Chapter Twenty-Four

The doctor was pleased with Tom’s progress, so he scheduled the operation for the end of February. Then he explained what we could expect postoperatively. Tom would be up and about the same day, albeit probably against his will since he’d be groggy from the anesthetic and on painkillers! He would spend two days in hospital so they could monitor his progress and get him started on regular physiotherapy. He’d then have twice-weekly physio appointments, but he would also be expected to do exercises twice daily at home to make sure the new skin over the wound site wouldn’t shrink too much while healing. He was to avoid vigorous exercise for at least ten days and, when possible, keep his leg elevated to prevent swelling.

If everything went well and no infection set in or anything else, he should be healed in fourteen to twenty-one days.

While the large burns would be gone, the scars from the surgery would be long and ugly. They would run from the top to the bottom of the burn length, and Tom would have an additional skin patch over his knee to allow flexibility. The surgeon would be doing tiny sutures on each layer of the skin—dissolvable on the lower layers—to keep scarring to a minimum, but there was only so much that could be done. The appearance would improve in time, we were advised. He’d also be given special dressings to minimize the scarring. Once sufficiently healed, additional treatments could improve the look, such as derma rollering. In the meantime, a little makeup should suffice to cover it for filming.

He then gave Tom his next top up with saline solution and sent us on our way, making sure we had his secretary’s phone number in case we had any more questions.

“Excited?” I asked as we left.

“Thrilled!” He grinned at me. “Honestly, it’s been so long, I’ve almost forgotten what it’s like to have full mobility!”

I wondered if the operation would change things between us, but I wanted him to be happy and healthy. Of course I did.

Back home, he took me into his office. I saw piles and piles of scripts dotted around the room. Clearly, he had been looking for a new project for some time. My sense of unease increased, but I said nothing.

He chose five scripts and handed them to me, wanting my opinion on the most promising. Yes, he wanted my advice on which project should take him away from me! By God, I was going to make sure it was a good one! I wasn’t going to be parted from him for months for anything less than greatness, damn it!

“Something wrong?” he asked as I backed away.

“Nothing at all,” I lied.

It took me most of the afternoon and early evening to read them. I was finished just in time for dinner, which Tom had cooked from scratch. He was enjoying cooking for me since the kitchen is his mum’s domain when he stays with her. I wasn’t at all minding being catered to either.

“So what did you think?” he asked me once we were tucking in.

Three of the scripts were action movies, one was a comedy, and one was a historical romance.

“I liked Wilderness Man most,” I told him.

He paused and looked at me. Sometimes his gaze is so intense I would swear he can see into my soul.

“You didn’t like any of them, did you?”

I hesitated for just a second too long.

“I knew it,” he said with a sigh.

“I really did like Wilderness Man,” I tried to argue. “It reminded me of Crocodile Dundee.”

“Yeah, but part two, right?”

I nodded. Yes, it was the inferior sequel it had reminded me of, not the good original.

“It’s okay. I’ll keep looking. There’s plenty of time.”

“Don’t you need notice, though? I thought actors were tied in months before a project started.”

“Sometimes they are, but equally people can pull out at any time, so sometimes a role comes along at the last minute.”

“Okay, so in an ideal world, what would you want to do next?”

“I’d love to do a comedy or a romcom.”

“A romantic comedy? Really?”

“I’m not a traditional romantic lead.” He shrugged. “There’s nothing I like more than defying expectations.”

I just stared at him.

“What?” he asked after a few moments.

“Not a traditional romantic lead?” My tone asked if he expected me to buy his bullshit.

“I’m not!” He laughed. “You have to be handsome for that.”

“Yeah, because I just love dating ugly dudes.”

“You know what I mean, darling. The next Tom Cruise or Brad Pitt I am not.”

“They’re only okay,” I said with a shrug.

“But they’re the sort who get cast in romantic comedies.”

I suppose by traditional romcom standards, he wasn’t the archetype. Then again . . . “Hugh Grant wasn’t either. Why not do a British romcom?”

“I’d love to,” he admitted. “Something as good as Four Weddings or About a Boy would be amazing.”

“Don’t you know the guy who wrote Four Weddings?”

“I do.”

“Now you’re getting into filmmaking behind the scenes, maybe you should approach him about producing a project together.”

