Syrup (21 page)

“Oh, I’m good,” Cindy says. “I’m
great
.”

“Really?” I ask, genuinely surprised, then immediately curse myself.

“Sure,” Cindy says smugly. “You know, I was at this industry party last night, and people told me I’ve never looked happier.”

“Great,” I say, dismayed at the turn this conversation is taking.

“So in all, I think I’m a lot better off for having dumped you. My career’s taking off, I’ve got my freedom and I don’t have to waste time supporting you through your periodic neuroses. In fact, I almost think you did me a favor by being such an egotistical, self-obsessive asshole.”

I swallow. “Well, Cindy,” I say, and in this moment I don’t like myself at all, “now you can do me a favor.”

Cindy laughs for a long time. “Oh, Scat,” she says, and I can just tell she’s wiping away tears. “You’re too much.”

“I know you probably don’t feel like helping me right—”

“You know the best part?” she says suddenly. “The best part is that you don’t even see it. I dumped you because you can’t see past your own needs, and now you call me up to ask a favor. Doesn’t that seem funny to you?”

“Cindy—”

“I mean, do you really expect me to do it? Do you?”

“I don’t
expect
you to do anything,” I say carefully. “I’m asking you because I’m desperate.”

“Is 6 there, too?” Cindy asks.

I hesitate. “Yes.”

Cindy breaks into laughter again. I wait her out, shifting from one foot to the other. “Too much,” Cindy says.

“Look, I know I wasn’t great to you. You’ve given me much more than I’ve ever repaid. I acknowledge that.”

“Go on.”

“But I did help you, Cindy, when you needed it. I helped you to get your modeling career off the ground, and I suggested you start those acting classes.”

“
Career
,” Cindy says scathingly. “What about some personal feeling, huh? What about some emotional commitment? Where was that?”

“Cindy, I’m sorry. What can I say? You win. I was the bastard. You can hang me out to dry if you want.”

There’s a pause, then Cindy sighs. “The thing is, if I helped you now, it would be just the same. You obviously haven’t changed at all. Once I’ve done enough to help you through your latest crisis, you’ll go away again. Won’t you?”

I freeze.

“You didn’t even think about that, did you?” she asks sadly. “You haven’t even thought past how you’re going to get out of your immediate dilemma, have you?”

I think about this for a long moment, and Cindy waits while I do it. Finally, I confess, “No.”

“So you’ve called me,” Cindy says, and I get the terrible feeling that she’s winding up, “to say you’re sorry for only being around me when it suits your career, and, by the way, will I do it again?”

I choke, but force the words out. “Yes,” I say miserably, “you’re right.” After having it phrased like this, I can’t believe I actually called her. “Cindy, I’m really sorry. I’ll just go—”

“Well,” Cindy says with satisfaction, “as long as you realize that, I’ll help you.”

I nearly cry.

I take a couple of minutes to compose myself, then stride back inside with my most casual expression. Tina and 6 turn to face me at exactly the same moment.

“Well?” 6 demands.

“I got her,” I say nonchalantly, then sneak a glance at 6.

Both her eyebrows shoot up and her lips even part in a tiny ring of surprise. There is no doubt: 6 is genuinely impressed.

“
Very
good,” she murmurs.

Despite actually living on Wilshire in Santa Monica, Cindy manages to get lost en route to UCLA, showing up only after I place three increasingly desperate cellphone calls. By now it’s almost one, which is exactly one hour after we expected to finish shooting and two hours before the board meeting. We exchange quick, reserved greetings, then Tina whisks her away to discuss motivations. I wander over to 6, who has started pacing between a couple of halogen lights.

“It’s not going to work,” she says. “We’re too late.”

“It’ll work,” I tell her. “We’re still in this.”

“Why don’t they
start?
” she demands, staring at Tina and the talent.

“Artists,” I offer apologetically.

“Students,” 6 mutters.

It’s another half hour before Tina is satisfied that the cast is ready, then she sends them outside to do breathing exercises while she orders the lights all over the place. When it’s getting toward two, 6 and I can’t take it anymore and we grab her.

