youâre having. We may have something to celebrate.â
âWhat?â Ben felt an enormous jolt of excitement. âWhy, whatâs happened?â
âDonât get your hopes up too quickly, handsome boy,â said Belinda, loving the power she had over him. âLetâs wait for the drinks.â
It was agonizing waiting until the waiter (a âresting actorâ, good looking but not nearly as fit as Ben â which was presumably why he was resting) came back with their Margaritas. But Ben feigned nonchalance, complimenting Belinda on her body and business acumen.
âWell,â she eventually drawled. âParamount are casting a new movie. Itâs gonna be huge, they say, but they always say that â¦â
âWhatâs it about?â
âThe South of France in the 1950s. Saint-Tropez, Bardot, you know.â
âOh, cool. And I love that part of the world. I went backpacking along the Riviera with all my drama-school mates in the college holidays ten years ago.â It was more like fifteen, but Belinda didnât need to know that. âNice, Antibes, Juan Les Pins, just so we could get a glimpse of the stars at Cannes.â He remembered them all smoking dope and drinking cheap wine out of their rucksacks on the beach, assuring one another that theyâd be up there one day.
If they could see me now, that little gang of mine â¦
âYou European kids,â said Belinda, slightly wistfully. âSo much culture at your fingertips. Anyway, Cannes is the cynical premise behind this venture. The producers think that a movie based on its doorstep might get those uptight bastards to sit up and take some notice of something produced by a MAJOR studio, for once, instead of one of those fall-asleep-in-your-popcorn subtitled crapolas where everybody, like, dies.â She made a gesture that combined an extravagant yawn with slitting her throat.
Ben laughed easily. He was amazed by his own patience.
âAnd? Do they want to see me, or what?â
âOh, honey, of course they want to see you. I wouldnât be telling you all this now would I, if they didnât? What kind of a woman do you think I am?â
She pouted and Ben refrained from telling her.
âItâs a period romcom, along the lines of
To Catch A Thief
.â
Ben wasnât sure how Hitchcock would have reacted to one of his classics being referred to as a period romcom, but he let it pass.
âSo you mean, Iâm up for the Cary Grant character?â It was difficult to keep the excitement out of his voice.
âGet real, handsome. Theyâll only go with a proper, American star for the good guy.â Wasnât Belinda aware that Cary Grant was originally from Bristol? âNo, youâre the bastard Brit who messes with our heroineâs heart.â
âSilly me.â Ben laughed again. âWe Englishmen are always the villains. But, bloody hell, Belinda, that is amazing! When do they want me to read for it? And who are they thinking of for the lead roles?â
âThey havenât decided yet for the lead, but maybe Scarlett Johansson or Amanda Seyfried for the girl. Somebody suggested Gwynnie, but sheâs way too old of course.â
As Gwyneth Paltrow was about the same age as him, Ben nodded solemnly.
âAnd they want to see you in two daysâ time, so brush up on your French.â
âMate, thatâs amazing news,â said Tom, one of Benâs new ex-pat buddies, a trust-fund twat who had moved to LA to write a screenplay, thinking that anyone could do it. As he could neither spell nor string two sentences together, Ben thought it unlikely Tomâs masterpiece would ever see the light of day. But he did mean well.
They were at Soho House LA, with all the other Brits who liked to stick together.
âBut promise us you wonât turn native!â bellowed Julia, an actress whoâd been very successful in London
Learning to Kill: Stories