A Perfect Day (16 page)

“It’s a pleasure.”

“I have two copies of your book, one for Vanessa, the other for Julia.”

I signed the books then handed them back to him. “Thank you,” he said. “Your book is going to translate well to the big screen. You haven’t sold the film rights yet, have you?”

“Actually I have.”

He shook his head and frowned. “Scooped again. Who’s the lucky studio? Warner? Paramount?”

“Actually we sold it to television.”

He looked stricken. “Oh, don’t tell me that. Anything but that.”

I felt foolish. “Why?”

“You need an agent, my friend.”

“I have an agent. Camille Bailey of Argent Literistic.”

“And she advised you to settle for television?”

I felt embarrassed to be a party to such apparent incompetence. “None of the studios were interested.”

“They’re always interested in making money. You just need to know how to play them. With your book the key would be to attach the script to a big name, a Julia Roberts or Sandra Bullock. I could have done that for you with one arm behind my back.”

Suddenly I felt sick inside.

“Who did you say your agent is?”

“Camille Bailey.”

His brow furrowed. “Camille Bailey. Haven’t heard of her. And I know everybody who is anybody.” He handed me a card. “How long are you in town?”

“I fly out of LAX Thursday afternoon, but I’m staying in Beverly Hills until then.”

“I live in Beverly Hills. Do you have a dinner engagement for tonight?”

“Just room service.”

“Why don’t we go out to dinner?”

“Sounds nice.”

“Good. You’re staying where?”

“At the Beverly Wilshire.”

“I know the number. I’ll call and let you know where and when.”

As he walked away, I felt as if I’d just been invited to a whole new world. And Darren Scott knew the way.

I
arrived at the Beverly Wilshire shortly before five. There was a message waiting for me from Darren Scott. Our reservation was at seven-thirty at Le Dolce, a haute Italian restaurant within walking distance from the Wilshire. Darren assured me that I wouldn’t be disappointed as the restaurant catered to a celebrity clientele.

I connected my computer to the Internet and pulled up my e-mail. I answered a few letters then caught up in my diary. I still had time, so I began searching the Internet for homes. I found a Salt Lake real estate service specializing in luxury homes and began looking through their listings.

I found exactly what I was looking for—a six-bedroom home on the east bench of the valley. It had a dark brick exterior with a gabled roof and a turret topped with a finial. It had all the creature comforts a human could hope for, including a home theater system with a large-screen television, theater chairs and surround sound audio. It had two kitchens (one for entertaining), a sauna, a steam room, a Jacuzzi tub in the master, hand-carved stair rails and walk-in closets in every bedroom. Closets are a big deal with Allyson. For years I kidded her that our home has walk-in closets, you just can’t go that far once you’re inside.

Judging from the picture on the Web site, the yard was lushly landscaped, with cobblestone walks and statuary. There was a swimming pool and a tennis court in the backyard, and the front yard overlooked the Salt Lake Valley. The home was situated at the end of a private drive, with an electric gate. The only thing missing was a price. I scrawled the agent’s name and number then called.

“This is Chris.”

“My name is Robert Harlan. I’m on the Internet right now and looking at a home you represent on Fairfax Court.”

“Oh yes, the Stringham mansion. That is a beautiful home. We just listed it yesterday.”

“How much are they asking?”

“Frankly not enough. Only seven and a half. They’re practically giving it away.”

The idea of three-quarters of a million dollars being a “giveaway” seemed ridiculous. But from what I could see it looked like it was worth it.

“Would it be possible to see it?”

“I’m available this afternoon if that’s convenient for you.”

“Actually it’s not. I’m calling from Beverly Hills.”

This seemed to please him. “Oh yes, many of our clients are from Beverly Hills. Are you relocating to Utah?”

“No, I’m from Utah. I’m just here today on business.”

“Would you mind if I asked what business you’re in?”

“I’m an author.”

“Of course,” he said, his voice slightly animating. “I had wondered if you were
the
Robert Harlan, but I didn’t want to say anything. I haven’t read your book yet, but my wife has. She loved it. She’ll be thrilled to know we spoke. Now, what day would be most convenient for you, Mr. Harlan?”

