The Campus Trilogy (49 page)

‘A lot has been happening since we last saw you,' Rosalind began. ‘Since our pictures appeared in the newspaper, several firms phoned us about becoming models.'

‘Models?' Emma was horrified.

Mary blushed. ‘Not the kind who advertise in telephone kiosks. Fashion models,' she said.

‘Anyway,' continued Rosalind, ‘We chose one agency. They paid for a portfolio of photographs and we've both been taken on their books. We had several engagements over the vacation including one in Greece. It was great!'

‘What about your course?' Emma was not happy with what she was hearing.

‘Well they'd like us to drop out of the university now, wouldn't they Mary?' Mary nodded.

‘But we're determined to finish next year. We don't want to leave without a degree and they're willing to wait. Then we'll do it full time. The money is unbelievable and you travel the world.'

I sighed. I knew philosophy could not compete, but I was reluctant to let them go. They were amongst the best I had ever taught. ‘You don't want to consider being research students?' I suggested. ‘One day you could teach in a university.'

Hesitantly they explained that they could not see any future in the subject. ‘We know they're going to shut down the Philosophy department here, and the same seems to be happening in other places,' Rosalind pointed out. ‘It doesn't look as if they'll be any proper jobs in the future.'

‘There will still be universities,' I pleaded.

‘Yes,' said Mary, ‘but they're going to offer different subjects. You know we've been recruited to help on the Celebrity Studies course next year for work experience?'

I nodded. ‘I had heard that.'

‘Well,' continued Mary, ‘with our background we're far more likely to be offered a job in Fashion Presentation or Modelling Studies or something like that. No one is interested in the
philosphy
of Kant or Hegel or the English empiricists And frankly I'd far rather be a good fashion model than spend three years on a doctorate only to be stuck teaching a nonsense subject like that.' She was a highly intelligent young woman.

‘The money is certainly better!' Rosalind reminded me,

‘And the locations are definitely more glamorous!' concluded Mary.

When the girls left, I sat in my study and looked out of the
window
. Emma's ornamental cherry trees were in bloom and the sun was shining. I should have taken pleasure in the scene, but I had been saddened by my students' visit. When I was Rosalind and Mary's age I had been delighted at the prospect of postgraduate study. Three years later, I had been overjoyed when I was appointed as a lecturer at St Sebastian's.

That time was over. Soon the Philosophy department would no longer exist. Like Chemistry it would disappear. Instead there would be Celebrity Studies, Highland Dance, Professional Golf and who-knows-what-else. The university had found
committment
ceremonies and foreign partnerships far more worthwhile than earnest enquiry and serious scholarship.

It seemed that financial profitablity had become the only
criterion
of success. Alf Flanagan himself had only been appointed to St Sebastian's because he perfectly understood the signs of the times. He was a wife-beater. He drank too much. He made no claims for outstanding erudition. None of that mattered because he did know how to make money. Ultimately that was the only thing that counted …

Even though I was not going in to work, Emma thought it was important that we try to follow our usual routine. This meant that I continued to accompany her once a week to the
supermarket
for our major food shop. Every Monday evening we drove to the St Sebastian's Waitrose and parked the car. Emma took charge of a trolley. I hobbled behind on my crutches and tried to dodge undisciplined children and their inattentive parents. Several weeks after my accident on one of our expeditions I bumped into Mrs Brush. She was excavating the frozen food section and I stopped for a chat.

‘How are you?' I said, as Emma headed off to the dairy
department
.

‘Why hello, Dr Glass,' she acknowledged me. ‘I did hear about your accident. Are you better now?'

I explained that the doctors were pleased with my progress, but that I would be on sick leave through the whole summer term. ‘Are you still going to bingo?' I asked.

‘Oh yes,' Mrs Brush nodded, ‘I still go every week, but it's not so much fun now Elsa's left …'

I was interested. ‘Did she really return to Leeds after all?' I asked

‘Yes,' said Mrs Brush. ‘In the end she was determined and she told that daughter of hers she was going. Not that Professor Catnip minded. As long as the house wasn't sold, she didn't care tuppence what happened to her mother …'

‘When did she go?' I tried to pull Mrs Brush back to the facts.

‘Oh nearly two months ago. Soon after that dinner. She had a lovely time with that posh old fellow. A real gentleman he was, she said. It gave her back her confidence. I had a postcard from her just the other day.'

‘Really?' I was eager to know more.

‘Yes. She got that Care Allowance you told her about. They pay her every fortnight and someone comes in every day to keep an eye on her.'

