Chapter Seventeen #2
A woman who looked like she should be gracing catwalks appeared at our side. “Mr. Fisher,” she said. “Wonderful to see you again. Will you and your guest be requiring a table, or do you wish to stand at the bar?”
“We’ll take a table please, Kate.” Ralf cupped my elbow and guided me in front of him as we followed the hostess to a table. It was a smaller booth, tucked away in the corner but with a great view of everyone in the room.
“Will you just be drinking, or can I interest you in some small plates?” Kate asked, as a busboy discreetly placed fresh coasters and a carafe of water in front of us.
“We’ll need two of your jalapeno fig martinis, to start,” Ralf said, much to my discomfort.
After she walked away, I turned to him. “I’m not used to men ordering my drinks for me.”
He pouted. “I promise you, they’re delicious. Would you like me to cancel the order?”
Despite my major case of the ick, I relented. “No, it’s fine.” Judging by the décor alone, I suspected it would be the best drink of my life.
Ralf smiled in relief. “You won’t regret it.” He grinned. “So, tell me. When a man takes you for a drink in London, what do you normally order?”
“Depends.” I briefly thought about the last time I met a man in a bar and what I let him do to me in his bed. Revulsion trickled up my spine at the thought of doing such things with Ralf – no, this was definitely not a date. “I like red wine. A cold IPA in summer.”
“IPA?” He beamed with approval. “I invested in a startup brewery out of Colorado this past year.” He rattled off some stats that I had no hope of understanding.
“You invest in a lot of stuff?” I asked.
He nodded confidently. “Oh yeah. My dad got me into it. You gotta make your money work for you, you know?”
I didn’t know. I was a thirty-one-year-old woman with a bank account that frequently slid into the red.
Our drinks arrived then, large martini glasses full to the brim with a pinkish, cloudy liquid and what appeared to be gold-flake-flecked salt around the rim.
Ralf picked one up and inspected it closely before handing it to me.
“All right.” He waved a dismissive hand. “Enough shoptalk. Cheers!”
I took a sip of the cocktail. My mouth was instantly full of flavor; the silken, sharp taste of the gin instantly cut through with a figgy softness then chased with the sour heat of jalapeno brine.
“Oh my God.” I took another gulp. It was unlike anything I’d tasted before.
Ralf and I chatted; he told me about his childhood in Boston, his love of sailing and his passion for investments.
It was hard to keep up – it seemed like Ralf knew anyone who was anyone and had no time for no ones.
So I had to wonder, what was he doing with me?
Before I knew it, I’d downed two of the cocktails and another one had magically appeared.
“I’m not sure I should,” I said. I already felt light-headed.
“Yeah, American measures are infinitely more generous than British measures,” Ralf said. “Shall I get you some water?”
“No, no.” I pulled the cocktail towards me. “But maybe I’ll leave it at three.”
“It’s fine, I’ll get you some water,” he said and jumped up to the bar.
As I waited, I took in the room, trying to act cool when I saw a few familiar faces from TV relaxing in some of the booths.
I itched to take pictures to show off to Bex, but there was a very clear (and tasteful) sign up by the bar declaring no pictures or autograph hunting.
As I worked on my third drink, I glanced over at Ralf scanning the crowd as he waited for my water.
I’d spent the last hour hearing all about his life, but I still couldn’t say I knew what made him tick.
On the face of it, he was a gentleman, and a generous one at that; these cocktails would not be cheap.
Yet, after all our conversation, our connection felt tenuous at best and I had the strangest feeling that was how Ralf wanted it, like he was maneuvering me into position for something.
Great, now I sounded like Elliot. But then, how had Elliot, with all his sensitivity and depth, ever called Ralf a friend? There had to be more than what Ralf had disclosed to me about their time at NYU, I just knew it. But what?
Ralf suddenly raised a hand, smiling at someone further down the bar.
