The Douglas Kennedy Collection #2 Read online

  I picked up the phone. I asked if a newspaper might be available. I was informed that the New York Times had just arrived by helicopter. “Please send it on up.” I touched the audio/video screen. I went to the music library. I chose some piano sonatas by Mozart. The paper arrived. Meg set up a sunbed for me on the balcony. She disappeared into the bathroom and reemerged with six different brands of sun cream, covering all the potential burn factors. She refilled my champagne glass. She told me to call when I wanted lunch.

  I read the paper. I listened to the Mozart. I toasted gently in the sun. After an hour, I decided it was time for a swim. I picked up the phone. I was connected with Gary.

  “Hey there, Mr. Armitage. Having a good day in paradise?”

  “Not bad at all. I was just wondering, is there a specific place for swimming on the island? Besides the pool, that is?”

  “Well, we’ve got a great little beach. But if you were in the mood for snorkeling . . .”

  Twenty minutes later, I was aboard the Truffaut (that’s right, like the French director)—a forty-foot cabin cruiser with a crew of five. We steamed along for around thirty minutes until we came to a coral reef near an archipelago of tiny islands. Two of the crew helped me into a wetsuit (“It’s a little chilly in the water today,” one of them explained), then kitted me out with flippers, mask, and snorkel. One of the crew was also dressed in scuba gear.

  “Dennis here is going to guide you around the reef,” Gary told me.

  “Thanks, but there’s really no need,” I said.

  “Well, Mr. Fleck kind of insists that guests never swim alone. Anyway, it’s all part of the service.”

  That was an expression I heard over and over again on Saffron Island. It’s all part of the service. Having my very own swim-along guide to the coral reefs was all part of the service. Having an entire four-man crew looking after me on the cabin cruiser was all part of the service. So too was the shelled lobster they served me (and me alone) on board the boat, accompanied by a Chablis premier cru. When we were back on dry land later that afternoon, and I asked if they had this week’s copy of the New Yorker on hand, they dispatched the helicopter to Antigua to buy a copy for me (even though I strenuously attempted to persuade them not to go to all that trouble—and expense!—for one damn magazine). But, once again, I was told that it was all part of the service.

  I returned to my room. Laurence, the island’s chef, called me and asked what I would like for dinner. When I asked him to suggest something, he simply said: “Anything you want.”

  “Anything?”

  “Just about.”

  “Suggest something.”

  “Well, my specialty is Pacific Rim cuisine. And since we have plenty of fresh fish . . .”

  “I’ll leave it up to you.”

  Minutes later, Joan called from Business Affairs. She was halfway through my script and had around ten queries regarding my appalling handwriting. We went through them all. Then she told me that the script would be retyped by midday tomorrow, as Mr. Fleck was due back in the late afternoon—and as soon as he heard that I had revised the screenplay, he’d want to read it immediately.

  “But won’t you be up half the night typing?” I asked.

  “All part of the service,” she said, adding that, with my permission, she’d have a copy of the newly revised script brought in with my breakfast tomorrow. If I could read it through, she could make any amendments later that morning.

  I stretched out on the bed. I nodded off. When I came to, an hour had slipped by . . . and a note had been slipped under my door. I went to retrieve it.

  Dear Mr. Armitage,

  We didn’t want to disturb you, but outside your door you’ll find the copy of the New Yorker you requested, as well as the catalogue for the island’s film library. We thought you might like to set up a screening of something tonight. If so, give me a call at extension 16. Also—when it suits you, could you please call Claude the sommelier. He wants to discuss your wine choice for dinner tonight. You can also tell him when you’d like to eat. The kitchen is completely flexible on this matter. Just let them know.

  Once again, it’s a pleasure having you with us. And, as I said last night, I really do hope to see you at the movies . . .

  Best,

  Chuck

  I opened the door. I collected the film catalogue and the copy of the New Yorker, which had been airlifted in at my request. I flopped back on the bed, wondering how they knew that I was napping—and therefore shouldn’t be disturbed. Was the room bugged? Was there a hidden camera somewhere? Or was I just being paranoid? After all, maybe they simply deduced that, after a strenuous, workaholic day in the sun, I needed a little siesta. Maybe I was overreacting to all the attention I was being paid.

  An old literary anecdote suddenly came to mind: Hemingway and Fitzgerald sitting in a Paris café, watching a bunch of swanky folks sauntering by. “You know, Ernest,” Fitzgerald said grandly, “the rich are different from you and me.” To which Hemingway gruffly replied: “Yeah—they’ve got more money.”

  But now I realized what that money actually bought them was a cordon sanitaire, within which you could fend off all the tedious mundanities with which the rest of the world had to grapple. Of course, it gave you power as well—but ultimately, its dominion was to be found in how it separated you from the way everyone else lived their lives. I still kept trying to grapple with that figure—$20 billion—and with the statistic (quoted to me, naturally, by Bobby) that Fleck’s weekly interest from his fortune was around $2 million . . . and that was after tax. Without touching a penny of his fortune, he had a net income of around $100 million per annum to play with. What a complete absurdity: $2 million a week as spending money. Did Fleck remember what it was like to worry about making the rent? Or having to scramble about to pay the phone bill? Or putting up with a ten-year-old car that never shifted into fourth gear, because you couldn’t afford to get the busted transmission fixed?

