saying she got the job because she’d fucked Danny, or, to get the hierarchy straight, Danny had fucked her. When actually, she owed the gig to her dad.
Calling Dr Freud …
‘So …’ Snapping herself to attention, Quentin could see that Mike was itching to get back to work, to tweak some lights and confer with that silvery-haired cinematographer of his and then shout ‘Action’, presuming that was the word they used over here.
‘Is Hugh busy?’ she prompted. Mike looked shifty. There was absolutely no way he’d know about her and Danny Larson, right?
‘He is, I’m afraid – meant to say – got a batch of rushes up from the processors which are looking a bit wonky.’
‘Wonky.’
Quentin could see he thought she was challenging him, when she was just unfamiliar with the word.
‘Nothing serious. Just a slight colour problem – he’s sorting it out now.’
‘So maybe there’s someone who could take me to him …’
Mike hesitated. Right there, Quentin had had enough. With the journey and the lack of sleep, and maybe the craving for chemical alteration, she felt as though she’d already slipped into watching what they called rushes and she knew as dailies; repetitive, discontinuous interludes which needed an editor’s hand to splice them into the illusion of action with consequences that lead to another action. And so on, building to a climax. Instead of which she had the view of the shrunken English freeway, Len’s gnomic expressions of anti-American preju dice, the school, all spooling off into pointlessness like the black frames that ended a reel of film. Nothing.
Nada
.
‘Anything I can do, Mike?’
Gratefully, Quentin felt the arrival of organizing energy. It emanated from a small, wiry woman around her own age with bright eyes and too much make-up.
‘Oh, Katrina …’
She couldn’t readily place the woman in the crew, but Mike didn’t like her, that was for sure. Quentin offered her hand, just to yank his chain.
‘Quentin Montpellier.’
‘Ooh, American—’
‘That’s right!’
‘From the studio,’ Mike muttered grudgingly. Katrina’s eyes widened.
See, asshole
, Quentin mentally addressed Mike.
She can see it. Power
.
‘And you are …’
‘Katrina. Lallie’s mummy.’
Ah. Lallie’s ambitious mommy. So Mike was pissed with her for muscling in, and who could blame him?
‘She’d love to meet you, hasn’t stopped talking about it – she’s mad about America, terrible—’
‘Well, I’d love to meet her too,’ Quentin reassured her, professionally. ‘Maybe Katrina could take me to see Hugh, Mike?’ she suggested. ‘I wouldn’t want to hold things up.’
And so she was borne off by Katrina, who enlisted Len to transport them to the hotel where Hugh was staying. This was presentable enough by Polish standards. Despite everyone in the cast and crew who wasn’t local being billeted there, they still had rooms for Quentin and Len, and Len was even galvanized by this happy outcome into dealing with the luggage without being asked. Katrina, calling the receptionist by name (no one wore name badges, Quentin noted, although they did have odd militaristic burgundy uniforms), eased their passage. She had talked a lot in the car, and Quentin was struggling to understand her, not just because of the accent, but also because Katrina seemed to assume a lot of prior knowledge on Quentin’s part, particularly of Lallie.
‘… course, we’ve been keeping our heads down with Mike,but he’s got a lot on his plate, hasn’t he? I wouldn’t like it, everyone “Mike Mike Mike” all the time, poor man doesn’t get a minute, but Hugh’s lovely – Uncle Hugh, Lallie calls him, which is funny because she’s got a real Uncle Hugh back home – a friend of Graham’s nan’s actually, I mean, not a proper uncle as such, but she calls him Uncle Hugh, and he’s nothing like this Hugh, but she says to me, “I’ve got two Uncle Hughs now, mam” …’
Katrina had
Calling Dr Freud …
‘So …’ Snapping herself to attention, Quentin could see that Mike was itching to get back to work, to tweak some lights and confer with that silvery-haired cinematographer of his and then shout ‘Action’, presuming that was the word they used over here.
‘Is Hugh busy?’ she prompted. Mike looked shifty. There was absolutely no way he’d know about her and Danny Larson, right?
‘He is, I’m afraid – meant to say – got a batch of rushes up from the processors which are looking a bit wonky.’
‘Wonky.’
Quentin could see he thought she was challenging him, when she was just unfamiliar with the word.
‘Nothing serious. Just a slight colour problem – he’s sorting it out now.’
‘So maybe there’s someone who could take me to him …’
Mike hesitated. Right there, Quentin had had enough. With the journey and the lack of sleep, and maybe the craving for chemical alteration, she felt as though she’d already slipped into watching what they called rushes and she knew as dailies; repetitive, discontinuous interludes which needed an editor’s hand to splice them into the illusion of action with consequences that lead to another action. And so on, building to a climax. Instead of which she had the view of the shrunken English freeway, Len’s gnomic expressions of anti-American preju dice, the school, all spooling off into pointlessness like the black frames that ended a reel of film. Nothing.
Nada
.
‘Anything I can do, Mike?’
Gratefully, Quentin felt the arrival of organizing energy. It emanated from a small, wiry woman around her own age with bright eyes and too much make-up.
‘Oh, Katrina …’
She couldn’t readily place the woman in the crew, but Mike didn’t like her, that was for sure. Quentin offered her hand, just to yank his chain.
‘Quentin Montpellier.’
‘Ooh, American—’
‘That’s right!’
‘From the studio,’ Mike muttered grudgingly. Katrina’s eyes widened.
See, asshole
, Quentin mentally addressed Mike.
She can see it. Power
.
‘And you are …’
‘Katrina. Lallie’s mummy.’
Ah. Lallie’s ambitious mommy. So Mike was pissed with her for muscling in, and who could blame him?
‘She’d love to meet you, hasn’t stopped talking about it – she’s mad about America, terrible—’
‘Well, I’d love to meet her too,’ Quentin reassured her, professionally. ‘Maybe Katrina could take me to see Hugh, Mike?’ she suggested. ‘I wouldn’t want to hold things up.’
And so she was borne off by Katrina, who enlisted Len to transport them to the hotel where Hugh was staying. This was presentable enough by Polish standards. Despite everyone in the cast and crew who wasn’t local being billeted there, they still had rooms for Quentin and Len, and Len was even galvanized by this happy outcome into dealing with the luggage without being asked. Katrina, calling the receptionist by name (no one wore name badges, Quentin noted, although they did have odd militaristic burgundy uniforms), eased their passage. She had talked a lot in the car, and Quentin was struggling to understand her, not just because of the accent, but also because Katrina seemed to assume a lot of prior knowledge on Quentin’s part, particularly of Lallie.
‘… course, we’ve been keeping our heads down with Mike,but he’s got a lot on his plate, hasn’t he? I wouldn’t like it, everyone “Mike Mike Mike” all the time, poor man doesn’t get a minute, but Hugh’s lovely – Uncle Hugh, Lallie calls him, which is funny because she’s got a real Uncle Hugh back home – a friend of Graham’s nan’s actually, I mean, not a proper uncle as such, but she calls him Uncle Hugh, and he’s nothing like this Hugh, but she says to me, “I’ve got two Uncle Hughs now, mam” …’
Katrina had
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