Chapter 16 #2
‘Okay,’ I say after swallowing. I sit forward, lean my forearms on the table, and steeple my fingers. ‘My all-time favourite director is…’
‘Oh my god, dude. Whoever it is, they’ve already made their next movie by now.’
‘Hey, it’s not an easy call.’
She huffs out a dramatic sigh while I go back and forth between Richard Linklater and Greta Gerwig. But I can’t choose.
‘Okay, I’ve got two,’ I say and she rolls her eyes.
‘I asked for your favourite, not a top-ten list.’
‘It’s two, not ten,’ I counter.
‘Proceed.’
‘Okay. So, for complexity of character development, I’d have to go with Linklater.’
‘Oh god, yes. Boyhood? That’s a frigging masterpiece – imagine committing to a twelve-year shoot.’
I break into an involuntary grin.
‘It really should have won the Oscar that year,’ I say.
‘Hmm, not sure about that… Birdman was a worthy winner in my book.’
Her eyes hold mine across the table for a long moment before she inhales sharply and looks away.
‘So, who’s the other director?’ she asks, drawing circles on the tablecloth with her forefinger.
‘Greta Gerwig.’
Delaney looks up sharply. ‘She’s mine.’
‘You’re just saying that.’
‘Nuh-uh. Lady Bird is in my top ten movies of all time.’
There’s an edge in her gaze, as if she’s challenging me to dispute that.
‘I thought we weren’t doing top tens,’ I say instead.
‘Well, we could if we wanted—’
She cuts herself off. We’ve veered into banter territory, which is dangerously close to flirtation.
She rapidly shakes her head. ‘So, who’s your biggest influence from the stunt world?’
‘Zoe Bell,’ I reply, letting the abrupt change of subject go through to the keeper.
‘Oh my god, absolutely. Zoe Bell is a goddess – such a pro.’
‘A goddess who swears more than anyone I’ve ever met,’ I quip, smiling to myself.
‘Wait, you’ve worked with Zoe Bell?’ Delaney’s mouth falls open, a picture of wonder.
I nod, then load up my next bite. ‘She gave me my first job outside of the UK – on Full Tilt. She taught me everything I know about stunt driving.’
I take a bite of fish while Delaney, resembling a fish, gawps at me from across the table, clearly dumbstruck. She shakes her head, then goes back to her food.
‘You must have worked with some famous actors?’ I ask. ‘Roberts, Clooney, Streep…?’
‘Not really – I’m only a junior producer,’ she replies, as if that explains it – it doesn’t.
‘How do you mean?’
‘I work on the films that the studio commits to but no one really wants to make.’
‘Like mine, you mean,’ I say, sitting back. Funny thing about hope – even the tiniest pinprick can obliterate it.
‘No,’ she hurriedly replies. ‘I mean, like the fresh-out-of-college nepo baby whose uncle promises to make their movie. Or the director who’s been sidelined for being an asshole and he’s clawing his way back from oblivion.
All studios have these projects – and they foist them on those of us who’ve yet to pay our dues.
Like the movie by a female writer–director, who’s far more talented than most of her male counterparts but can’t get a break, so some junior producer’ – she points to herself – ‘lays her whole career on the line to get it made and then it becomes a huge hit.’
‘Which film was that?’
‘Baby Love.’
‘You made Baby Love?’
She nods, an enormous smile spreading across her face.
‘I loved that film – there’s this sort of quiet elegance to it.’
‘Why, thank you,’ she replies with obvious pride. ‘That’s why I want to make your movie – apart from it being a great script. I want to make a name for myself in the character-driven space, carve out my own little niche.’
I regard her closely, struck by a multitude of her facets at once, but it’s her vision as an artist that stands above the rest.
‘You’re remarkable, do you know that?’
She snorts out a laugh. ‘That sounds like something Finn would say.’
‘Fair, I suppose,’ I say, a little stung that she lobbed the compliment back across the net. ‘He and I share a handful of traits, so that makes sense.’
‘What traits don’t you share?’ she asks, leading us into more serious waters.
I mull it over, though deep down I already know the answer. ‘He’s less concerned about what others think of him than I am.’
‘And whose opinion matters to you most?’ she asks, propping her chin on her hand.
‘Aren’t we supposed to be discussing directors?’ I ask, hoping like hell she lets me off the hook. This isn’t something I want to go into right now.
The waiter comes to clear our plates and I down the rest of my wine. When he leaves, Delaney regards me thoughtfully.
‘Whose is it?’ she asks, not letting up.
Is there any harm in telling her? There’s every possibility we’ll work together someday – would revealing that I’m the black sheep of the family, that I’m a gross disappointment to my parents, be crossing a line?
More than the line you’ve already crossed?
‘Well,’ I say, throwing what’s left of my caution to the wind. ‘It’s definitely not my two older brothers – both surgeons, both obsessed with luxury cars and the big house and fancy watches – total snobs when it comes to my profession.’
‘Dan isn’t like that, is he?’
‘God no. He’s a “lowly” GP, which suits him and Becks perfectly – frees up time for travel.’
‘Okay, so by process of elimination, we’re talking about your parents?’ she asks.
‘Brilliant deduction,’ I say with a wink. ‘They’re both surgeons as well – retired now – but there was the expectation that I’d follow in their footsteps and go into the family profession…’
‘Why do parents do that? It’s so old school. Did they have a family practice or something? Because that would be a little easier to understand.’
‘No, nothing like that – just the presumption that I’d want the same life as them. And to top that off, they pressured me to propose to Pip—’
Oh, fuck – I did not say that. But from the look on Delaney’s face, I absolutely did.
‘Geez,’ she says breathily.
I can’t tell if it’s perfect or disastrous timing that the waiter returns with two small glasses and a bottle of Passito di Pantelleria, a dessert wine from Sicily. We watch him pour, both feigning fascination, but when he tells us to enjoy and leaves, the silence becomes unbearable.
Delaney reaches for her glass and I do the same. We both take a sip, not meeting the other’s eye. She sets down her glass, her fingers slowly twisting the stem back and forth.
‘Nick,’ she says softly, ‘do you even want to get married?’
I concentrate on the sprig of rosemary in the centre of the table. ‘Could we go back to talking about directors?’ I ask feebly.
‘Greta Gerwig will win an Oscar one day,’ she says a moment later. ‘I’m positive.’
I look up, taking in the kindness in her eyes. No judgement, no scorn. Only kindness.
‘Thank you,’ I say.
‘Any time.’
It’s a throwaway remark. But I get the sense it means more than that – to both of us.