my rental flat in London, with my laptop and neighbour who liked playing terrible music at top volume.”

            “What is terrible music in your books, Sarah?”

            “Anything that leads to a music video which is about swaying backsides in thongs.” I grin at Stuart, who merely raises his eyebrows. Clearly that’s his kind of music. “Eventually Warren phoned me up,” I say, steering Stuart for a change, “and demanded that I bring my script to an eatery called ‘Butter Side Down’...”

            “Oh, I love that place. Do they still serve the refried beans and nachos?”

            “I wouldn’t know, Stuart. I was too nervous to eat that day. I think I’ll admit at this point that, most of the time, writers have a crippling insecurity about what they do. Nothing is ever perfect or written well enough and we wring ourselves out in the rewriting process. I tried to tell Warren this, but he said, ‘I’ll be there at eleven. If you’re not there by five past, you’re out.’ That was all the incentive I needed.”

            “So you arrived at ten forty-five?”

            “Exactly.”

            “And he loved the script?”

            “To my surprise, yes. He was supposed to get a co-writing credit, but he didn’t.”

            “And I heard that you had very specific ideas about who should play your characters?”

            “That’s normal, I think, Stuart. JK Rowling admitted to writing the character of Severus Snape specifically for Alan Rickman, for example.”

            “Funny, but I can’t imagine anyone else as Snape, so well cast there. No, but the lead character of Jacob, is it?”

            “Jacob, yes.”

            “Yes. You had someone in mind when you wrote him. And he agreed to come on board.”

            “Yes, Matthew Baker was foremost in my mind and I was lucky to have him as part of the team.”

            “Well, the listeners of 102.8 SWAT FM are equally happy about that because, @JessFlame just Tweeted: ‘What a baaaaaaaaabe!!!!!!!!!!!!!’ And there are too many exclamation marks for me to count!”

            I force a laugh.

            “And all you Matthew Baker fans out there had better listen up because right after these messages I will be playing a sound bite from the brilliant new flick, ‘Last Stop Latvia’ so @JessFlame and her friends can drool over their iPhones as they shout ‘What a baaaaaaaaabe!!!!!!!!!!!!!’” He pressed a button and applause filled the studio. “Sarah Walmsley, it’s been an honour to have you with us today and we wish you the best for your new movie, ‘Last Stop Lavia’, which is in theatres tomorrow. Right now, though, let’s catch up with the latest news.”

            I remove my headphones and hand them to the newsreader, Jolly Janine, who has come in to update the listeners of SWAT FM about the latest entertainment scandals. Her delivery is accompanied by an array of sound effects like dogs barking and ambulance sirens. I admit to myself that I am too old for this scene.

            “That was lovely, just lovely.” The producer, Charlie, steers me away from the recording booth and into the offices. Stuart signals to her through the glass that she’s needed back at her post. “Thanks a bunch for coming. Do you know the way?”

            I smile and nod even though I’m as lost as a lab rat in a maze. I turn and look at the room full of workstations and shudder. Stuart’s show is playing over the PA system and I make out some dialogue from my movie. One of the interns approaches me. She’s so young.

            “Sorry, Miss Walmsley? I’m Felicity. I’m a huge fan of your books and ‘Last Stop Latvia’...” A battered copy materialises from behind her back. “It’s my favourite.” She holds it up to me and proffers a pen. “Would you mind signing it for me?”

            I tuck my curls behind my ears, hike the strap of my handbag higher on my shoulder and take the book and pen. There isn’t anything to press on, so I end up leaning forward awkwardly and scribbling in the book resting on my thigh. I hand it back just as she puts her arm around me and manoeuvres me into a selfie pose to snap a photograph of us.

            “’To Felicity: May you find your Jacob – and not have to travel as far as Latvia. Happy reading. Love, Sarah.’ Oh, it’s perfect, thank you!”

            I can see her Instagramming the page before she’s even a metre from where I am standing.

I finally make it back to the street. After doing what feels like a hundred million of these interviews for all the backwater journalists who weren’t important enough to attract the likes of Matthew Baker and his co-star Katya Johanesson, I have realised that they’re not interested in me but only in the stars. And so far I have managed to withhold one of the juiciest stories in entertainment. One that would make Jolly Janine’s hair turn ginger for real. It’s the day I met Matthew Baker.

