NO MILK TODAY - Part 2

NO MILK TODAY

by

Albert Woods

Part 2

 

Dave watched the dawn breaking. He was troubled. Now he was asking himself where his allegiance really lay; not between his wife and Mew, but between Mew and Goldberg. If what had happened between them last night was to be the basis of their relationship from now on, then maybe he should renege on the pact with the director. He couldn’t decide, turned it over many times in his mind, and went back to sleep.

It was nearing ten when Muriel awoke. She lay studying Dave’s face, the frisson from their new intimacy causing her to smile. The lovemaking had been good, and he had said that it was far and away beyond anything he’d ever experienced - even with his wife. Muriel liked that. She kissed his eyes open. He said nothing at first, and she wondered if he still felt the same. "You're very special to me," she whispered.

Dave frowned. "I have to tell you something," he sat up abruptly, and she let go of the hand that she’d been clutching. "I've double-crossed you, and I feel so bad about it."

“You’ve… you’ve what?”

He took a letter from his jacket pocket and handed it over. It was from Cordwood, a TV movie production company; month-old confirmation of a six week-old verbal offer for Muriel to star in a new series. They were dangling a million upfront, plus a hundred and fifty thousand for each completed episode - as well as a share of the profits. The option date was yesterday.

She read it twice before responding. She called him all the bastards under the sun, and swiped at him. Eventually, he persuaded her to listen to his explanation. The movie was going to make her really big, he said. If he’d told her about the offer, she might have pulled out, and Goldberg would drag her through the courts. He'd win too. The contract was watertight.

"So why tell me now?" she asked, half-praying that there was something resembling a credible excuse on offer.

"It was last night," he sighed. "I realised how much you really mean to me; and how I couldn't go on with these deceptions any longer."

"Deceptions!" she near screamed. "You mean there's more?"

"Yeah," he hung his head. "You see, I did a deal with Goldberg. It was part of the bargain to get you the film on your terms. He knew that once you'd been signed up, there’d be rafts of offers flooding in. It always happens with his stars. Anyway, he was pretty sore at having to shell out so much on you, so he thought of a way to recoup some of it in the future. I was to keep you in the dark about any offers. He figured that by the time filming was nearly complete, he'd be able to tie you down to a more modest fee for the sequel which, as you know from the script, there has to be."

Muriel considered it. "I don't see that," she said. "Surely, if it's the success it should be, he'd find it hard to get me to work for peanuts. He just couldn't."

"Yes he could," said Dave. "Because what he plans to do, if you don't fall in line, is shelve this one. With his wealth, he can afford to keep it on ice for years; and he knows that you’ll need the money long before he does. As he puts it, ten percent of zilch is zilch."

"So it is…" Muriel mused, staring at the ceiling then, eventually, adding, “and ninety percent of zilch is zilch too.”

They lay with their heads against the wall, both reluctant to discuss the subject further. It was Muriel who broke the silence. "Get on to those Cordwood people," she ordered. "See if the soap part's still open."

 

By noon, that day, the usually unflappable Sammy Goldberg was displaying every symptom of an imminent coronary. "She can't do it!" he bawled at Muriel's lawyer and Dave Sanson. "I'll sue the ass off the bitch, and Cordwood as well." To emphasise his serious intent, he let fly his whiskey glass to shatter on the wall. "She can't pull out like that. We've still got scenes to do. Jesus! Didn't I give her a good enough deal? How much are those amateurs offering her?"

Practised in dealing with some of the bigger Tinseltown egos, as he was, Muriel's lawyer still found this display tasteless and embarrassing. "I have to tell you that she can do it," he said.

"Huh?" gaped Sammy, unused to defeat, or any threat of it.

"Well," explained the man, "under normal circumstances, I'd have to agree with you. A contract is a contract, after all; and this one is certainly quite specific on the point."

"So," pushed Goldberg, "what's your get-out?"

The lawyer interlocked his fingers and studied them.

"Well?" demanded the director.

"It's simple. Miss Calvert is holding a signed deposition made by her manager, here. In it, he states that you and he struck up a somewhat devious bargain with the sole intention of preventing her from exploiting any success that she may have as a result of her appearance in your movie. As you will, no doubt, appreciate, such a scheme – should it ever come before a court of law - would throw a decidedly unfavourable slant on the validity of her contract with your company and, dare I suggest, your credibility in the movie business as well."