A portly man with a dashing neck-scarf and a bouffant of dark hair nodded back and ambled over to him, whereupon they slapped their hands in an ostentatious handshake.
After several moments of chat, the two men made their way over to me, Ralf bearing my water and another round of cocktails.
“Lucie Clifton,” Ralf announced. “I’d like you to meet Claude Melroy.”
I rose to my feet in awe. “Claude Melroy? Of the Melroy Group?” I shook his hand. “So nice to meet you.” I could barely believe I was meeting of the most prolific film producers in the industry.
“Call me Melroy.” His accent was thick and chewy, straight out of the Deep South. “I understand you’re RJ’s latest attempt at getting this script in order for the pitch.”
I blinked. He sounded more than a little hostile. “The script is great,” I said. “I’m just an extra pair of eyes, really.”
“Don’t let her total lack of experience fool you,” Ralf said. “Lucie has quite an eye.”
I tried not to let my distaste show; was Ralf actually throwing me under the bus?
In fact, not just me, but RJ and Elliot too, for that matter?
Talking about my lack of experience was the last thing he should be doing in front of a producer.
“An eye for commerciality,” I said authoritatively.
“RJ brought me in because I know what makes money.”
Melroy looked somewhat amused. “You do?”
“Absolutely.” I took a hefty swallow of my cocktail.
“Well, Ralf here seems to think the script needs an overhaul with some fancy-pants software,” Melroy said. “Which begs the question, why are you here?”
Ralf lifted his hands defensively at my alarmed glance. “I’m suggesting it as a tool, that’s all.”
“A tool we don’t need.” The gin had made me cocky, but there was no way I was going to let Claude Melroy know I approved of robot scriptwriting.
“Elliot Fox is a talented writer and director whom RJ trusts implicitly with finalizing the script. And as for me? Well, I guess you could call me Quality Control.”
“Quality Control?” Melroy snickered. “For real?”
“What she means is, RJ felt like the project needed fresh eyes,” Ralf added quickly.
“Now, that worries me,” Melroy said, much to my dismay. “A key sell for this script is it’s the first written by RJ – now you tell me Elliot is actually writing it and we’ve had to bring in …” He turned to me. “Sorry, Lucie, what’s your title? Consultant?”
I opened my mouth to tell him but then stopped. At no point had any formal title been agreed. Luckily for me, Ralf was able to sweep in.
“Lucie’s a PA back in London,” he said. “She works for RJ’s rep.”
Melroy’s gaze darted between the two of us. “Is this a joke?”
“Oh, RJ is dead serious,” Ralf said smoothly, smiling at me as if nothing was wrong.
But something was very wrong. I could see the doubt clouding Melroy’s eyes, and I could understand it.
After all, how bad did things have to be that RJ was placing his faith in me, a PA of all things?
And why wasn’t Ralf jumping all over this?
Instead, he was flagging for a waiter to top up Melroy’s whiskey.
“I came on board to finance this because Janice Kittredge is RJ’s champion,” Melroy said. “It’s a safe bet, RJ told me. He said and Sadie said, the green light is in the bag. But if that’s true, why is RJ bringing in … well, no offense, Lucie, but why is he putting his faith in you?”
“I get it,” I said. “But—”
“She’s not actually writing the script,” Ralf breezily interrupted.
“She’s just offering an opinion. Female, young – well, young-ish.
She’s a key demographic. And Elliot’s editing is more like tweaking based on her feedback, so neither of them are writing over RJ’s work. You know Elliot, of course.”
I tried not to bristle at Ralf’s qualification of my age, but decided not to mention that Elliot’s editing was a little more extensive than Ralf was indicating.
“Sure,” Melroy said. “Great guy.” Was it my imagination or did Ralf’s face darken at that compliment? “To be clear though, I’m not funding an Elliot and Lucie script, I want an RJ script and I want the green light I was promised.”
“You’re going to get it,” Ralf said. “Whatever I have to do to get you that green light, I will.”
