Chapter 43
Damien scanned the lovely woman standing next to him waiting for a table at Le Pain Quotidien. She caught his look and gave him a wide Cheshire Cat grin, her teeth shiny and even. She was almost certainly American. Mid-to late-twenties, he guessed. Her blonde hair tied back in a sleek ponytail, two diamond studs in each ear, she held her mobile in one hand and the handle of her neat designer rucksack in the other.
He paused and gave her a full-focus stare. She was wearing an edgy biker jacket and tiny mini skirt. His eyes slid down her long, sculpted legs to her foxy high-heeled ankle boots.
‘Don’t say a word… I bet you’re a New Yorker. Tell me I’m wrong and I’ll buy you a coffee,’ he said.
‘How did you guess?’
‘It’s obvious. Your smile. Open and friendly. None of that English reserve. And the way you dress. Chic Manhattan.’
He looked for a ring on her finger. There wasn’t one. Good.
‘Ah, there’s a table. Shall we sit together?’ he asked.
‘Sure,’ she replied. ‘As long as I can pay for your coffee.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You sussed I was from NYC.’
They sat by the window.
The waitress came.
‘I’ll have a soy cappuccino,’ she said. She turned to him. ‘What are you having?’
‘I’ll have a double espresso, please.’
He was enjoying himself. She was quirky, this fresh-faced American girl.
‘Wanna try and guess my name?’ she said.
‘Okay.’ He gave her a quizzical look. ‘Well, you could be a Paula or Gemma or Helen. Or maybe an Angie, Mandy or Anna.’
Take it slow , the Voice said. You’re doing your number, piling on the patter.
‘I’m Frances,’ she said, extending a hand.
‘And I’m Damien,’ he replied, giving her his. She had a firm grip. He liked that. ‘So, Frances,’ he said. ‘What’s your story?’
‘I’m at film school.’
‘Oh really? Are you at the NFTS?’
‘Yes. How do you know the place? Are you in the movie business?’
‘Well, I’m a novelist primarily, but my last book, Writing in the Sand , has just been made into a film.’
Frances narrowed her eyes and searched Damien’s face. ‘Oh my God, yes! You’re Damien Spur.’
‘I am indeed.’
‘Wow, this is crazy!’ Her face had suddenly changed from a sophisticated woman into an excited teenager. ‘You’re not gonna believe this’ – she moved so close to him that he could smell the coffee on her breath – ‘but I’ve booked to see the screening on Saturday at the Academy of Cinema Arts, especially because you’re doing a Q&A after the show. Yup. I’m so interested in the discussion. “From Novel to Screenplay”, isn’t it?’ The words tumbled out of her mouth with such intense excitement that Damien drew back. ‘Oh my! Just a sec, do you mind if I tweet this?’
‘Not entirely sure it’s appropriate, but if you insist,’ Damien replied.
‘Thank you! It’s such a coincidence. My followers will love it. Okay! Here we go…’ She picked up her phone.
Damien watched her fingers move swiftly as she typed.
Guess what. I’m sitting next to Damien Spur, one of my favourite writers. Serendipity. I’m going to his lecture at the ACA next week, can you believe it?
‘So, Mr Spur’ – she slipped her phone back into her bag – ‘tell me more about the talk.’
‘Well, as the title suggests, the discussion is about the visual interpretation of the written word serving the story.’
‘I should imagine it’s quite a responsibility shifting a novel into a screenplay,’ Frances said. ‘Mind you, I suppose you have to be flexible. Maybe not always faithful to the novel. Especially if the producers want the changes.’
‘Not if it’s in your contract that as the writer you have the last word,’ Damien said.
‘Luckily, I don’t have that problem with my script. I originally wrote it as a book, a dark thriller which was published while I was at university. We’re shooting the short in a few weeks. Shall I tell you what it’s about?’
‘Ah, not now,’ Damien replied. ‘I’ve been so carried away chatting with you that I’m late for my meeting.’
‘Are you walking? If so, we could carry on talking.’
‘Actually, I am.’
She waved at the waitress. ‘Great! Then let’s pay the tab and go.’
