Lavelle’s on LaJolita in downtown Los Angeles was the current place for evening cocktails, mocktails, smoothies and espressos. Its artisan drinks and plant-packed patio were instant Insta. So River Romero, waiting for the producer who had just agreed to hire her for a lucrative rewrite to show up, decided that for the next string of Thursday evenings, she would spend a couple of hours here to see who she could casually bump into. Like just about every other writer in this town, she could be busier. She was on the lookout for a big project, the lucky commission, or that executive with sway who could make all the difference.
And she was tired of trying to get meetings with these, quite frankly, a-holes. Fed up of getting dressed up, driving across town and waiting in over-styled lounges only to be told by some infant with an earpiece, ‘I’m soooo sorry, something urgent has come up for Mr Asshat, and he’ll have to rearrange.’ Or – even worse – actually getting the meeting, only to hear her carefully crafted pitches crash and burn as a committee of dummies failed to grasp even the very basic concept of what she was pitching.
River, who would admit only to being ‘in her thirties’, was becoming aware of an increasingly disheartening situation. Just as she was stepping into her writing prime, just as she had finally figured out what she was doing and how to do it, she was surrounded on all fronts by newbies and dimwits who wouldn’t know a great idea or a quality piece of writing if their lives depended on it. And this being LA, almost everyone’s lives depended on great ideas and quality writing.
Never mind, she told herself, as she was shown to her table where she ordered a coconut and lavender cooler, hoping it wouldn’t be too weird. She did not want to get snarly and bitter, like many a mature writer. Good things happen to good writers all the time, she reminded herself. Her last commission had been a challenge, but she had thrown everything at it, determined to take the opportunity to create quality and worthwhile work. But truth be told, both she and her bank account could do with something meaty, substantial… something big. Something that would make all this hustling and scrabbling worthwhile.
‘Well, hello there, Phillip Renfield. And how are you doing?’ she gushed, delighted to see that a major producer she’d been trying to snag a meeting with for weeks was passing right by her chair. ‘I’m River Romero, just to jog your memory in case you’ve sunk a couple of their pearl martinis.’
‘The writer,’ she added, as his gaze fell on her without any sign of recognition, ‘We worked together on Spangled.’
This seemed to work.
‘Oh yeah, of course, hello, River. How are you doing?’
‘I’m great. But… hey, if you’re on your way to the rest room, don’t let me stop you. I can catch up with you on the way back.’
He smiled and seemed to like this.
‘Nah… on my way out. Are you here on your own?’
‘I’m waiting for Steve Kay,’ she dropped the well-known producer name, ‘and as usual, I’m too early.’
‘Steve Kay?’ Phillip’s interest was pricked, ‘Cool. Care for some company while you wait?’
‘I’d be honoured.’ She waved at the empty chair opposite hers. This guy had been impossible to get a meeting with, she had called his executive assistance at least ten times in the past four weeks, and now here he was, offering to sit down and shoot the breeze. She was definitely going to hang out in this place regularly.
Phillip Renfield was an important producer. He was in his late forties now but expensively preserved – fit, tanned, nice haircut, maybe a touch of Botox to the frown lines, and an expensive linen jacket. He took the seat and rested his folded hands on the table.
‘How’s it going?’ she asked first, ‘Your name is all over the trades. You’re a very busy guy.’ Her smile was warm and she amped up the charm.
‘Yeah, I’m having a good run,’ he replied, ‘there’s lots of things happening. I’ve just wrapped one production and starting a new one next week with great names attached… so, all good, all exciting. How about you?’
‘I’m meeting Steve tonight to sign up with him for a nice rewrite, but I have a slate full of projects looking for good homes, so I’m hustling as always.’ River followed this with a smile she hoped projected positivity and excitement.
Just to be clear, she certainly didn’t want a date, she wanted a chance to pitch to Phillip, but she knew pitching required patience. Most likely, she wouldn’t even pitch to him this evening.