  Did he have any sort of aspirations . . . when all his earthly wants had been already met? And how did a lack of material ambition alter one’s worldview? Did you concentrate on the more cerebral things in life, aspiring to great thoughts and deeds? Maybe you became a latter-day philosopher king, a Medici prince? Or did you turn into a Borgia pope?

  I was becoming pampered after just one day at Chez Fleck. And—dare I say it—I was liking it. My latent entitlement complex was coming to the fore—and I was rapidly accepting the idea that there was an entire staff on this island ready to meet just about any request I made. On the boat, Gary told me if I felt like going to Antigua for the day, he’d be happy to arrange a trip on the chopper. Or, for that matter, if I needed to go farther afield, the Gulfstream was sitting idle at Antigua Airport and could be summoned whenever required.

  “That’s very kind of you,” I said. “But I think I’ll just stay here and kick back.”

  And kick back I most certainly did. That night after the chef’s exquisite Pacific Rim–style bouillabaisse (accompanied by an equally astonishing Au Bon Climat chardonnay), I sat alone in the cinema and watched a double bill of two classic Fritz Lang films: Beyond a Reasonable Doubt and The Big Heat. Instead of popcorn, Meg popped in occasionally with a tray of Belgian chocolates and a 1985 Bas Armagnac. Afterward, Chuck came into the screening room and went into a long spiel about Fritz Lang’s adventures in Hollywood. He was so damn knowledgeable regarding just about everything on celluloid that I encouraged him to join me in an Armagnac and tell me a bit about himself. It seemed he’d first met Philip Fleck when they were both students together at NYU back in the early seventies.

  “This was way, way before Phil was anything like rich. I mean, I knew his dad owned this paper-packaging place back in Wisconsin—but mainly, he was just another guy who wanted to direct, living in a crappy apartment on Eleventh and First Avenue. He spent his free time at the Bleecker Street Cinema or the Thalia or the New Yorker, or any of those other long-vanished Manhattan revival houses. That’s
how Phil and I became friends—we kept running into each other at these little cinemas, and we thought nothing of watching four films a day.

  “Anyway, Phil was always determined to do the auteur thing, whereas my big dream was simply to run my very own cinema, and maybe get the occasional article into some fancy European film magazine like Sight and Sound or Cahiers du Cinéma. Then, during our second year at NYU, Phil’s dad died, and he had to head back to Milwaukee to run the family business. We lost contact with each other completely, though I certainly knew what was going on with him—because when he made his first cool billion by taking the paper company public, it was all over the papers. And then, when he pulled off all those investment coups and became . . . well, Philip Fleck . . . I couldn’t get over it. My old cinephile pal, now a multibillionaire.

  “Then, one day, out of the blue, I get this phone call from Phil himself. He’d tracked me down to Austin where I was, like, the assistant film archivist at U Texas. Not a bad job, even though I was only making about twenty-seven grand a year. I couldn’t believe it was him on the phone.

  “‘How the hell did you find me?’” I asked him.

  “‘I’ve got people who do that sort of stuff for me,’ he said. And then he got right to the point: he wanted to create his very own film archive . . . the biggest private one in America . . . and he wanted me to run it for him. Before he even told me what he was going to pay me, I accepted. I mean, this was the chance of a lifetime—to create a great archive . . . and for one of my best buddies.”

  “So now you go where he goes?”

  “You’ve got it in one, pal. The chief archive is at a warehouse near his place in San Francisco, but he’s also got divisions of it at each of his other houses. I’m in charge of a team of five who run the main archive, but I also travel with him wherever he goes, so he can have me on tap whenever he wants me. He takes film very seriously, Phil.”

  I bet he does. Because you’ve got to be an extreme movie buff to employ your very own full-time archivist to cart along behind you, just in case you get a late-night craving for an early Antonioni or simply must talk about Eisenstein’s theory of montage while watching the sun set over the Saffron Island palm trees.

  “Sounds like a great job,” I said.

  “The best,” Chuck said.

  I had another seamless night’s sleep—a true sign that, after just a day here, I really was beginning to unwind. I didn’t set an alarm clock or book a wake-up call. I simply woke when I woke—which was close to eleven a.m. again, and discovered another note shoved under my door.

  Dear Mr. Armitage,

  I hope you slept really well. Just to let you know that we heard from Mr. Fleck this morning. He sends you his best wishes and his regrets that he is going to be delayed for another three days. But he will definitely be back here on Monday morning and hopes you will continue to enjoy the run of the island until then. He said, should you want to do anything, go anywhere in particular, set up any activities of any kind, we should accommodate you.

  In other words, Mr. Armitage, pick up the phone and phone me whenever. We’re at your service.

  Hope we can make this another great day for you in paradise.

  Best,

  Gary

  So the marlin were biting and Philip Fleck had decided that I still wasn’t as important as a bunch of fish. For some strange reason, I didn’t care. If he wanted to keep me waiting, so be it.

