But at last we’re able to sit down, and, on the plus side, the food is delicious. I’m so engrossed in my fillet of beef that I don’t pay much attention to the conversation, which doesn’t matter, because it only consists of both Kerrows droning on to the entire table about this Florence Nightingale film they want to make. They talk like some sort of song duet, overlapping every phrase, and no one else can get a word in. This is another lesson I’m learning in Hollywood. You’d think hearing about a film would be exciting—but it’s deathly. I can tell Suze is just as fed up as I am, because her eyes are glassy, and also she keeps mouthing “booooriiiing” at me.
“… locations are the challenge …”
“… wonderful director …”
“… problems with the third act …”
“… he really gets Florence’s arc …”
“… talked to the studio about budget …”
“… finances lined up. We’re waiting on the last investor, but it depends on some British guy with a crazy name. John John Saint John. Kind of a name is that?” Kerrow spears a mange-tout and eats it ferociously.
“D’you mean John St. John John?” says Suze, suddenly tuning in to the conversation. “How on earth do you know him? That’s Pucky,” she adds to me. “Have you met Pucky?” God knows if I’ve met Pucky. All Suze’s childhood friends are called things like Pucky and Binky and Minky. They basically blend into one braying, cheery, human Labrador.
“Er … maybe.”
“You’ve met Pucky.” She turns to Luke. “I know you met him.”
“Tarquin’s investment manager,” says Luke thoughtfully. “Yes, I did. Runs the media arm of your business interests?”
“Something like that,” says Suze vaguely, then beams at Tarkie, who’s returning from the restroom. “Darling, they know Pucky.”
“Good Lord.” Tarkie’s face brightens. “Extraordinary coincidence.”
“Pucky?” Ken Kerrow looks perplexed.
“Called him that ever since prep school,” Tarkie explains. “Marvelous chap. He’s worked with me, what, ten years now?”
“Worked with you?” Ken Kerrow’s eyes focus on Tarquin anew. “You’re in film?”
“Film?” Tarkie looks horrified at the idea. “Good Lord, no. I’m a farmer. You were saying something earlier about an ‘ark’? Do you mean Noah’s Ark?”
“Tarquin, can I ask you a question?” says Luke. His mouth is twitching and he looks highly amused at something. “I know you have a few media interests among your investments. Has Pucky ever backed any films for you?”
“Oh!” Tarquin’s expression clears. “Ahm. Well. As a matter of fact, yes, he has. Perhaps that’s the connection.”
“Films?” Suze stares at him. “You never told me!”
“This is your investor,” says Luke to Ken Kerrow, and jerks a thumb at Tarquin. “Lord Cleath-Stuart.”
“Please,” says Tarkie, flushing red. “Tarquin.”
Ken Kerrow looks as though he’s choked on his fillet steak. “That’s you?”
“Lord?” Sage looks up from her phone for the first time.
“Lord Cleath-Stuart.” Ken Kerrow is gesticulating at his wife. “This is the Brit backer. You backed Fiddler’s Game,” he adds to Tarquin, in sudden realization. “Didn’t you?”
“Ahm … yes.” Tarquin looks a little hunted. “That sounds right.”
“It made thirty million dollars its opening weekend. You picked a winner.”
“Well, it was Pucky,” says Tarkie modestly. “I mean, I wouldn’t know one film from another.”
“Excuse me,” says Ken Kerrow. “I’m going to find my co-producer. I’d love for you to meet him.” He leaps up and practically sprints to a nearby table, where I can see him whispering frantically to another guy in a tux.
“Tarkie!” exclaims Suze, and bangs the table. “Since when do we invest in films? You should have told me!”
“But, darling,” says Tarkie anxiously, “you said you weren’t interested in our investments.”
“I meant boring things like stocks and shares! Not films—” Suze breaks off and fixes Tarkie with an accusing gaze. “Tell me the truth. Have we been invited to premieres?”
“Ahm …” Tarkie’s eyes slide around nervously. “You’d have to ask Pucky. I probably told him we weren’t interested.”