‘And what about the blackjack?'

Mrs Brush laughed. ‘She told me that last week she won more than two hundred pounds. She's got a mini-cab which takes her to a different casino every week and she does try to lose
sometimes
. I don't know how she does it. I never seem to win at bingo …'

As we spoke Mrs Brush hooked out four large packets of oven chips. I was surprised that she needed so many. ‘I'm doing some shopping for Dr Sloth,' she explained. ‘I used to clean for Dr and Mrs Sloth when they lived together and I took on both houses when he joined that little trollop Joy Pickles.'

‘I heard that Dr Sloth was in a bit of a bad way.' On his last visit, Magnus had been full of the fact that the University Registrar was looking very unkempt and down-at-heel.

‘He is!' Mrs Brush became expansive. ‘You wouldn't believe it. Yesterday I found he'd put his best grey suit in the washing machine. It was completely ruined. I didn't know what to do. He mopes about all day. Sometimes he doesn't even go into work. Often I find him asleep in his armchair and he's never even gone to bed … I don't know how they're managing at the university without him … and the state of the house now you wouldn't believe! Dirty dishes everywhere … I thought that Joy was bad, but it's even worse now she's gone …'

‘Really?' I was fascinated by this glimpse of middle-class angst.

‘Poor man … I knew that girl was no good. And she's gone off with someone else I hear …'

‘Yes. An American accountant from Las Vegas.' I thought Mrs Brush might as well know the truth.

The Theology department cleaner was not one to let such a detail escape her. ‘Las Vegas! … Well I never! … Like in the films!'

‘Maybe Dr Sloth ought to go back to his wife,' I suggested.

‘That's what I keep telling him. But between you and me, I think he's too embarrassed to ask.'

‘Perhaps someone ought to have a word with her. It sounds as if he needs rescuing.'

Mrs Brush looked thoughtful. ‘I see her every week … perhaps I should give her a little hint …' And with that she put her oven chips into her trolley and trundled off.

One afternoon a few days later I was working away at the adventures of Harry and Victoria when the telephone rang. Emma was upstairs in her study and she answered it. ‘It's for you,' she shouted down. ‘Someone ringing from America.'

I struggled with my crutches and went to the telephone. ‘Hello,' I said.

‘Is this Felix Glass?' The voice was loud, with a strong New York accent.

‘It is,' I replied.

‘Well my name's Mark Margolis; I'm an agent at Goldfarb and Goldfarb in Hollywood. I'm a friend of Kate Fitzgerald who works at the BBC with your wife. I think you know that Kate sent me the first chapter of your novel and the outline of the rest.'

I realised this was the famous transatlantic lover. He sounded as if he had a great deal of energy, but I wondered what he was telephoning me about.

He got to the point quickly. ‘Look,' he said. ‘I'm pretty sure we've got a winner here. I'm having lunch at the Los Angeles Country Club tomorrow with the Head Producer at Pacific Studios. I want to make a pitch. Is that OK with you?'

‘Pitch?' I asked. I had a vision of my new friend rolling out a very long green cricket pitch somewhere in the Californian sunshine.

‘Yea. That's the way it works.' Max Margolis was certainly enthusiastic. ‘I'll tell him the plot over lunch. And if he's interested I'll give him all the stuff you sent. Then we'll take it from there.'

I was astounded. ‘Seriously? You think there might be a film in it?'

‘Well it's early days yet. It all depends who they can get. But it's looking good. I'll get back to you as soon as I know something. Let me give you my telephone number and my website address. You'll want to look me up.'

‘Golly,' I said. I found a pencil and wrote down what he told me.

‘Sorry,' he said. ‘Got to go! There's someone on the other line.' The telephone went dead.

I was stunned. Could
A Campus Conspiracy
really become a film? This was a world I knew nothing about. Certainly no Hollywood agent had ever rung me about
Kant's Critiques
Revisited
. In any event the novel was not even written yet. I was only about a third of the way through. Yet they seemed to be thinking of casting the main parts already … Who would they want for Harry, I wondered. Who could play Wanda Catnip? And what about Magnus? When all was said and done only Magnus could play Magnus. Anyone else was inconceivable. It was all too fantastic.

Nonetheless it was a fact that a real-life Hollywood agent had been in touch on the telephone. He was intending to discuss it over lunch with someone from a major studio. Probably it would come to nothing. But then again, one never knew …

When I told Emma she was as amazed as I was. ‘I don't believe it,' she said. ‘Well this'll certainly give you another interest beside that stupid university. You understand how it works, don't you?'