  Before I tackled such demanding things as deciding what to order for breakfast, I steeled myself for a brief encounter with my e-mail. But this morning’s communiqués didn’t bring grief. On the contrary, there was a most reconciliatory e-mail from Sally:

  Darling,

  Apologies, apologies. In the midst of battle, I forgot who my true ally was—to the point where I was feeling irascible about everything. Thank you for your wonderful e-mail. Thank you even more for understanding.

  I’m in New York, billeted at the Pierre . . . which isn’t exactly the worst address imaginable. I came here at the behest of Stu Barker, who needed to go to New York to meet some of the major suits at Fox’s corporate HQ. And he wanted me to be there, to discuss our planned autumn slate. Anyway, we flew domestic (he shrewdly didn’t want to come across like some big swinging arriviste by insisting on a company jet the moment he stepped into Levy’s shoes). All the way to New York, he couldn’t have been more charming—a complete volte-face. And he told me that he really wanted to work with me, really needed me on his team—and he wanted to put the years of enmity behind us. “My mishegas was with Levy, not you,” he told me.

  Anyway, we’ve got the big Fox meeting a couple of hours from now. Naturally, I’m anxious because (to be blunt about it) it’s important that I shine—in front of both the big boys and my new boss. I wish you were here to hug me (and do other things as well . . . but I won’t get crude in cyberspace). I’ll try to call later today, but I think we’re going to fly back to the Coast right after the meeting. I hope you’re getting a tan for the two of us. Fleck Island sounds amazing.

  I love you,

  Sally

  Well, that was an improvement. Obviously, Stu Barker turning palsy-walsy also improved her spirits—but there’s nothing like an apology from the woman you love to kick off the morning on a high note.

  But there was even better news to come—because while I was online, the New Mail prompt began to flash on my screen. I switched over and found the following message from Alison:

  Hey, Superstar,

  Hope you’re pleasantly sunstruck and lolling in a hammock right now—because I’ve got some major good news:

  You’ve just been nominated for an Emmy.

  God help all of us who will now have to contend with your even more inflated ego (joke).

  I’m thrilled for you, David. I’m also thrilled for me, because I know I can jack up your fee for the next season by 25 percent. Which, if you do the math . . .

  To quote King Lear, you’ve done good, fella. Can I be your date for the awards . . . or will Sally throw a hissy?

  Love,

  Alison

  By the end of the day, I was pleasantly delirious from all the congratulations I’d received. Brad Bruce rang me on the island, telling me how delighted the entire Selling You team was for me . . . even though they were still rather pissed at the Emmy people for making me the show’s one nomination. The head of FRT comedy—Ned Sinclair—also rang. Ditto two of the actors. And I received congratulatory e-mails from around a dozen friends and associates in our so-called industry.

  Best of all, Sally ducked out of her meeting in New York to phone me.

  “Halfway through the meeting, an assistant to one of the Fox guys came in with a list of the Emmy nominations. Of course, the suits immediately pored over it, to see how many nominations the network received. Then, one of them looked up at me and said: ‘Isn’t your boyfriend David Armitage?’ And that’s when he told me. I nearly screamed. I am so damn proud of you. And I have to tell you, it also made me look pretty damn good in front of the big boys.”

  “How’s it going in there?”

  “I can’t really talk right now . . . but, by and large, we’re winning.”

  We? As in Sally and the delightful Stu Barker—the guy she once described as the Heinrich Himmler of television comedy?

  “Sounds like the two of you have really bonded,” I said.

  “I still don’t trust him whatsoever,” she said in a whisper. “But, at the same time, it’s better to have him on my side than aiming his tactical nukes in my direction. Anyway, I don’t want to bore you with office politics . . .”

  “You never bore me, my love.”

  “And you are the sweetest, most talented man alive.”

  “Now I really will get a swelled head.”

  “Do. You deserve it.”

  “Listen,” I said, “Mein Host is still big-fish hunting in the adjacent islands, and he won’t be back until Monday. But I’ve been given carte blanche on the islan
d, which means that I could actually get them to send the Gulfstream to New York to pick you up and bring you back down here.”

  “Oh God, I’d love to, sweetheart . . . but I’ve got to go back to LA with Stu. It’s kind of critical that I keep this bonding thing going. And he wants to do some serious planning stuff with me at the office on Sunday.”

  “I see,” I said.

  “If it hadn’t been for this crisis at work, you know I’d be there with you right now.”

  “I do understand.”

  “Good,” she said. “Anyway, I just wanted to say how fantastic your news is . . . and that I love you . . . and that I really do have to get back to this meeting. I’ll call you tomorrow when I’m home.”

  And before I had a chance to say good-bye myself, the line went dead. My five-minute window with Sally had closed.

  My insecurity was quickly subdued by another night of being waited on, and by drinking an absurdly good Morgon ’75, and by watching another double feature (Billy Wilder’s Ace in the Hole and Kubrick’s The Killing), and by being presented with a cake (personally designed by the island’s pastry chef) in the shape of an Emmy Award.

  “How did you know about my nomination?” I asked Gary when he brought the cake into the screening room, accompanied by six of the staff.

  “Hey, news travels fast.”