“I’m flying home next Sunday around four.”

“I would be happy to pick you up from the airport.”

“Thank you, but my wife will be there. But we could come directly from the airport.”

“Excellent. Let me give you the directions.”

Chris spelled out the way to the home and we hung up. I looked at the house again. It was much more house than we needed. I suppose that it wasn’t really a house I was looking for. Maybe it was vindication. Or, perhaps, proof positive that Chuck Harlan’s son was not a failure. With a home like that not even Chuck himself could dispute it. I couldn’t wait to see the house. I couldn’t wait to see Allyson’s face when she saw it.

T
he walk from the hotel took longer than I had expected and I arrived at the restaurant five minutes late. The restaurant’s lobby was dark and lit by flickering sconces that were mounted on the walls next to oak trellises wrapped with grape vines. There was Italian opera music softly playing. I approached the maître d’. He was an older Italian man, good-looking, bald with a goatee. Next to him stood a young, dramatic-looking blond woman, model slender and wearing a silk periwinkle gown that almost matched her lipstick. The maître d’ glanced toward me then went back to his reservation book. After I had stood in front of his table for about a minute, he looked up at me. “May I help you?”

“I have a seven-thirty reservation.”

“Your name please?”

“It’s Robert Harlan. I’m with Darren Scott.”

His expression changed at the mention of Darren’s name. “Of course. Mr. Scott is already seated.” He turned to the woman. “Jeanette, please escort Mr. Harlan to Mr. Scott’s table.”

“Certainly.” She smiled at me. “Follow me, please.”

Darren Scott was seated at what must have been the most desirable table in the restaurant, a secluded corner table overlooking the lake. He stood as I approached.

“Robert. Thanks for making time to join me. I know how tight these book tours are. You practically have to schedule a potty break.”

“Pretty much.”

“Have you been to Le Dolce before?”

“No. I’ve never been to Beverly Hills before.”

“It’s not easy getting reservations here unless you know someone.”

“And you know someone?”

He smiled broadly. “I know everyone. But that’s my business.” He gestured to my chair. “Have a seat.”

A waiter immediately appeared at our table. “
Buona sera,
Mr. Scott.”

“Good evening, Enrico.”

He poured water into our crystal goblets, put my napkin in my lap and presented us menus. He handed the leather wine list to Darren. After he left, Darren said, “Your book is just amazing. I read
A Perfect Day
a week ago on a flight to New York. I’m not exactly the sentimental type, but it’s one of those books that you wish you were alone when you read it so you could bawl your eyes out. You really have talent.”

I smiled. “Thanks.”

Another waiter approached us. “Good evening, Mr. Scott. Have you gentlemen had time to decide on your meals?”

I nodded and Scott gestured for me to order first. “I’ll have the Pasta Florentine with white truffle oil.”

Darren nodded as if impressed with my selection.

“And for you, Mr. Scott?”

“I’ll have the same.”

The waiter walked away.

“I’ll order anything Florentine,” he said. “We filmed the sequel to
Silence of the Lambs
in Florence. I left addicted to Chianti and white truffles and five pounds heavier.” He took a drink of wine. “So tell me, how’s Arcadia treating you?”

“They’ve been great.”

“The author has the luxury of being friends with the publisher. It’s a different world for an agent. Do you know what’s the difference between a terrorist and a publisher?”

“No.”

“You can negotiate with the terrorist,” he said, a grin crossing his face. “So how about your agent. Camille Bagley?”

“Bailey. With Argent Literistic.”

He had the same concerned look he had earlier. “How do you think she’s doing?”

“I think she’s doing all right. She got me a book deal, didn’t she?”

“I’ll give her that. Of course with a book like yours my grandmother could have gotten a book deal for you.”

“She’s the only one who did. I received more than twenty rejection letters.”

“You never sent me a copy of your book.”

“No. I didn’t.”

Darren took a drink of his wine. “How long is your contract with her?”