‘So what’s the script rewrite?’ Phillip asked, waving over a waitress and ordering a pineapple and passion fruit smoothie for himself. ‘And for you?’
‘I’m fine with my cooler here, thanks.’ When the waitress was gone, River answered his first question, ‘Well, I can’t say too much, it’s still under wraps. I can say it’s for the high school/young adult market and we all know how important that audience is.’
‘Tell me about it,’ Phillip agreed with a smile, ‘I’ve got dragged into making a teen movie that’s supposed to be “High School Musical meets Shakespeare’s Merchant of Venice”.’
River couldn’t suppress her burst of laughter at this, then immediately worried that she’d blown their friendly chat, but Phillip shrugged, smiled and said, ‘I know, right.’
They exchanged a look and she remembered how much fun he had been to work with on the movie that was, so far, the biggest hit of her career, but the start of Phillip’s very successful career.
‘Well… it sounds interesting and pretty different,’ she told him.
‘So before I got involved, the script that got turned in – no names – was a dog,’ he confided. ‘And now I need to make sure it gets a serious do-over. I mean, a musical for kids based on a Shakespeare play. Gimme a break. It is going to be hard. But we’re going to get some kids fresh out of film school involved and hopefully they’ll funk it up and turn it around.’
‘Hmmm…’ River didn’t like to say what she really thought about this idea. Letting some inexperienced juniors loose on a script that was already bad would almost certainly produce something that was even worse. But she didn’t want to rain on Phillip’s parade this evening, instead she wanted to smoothly pave the way for her to call him up in a day or two, and pitch him a handful of her new ideas.
So they spent a few enjoyable minutes swapping industry gossip and reminiscing about the best days of working together on Spangled. Then Phillip glanced at his phone and said he’d love to stay longer, but he had another event lined up tonight. River, in turn, said she better find out what was keeping Steve Kay.
‘This has been fun,’ Phillip told her as he stood up. ‘Call me, run me through your slate and let’s see if there’s anything I like.’
‘That would be amazing. I will. And thank you!’ River enthused, ‘Have a great evening.’
‘You too.’
And so he headed off into the night for a fresh round of producer schmoozing, while River picked up her phone and was dismayed to see a WhatsApp from Steve, especially as the first words were ‘Sorry River…’
Sorry River, she said under her breath, what the fresh freak is this?
She opened the message and read:
Sorry River. It’s a bust. The budget’s been pulled for this project. It’s not happening. So no point us meeting tonight to discuss. I’ll be in touch about something else soon.
What the actual…?
Unless technology had caused a delay, the guy had sent this message two minutes ago – exactly twelve minutes after he was supposed to be sitting right here in this bar with her.
She was angry, of course. No, make that she was freaking furious. But she was also so disappointed. This was a harsh business, always fraught with last-minute changes and disappointments. But she’d thought that by now she’d earned the right to something more professional than a lousy blow-out WhatsApp twelve minutes into a meeting that was supposed to celebrate the sign up.
That was supposed to have been a good job with a decent paycheck attached. And now she was left staring at a message that it was a bust. She was so angry and insulted she didn’t dare to reply. She was frightened of how much bridge-burning abuse she could hurl in under thirty words.
The truth was, her bank account was running low, lower than it had been for years. The warning lights were starting to flash. She’d long ago sold her swanky apartment, bought on the Spangled success money. Now she was facing the real worry that she might never be able to move out of the much cheaper place she’d bought with a generous helping hand from her brother. She needed something to work out soon.
And now the waitress was hovering at River’s elbow with the check. And jeezus… that’s how much they charged for mocktails in here? What in the world did a drink with actual alcohol in it cost? And yes, Phillip had, of course, left her to pick up the bill. That was the price of being the pitcher in this town.
River opened her purse and made the painful payment by card. She needed new work. She needed to land something exciting, packed with potential and big. She needed the last few years of scraping about doing script polishes and rewrites, even comedy sketches, to all finally come good.