coming in soon?”
“In a while. I’m just, like, it’s so peaceful here.”
“Take your time.”
Luc stood up and walked back across the road.
• • •
T
here you are,”
said Lulu, gliding across the patio between the bar and the main house. Their paths crossed.
“Hello, Mother. Are you having a nice birthday?”
“Yes, I am, darling. Come inside and have tea with me.”
Luc followed his mother into the house.
“I’ll have my tea now, Bronwyn,” Lulu called as they passed the kitchen door. “And will you bring a cup for Luc?”
“Right!” came the reply, in stolid Estuary English.
They went into the living room that looked out over the shaded front patio, over the bougainvillea that obscured the dirt road but revealed the Jerusalem stone–colored rocks and the sea. Lulu arranged herself on the pale blue slipcovered sofa. Luc sprawled in a battered leather club chair opposite her.
“She’s very lovely, your April.”
Ah yes, he thought, here it comes. “She is.”
“And is she any good?”
“What?”
“Is she a good actress?”
“Oh. She’s not bad. You know. She’s just starting out. She did well, as far as it went. She looked right—”
“And are you pleased with this film? Are you hopeful?”
“Well, it’s not going to be
Lawrence of Arabia
.” Luc’s favorite movie, the benchmark for what films once were, against which he measured the subsequent impoverishment of cinema.
“Why not, darling?”
Luc smiled indulgently. “It’s small, Mother. An indie film. A sort of noirish thriller. But it’s edgy. I think I did a good job with what they gave me. Depending how well it turns out, if it gets some good reviews, has some legs, then my stock will go up; if it doesn’t, or if it disappears, then I’m none the worse off, it’s been a reasonable payday, and I’m on to the next.”
“And what decides how well it turns out?”
“How it all cuts together. What the performances are like. What they—”
“Who are
they
, darling?”
“The director, the editor, the producer—”
“I thought you were going to produce your next film.”
He laughed good-humoredly. “Well, I’m trying. It’s not that easy.
Lawrence of Arabia
may be the greatest film ever made, but it couldn’t get made today—”
“You told me yourself—you’ve complained for years, in fact—that the writer has no power. You’re a hireling. But if you produce it, you’re the boss. You get the right people and tell them how you want it done, and you have control of the end result.”
“Yes, but—”
“But you have to come up with your own project, right?”
“Yes, Mother. That’s right. And the money. And that’s what I’m trying to do. I’ve told you. I’m writing stuff, I’m always reading, looking at properties, talking with people—”
“Now you sound like a schoolboy making excuses about your homework. Luc, you’re forty-five. You can’t be a beginner forever. You’re treading water. You’ll be none the worse off if this film drops into a black hole because nobody’s ever heard of you. What happened to that novel you were going to write? It sounded wonderful. Why don’t you write that?”
“I did write it, Mother. You read it. You thought it was rubbish. Evidently, you were right, because no one wanted to publish it.”
“You were going to write a better one. I’m talking about
that
wonderful novel. Why don’t you write it? Look at the rubbish that sells. You’re a better writer than that. Write a
good
book.”
“That’s a great idea. I hadn’t thought of that—”
“I can’t stand to see you wallowing in failure.”
“Mother—” Luc took a deep breath. He smiled. “I’ve written four films and made some money. I own a nice apartment in Paris—”
“Your father’s apartment.”
“Never mind, it’s mine now, and I
own
it. It’s worth a fortune. I work. I have friends. A nice life. Where, exactly, is the failure part of
“In a while. I’m just, like, it’s so peaceful here.”
“Take your time.”
Luc stood up and walked back across the road.
• • •
T
here you are,”
said Lulu, gliding across the patio between the bar and the main house. Their paths crossed.
“Hello, Mother. Are you having a nice birthday?”
“Yes, I am, darling. Come inside and have tea with me.”
Luc followed his mother into the house.
“I’ll have my tea now, Bronwyn,” Lulu called as they passed the kitchen door. “And will you bring a cup for Luc?”
“Right!” came the reply, in stolid Estuary English.
They went into the living room that looked out over the shaded front patio, over the bougainvillea that obscured the dirt road but revealed the Jerusalem stone–colored rocks and the sea. Lulu arranged herself on the pale blue slipcovered sofa. Luc sprawled in a battered leather club chair opposite her.
“She’s very lovely, your April.”
Ah yes, he thought, here it comes. “She is.”
“And is she any good?”
“What?”
“Is she a good actress?”
“Oh. She’s not bad. You know. She’s just starting out. She did well, as far as it went. She looked right—”
“And are you pleased with this film? Are you hopeful?”
“Well, it’s not going to be
Lawrence of Arabia
.” Luc’s favorite movie, the benchmark for what films once were, against which he measured the subsequent impoverishment of cinema.
“Why not, darling?”
Luc smiled indulgently. “It’s small, Mother. An indie film. A sort of noirish thriller. But it’s edgy. I think I did a good job with what they gave me. Depending how well it turns out, if it gets some good reviews, has some legs, then my stock will go up; if it doesn’t, or if it disappears, then I’m none the worse off, it’s been a reasonable payday, and I’m on to the next.”
“And what decides how well it turns out?”
“How it all cuts together. What the performances are like. What they—”
“Who are
they
, darling?”
“The director, the editor, the producer—”
“I thought you were going to produce your next film.”
He laughed good-humoredly. “Well, I’m trying. It’s not that easy.
Lawrence of Arabia
may be the greatest film ever made, but it couldn’t get made today—”
“You told me yourself—you’ve complained for years, in fact—that the writer has no power. You’re a hireling. But if you produce it, you’re the boss. You get the right people and tell them how you want it done, and you have control of the end result.”
“Yes, but—”
“But you have to come up with your own project, right?”
“Yes, Mother. That’s right. And the money. And that’s what I’m trying to do. I’ve told you. I’m writing stuff, I’m always reading, looking at properties, talking with people—”
“Now you sound like a schoolboy making excuses about your homework. Luc, you’re forty-five. You can’t be a beginner forever. You’re treading water. You’ll be none the worse off if this film drops into a black hole because nobody’s ever heard of you. What happened to that novel you were going to write? It sounded wonderful. Why don’t you write that?”
“I did write it, Mother. You read it. You thought it was rubbish. Evidently, you were right, because no one wanted to publish it.”
“You were going to write a better one. I’m talking about
that
wonderful novel. Why don’t you write it? Look at the rubbish that sells. You’re a better writer than that. Write a
good
book.”
“That’s a great idea. I hadn’t thought of that—”
“I can’t stand to see you wallowing in failure.”
“Mother—” Luc took a deep breath. He smiled. “I’ve written four films and made some money. I own a nice apartment in Paris—”
“Your father’s apartment.”
“Never mind, it’s mine now, and I
own
it. It’s worth a fortune. I work. I have friends. A nice life. Where, exactly, is the failure part of
Similar Books
The Sword of the Banshee
Amanda Hughes
Where Lilacs Still Bloom
Jane Kirkpatrick
Angelic Pathways
Chantel Lysette
The Christmas Cookie Chronicles: Carrie
Lori Wilde
Striking Distance
Pamela Clare
Second Chance
Jane Green
Cloudburst
V.C. Andrews
Another Day
David Levithan
An Untamed Heart
Lauraine Snelling