“Actually we don’t have one. She doesn’t believe in them.”

He nodded casually, though I could tell this information pleased him.

“Did she consult with you before she threw away the motion picture rights?”

“I wouldn’t say she threw them away.”

He raised a hand. “Please, don’t get me wrong. It’s a huge accomplishment for a first-time writer to get anything produced. But to be candid,
A Perfect Day
was written for the big screen not the little one. I don’t know how long your agent has been in this field, but it’s really a rookie mistake. She should have held out. I would have sold the feature rights. No question. And you would have had A-list stars playing the roles, maybe Newman as the father, Julia Roberts or that hot newcomer Naomi Watts as the young Allyson.” He took a drink of wine. You easily lost a million dollars going with television. But more important than that, you might have jeopardized your career.”

Just then the waiter returned with our salads. After he left, I asked, “How did I jeopardize my career?”

“By losing the prestige that comes from making the big screen. Think of all the big-name authors. What was it that pushed them to the next level? They signed movie deals. ”

“You think she made a mistake?”

“To put it mildly. But it happens. I’m sure this Bagley is a nice lady, but at the end of the day a million bucks is still a million bucks. Eventually it adds up to some real money.”

“You don’t think she’s qualified?”

“I didn’t say that. To get you started, I think she was fine. Some people make great bird dogs. But now I think she’s out of her league. You’re a rocket right now. Rockets have several stages. The first stage gets you out of the atmosphere; then it falls off and the next booster ignites.”

“And you’re the next booster?”

“I can get you to the stars.” His face was filled with confidence. “It would be a shame to see your career fizzle due to someone else’s lack of experience. You’ve worked too hard to get to where you are.”

I picked at my salad. “I don’t think I could leave her.”

“I thought you said you didn’t have a contract with her.”

“I don’t. But she’s a friend.”

“Since when do friends cost you a million dollars?”

I looked down at my food.

“Listen, change is part of this industry. It’s not a matter of friendship; it’s a matter of smart business. That’s why they call it the publishing
business
. Let me put it this way: if you stopped selling books, do you think this Bagley would still be out there pounding doors for you?”

“I don’t know.” I looked up. “But you’ve heard the saying
Dance with who brung you to the dance.
”

Darren chuckled. “Of course. And if you believe that, you’re going to waste a lot of time dancing with ugly women.” He took a bite of his salad and chewed it slowly. When he’d finished, he said, “I’ve been in this business a long time, Rob. I’ve seen hundreds of authors come and go. There are those who flash by like a falling star and are gone. Then there are those who stick. They become the stars that society uses to chart their journey. You’re big right now, Rob, huge. I think you’re bigger than anyone realizes. Including you. You have the potential to change millions of lives for the better. What a gift. How many people can actually say they changed the world? The difference between the flashes and the stars is that the stars know when to cut ties and they have the courage to do it. Things change. I know. I’ve the ex-wives to prove it.”

“How many times have you been married?”

“Too many.” He laughed. “Of course there’s an argument that once is too many.”

“I’m happily married,” I said.

He nodded. “I thought I was happily married.”

“What happened?”

“It started with the little resentments: the time away, the lack of attention, the female colleagues. Pretty soon she’s treating you like the furniture. Actually, worse. At least the furniture gets polished once a week. Make no mistake, you’ll get all the blame for it. But at the heart of it all is her jealousy. It ends in court with a stack of papers marked
mine
and
yours
.” He shook his head. “You’re a lucky man if it’s all smooth sailing.”

“Actually things are a little rocky right now.”

Darren frowned. “I’m sorry. And people think fame and fortune is the Holy Grail. Listen, Robert, no one can tell you what to do because it’s your decision. But what you need to decide is how big you want to be. And how much of an impact you want to have on the world. Because the world is yours if you have the courage to take it.” He leaned back in his chair. “Or in this case maybe you need to decide what you don’t want to happen. Because you could always end up back in Utah digging ditches for sprinklers.” He poured his glass full with wine. “I’ve seen worse happen.”