“Scumbag!” Goldberg hissed at Sanson, chewing over the unpleasant news - though seemingly allowing his instinct for self-preservation to maintain. "OK;" he conceded, “let’s have it. What’s the deal? More money?"

"Not at all. What my client wishes is to be unconditionally released from the contract right now, so that she can get on and pursue her career elsewhere. It would be the best solution all round; no bad publicity, no comebacks."

"Done!" Goldberg accepted the option with visible relief. "But it’ll cost me the earth to salvage anything at all from the movie. She'll have no further claim on it; no profit share – not even day rates for what she’s done. I'll want that all in writing. Is that clear?”

"Crystal clear, Sir," said the lawyer, producing the requested affidavit that had been drafted and signed only an hour earlier. "Mister Sanson anticipated you."

 

It was a glittering evening at the Sundown Club Garden Restaurant; fairy lights twinkling, glowing barbecues, and moonlight reflecting on the manufactured lake. Muriel felt so happy, smiling across the table at Dave. Although she could well afford it, she seldom patronised such exclusive establishments. Some people in the business seemed to virtually live in them, but not her. Far better, she thought, to ration one's self, then really get the full benefit when you did go on some special occasion, like tonight; a celebration dinner to mark the break with Goldberg, and the start of her new association with Cordwood. They had still wanted her, and tomorrow would see the signing of the lucrative contract. She was thrilled with it all; except for Dave's mood. He seemed preoccupied and distant. Still, it had been a nerve-racking day, what with all the hurried negotiations, and having to wait until five before hearing the good news from the TV company. "What’s on your mind, darling?" she asked.

Dave roused from his thoughts. "Oh, nothing really; just everything and nothing."

"Well, you don't seem too happy. Not feeling guilty about last night, are you? Not your wife, is it?"

He forced a smile. "I'm alright, honest. It's probably because I'm not over-keen on this sort of place."

Muriel looked crestfallen. "But I thought you'd like it," she said. "That's why I brought you here, as a special treat."

"Don't be silly," he reached over and squeezed her hand. "It's fine."

She noticed that his eyes kept flicking from person to person, as though he was looking out for somebody.

"Let's eat," he suggested, raising an arm to attract the attention of a waiter.

Typical of actresses, Muriel had never been one to observe much about the people around her, especially attendants; and there was little out of the ordinary with this one, until he spoke after they’d ordered. "Thank you Mister Sanson," he said.

"Do you know him?" Muriel asked. "He appears to know you."

"How could I?" Dave played the innocent. "Must remember me from somewhere else."

When the wine waiter appeared, he was already carrying a tray which supported two glasses and an ice bucket containing a bottle of Armand De Brignac.

"What's this?" Muriel was shocked. “This fizz costs the earth. We didn’t order it.”

Setting it down, and uncorking the bottle, the waiter explained. "With the compliments of the management of Cordwood, Madam."

"How kind," she was touched, and reassured of the wisdom of her career move. "Where are they?" she asked, looking around.

"Over there, Madam," the waiter pointed in the direction of the artificial rockery.

Delighted, she took her glass, which was now full and foaming, and held it up to make a toasting gesture towards her benefactors. The four dark-suited men did likewise, though the one at the head of their table had his back to her. "Cheers bitch!" she heard him say as he began to turn. Muriel only needed to see his profile; the prominent nose and the fat cigar. It was Sammy Goldberg, whose condescending smile told her that there’d be no Cordwood contract, no series, no million bucks. She’d been conned.

Gritting his teeth, Dave waited for her reaction, that duly came - at first silence, glowering at him, thinking and drawing breath, heavily - then, getting up, throwing her drink in his face and walking out. It was the one part of the scam he’d dreaded most.

 

The air in the busy cutting room was filled with the nail polish acridity of acetone. Dave stood inside the door listening to the editor talking to Sammy. They had been doing overtime to get the film finished. "You've got to admit it," the man was telling the director, "she looks really convincing. Nobody’ll ever spot it."

Sammy chuckled as images of Muriel’s lookalike pranced across the Fresnel editing screen. Dave had to stare in awe of their skill. It was impossible, even for him, to distinguish which was the real Muriel running through the backstreets of Venice. "Tell me, Mister Goldberg;" he spoke up, "what about the outstanding scenes? Surely the double won't do for any close-ups or dialogue?"

