Heavy Water_ And Other Stories - Martin Amis [2]
He heard nothing for four months. This would normally have been a fairly good sign. It meant, or it might mean, that your screenplay was receiving serious, even agonized, consideration. It was better than having your screenplay flopping back on the mat by return post. On the other hand, Hugh Sixsmith might have responded to the spirit and the letter of Alistair’s accompanying note and dropped Offensive from Quasar 13 into his wastepaper basket within minutes of its arrival: four months ago. Rereading his fading carbon of the screenplay, Alistair now cursed his own (highly calibrated) insouciance. He shouldn’t have said. “Any use? If not—w.p.b.” He should have said, “Any use? If not—s.a.e.”! Every morning he went down the three flights of stairs—the mail was there to be shuffled and dealt. And every fourth Friday, or thereabouts, he still wrenched open his LM, in case Sixsmith had run the screenplay without letting him know. As a surprise.
“Dear Mr. Sixsmith,” thought Alistair as he rode the train to Leeds. “I am thinking of placing the screenplay I sent you elsewhere. I trust that … I thought it only fair to …” Alistair retracted his feet to accommodate another passenger. “My dear Mr. Sixsmith: In response to an inquiry from … In response to a most generous inquiry, I am putting together a selection of my screenplays for …” Alistair tipped his head back and stared at the smeared window. “For Mudlark Books. It seems that the Ostler Press is also interested. This involves me in some paperwork, which, however tedious … For the record … Matters would be considerably eased … Of course if you …”
Luke sat on a Bauhaus love seat in Club World at Heathrow, drinking Evian and availing himself of a complimentary fax machine—clearing up the initial paperwork on the poem with Mike.
Everyone in Club World looked hushed and grateful to be there, but not Luke, who looked exhaustively displeased. He was flying first class to LAX, where he would be met by a uniformed chauffeur who would convey him by limousine or courtesy car to the Pinnacle Trumont on the Avenue of the Stars. First class was no big thing. In poetry, first class was something you didn’t need to think about. It wasn’t discussed. It was statutory. First class was just business as usual.
Luke was tense: under pressure. A lot—maybe too much—was riding on “Sonnet.” If “Sonnet” didn’t happen, he would soon be able to afford neither his apartment nor his girlfriend. He would recover from Suki before very long. But he would never recover from not being able to afford her, or his apartment. If you wanted the truth, his deal on “Sonnet” was not that great. Luke was furious with Mike except about the new merchandizing clause (potential accessories on the poem—like toys or T-shirts) and the improved cut he got on tertiaries and sequels. Then there was Joe.
Joe calls, and he’s like, “We really think ‘Sonnet’’s going to work, Luke. Jeff thinks so, too. Jeff’s just come in. Jeff? It’s Luke. Do you want to say something to him? Luke. Luke, Jeff’s coming over. He wants to say something about ‘Sonnet.’ ”
“Luke?” said Jeff. “Jeff. Luke? You’re a very talented writer. It’s great to be working on ‘Sonnet’ with you. Here’s Joe.”
“That was Jeff,” said Joe. “He’s crazy about ‘Sonnet.’ ”
“So what are we going to be talking about?” said Luke. “Roughly.”
“On ‘Sonnet’? Well, the only thing we have a problem on ‘Sonnet’ with, Luke, so far as I can see, anyway, and I know Jeff agrees with me on this—right, Jeff?—and so does Jim, incidentally, Luke,” said Joe, “is the form.”
Luke hesitated. Then he said, “You mean the form ‘Sonnet’ ‘s written in.’ ”
“Yes, that’s right, Luke. The sonnet form.”
Luke waited for the