one in the big ruffs. Or Henry the whatever. You know, that powercrazed psycho with the six wives." Belle rolled her eyes. "Six wives! How normal was he?"
The six-times-married Arlington looked predictably thunderous at this. The folly of Bloody Mary struck him anew. Burning desire. What the hell had the studio been thinking of to use that as the film's catchline?
Or, to be precise, Arlington thought, eyes slitting as he looked at his Creative Head, what had Michael been thinking of? It had been his idea to make the film in the first place; to make it, moreover, not straight and historical, but sex it up, make it like some sixteenthcentury Catholic Playboy Mansion, with Philip of Spain running around pleasuring everyone from the lady's maids to the spit boy. He had even pushed for an alternative title, Burn, Baby, Burn , on the grounds that it was more commercial. It had been his decision to take out all the Protestant-versus-Catholic elements on the grounds it might offend people, meaning that nothing made any sense and the executions looked gratuitous.
Belle's sunglasses, which she had now replaced, flashed defiantly. "Anyway, Bloody Mary did very well in the Ukraine."
"Only because they thought it was about alcohol," replied Bob wearily.
Arlington slid another look at his watch. Shit. He had another fifty meetings scheduled today. This was taking far too long. He looked meaningfully at his head of PR.
Chase McGiven cleared his throat. He sat with one ankle raised to his knee, on which balanced a blue plastic folder he tapped restively with a fountain pen. "Miss Murphy. We've been doing some, ahem, qualitative personality research…"—he tapped the folder harder—"which I have right here."
"Some what?" Belle snapped rudely.
"Qualitative personality research is qualitative research concerning a personality," Chase informed Belle. "See what they think of you, in other words."
"Was this really necessary?" Mitch interjected, feeling he should say something, anything, to remind them all he was still here.
Chase ignored him. "According to our research, and, of course, this is confirmed by the figures from Bloody Mary , your popularity is, how can I put this?" He looked thoughtfully at Belle.
"Huge?" prompted Belle.
"Slipping," said Chase.
"Are you sure?" Mitch interjected desperately.
Chase leant back in his chair and put his arms behind his head. "Her popularity's at rock bottom."
"Like the takings," interjected Bob, with relish.
The dog began to yap under Arlington's desk.
"C'mon, Belle. You know it's true." Chase leant forward. "People are dropping you from projects left, right, and centre. No film will touch you at the moment. You've lost your cosmetics contract, the perfume launch has been decommissioned, and you're not even being considered for that Disney animation about a worm with issues any more. The part's gone to Scarlett Johansson."
Mitch's breakfast came shooting back up his windpipe in a sudden and unexpected manner. He pulled an apologetic face as Belle ripped off her sunglasses and whipped round to meet his eyes with blazing balls of blue fire.
"I was gonna tell you," Mitch murmured unhappily.
Chase ploughed on. "Specifically, what our qualitative personality research tells us is that your recent behaviour has played badly with the fans. You've misread the zeitgeist."
"I've never read the zeitgeist," Belle blustered.
Chase stared at her with such a bewildered expression on his face
that Mitch almost felt sorry for him. He had clearly underestimated the scale of the task before him, but then, who hadn't?
"People don't want stars like that anymore," the studio PR continued. "Drunken, wild, dressed like hookers…"
"Hey," interjected Belle indignantly. "It takes a lot of money to look that
The six-times-married Arlington looked predictably thunderous at this. The folly of Bloody Mary struck him anew. Burning desire. What the hell had the studio been thinking of to use that as the film's catchline?
Or, to be precise, Arlington thought, eyes slitting as he looked at his Creative Head, what had Michael been thinking of? It had been his idea to make the film in the first place; to make it, moreover, not straight and historical, but sex it up, make it like some sixteenthcentury Catholic Playboy Mansion, with Philip of Spain running around pleasuring everyone from the lady's maids to the spit boy. He had even pushed for an alternative title, Burn, Baby, Burn , on the grounds that it was more commercial. It had been his decision to take out all the Protestant-versus-Catholic elements on the grounds it might offend people, meaning that nothing made any sense and the executions looked gratuitous.
Belle's sunglasses, which she had now replaced, flashed defiantly. "Anyway, Bloody Mary did very well in the Ukraine."
"Only because they thought it was about alcohol," replied Bob wearily.
Arlington slid another look at his watch. Shit. He had another fifty meetings scheduled today. This was taking far too long. He looked meaningfully at his head of PR.
Chase McGiven cleared his throat. He sat with one ankle raised to his knee, on which balanced a blue plastic folder he tapped restively with a fountain pen. "Miss Murphy. We've been doing some, ahem, qualitative personality research…"—he tapped the folder harder—"which I have right here."
"Some what?" Belle snapped rudely.
"Qualitative personality research is qualitative research concerning a personality," Chase informed Belle. "See what they think of you, in other words."
"Was this really necessary?" Mitch interjected, feeling he should say something, anything, to remind them all he was still here.
Chase ignored him. "According to our research, and, of course, this is confirmed by the figures from Bloody Mary , your popularity is, how can I put this?" He looked thoughtfully at Belle.
"Huge?" prompted Belle.
"Slipping," said Chase.
"Are you sure?" Mitch interjected desperately.
Chase leant back in his chair and put his arms behind his head. "Her popularity's at rock bottom."
"Like the takings," interjected Bob, with relish.
The dog began to yap under Arlington's desk.
"C'mon, Belle. You know it's true." Chase leant forward. "People are dropping you from projects left, right, and centre. No film will touch you at the moment. You've lost your cosmetics contract, the perfume launch has been decommissioned, and you're not even being considered for that Disney animation about a worm with issues any more. The part's gone to Scarlett Johansson."
Mitch's breakfast came shooting back up his windpipe in a sudden and unexpected manner. He pulled an apologetic face as Belle ripped off her sunglasses and whipped round to meet his eyes with blazing balls of blue fire.
"I was gonna tell you," Mitch murmured unhappily.
Chase ploughed on. "Specifically, what our qualitative personality research tells us is that your recent behaviour has played badly with the fans. You've misread the zeitgeist."
"I've never read the zeitgeist," Belle blustered.
Chase stared at her with such a bewildered expression on his face
that Mitch almost felt sorry for him. He had clearly underestimated the scale of the task before him, but then, who hadn't?
"People don't want stars like that anymore," the studio PR continued. "Drunken, wild, dressed like hookers…"
"Hey," interjected Belle indignantly. "It takes a lot of money to look that
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