lucky because there is no backing out now and we are going to have to roll with the dice, so the ‘process’ continues. Soon we are sitting in a casting meeting at NBC.
‘Do you think Sir Derek Jacobi would play Vickers?’ someone from the network gasps.
‘Do you think it would be wise to have two poofs in the same parade?’ I ask, slightly shocked.
‘No one thinks of Sir Derek Jacobi as anything but … a great actor.’
‘I
Claudia
?’
‘Do you know him?’ asks the casting lady.
‘Of course.’ I laugh. Another lie. I know his agent.
Years ago my English agent Duncan had an assistant who was known as the Flower Fairy.
‘Don’t worry, darling, the Flower Fairy is on top of it,’ Duncan would say.
He was small and good-looking like a Dutch student from a good family. The Flower Fairy learnt fast. Pretty soon he was an agent himself, and not long after that one of the most successful agents in London. About ten years ago he moved to the country and fell in love with fox-hunting. From then on he divided his time between the office and the hunting field where he soon became one of the Masters of a hunt in Sussex. Many a celebrated dame or knight found themselves, slightly mystified, on the phone, talking over a part, only to hear horns and hounds baying in the background, along with various whoops of ‘Tally-ho’. Was it ‘this wretched new hearing aid’, or was it just that the Flower Fairy had such a very good seat, that he could handle a conversation with Sir John Gielgud about a West End transfer and a horse over a five-bar gate at the same time, all the while pretending he was in the office?
‘What on earth’s going on?’ one of his younger clients – Maggie Smith, for example – might whine.
‘Someone’s birthday in the office,’ was the usual reply.
Until the day when Paul – his real name – (‘Oh darling, you can’t call him the Flower Fairy any more!’) was the cover story of a magazine called
Horse and Hound
, the hunting fraternity’s bible. He was outed. But no one cared because he was still one of the best agents in the country.
‘Paul, it’s Rupert. How are you, darling?’
‘I have to whisper. We’re in a covey. Fox has gone to earth.’
I am in the bath at the Beverly Hills Hotel, and it feels rather thrilling to be in communication with a British hunting field as the palm fronds scratch against the windows of my room and the curtains billow in the warm desert breeze. I feel that sudden rush of brilliance that life sometimes delivers unexpectedly. I used to have to hunt when I was a child and dreamt of being Julie Andrews’ daughter to keep myself warm on those freezing winter days. Getting from that to this, from a disgruntled pony on a steep ploughed field to amarble bath like Elvis’s tomb, with a spot of room service perched on the edge, is a universal miracle in itself, and suddenly the success of the pilot – or any success, for that matter – takes its proper place in the general scheme of things. It’s secondary to this extraordinary moment that has somehow been engineered. Maybe it’s successful enough just to be having this conversation.
‘Are they bringing in some terriers?’ I ask dreamily.
‘Not yet. What can I do you for?’ whispers Paul.
‘Do you think Derek Jacobi would do the pilot for my sitcom?’
I explain everything.
‘I’m sure he’d love to. When and where?’
‘It’s here in LA, February. The network are gagging for him.’
‘Of course they are.’
Blood-curdling shrieks can be heard in the background as another poor fox is torn apart by a pack of hounds.
‘Trot on!’ says Paul.
‘Are you talking to me?’ I ask.
‘Yes, actually. We’re moving. I’ll talk to Derek and get back to you.’
The phone goes dead.
The process chugs on and now I am riding high because poor Derek has finally said yes. After a good deal of vacillating and nudging, like a pinball, he has finally landed in our hole. A pilot is one
‘Do you think Sir Derek Jacobi would play Vickers?’ someone from the network gasps.
‘Do you think it would be wise to have two poofs in the same parade?’ I ask, slightly shocked.
‘No one thinks of Sir Derek Jacobi as anything but … a great actor.’
‘I
Claudia
?’
‘Do you know him?’ asks the casting lady.
‘Of course.’ I laugh. Another lie. I know his agent.
Years ago my English agent Duncan had an assistant who was known as the Flower Fairy.
‘Don’t worry, darling, the Flower Fairy is on top of it,’ Duncan would say.
He was small and good-looking like a Dutch student from a good family. The Flower Fairy learnt fast. Pretty soon he was an agent himself, and not long after that one of the most successful agents in London. About ten years ago he moved to the country and fell in love with fox-hunting. From then on he divided his time between the office and the hunting field where he soon became one of the Masters of a hunt in Sussex. Many a celebrated dame or knight found themselves, slightly mystified, on the phone, talking over a part, only to hear horns and hounds baying in the background, along with various whoops of ‘Tally-ho’. Was it ‘this wretched new hearing aid’, or was it just that the Flower Fairy had such a very good seat, that he could handle a conversation with Sir John Gielgud about a West End transfer and a horse over a five-bar gate at the same time, all the while pretending he was in the office?
‘What on earth’s going on?’ one of his younger clients – Maggie Smith, for example – might whine.
‘Someone’s birthday in the office,’ was the usual reply.
Until the day when Paul – his real name – (‘Oh darling, you can’t call him the Flower Fairy any more!’) was the cover story of a magazine called
Horse and Hound
, the hunting fraternity’s bible. He was outed. But no one cared because he was still one of the best agents in the country.
‘Paul, it’s Rupert. How are you, darling?’
‘I have to whisper. We’re in a covey. Fox has gone to earth.’
I am in the bath at the Beverly Hills Hotel, and it feels rather thrilling to be in communication with a British hunting field as the palm fronds scratch against the windows of my room and the curtains billow in the warm desert breeze. I feel that sudden rush of brilliance that life sometimes delivers unexpectedly. I used to have to hunt when I was a child and dreamt of being Julie Andrews’ daughter to keep myself warm on those freezing winter days. Getting from that to this, from a disgruntled pony on a steep ploughed field to amarble bath like Elvis’s tomb, with a spot of room service perched on the edge, is a universal miracle in itself, and suddenly the success of the pilot – or any success, for that matter – takes its proper place in the general scheme of things. It’s secondary to this extraordinary moment that has somehow been engineered. Maybe it’s successful enough just to be having this conversation.
‘Are they bringing in some terriers?’ I ask dreamily.
‘Not yet. What can I do you for?’ whispers Paul.
‘Do you think Derek Jacobi would do the pilot for my sitcom?’
I explain everything.
‘I’m sure he’d love to. When and where?’
‘It’s here in LA, February. The network are gagging for him.’
‘Of course they are.’
Blood-curdling shrieks can be heard in the background as another poor fox is torn apart by a pack of hounds.
‘Trot on!’ says Paul.
‘Are you talking to me?’ I ask.
‘Yes, actually. We’re moving. I’ll talk to Derek and get back to you.’
The phone goes dead.
The process chugs on and now I am riding high because poor Derek has finally said yes. After a good deal of vacillating and nudging, like a pinball, he has finally landed in our hole. A pilot is one
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