Lee who works with Len. These two guys are Buddy’s eyes and ears. Between them they—’
‘Hi, guys. How’re you doing?’ Bennett cut in. ‘I guess West’s already given you the low-down on his new boss.’ He emphasised the word ‘boss’ like a plantation owner addressing his slaves. ‘I was a bit miffed when they told me I was moving to film. Thought it might be a bit of a backwater if I’m honest with you. But, you know what, I’m starting to think it could actually be pretty cool.’ He looked around the room loftily, like an owl perched high in a tree’s upper branches, then nudged Len, spilling some of his champagne. ‘A lot better-looking crumpet here than out on the rigs, I can tell you, Les! Only one kind of woman tends to go into the oil business and they’re the ones who aren’t much interested in men, if you know what I mean!’ He gave a short blast of his dreadful braying laugh, like a donkey that’s seen a cow sit on a thistle. ‘But seriously, I’m really looking forward to working with your Mr Goldberg and the other top guys at the office. Bring you a little of the old Bennett magic. Do you know, when I was in oil, I achieved 300 per cent growth in net billings in four years? Three hundred per cent! I mean, I know this is a completely different ball game but it’s got to be a damn sight easier than oil. There, you’re lucky if every fifth or sixth project makes you any money.’
Had Bennett paused for breath, any one of us could have pointed out to him the similarities between making movies and drilling for oil. In both businesses you have to throw truckloads of money into highly risky ventures without knowing if you’ll see any return at all. Every film is, in effect, a prototype – the exploration of a virgin field. Film-makers try to mitigate their risk by reusing elements that have been successful in the past– top stars, top directors, proven storylines. That’s why they make so many sequels.
Diana had developed models and spreadsheets that could help translate Buddy’s more instinctive approach to film-making into something closer to a science. They couldn’t guarantee the success of a film any more than a man with a geological survey map and a big drill could guarantee striking oil. But they could ensure that the studio maximised its returns if it did strike screen gold. She could have told Bennett all this, if he’d stopped talking long enough to let her. And if he hadn’t already written her off as the secretary’s secretary.
‘So you’re both assistants, are you? That must be fun! Are you invited to a lot of these parties or is this a special treat? I think it’s great that companies on this side of The Pond have such an open policy on who they’ll employ as secretaries. At our place, we mainly get pretty young things like you, Diana. It might be a laugh if we had a few blokes as well, don’t you think, West?’
‘Actually, we’re not—’ Di began, but Bennett wasn’t looking for answers.
‘That’s not to say I don’t like having the pretty ones around, mind you. I’m not saying I’d like some old poofter sitting on the edge of my desk taking dictation, or firtling around under it looking for a bonus, if you catch my drift! But it would be a bit different, wouldn’t it, West? Blokes as PAs? Might even be an opportunity for you!’ He let out another rattle of his machine-gun guffaw, entirely oblivious to the fact that, as usual, he was laughing alone.
Di flashed Len a glance that could only be interpreted as asking the silent question: ‘Who is this jerk?’ Len passed the look onto me as if it were the parcel in a child’s party game. I could only shrug apologetically. When a waiter penguined past with a bottle of champagne, I stopped him and invited my three companions to replenish their glasses. This caused Bennett to pause long enough to allow Len to spot an imaginary acquaintance somewhere over my left shoulder. ‘Oh, Di, look – there’s um … Frank and, er … someone else we know. Shall we go and say hello?’
Diana needed no second invitation. Waiting only to flash me a sympathetic smile, she prepared her escape. Bennett looked confused for a second but then remembered his professional training. ‘It’s been lovely to meet you both,’ he said, pouring out the charm he usually kept buried under thick layers of crassness like his beloved oil beneath the strata of the earth. ‘Do keep in touch.’ He handed them each a pristine new business card as if it were a communion wafer blessed by the Holy Father himself. ‘And here’s one for you too, Mr West,’ he said with a barely suppressed snarl as he stuffed the sliver of stiff white paper into the breast pocket of my dinner jacket. ‘Joseph Bennett, Head of Entertainment and Media Division. Try not to forget it!’
As soon as I could, I made my own excuses and put as much distance between myself and Bennett as was physically possible without actually leaving the party. I found myself walking past the VIP area, roped off to provide a sanctuary inside which the top talent could enjoy their evening unmolested by the rest of the guests.
‘Hey, Joey,’ I heard someone call from inside the rope, ‘over here.’ Turning, I saw Buddy Guttenberg beckoning to me to join him at his table. With the casual flick of one eyebrow, he alerted the bouncers to let me through, and with the other he indicated an empty chair next to him and invited me to sit down. I didn’t realise until I pulled back the chair that sitting with Buddy were Arch Wingate, his partner, the multi-Oscar-winning actress Melinda Curtis, and the two people I had recently watched feigning fornication: Jack Reynolds and, peering shyly out of the shadows, the impeccable Olivia Finch.
‘Arch, you remember Joey West,’ Buddy said, brooking no argument as to whether or not that bold statement was correct. ‘I brought him over to Queens last year to watch you burning my money on all those unnecessary fucking pick-up shots. Joey, you remember Arch, of course, and this is Melinda Curtis who I don’t believe you’ve met.’ Judging by his expression, Arch Wingate was pretty sure he’d never clapped eyes on me before either. He managed a disinterested half-smile while his wife raised a limp hand in unconscious impersonation of a royal wave, then returned to haranguing a waiter who had put a little too little ice in her mineral water. She looked thoroughly miserable. It was bad enough having to turn up to these events to support her own movies – sheer hell for a film she wasn’t even in. Undaunted by their lukewarm reaction, Buddy clapped one of his enormous paws on my shoulder and continued: ‘And I’m sure you remember our wonderful stars Jack and Olivia. Guys, this is Joe, my pal from London.’ Jack Reynolds looked right through me with dead eyes as if my very existence was an affront to his celebrity. Olivia, though, looked up and smiled in my direction.
‘Hi, Joe,’ she said before returning to inspecting her nails, an operation which seemed to require all her attention.
I blushed and told the table I was pleased to meet it. Buddy laughed at my shyness but did his best to make me feel part of the group, keeping my glass filled and pitching me time and again as the man who had got the film made – repeated references which did not go down well with the auteur Arch Wingate. ‘Hey, Joe,’ Buddy said, when the conversation lulled, ‘why don’t you tell the guys about that Irish tax deal you did? I love this story. I tell you, this guy is a fucking genius!’
‘It really wasn’t that complicated,’ I began modestly. ‘All I did was tap into a bit of the tax write-off money that’s sloshing around over there, leveraged it up by linking it into a corporation tax offset, and then underpinned it against their enhanced capital allowances to maximise the cash flow impact and net bottom line benefit …’
Jack Reynolds couldn’t contain himself. ‘Jesus Christ, Buddy, where did you find this guy? Fuck’s sake, if I wanted to be bored shitless, I’d have stayed home and watched one of Olivia’s old movies on cable.’
I felt myself reddening to the very tips of my ears. To my even greater embarrassment, while Buddy laughed heartily at my discomfort, Olivia Finch sprang to my rescue. ‘Leave him alone, Jack,’ she insisted, before fixing me with her angelic gaze. ‘You must be so clever to do all that stuff. I am just so dumb with numbers. I bet I’m getting ripped off from here to Christmas with all my money stuff.’
‘Not just numbers, sweetheart,’ Reynolds mumbled, grabbing a half-empty bottle of champagne and struggling to his feet. ‘Not just fucking numbers.’
‘Oh, go screw yourself,’ Olivia shouted after him as he lurched off towards the dance floor. ‘Asshole!’ She turned to me, the