‘Are you sure you’ve packed everything?’ my wife Natasha called up the stairs. ‘Passport? Dollars? Socks?’
‘Yes, yes, yes,’ I called back, reaching into my underwear drawer to pull out a couple more pairs of socks and throwing them into my suitcase, then checking inside my jacket to confirm that my passport was, indeed, in my pocket. I travelled to the US – either to Los Angeles or, as in this case, New York – seven or eight times a year, but each time we would still go through this pantomime as if, for Natasha, two small children weren’t enough and she was intent on treating me like a third.
I zipped and locked my suitcase, then wrapped a personalised red, white and blue luggage strap around it, ostensibly for extra security but also to help me identify it when it belly-flopped onto the baggage carousel at JFK. I stuffed a few final papers and the latest Stephen King novel into my briefcase and switched off the light as I headed out of the bedroom and down the stairs. Natasha was waiting for me at the bottom, ready to give me some further instructions, while also keeping an eye on Helen and Matthew as they wrestled on the ground nearby.
‘You’re sure you have your passport, love,’ she asked, ‘and your tickets. Remember what happened last time.’
‘It wasn’t last time, Nat, it was three years ago. And since then I’ve made loads of trips abroad and never forgotten anything.’
‘What about a travel plug? We must have dozens of the bloody things upstairs because you have to buy a new one every time you get to Heathrow.’
Damn! She had me there – and she knew it. Without saying another word, she slipped back up the stairs, returning a few moments later with a plug to meet the needs of the New York electrical system.
‘Thank you, love,’ I said, then, ‘my taxi’s here. Better get going.’ The children interrupted their version of The Hunger Games just long enough for me to give them each a hug and plant a kiss on their perfect wrinkle-free, unblemished foreheads.
I kissed Natasha on the lips, more dutiful than romantic now after so many departures. The runway scene from Casablanca this was not.
‘Have fun,’ she said as I turned to make my lonely way out of the house.
‘What? With Bennett there? I can’t imagine it being a barrel of laughs, can you?’
‘Fair point,’ said Natasha. ‘Well, try not to let him annoy you too much. It’s only a few days.’
The door clicked behind me and I took a couple of steps down the path before I was stopped by a thought – an important thought – that ambled up from my fingers through my nervous system to my brain. I fumbled for my keys and turned again to face the house. Before I could insert the key in the door, though, it opened and there stood Natasha, a grin splitting her face from ear to ear.
‘Travel safely, you schmuck!’ she said, as she handed me my briefcase and closed the door.
I still loved New York. Every time I cleared the airport and drove into the city in the back of a yellow cab, I could hear the strains of Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue and the opening lines of Woody Allen’s Manhattan playing inside my head. I had been here many times since my first visit – not long before 9/11 changed the skyline forever but did nothing to dent the pugnacious, optimistic spirit of the natives. Even from that first visit, the city had been a curious mixture of the new and the familiar. So many of the sights and sounds, even, bizarrely, the smells, were already known to me from movies and TV programmes that I never felt like a stranger here. And yet, even after many visits, I could still be startled by something unforeseen: the hidden squares, an eagle soaring over Central Park, even the sight of a thief on a bicycle stealing rolls from a hotdog van and pedalling off down Broadway like an Olympic competitor while the vendor hurled Bronx-tinted insults at his departing form.
And I still loved the movie business. The whole crazy, over-the-top, passionate, extraordinary process of turning stories into frames of film (or, these days, pixels) with which to captivate millions of strangers sitting silently in the dark. I was one of the money men – one of the guys behind the scenes who helped to introduce the money to the story and hoped they’d enjoy a long and fruitful relationship. That was why I’d been invited by Buddy Guttenberg (the most over-the-top and passionate movie man of them all) to watch the final re-shoot of Nothing Happened and that was why I was back in New York for the film’s world premiere. I had been to a lot of these fancy industry events – but I’d yet to grow tired of them. Whatever the films themselves were like, the parties were usually great, dripping with celebrities, money and Hollywood’s trademark extravagance.
One thing threatened to spoil my enjoyment that night. My new boss, Joseph Bennett, was my ‘date’ for the evening. Bennett was living, walking proof that God could not possibly have created man in His own image. He was an over-ambitious, untrustworthy, supercilious, arrogant prick (Bennett, I mean, obviously), who had been identified early in his career as someone destined to climb to the very top at Askett Brown.
I had never been on anyone’s list of those most likely to succeed, but I’d found my niche in the growing media sector and had done pretty well. It was only in the last few years that Bennett’s superior confidence and connections had seen him rise above me. Now he had been promoted to head the Entertainment and Media Division – my division. Having spent his entire career in the mineral extraction sector, Bennett knew plenty about oil and gas, but less than zilch about the movie business.
This would be Bennett’s first – and, as it turned out, last – film premiere. After all the build-up and hoop-la and the standing ovations as the talent arrived and took their seats, the film itself was disappointing. For all Arch Wingate’s attention to detail, he seemed to have missed the most important element for any film – a decent script. When it was over, I left the cinema as quickly as possible to avoid having to tell anyone intimately involved in its conception and delivery what I thought of their efforts. Nobody wants to hear they’ve given birth to a disappointing baby. I didn’t even wait in my seat long enough to see my name flash past at the end of the credits, or join in the over-enthusiastic applause. I grabbed Bennett and we made our way quickly up Broadway to the aftershow party at a glitzy restaurant near Central Park.
I had been there for lunch once before, but now, all done up for a top Hollywood event, the venue had been transformed. Multicoloured flashing lights bounced off the mirrors that adorned every possible surface, reflecting back on themselves, making it seem like we were in the middle of a newly discovered constellation. Beyond the elaborately decorated tables there was a small dance floor, beside which an aged six-piece band were playing gentle swing tunes, easing people into the evening.
I hate the opening moves of any formal social occasion – having to find someone to talk to who’ll find me interesting too. Not easy for an accountant, I can assure you. Bennett shared none of my inhibitions. Within seconds of our arrival he had attached us to a group of bewildered studio employees, introduced us and, on discovering they were junior back-office staff, made our excuses and moved on. This process was repeated several times as he swept through the party desperate to find someone of suitable seniority to engage in meaningful conversation.
Eventually I spotted a couple of people I knew from Buddy’s production company, Printing Press Productions, and persuaded Bennett they were worth talking to.
‘Hi Len, Di,’ I said as we approached, shaking his hand and giving her a hug. ‘How’s married life, then? Carl still treating you OK?’
‘Fantastic, thanks,’ Len laughed, ‘but don’t they say the first year is always the easiest? Besides, I only got married so I can treat myself to a fabulous divorce when I get bored with him!’
Bennett