I was forced to confess total ignorance. My publishing
ventures
in the past had never involved Hollywood. However, my wife was good at money and she seemed to have a perfect grasp of procedure.

‘If you get an option,' she explained, ‘it won't be that much.
Probably considerably less than a year's salary from St Sebastian's. The real money comes from receiving a percentage of the box-office profits …'

‘A percentage of the box-office profits?' I interrupted. ‘But I've only just started on Chapter Six. I haven't even got to Wanda Catnip and the gorillagram yet. And that's the central scene of the book.'

‘People sell film rights before they've written a single word,' my wife informed me. ‘In fact, you're rather slow on the uptake …'

The next week a large white envelope arrived by special
delivery
. It was marked ‘Goldfarb and Goldfarb' on the front in large gold letters. Inside there was a typewritten letter from Max Margolis and two detailed contracts. The letter read:

Emma was in London working on a new programme about Japanese food so I couldn't consult her. I rang the BBC, but she was unavailable. I would have to wait until she came home. I then telephoned Magnus at the university.

He was in the process of writing a damning review of a new book about Assyrian archaeology and he was full of it. The book was by a professor at Wellington University who had been a postgraduate contemporary at Oxford. They had lived next door to each other in the same college lodgings.

‘Frightful nuisance he was too!' Magnus was in a reminiscent mood. ‘He had a girl-friend called Norah who played in a brass band. She insisted on practising whenever she came to visit him. I told her that I had no objection to her playing the strumpet in his bed. That was up to her. But it was a bit much if she insisted on playing the trumpet as well…'

‘Look Magnus,' I interrupted. ‘I've got something to tell you. You'll be interested. I've heard from an agent in Hollywood. He's just sold the film option of
A Campus Conspiracy
to a major studio.'

Magnus did not believe me. ‘Very funny, Felix! And I suppose they're asking Robert Redford to play Harry!'

‘Honestly Magnus, I'm not making it up. I've just got a letter from this agent …'

‘What agent?'

‘Somebody who is going out with a friend of Emma's at the BBC.'

‘And they offered you a contract?' Magnus was incredulous.

‘I just got it in the post. I'm going to be paid fifty thousand dollars for an option on the book. Then if they decide to turn it into a film, I'll get a percentage of the box-office returns.'

‘Bloody hell!' he said. ‘What about me?'

‘What about you?' I did not know what he was talking about.

‘But it was me who told you all about Harry. It's my story really. Didn't you tell your Hollywood agent that I should have a share?' Magnus sounded aggrieved.

‘I didn't think of it. After all, I'm doing all the work. And I've changed it all quite a lot.'

‘But the original idea was mine.'

‘It's really Harry's story,' I said defensively. This was all becoming too complicated.

There was a pause. Then Magnus laughed. ‘You're probably right. I'd never get round to writing it all up. Don't worry about it, old chap. I'll be content to bask in your reflected glory …'

‘It's good of you to take it that way, Magnus,' I said hesitantly.

‘You can promise me one thing though.'

‘What's that?' I did not want to commit myself to something I would later regret.

‘If they're looking for someone to play my part, you might
suggest
that they audition me. I'm a very complex character and I've always fancied myself as an actor. I did quite a lot at Winchester … my Polonius was much admired … I don't want them to pick someone like Al Pacino. He'd mess it up for certain.'

I agreed that Al Pacino would not be the ideal choice for the Magnus character, but I pointed out that I had only sold the option. We were still a very long way from the film actually being made.

Before Emma arrived home, I dug out a bottle of champagne from the cupboard under the stairs and I put it in the fridge. Then I sat down to wait for her return. At six o'clock I heard her key in the door. ‘What's this for?' she asked as I popped the cork.

I handed her the letter from Goldfarb and Goldfarb. Emma put on her spectacles, sat down and read the contracts through from cover to cover. ‘Good grief!' she said. ‘Fifty thousand dollars for the option! That's not at all bad for a beginner.'

She seemed quite happy with it all until she came to the clause about box-office returns. She was on to it immediately. ‘Ohh!' she frowned. ‘The sneaks! I suspected they'd want to give you a percentage of the net returns. Two per cent sounds very
generous
, but these people employ some very sharp accountants. They'll bump up expenses and calculate it so there are no net
profits at all. Writers always lose out that way. I'm not going to have it!' She took a pen out of her handbag, crossed out ‘2% net' and substituted ‘1% gross'. ‘Let's see what the accountants of the Pacific make of that! It's not unreasonable …'