we're a tiny weeny bit late. I had to take him to the dog beautician for a manicure."
The men in the room stared dumbly. Each and every one of them was familiar with star behaviour. But this woman wasn't even a star anymore. Mitch stared at the floor, wishing it would not only swallow him up but also mash him to a pulp. He felt he didn't want to live anymore.
"There you go, precious," Belle crooned to the dog as she put him on the floor. "You go run about, sweetie." As Sugar immediately shot beneath Arlington's desk, Belle beamed at the studio head. "See, look. He likes you."
"I don't like him," Arlington said ominously.
Belle's megawatt grin abruptly disappeared. Her big mouth, which was painted shiny and red, bunched disapprovingly, and her darkened eyebrows snapped angrily together. "How can you say that? Sugar's so sensitive. So easily hurt, poor baby." She bent under Arlington's desk and cooed some endearments. At least he gets to see her tits now, Mitch thought.
"Look, shall we get on with the business?" asked Bob Ricardo, looking at his boss and drumming his calculator with his fingers.
Arlington flexed his stubby hands and stared at his neatly clipped nails. "Look, baby. So you were huge last year. But a year's a long time in showbiz. You're losing it, and there are plenty of other girls out there just dying to take your place. Bob?"
"Basically, the bottom line is this. Bloody Mary cost two-hundredand-fifty-million dollars to make, and so far it's grossed thirty."
"Thirty million?" Belle beamed. "Hey, it's only been out two weeks. Thirty million's pretty good."
Bob shook his bony, crop-haired head. "Not thirty million dollars. Thirty dollars. Three-oh."
Mitch gasped. He'd no idea it was this bad. This was historic.
"Thirty?" croaked Belle.
"Thirty," confirmed Bob in his grating tones.
"Thirty dollars! But that's impossible!" Belle shouted. "No one's
ever made…"—she screwed up her mouth to spit out the words— "thirty freaking dollars on a two-hundred-fifty-million-dollar picture! It's impossible, right?"
"Wrong," Bob said with relish, his lean fingers gently tapping the white surface of his balance book. "Sure, it's made a few million, but when you take away the taxes, the costs, and so on, well…" He pulled a face. "Thirty's what you're left with. Which means," he frowned and tapped the large buttons of his calculator, "a deficit of two hundred forty-nine million, nine hundred ninety-nine thousand, nine hundred and seventy dollars."
Even though he had heard it before, the figure hit him just as hard as it had the first time, right bang slap in the balls. Arlington closed his watering eyes and swallowed. Forget calling this a turkey. It was an outbreak of swine flu. An epidemic of H1N1 right through their balance sheet.
The extent of the damage was still, in fact, coming in. There was some confusion over whether Bloody Mary had been number six or number nine in Moldovia. "It's the right number, all right," their contact there had reported. "Right now, we're just establishing what way up it is."
"You got your sums wrong!" Belle gasped, breasts heaving up and down agitatedly. "The critics said my acting was great!"
Arlington pursed his lips. "No one gives a gnat's snatch about the acting."
From under Arlington's desk, the dog growled.
"I always said we should make a sequel to Marie ," Belle declared passionately. "But no one would listen to me." She thumped a skinny fist heavy with diamonds so hard against the prominent bones of her upper chest that it seemed to Mitch that she might snap them.
"We couldn't do a sequel," Michael J. Seltzer said shortly. "She got her head chopped off in the last one."
Belle glared indignantly at Seltzer. "We should have done Anne Boleyn instead. Or Elizabeth…whatever number she was. The
The men in the room stared dumbly. Each and every one of them was familiar with star behaviour. But this woman wasn't even a star anymore. Mitch stared at the floor, wishing it would not only swallow him up but also mash him to a pulp. He felt he didn't want to live anymore.
"There you go, precious," Belle crooned to the dog as she put him on the floor. "You go run about, sweetie." As Sugar immediately shot beneath Arlington's desk, Belle beamed at the studio head. "See, look. He likes you."
"I don't like him," Arlington said ominously.
Belle's megawatt grin abruptly disappeared. Her big mouth, which was painted shiny and red, bunched disapprovingly, and her darkened eyebrows snapped angrily together. "How can you say that? Sugar's so sensitive. So easily hurt, poor baby." She bent under Arlington's desk and cooed some endearments. At least he gets to see her tits now, Mitch thought.
"Look, shall we get on with the business?" asked Bob Ricardo, looking at his boss and drumming his calculator with his fingers.
Arlington flexed his stubby hands and stared at his neatly clipped nails. "Look, baby. So you were huge last year. But a year's a long time in showbiz. You're losing it, and there are plenty of other girls out there just dying to take your place. Bob?"
"Basically, the bottom line is this. Bloody Mary cost two-hundredand-fifty-million dollars to make, and so far it's grossed thirty."
"Thirty million?" Belle beamed. "Hey, it's only been out two weeks. Thirty million's pretty good."
Bob shook his bony, crop-haired head. "Not thirty million dollars. Thirty dollars. Three-oh."
Mitch gasped. He'd no idea it was this bad. This was historic.
"Thirty?" croaked Belle.
"Thirty," confirmed Bob in his grating tones.
"Thirty dollars! But that's impossible!" Belle shouted. "No one's
ever made…"—she screwed up her mouth to spit out the words— "thirty freaking dollars on a two-hundred-fifty-million-dollar picture! It's impossible, right?"
"Wrong," Bob said with relish, his lean fingers gently tapping the white surface of his balance book. "Sure, it's made a few million, but when you take away the taxes, the costs, and so on, well…" He pulled a face. "Thirty's what you're left with. Which means," he frowned and tapped the large buttons of his calculator, "a deficit of two hundred forty-nine million, nine hundred ninety-nine thousand, nine hundred and seventy dollars."
Even though he had heard it before, the figure hit him just as hard as it had the first time, right bang slap in the balls. Arlington closed his watering eyes and swallowed. Forget calling this a turkey. It was an outbreak of swine flu. An epidemic of H1N1 right through their balance sheet.
The extent of the damage was still, in fact, coming in. There was some confusion over whether Bloody Mary had been number six or number nine in Moldovia. "It's the right number, all right," their contact there had reported. "Right now, we're just establishing what way up it is."
"You got your sums wrong!" Belle gasped, breasts heaving up and down agitatedly. "The critics said my acting was great!"
Arlington pursed his lips. "No one gives a gnat's snatch about the acting."
From under Arlington's desk, the dog growled.
"I always said we should make a sequel to Marie ," Belle declared passionately. "But no one would listen to me." She thumped a skinny fist heavy with diamonds so hard against the prominent bones of her upper chest that it seemed to Mitch that she might snap them.
"We couldn't do a sequel," Michael J. Seltzer said shortly. "She got her head chopped off in the last one."
Belle glared indignantly at Seltzer. "We should have done Anne Boleyn instead. Or Elizabeth…whatever number she was. The
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