Henry had never guessed his assistant was so wiry and muscular, her grip so strong. He was touched she could be so happy for him.
She stopped jumping. She let go and stepped back. “Sorry. I got so excited and forgot myself.” She tucked her offending hands into her armpits. “But—Wow. Right?”
“Exactly,” he told her. “Wow.”
She stepped away, looking embarrassed, confused. “Only money. We can’t be silly about it. And it’s your money, not mine. But hey. I’m happy for you.”
“Thank you, Jessie. Thank you very much.” He blinked and tried to laugh, but all he could produce was a mild chuckle. “It’s so unexpected. It doesn’t feel real. It’s not like I did anything to get it.”
“No, you didn’t. So where’s the script? I want to read it. Let’s see what kind of monster you’re going to be.”
“Good idea,” said Henry. “I should probably read it myself.”
They hunted around and found it in the stack on the sideboard in the dining room. A swatch of pages without a cover, it was held together with brass fasteners.
“Here,” said Jessie, and she undid the fasteners. “So we can both read it. I’m a fast reader. I’ll start and pass the pages to you.”
Henry sat on the sofa, Jessie in the armchair. She began to read. Ten seconds later, she handed a page to Henry. More pages followed.
Henry could not keep up with her. She set the pages at his feet.
Movies were a foreign country for Henry, a land he visited rarely and briefly, playing character parts that lasted only a scene or two. His one major role was in the BBC adaptation of Daniel Deronda, where he played a cold, sadistic Victorian husband. Good, clean fun. However, acting for the camera was much as Olivier or Richardson or somebody described it: you never perform, you only rehearse. And they film all your rehearsals and use the best. Henry had no practice reading screenplays. He read this one much as he read plays, skipping the stage directions and concentrating on the dialogue. But it was all stage directions and little dialogue. The title character, however, did get a juicy line or two.
“They go to Capri,” said Jessie, setting another page on the floor. “So you get to go to Italy when they film.”
No, this did not feel real. It felt nothing like a plausible acting job. First because it was a movie, second because of the money. Three million dollars. Three million dollars? No wonder he felt light-headed. It was as if he’d just knocked back a very large martini.
“What a pretty fantasy,” said Jessie. “A man loves a girl so much that he wants to kill her mother.”
It settled in deeper: This is big money. You’re going to be rich, Henry Lewse. The very idea of millions of dollars enlarged his mind. He felt giddy and new. But I’m still the same man, he told himself, the same fool but with money. What is the emotion of being rich? His months of playing Hackensacker should have given him practice.
“You’re smiling,” said Jessie. “Are you at the scene where he’s in the closet full of the daughter’s shoes?”
“No. I was just—” He shrugged and dove back behind the sheaf of pages.
His happiness was ridiculous. It was only money—hypothetical money. He hadn’t even signed a contract yet. Nevertheless, he was feeling very good, with a lightness in the chest that he rarely felt except when he knew he was going to get laid soon.
The phone chirped again. Jessie jumped up and read the caller ID. “Nope, not England,” she said and let the machine take care of it.
“This is David Blackwell at Variety. We understand that Mr. Lewse was offered the lead in the film adaptation of Greville. We’d like to run this in tomorrow’s edition but need to confirm—”
Jessie snatched up the receiver. “This is Jessie Doyle, Mr. Lewse’s personal assistant.”
Henry was surprised by the imperious tone she took.
“Yes. He has been offered the part. Yes, he is interested. What? Yes, you can quote me. Doyle. D-o-y-l-e. Thank you.” She hung up and looked over at Henry, blinking in surprise.
“Word travels fast,” said Henry.
“I’ll bet it’s Rabb,” said Jessie. “He must be publicizing this to lock you into the project.”
She was very savvy. Henry was impressed.
He returned to the script. Knowing Variety cared, he paid closer attention. He came to a scene where Greville shares a hot tub with the mother and eighteen-year-old daughter and tries to flirt with both without giving the game away. The scene had possibilities, not least because Henry would get the chance to show off his body work.
The phone rang again. Again Jessie answered it.
“Ditchley? Cameron? Oh, ‘Page Six.’ Yes, of course.” She flexed her eyebrows at Henry like semaphore signals, only Henry had no idea what her message was. “I’d be happy to confirm or disconfirm any rumors. Uh-huh. That is correct. Mr. Lewse has been offered the title role of Greville. Uh-uh. Susan Sarandon? Yes, of course. Mr. Lewse can’t wait to work with her.”
She pressed the button of the receiver but did not hang up. “Oh my God,” she said. “Rabb must’ve had a press release all set to go. Did you know that you’re cast opposite Susan Sarandon? This could be the start of a very busy—”
The phone chirped again; she hit the button.
“Hello. CNN? I see. His personal assistant. An interview? Really? I’ll have to check with Mr. Lewse.”
The phone continued to tweedle and chirp as more people called. Most only asked for confirmation, but others requested pieces of Henry. Entertainment Tonight wanted a press kit and maybe an interview next week. Good Morning, America wanted an interview tomorrow; something called E! wanted an interview tonight.
It was impossible to read a script with the telephone trilling away. Henry was tempted to go to the bedroom, shut the door, and let Jessie handle this—she handled the calls anyway—but it was too exciting. He didn’t want to miss anything.
“My God,” said Jessie after the twentieth call, giggling at the lunacy. “You’re like a run on a bank. It’s free-money day at First Henry Lewse. This Adam Rabb must be very connected.”
He laughed with her. “It makes no sense. I’m famous for starring in a movie that hasn’t even been made yet?”
“That’s the best kind. An abstract movie. Pure potential.” She shook her head. “Your little friend is going to kick himself for not going to bed with you.”
“Who? Oh. Toby. You think?”
What a wonderful idea. Success would bring the boy around. Greville would win him Toby. Or maybe Henry wouldn’t need the love of a pretty little nobody once he had fame and fortune.
“But he did go to bed with me,” he reminded Jessie and himself. “Not to put too fine a point on it.”