I couldn’t believe that Warren Davies had just told me that he loved my script. Or that he had taken me seriously when I said I wanted Matthew Baker to play Jacob. I was buzzing with fear and delight as I walked through London after our meeting. There was a cabbie protest on the go and I didn’t really notice. Then my phone rang.

            “Sarah, hi. Look I spoke to Matthew’s agent and he wants to meet you.” Warren’s voice tumbled into my ear.

            “Meet me? What for?”

            “It sounds like he’s keen on the project but she says he wants to speak to you. Have you got a pen?”

            “Hold on.” I put him on speaker and open my phone’s memo pad. “Ok, go.”

            He gives me the address of a hotel in London. “Can you be there in 30 minutes? Take a cab and we’ll charge it to the kitty. Oh, and ask for a Mr Wonka. That’s his alias.”

            “Got it.” I’m simultaneously hailing a cab that isn’t on strike.

            “Good luck, Sarah.”

The traffic is horrible and I fear I will be late but we make it with four minutes to spare. The cabbie is nattering on about the strike the entire way there but all I do is grunt at the appropriate moment. I am berating myself for not wearing something more flattering than my overcoat and chunky scarf on the Day I Meet Matthew Baker!

            The hotel is all brass and marble and fresh flowers. “I’m here to see Mr Wonka,” I say to the concierge.

            A bellhop materialises and escorts me along the corridors, up in a lift, through a secret entrance behind a curtain and finally we arrive at the double doors of an unmarked suite. I am led to a foyer where a muscle man with a metal detector strokes the air around me and a woman who looks better suited to a job in a 1950s library rummages through my bag. They exchange looks. I seem to have made the grade. The librarian leads me to a sitting room where Matthew is seated on a wingback. He is wearing a cable knit jersey and the cream of the yarn looks good against his tan. His hair is blonde at the tips and ruffled from where he pulled the jersey over his head. The black jeans hang off his hips. I swallow and notice Perrier and glasses on the coffee table. He stands and extends a hand to me as I enter.

            “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice. I am in London on a different project and I wanted to take advantage of the opportunity to meet you.” He gestures for me to sit on the couch opposite him.

            “I was surprised when Warren called and asked me to come.” I clear my throat. “I’m a nobody – I’m just the writer.”

            “Warren told my agent, who told me that you specifically requested me for a role in your movie. I have a gap in my schedule to take the job, but before I commit the better part of three months of my life to doing this, I want to hear from you. Why me?” He sits forward in the wingback and pours the Perrier into glasses.

He pushes one glass in my direction and I take it to give my hands something to do. I am astounded by how direct and beautiful he is and I also know he’s waiting for some kind of coherent response. This god of a man wants me to tell him why I think he’s Jacob. I decide to disarm him with honesty.

“In my head you are Jacob because you bring a level of authenticity to each of the roles you play. You lose yourself in the character, whether you play a eunuch traumatised by a childhood bully or a kick boxer who is broken inside. You’ve become a ghost haunting the trenches in World War I and a villain of Auschwitz in World War II. I believed that you morphed into a fourteenth century peasant and a nineteenth century aristocrat. You, Matthew, disappear into the characters. I don’t want to watch Jacob on screen and think, ‘Oh, that’s Actor X pretending.’ I want to believe that he’s Jacob. I think you’re the right person to play him because you’ll identify with him and be annoyed by him.”

He smiles and sips his water. “Are all the characters in the story you?”

“They are and they’re not.” I feel myself relax. He hasn’t said no yet. “I am their creator. I dreamt them up in words. I have found figments of myself in them and they have left figments of themselves in me.”

He places his glass down. “So why me?”

“Because when I close my eyes and think of Jacob, I see your face.”

His mouth threatens to smile. “Go on.”

“Ever since I saw you in ‘To The Breach’, I wanted to write a story about people who lived in the late nineteenth century. Your character, David Linwood, inspired Jacob and since you look like David Linwood, you also look like Jacob.”

“Tell me about Jacob.” He crosses his legs.