"Outstanding scenes?" Sammy looked massively pleased with himself. "What scenes would they be?"

"There are two or three, aren’t there? The ones you complained about to the lawyer."

Goldberg burst into wicked laughter, and his aides did likewise; all swaying and slapping each other's backs. "They were script-shit," the director managed to say between hoots. "Superfluous junk."

The infectious mirth got to Dave. He began to laugh as well. Sammy slapped his back, and he laughed all the more – then, thinking it through, became serious again. "But what about the sequel?" he asked.

"This guy's a gem," snorted Goldberg. "Sequel? Sequel indeed. He'll be asking me for dough next."

The room erupted; grown men falling about with tears streaming down their faces. It was only Dave Sanson who failed to see the funny side of it.

The fat man composed himself and put an unwelcome arm round Dave's shoulder, walking him to the door. "I'll tell you boy;" he said, suppressing a further snort, "now, you know what I think of money-grubbing bitches. Well, there's only one thing worse in my view, and that's their two-bit managers. Your percentage got shredded along with the contract. Go on, lose yourself."

Before Dave could take this in, the heavy double doors clanged shut behind him.

 

Half of the Hollywood movie set thought it would look right to be seen at the funeral – as did Sammy Goldberg. Muriel sat at the back of the chapel. She’d been sickened by Dave’s betrayal; but now that the story of his massive debts was out, couldn't help but feel sorry for him. He had done a lot for her in the past, after all. She also felt sympathy for his wife and two young girls, kneeling at the front. Finding their father in an exhaust-filled car had started the nightmare. After today’s ritual, they'd have to face up to his financial problems as well. “More lame ducks,” Muriel sighed under her breath.

The service was nearly at an end when a latecomer arrived and laid an impressive three tier wreath on the casket whilst, out in the sunlight of the afternoon, Sammy Goldberg lit up his trademark cigar and wallowed in the full glare of the media. He told the reporters of his deep sense of bereavement, the irreplaceable loss to the industry; and the release date of his new movie.

From the chapel door, Muriel could see the van racing down the drive at a pace ill-befitting the sanctity of a garden of repose. She strained her ears to hear the frantically whispered words between a quaking studio aide and the director, and began to leave once the buzz started to go round. The film was missing; all working copies. There was pandemonium.

Goldberg caught up with her by the gate. He was breathless from hauling his overweight frame up the long slope. "I want them cans back," he wheezed, not a trace of doubt in his mind that it was she who’d commissioned their disappearance.

Muriel just looked straight through him. It made him furious.

"Don't piss me about," he barked. "How much do you want?"

He was kept waiting while she lit a cigarette - a habit resumed in the past few days. She turned and started to walk back down the path. Sammy followed.

"You know," she said, "I wasn't surprised you cheated me. I felt I couldn't trust you from the start; but I did so love that movie. I wanted to get it done - at least until Dave told me you were going to blackmail me into the sequel. That was clever, I'll admit. I fell for it, signing away all my rights to you."

"Look," Goldberg was gasping, "if we get the film out, we can both make a lot of money. What was it you wanted - ten percent?"

Muriel gave a bemused shrug. "Generous;" she observed, "seeing as I was in for that from day one."

"OK OK;" he waved, perspiration beads running down his flabby cheeks, "we'll make it fifteen. After all, this bozo’s hari-kari has bought us a ton of free publicity. It's bound to push up the gross."

By now, they were back outside the crematorium. Muriel looked playfully doubtful. "Well, I'm not sure, Sammy," she said. "Perhaps you ought to go see my manager. He’s got your movie.”

"You got a new manager, already?" Sammy asked, genuinely surprised.

"Nope."

 

Ever since she’d first met him, Muriel had been trying to remember who it was that Goldberg reminded her of. Now, the way he rushed into the building and barged his way past the remaining mourners brought it all back. It was Fatty Donnelly.

There had been one occasion, in Norfolk, when the insatiable bully was about to rob the lame ducks of their milk yet again. This time, Muriel put out her foot and tripped him. The great lummox sprawled into the trestle table, sending full crates crashing to the floor, breaking the lot.

"I want my milk!" the fat boy had screamed.

"I want my film!" the fat man was screaming.

Muriel didn't get hers; but that was OK with her – so long as nobody else did.

* * * *

Copyright Albert Woods (2013)

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