“Hi, guys,” Tina says. “You know, Cindy’s pretty good. She’ll do well.” She pauses to shout at a skinny boy wearing a Lakers cap. “No, back! Back!”

“Gee, that’s great,” I say, not really listening. “Tina, we’re running extremely short on time here. When are we going to actually film something?”

Tina turns to me, hands on hips. “Do you want to do this right?”

6 says, “We just want to
do
it, Tina. If it’s not done by three, it’s useless.”

“I can’t do a half-rate effort just to meet a deadline,” Tina says, as if this is obvious.

6 freezes. “Tina, I don’t think you really understand what we’re trying to do here.”

“Oh, I understand what
you’re
trying to do,” Tina says. “I don’t think you understand what
I’m
trying to do.”

“Which is?” I ask.

“Shoot a good scene.”

I choke. “Tina, we’re—”

“Fine,” 6 says.

“What?” I say.
“Fine?”

“I need to talk to you,” 6 tells me, pulling me aside.

“6,” I complain, “we need this thing done by three. And that’s
done:
filmed, edited, everything.” 6 stares at me until I blush. “Okay. You know that.”

6 says, “We can’t rush Tina, or she won’t do her job. You’ll have to stall the board.”

I stare at her. “You know, it sounded like you said—”

“Stall the board,” 6 says impatiently. “It can be done.”

She says this like the method is obvious, so I think for a moment to see if it will present itself. It doesn’t. “How?”

6 looks at me. “You’ll think of something.”

With no car and just two dollars cash, I’m forced to resort to public transport again. I stand at the bus stop for twenty minutes, staring vainly down Wilshire, before giving up and running. I actually run. Bag ladies, dealers and wandering freaks turn and stare at me in amazement.

I run for what feels like an hour, and by the time I arrive at Coke it’s five to three, I’m swimming in my own sweat, and I can’t breathe. But I’m here.

I stagger to reception and gasp, “Brennan.” The receptionist is keen to get rid of me, and within seconds Gary pops from one of the elevators.

“Christ, Scat, you look terrible. Do you want to sit down?”

“I’m fine,” I whisper, leaning against the wall of the elevator. Gary punches for the 20th.

“Right,” he says, eyeing me. “So how did it go? Did you do it?”

I don’t have the breath to explain, so I just nod.

Gary stares at me. “Amazing.”

I try a modest smile but it turns into a repulsive bout of coughing. Gary takes a small step back and waits until I recover.

“We just need to stall the board,” I wheeze, “until the film gets here. ’Kay?”

Gary starts. “You don’t have the film?”

“No.”

“Have you seen the film?”

“Uh, no.” I swallow. “But I’m sure it will be good.”

There’s a projector and a huge screen set up in the boardroom, and both the board and the SMT are gathered around them, talking loudly and excitedly. It seems kind of cute to me that all these important men, who control billions of dollars, get a little giggly over the idea of a private movie.

I hang back near the door. “Is Sneaky Pete here?”

“No,” Gary says. “He’ll come in when the preview’s over. Make an entrance. Now I have to schmooze, but you stay near the door. When our film arrives, you run down and grab it. Got it?”

Without warning, the lights go out and the projector starts. Two dozen men grope in the semidarkness for their chairs, and Sneaky Pete’s movie starts.

The first thing that comes up is Sneaky Pete, which is alarming. His face fills the huge screen, his sunglasses glinting. I shift uncomfortably.

“Welcome,” Sneaky Pete says softly, “to history. Hollywood has never seen anything like this. The soda industry has never seen anything like this. Marketing has never seen anything like this.

“This film is a collaboration between the Coca-Cola Company and Universal Pictures. We are not completely finished, but we can show you this thirty-minute rough cut.

“Gentlemen, welcome to
Backlash
.”

And it starts.

The first thing that hits me is the sound. Someone has hidden half a dozen very large speakers around the boardroom, and abruptly the room explodes into music. Onscreen, the word
Backlash
forms out of a cloud of shrapnel, and just as I’m gasping at the special effects, the opening credits come up.

