Fascination Read Online Free PDF

ninety seconds: small puffs in sequences of three, then a beat,then another three quick small puffs. She didn’t seem to inhale. One wonders what pleasure she derives from smoking.
    Behind her, a mother and daughter with two screaming kids. The din! Quite middle-class too, judging by their accents. They just let the children wail, really – everyone in the café very pissed-off but not saying anything in true English fashion.
    Tanja is forty-three minutes late.
    Fascinating-looking girl serving in the Syndicate today. Russian? East-European certainly. Long ballet-dancer’s back. Moley – mole on her cheek, moles on her neck. She’s tall with a thin, patrician face, hair pulled back in a tight bun. What’s she doing here? What’s her story, her
parcours
? There’s a sustained, slightly contemptuous expression on her face as she goes about her business serving drinks, clearing tables.
    Just back from lunch at the Garrick with Leo Winteringham. Everyone in the place seemed to be over fifty, male – naturally – overweight, raddled-looking. Cigars and booze: the slightly
louche
end of the British establishment. Leo W. volunteered to fund any film I cared to direct – he must have made me that offer a dozen times, now. Strange figure, Leo: irreducibly American despite all his years in England. Lean, saurian, brusque – a curious player in this privileged English world (he was greeted warmly by everyone) admitted only because he has money.
    As we were gossiping about the business (who’s in, who’s out, who’s hot, who’s cold) he mentioned that Tanja Baiocchi had left her husband. I managed to hide my massive shock and said that I didn’t know she was married. Wasn’t she in your last film, he asked? I said she was but there had never been any talk of a husband. Well, perhaps, not husband, he said – boyfriend, then, that French director, Duprez. Oh, I said, I know all about that, oh yes, and could confirm that the rupture,
entre nous
, was true – absolute and final.
    3.30. The bar at the Syndicate is quiet but the people in it are still drinking steadily, as if reluctant to let the afternoon and theafternoon cafard begin. I should call Janet and see how the invitations are going for the cast and crew screening and get her to book me into the hotel in New York.
    Drink: I had a glass of champagne before I went to the Garrick, a glass of white wine in the bar, two glasses w/wine at lunch and a port (Leo doesn’t drink) and am now on my second glass of white wine at the Syndicate: effectively a bottle of wine. More than a bottle of wine: I must stop now. I never drink nearly as much when I’m with Tanja.
    New York. Carlyle Hotel. Sitting here having my pre-pre-prandial drink (a bloody mary) – a new bad habit which is explained by the fact that I am just a few hours away from the screening of
The Sleep Thief
. I feel unusually apprehensive (this is my ninth film, for God’s sake) and I know why: I’m expecting too much. Because I know the worth and merit of the film I’m expecting it to experience no problems – Cannes, a US distributor, a prize or two: no worries. I should just be patient – look at the slow burn of appreciation that delivered the success of
Escapade
. The film is finished, it is good work, we had fun, what more can you ask? (And I met Tanja, of course.) So let’s see how the dice roll. Nothing may come of this screening – we may have to wait until Cannes, or even the UK release – we may have to wait longer, until Venice or Berlin.
    I wish Tanja were arriving today so she could be here for the screening. Why does she have to come tomorrow?
    Vague worries about the quality of the print, about the projector, about the sound level. But what can I do?
    Sitting in F.O.O.D. on Lexington. Tanja has postponed her visit – another three days to wait. It would have been good if she’d made the screening (thin crowd – disappointing – but it seemed to go down all right. No offers yet. The