Outside in the street, Damien increased his pace. His long legs covered the ground with such speed that Frances had to almost jog to keep up with him.
‘I don’t want to be pushy,’ she panted, ‘but rather than me telling you the story, maybe you could have a look at my script? I’m not sure that the transition from book to screenplay works. I’m sure you would be amazing at that.’ She took a deep breath and grabbed his arm. ‘It would be so great to have your masterful eye. It’s not very long, only about sixty pages.’
She was cheeky. But somehow or other her raw ambition appealed to him.
Damien slowed down.
‘So, Frances,’ he said in a teacherly way, ‘what’s your course? Screenwriting?’
‘No. Directing.’ She paused. ‘Isn’t this fantastic?’ She gazed at him with a wide-eyed, where-will-this-take-us look.
Damien wasn’t used to such openness.
‘In what way?’ he said, though he knew exactly what she meant.
‘Us, meeting like this. Such a random coincidence.’
‘Or maybe it was always on the cards. Who knows?’ he said.
Not now, Damien , said the Voice. It ’s way too early in the game to start with the kismet bit.
‘Anyway, Frances… it’s been good to meet you.’ He shook her hand. ‘Good luck with your short.’
‘Thanks. I’ll see you at the screening. I’d better come up with a question.’
‘Good idea.’
She turned round and walked back in the other direction. He wondered if Frances could be the one. She was different from the other women who’d been in his life, particularly his miserable and frosty mother.
Frances was a happy, cup-half-full woman… She was warm.
And, as the cards foretold, she came from overseas. Was a student – post grad.
But then again… Maybe she was just a little too lively. A party, gin-and-tonic sort of girl. Not good for him.
Just hold your horses , the Voice said. You could have anyone. You don’t want a fan – you want a soulmate. What’s the matter with you? Remember who you are.
‘I am Damien Spur, the famous fucked-up writer.’ He hailed a taxi to take him home.
When he arrived, his agent was waiting outside the door.
‘Hello, Angus.’ Damien gave him a lazy smile.
‘You’re late,’ his agent said. ‘I’ve been here for twenty minutes. We agreed to meet at ten thirty, and it’s now ten fifty!’
‘Look, Angus,’ Damien said, ‘how many times when I was a struggling writer did you make me wait for you?’
His agent ignored him. ‘Are you going to let me in or do you expect me to wedge my foot in the door like a travelling salesman?’
‘Of course.’ Damien ushered him through with a wave of his hand.
Angus walked past him into the sitting room and sat on the sofa. ‘Well, then, how have you been?’
Damien had always been aware that Angus had only cared about his well-being in relation to his work. He was good at the cheerleader chat, flagged him on to the finishing line. He was simply his agent, not a sympathetic friend, but to his credit he was the best dealmaker in the business.
‘Do you want tea or coffee?’ Damien asked.
‘No, I’m fine. Haven’t got the time now.’
Damien sat next to him. ‘Before you start, let me make something absolutely clear. I’m not accepting any of those party invites that you forwarded to me. I told you to trash them. You know that I’m not prepared to spend my time making small talk.’
‘It’s okay, Damien.’ Angus gave him a hard glance. ‘Why not be honest? You don’t want to be around the booze.’
‘Yup, that’s right. So, if you know that, why keep on throwing the invitations in my face?’
‘Because you can’t spend your life hiding away.’
‘Why not? It probably makes me more exciting. I’m not into courting publicity anymore. Not interested in being the pin-up addict who bleats about his recovery and how many times a week he goes to AA. How my life has changed and that I’d never touch the stuff again. The truth is I’m still dying to have a drink and a snort of coke.’
‘Okay, okay,’ Angus said. ‘I’m not your therapist. But I’ll tell you one thing, there’s a lot riding on the next book and if you start backtracking and get hooked on the alcohol and drugs again, I wouldn’t think that you’d be in a fit state to even write an email, judging by your last sordid performance.’
‘Thanks for the pep talk, Angus.’
‘It’s a pleasure. Now then, let’s get down to business.’
Damien poured himself a glass of water from the only bottle on the drinks table and lifted it in the air. ‘To the deal!’
His agent put the contract on the table. To the sequel of Writing in the Sand .