I take a deep breath and release my grip on my handbag. “He is battling expectations: of his father, of society, of Anna, who he knows he’s meant to be with but who resists him for stupid reasons. Jacob knows what he wants and he tries to do the right thing, but he realises he can’t be all things to all people. The time will come where he will have to choose between pleasing others and pleasing himself.”

He is quiet for a long time, so I take a sip of water, which turns into me finishing the contents of the glass. I wait. I know he is watching me and thinking.

“I love your passion,” he says. “I love how your eyes light up when you talk about Jacob. It makes me want to meet him. Do you have a copy of your script with you?”

I do. It’s the one Warren okayed earlier. I pull it out of my bag and place it on the table with reverence. He picks it up and starts reading. He stands and comes to sit next to me on the couch. I move over, afraid to accidentally brush against him.

“Would you read Anna’s lines? I’ll read Jacob.” He balances the script on his knee so we can both see. We’re off.

I thought we’d only do one scene, but he keeps going. It looks as though he’s enjoying the story and assuming Jacob’s character. I daren’t stop him.

We reach the scene where Anna and Jacob almost kiss. He is close to me. So close I can smell the soap on his skin and the traces of alcohol warming on his neck where he splashed aftershave. He is in character, I remind myself. In this moment Jacob talks and Anna listens. I tell myself to remember the sound of his voice and the feel of his breath on my cheek. I will myself to memorise the movement of his mouth and the way his thumb grazes my jaw. I don’t want to break the spell.

I hear a cough in the background. It’s the muscle man from earlier. He says something in French. I feel naked even though I am still wearing my coat and scarf.

“Forgive me.” Matthew stands and leaves.

I become aware that I hardly allowed myself to breathe. I try to compose myself, only to have my heart begin its sprint when he returns.

“That was beautiful. You could definitely make it as an actress.”

            “I prefer being behind the camera,” I say. “I’ve been told I have a face for radio.”

            He laughs. “Are you always this self-deprecating?”

            “Only in the company of gods.” I am flirting. Why the hell am I flirting?

            “I’ve kept you here for a long time. You must be famished.”

            “I’m all right. This afternoon has been most satisfying.” Stop it!

            He is standing at a drinks trolley and pouring an assortment of things into two glasses. I watch his profile. He adds ice and lemon slices.

            “Something to celebrate,” he says, handing a glass to me.

            “What are we celebrating?”

            “I called my agent a few moments ago. I’m in. And we’re going to be working together for the foreseeable future.”

            “This is good,” I say, referring to the drink. “But I’m afraid this is probably the last you’ll see of me. Writers aren’t usually involved in the filming.”

            “I told my agent that if you were a fixture on set, I’m in. If not, I’m out.”

            “You have that kind of power? Oh, wait. What am I saying? You have that kind of power.”

            “I am a generous god.”

            We laugh. The drink is going to my head. I am afraid of what I might say next.

            “I insist you stay for dinner. We’ve been here for six hours.”

            I hadn’t noticed. It felt like thirty minutes.

            “I hope you eat meat.”

            “I do.”

            “And dessert?”

            I gesture at my body. “I didn’t get this way by feasting on lettuce.”

            He sips his drink. “You are something else.” He takes his place on the wingback again and studies me. “I cannot think of the word for it. You are unlike any other Englishwoman I have met.”

            “Perhaps that’s because I’m not an Englishwoman.”

            “You’re not?”

            “I am a metic, a foreigner. A nobody from South Africa.”

            He looks surprised. “I had no idea.”

            “Assumptions form the basis of our interactions. Just like you assumed that I eat meat and dessert.”

            “You have beaten me at my own game.”

            “Not exactly. You may have worked me out, but I cannot say the same for you.” I stand and move to the windows, pretending to admire the view but actually watching him in the reflection. “It’s the curse of being a stranger in a strange land. We don’t want to give the game away because then we’d lose our allure.”

            “Unless we never had any allure to begin with.” He is watching me.

            “You have it in spades. You’re nine percent body fat and ninety-one percent allure.” I am incorrigible.

            “I think it’s more like forty-five percent allure and fifteen percent body fat. The rest is smoke and mirrors.”

            I don’t have a comeback for that. Another cough behind me.

            “Dinner is served.”