Tom Cruise.

Winona Ryder.

Gwyneth Paltrow.

I stand up and walk out.

I walk briskly to the bathroom and I scream,
“Fuck! Fuck!”

When I’m tired of that, I kick the wall, and when that doesn’t make me feel better either, I try a combination of the two. For variety, I turn the faucet on full blast and splash my face with cold water.

Suddenly everything that 6 and I have been doing over the last twenty-four hours seems childish. I realize that I’ve been holding on to the belief that somehow Sneaky Pete’s one hundred forty million dollars wouldn’t really matter, and now I’ve been shown how pathetically naive that idea was. One hundred and forty million dollars buys a computer graphics studio and A-list talent.

It’s a long time before I can go back.

The sound effects reverberate down the hall, and when I open the boardroom doors they almost buffet me. I’ve walked into the middle of a full-on action sequence, and all eyes are glued to the screen.

I attach myself to the side wall and watch as Tom Cruise leaps out of a bizarre-looking hovercraft and tumbles to the icy ground, the vehicle exploding behind him. By the look of the special effects, this is a science-fiction blockbuster: there are laser guns, minimalist fashion, and truly gross-looking aliens zipping by in sleek blue flying machines. The sheer volume of special effects on the screen is stunning, overwhelming.

Winona Ryder is some kind of alien overlord, all scales and blue tongue but strangely exciting. We cut back to Tom, and he’s running through a dark tunnel with Gwyneth, who is apparently consigned to a screaming-and-covering-face role, but carrying it off with aplomb.

And it’s flawless. It’s simply flawless.

The final scene of the rough cut is chosen for its audience: Tom and Gwyneth are lost inside the alien base and they burst into a huge hall. The hall is filled with aliens, all drinking from Coke cans, and they turn at once to face the humans. From what I’ve been able to work out, these aliens have a real weakness for Coke: I think it’s been offered up as the reason they invaded Earth.

Everyone loves this shot of Tom and Gwyneth, stricken, facing dozens of Coke-drinking aliens, and the applause is thunderous even before the lights come up. There is shouting and whistling, and several of the SMT close to Gary Brennan clap him on the back. Gary’s face is white.

When Sneaky Pete enters, the applause goes up a decibel, and even a few board members break into smiles. He regards us all coolly, nodding fractionally to a couple of key players. Then he sees me, and stiffens. I stare back at him expressionlessly, hoping that if nothing else I can afflict him with a vague sense of unease.

“Gentlemen,” he says softly, and the room quietens. “Thank you very much for your appreciation. We have worked hard on this project, and it is gratifying to finally see some results.” He sweeps the room with his gaze. “Now, I open the floor. I welcome all comments, suggestions and criticism.”

The SMT lead off, and the first six men fall over themselves to heap praise on
Backlash
and Sneaky Pete. By the time it’s Brennan’s turn, I’m feeling vaguely nauseous. But at least the tide turns here.

Brennan swallows. “I’m extremely pleased with our progress to date.”

I wait for more, but that’s it. The next SMT member starts gushing praise, and Gary just sits there, stiff-backed, refusing to look at me.

Gary has betrayed me. He’s decided that we can’t win, and he’s not going to risk trying. Before I realize what I’m doing, I take a few steps forward. A couple of men on the opposite side of the room raise their eyebrows. I even see Sneaky Pete’s head turn slightly.

But I have nothing to say. Without support from Gary, I don’t even have a reason to be here.

I step back to the wall and try not to imagine what 6 is going to do to me.

“I know it’s been said before,” another anonymous suit says, “but those special effects really were amazing. Wow! I thought it was just great.”

I need to get out of here. Eleven men have declared their undying love for
Backlash,
and I don’t know how much more I can stomach before I start screaming.

“I have a criticism,” someone says. Despite myself, my hopes rise. The room falls silent. “That Gwyneth Paltrow. Can’t we see more of her legs? She has really good legs.”

The man to his left roars with laughter and claps him on the back. I have to restrain myself from going over and slapping the both of them.