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The yellow cab shouldered its way through the streets of New York, a caged van taking this mad dog home. The driver with his flexed brown arm gouged the car through the lights on amber and gunned us out on to the straight. Never do anything, never do anything. I watched his brown arm, the skin puckered and punctured by its lancing black hairs. I watched unfamiliar city acres surge past in their squares. Eventually the flat signs and white lights of the airport began to swish by my face.
‘Wha you fly,’ said the driver, and I told him.
I was lying. So far as I could tell — from my watch, and from the red streamers of the ticket-books — both my flights had flown. But a squad of surprises awaited me in the expo aviary of the terminal. The departure of the nine o’clock flight had been delayed, thanks to a timely bomb hoax. They had just started reloading the baggage, and expected to be in the air by eleven. I strolled to the first-class check-in bay. First class, they treat you right. ‘How many bags, sir?’ asked the chick. ‘Just the one,’I said, and turned with an obliging flourish. ‘Oh, you poor fucking moron.’ ‘Sir?’ ‘No, no bags. Just me,’ I said with a dreadful smile … I rang Felix at the Ashbery. He would store my stuff with no sweat. I’d be back … Under the hot dental lights I traversed the building in search of a bar, having developed the idea of toasting my deliverance from New York. Far and wide did I roam. Ten o’clock and you’re closed?’ I heard myself yelling. This is fucking JFK, pal!’ By that time I had a couple of navy-blue serge lapels in my fists. The guy reopened the duty-free counter and sold me a pint. I sat drinking it in the departure lounge. Boarding began, first class first. I stood up and entered the tube.
And continued to travel deeper into the tubed night — to travel through the night as the night came the other way, making its violent sweep across the earth. I drank champagne in the wide red throne, friendless in the plane’s eye, tastefully curtained off from the coughing, snoring, shrieking, weeping, birth-giving innards of Business, Trimmer and Economy. How I hate my life. I called for divining cards. I’ve got to stop being young. Why ? It’s killing me, being young is fucking killing me. I ate my dinner. I watched the film — they gave me a choice and I caught Pookie: it was terrible, and old Lorne looked like shit. What happened out there, with Fielding and Butch? Ay, keep it away! Don’t let it touch me. I can’t give it headroom. I’ve got to grow up. It’s time
2
come on, john, what’s it feel like? You’re one of the top commercial directors in the country, you’re only thirty-five, you’re about to make your first feature, you’re working with people like Lorne Guyland and Butch Beausoleil. Come on, John — what’s it feel like?’
Actually it didn’t feel like anything. It just felt like I was in London again, dumped out of the sky into nothing weather. It didn’t feel like anything, but I sipped my beer, smiled at the microphone, and said, ‘Well, fantastic, Bill, obviously. Making your first film, it’s never easy, but I’ve got a really good feeling about this project. Things are looking really good.’
‘You’re telling me. You must feel bloody marvellous.’
‘The future certainly looks bright.’
Bill is the London stringer of Box Office, the Hollywood trade — hence his celebratory tone. I don’t think Bill was feeling very celebratory this morning, though. Exulting in my success looked like pretty hard work. But that’s what they paid him for.
‘Fill us in a little. Will you be writing the script?’
‘Me? Are you kidding? No, the idea is mine, but we’ll be using a, the American writer Doris Arthur’ — Bill nodded — ‘to develop the screenplay. Originally the film was set in London. Now it’s New York, so we need a writer who can speak American.’
Tell me, how do you feel about the prospect of working with Lorne Guyland? Excited?’