“And that’s why you’re the future of film distribution,” Melroy boomed. “Following in your father’s footsteps!” The two men toasted each other, chests puffed like well-suited peacocks. I felt a little nauseous at the sight and took a (probably ill-advised) swig of cocktail.
“If I may …” I said.
The two men swiveled to look at me, as if they’d forgotten I was there.
“From the perspective of a young-ish woman, I’d just like to add my thoughts.”
“Lucie,” Ralf said quickly. “If I offended—”
“No, I’m not so elderly I didn’t understand what you’re getting at.
” It was my turn to interrupt. I looked directly at Melroy, taking extra care to focus thanks to three strong cocktails and dim lighting.
“When I first read this script, I couldn’t get it out of my head.
The themes, the love story … I couldn’t stop thinking about it.
It’s so commercial but truly quality. Think Dances With Wolves, The English Patient.
This is what we’re talking about here. Plus, it’s going to be a doddle to market. ”
“How so?” Melroy asked, waving a hand to stop Ralf butting in.
“Where to begin? I mean, so many opportunities for product placement,” I said.
“Finn wears a baseball cap for, like, half the movie. Choose a big enough brand, stick its logo on the front, you can probably get best part of a million towards production and the studio can barter some deals for the marketing campaign. Share the cost of getting eyeballs on our movie.”
“Sol Rodrigues will be a huge sell,” Ralf chimed in. “She’s money in the bank.”
“Sure, she’s an asset,” I said boldly. “But you can’t rely on the star sell anymore.
If audiences don’t feel this is a story that might speak to them, they vote with their wallets and stay inside with Netflix.
This movie has the goods to be an event.
It’s original and its epic. So, maybe it is bold of RJ to bring someone like me in, but this movie needs bold. It could be a game-changer.”
“Huh.” Melroy nodded speculatively.
I downed what was left of my cocktail in relief, then instantly regretted it as my head swam.
Four large servings of gin and fig liquor on an empty stomach were not sitting well.
Ralf wrapped a buddy-buddy arm around Melroy’s shoulders and gestured at him with a whiskey that had magically appeared in his hand.
“What I think Lucie is trying to say is there is so much potential here. Could it all end in disaster? I mean, that’s a risk we take in this business. But I am telling you, man, I got you. Your money will always be safe with me.”
“Safe with RJF!” I blurted. Melroy took a small step back and I realized my gin-soaked breath was the reason. “Sorry.”
“Well, RJ has certainly assembled an interesting team,” Melroy said, permitting me an approving smile. “Lucie, you have some really neat ideas.”
I felt woozy. “Think I need something to eat.”
Ralf handed me the water. “Here,” he said gently. “Sorry, the cocktails here are strong.”
“They are.” I took a grateful drink as Ralf turned back to Melroy.
“Lucie makes a great point about food,” he said to Melroy. “Steak at the Commerce, on me?”
“You twisted my arm,” Melroy laughed and knocked back his whiskey.
I set my water down, feeling distinctly queasy. The thought of sitting in a restaurant eating heavy steaks made my stomach churn. Wow, the cocktails really had done a number on me. “I think I’m going to head home.”
“Are you sure?” Ralf asked.
“Yes.” I hiccupped. Sleep, carbs and pints of water were what I needed.
But, more than that, watching Ralf work Melroy had made me distinctly unsettled.
I understood Ralf’s drive more than anyone, but his ambition had a harder edge than mine, and I feared getting too close would only bruise me.
“It’s been a long week and I’m tired.” I also wasn’t sure I could stand being this close to so much testosterone.
“Of course.” Ralf’s brow furrowed with the appearance of concern. “Should I help you get a cab?”
“No, no.” I waved my phone. “I’ll be fine. See you Monday.” As I turned to slip out of the chic little bar, Ralf slapped Melroy’s back manfully.
“Time for the men to set the world to rights, what do you say?” he said.
I tried not to gag.