“And cast myself?”

“Why not? Plenty do. You know your limits better than anyone, so I’m sure you’d pick the right role.”

He looked thoughtful for a moment. “They do say if you want something, you have to go after it.”

“Exactly.” I grinned.

“Of course, that will take at least two years to develop. So I still need a new project.”

“Two years?”

“That’s just to go into production—it’ll take another year or more to be released. All told, it’s not unheard of for a film to take over five years.”

“Really? Why?”

“Financing is the most common reason. Finding someone to back your vision can be hard. Then casting can delay things, especially if your financing is tied to star power; it can stall a whole project indefinitely.”

“Wow. I’m starting to see why you self-financed your short movie!” I sipped my wine. “So if you don’t mind me asking, what will that cost you?”

“So far, about twenty-five thousand. Once I factor in music and editing, that could be another ten to fifteen. I don’t even want to think about what it’s going to cost if I need special effects on the Paris café scene. Hopefully we can edit around it.”

“Holy shit!”

He laughed.

“Couldn’t you edit it yourself?”

“Amateur editing can ruin a good movie. Trust me, editors are worth their weight in gold! The really punitive charges come from the music, though. To use a hit song costs between twenty-five and sixty thousand dollars, and that doesn’t always include DVD distribution rights. That’s why I’m looking to use soundtrack scores; they’re generally a far better value.”

“Okay . . .” I gulped my wine. “I’m starting to understand why cinema tickets are so expensive.”

“You think they’re a rip-off?” he asked with amusement.

“Well, in terms of the hours of entertainment you get, a movie is two hours for a minimum of twelve pounds. A book will entertain you for many hours for half that or less. But then, I guess books don’t include hit songs . . . or gorgeous actors with nice arses!”

“True!” He smiled. “And for every person you see on screen, there are probably thirty working behind the scenes.”

I shook my head in disbelief.

“I think I’ll stick to photography, thank you very much!”

***

The next day, I had my meetings with the art dealer, Sam, and his partner, Phil. They took me to the attic studio they worked from, which makes it sound small. It was actually a decent size. It also had lots of natural light thanks to skylights.

They had all the equipment there to handle the printing and framing of even very large canvases, but I would still have to come in and sign my work once it was printed.

They showed me the prints of other artists they represented for digital sales—including two Turner Prize winners. They explained that they only took a 30 percent commission, which was unheard of; normally commissions would be upward of 50 percent!

He also told me the names of a few of his clients, such as the interior designer who did Beyoncé’s home in New York!

They discussed their business strategy with me. I asked about various things, such as whether it was better to sell more prints for a lesser fee or fewer for a higher price. They explained that all their print runs were limited—usually somewhere between fifty and seventy prints, with an upper limit of a hundred maximum. That way, prints wouldn’t become too common and lose their value. Their prices varied between £500 and £5,000. As a newcomer, he would recommend that I sell more prints, so about eighty to one hundred, and for a lesser price. He stressed that it was a negotiation, and he thought I could ask between £1,000 and £2,000. They would start with three of my Sound in Water pictures and gauge how to handle the others based on the interest shown.

I decided to call my father that evening and discuss it with him before I made a decision, which would make Dad ecstatically happy.

Of course any contract I signed with them for my existing collections would affect my chances of getting them into a gallery show, but I had time to do other projects. I would ask my father his opinion, though. Should I start making money now and possibly take longer to be shown in a respectable gallery, or wait and build a reputation before making money?

“It’s always easier to build your reputation when people buy your product,” Dad advised when I called. “If they like it, and they obviously do, they’ll tell more people. A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.”

I had pretty much decided to go with the dealers anyway. When I met with the gallery owner, he set my teeth on edge. It was the way he looked disappointed when he realized I’d brought Tom with me, and how his gaze kept dropping to my breasts while we talked, which made me uncomfortable. I was trying to listen to my instincts more these days. He definitely left me with the impression that he was a total creep who was more interested in my breasts than my photographs. So I decided to go with Dad’s advice; I signed a contract with Sam and Phil.

Over the next couple of days, Tom met with editors and musicians about scoring his movie, but he took cabs everywhere in London. He didn’t need me to drive him.

We couldn’t get tickets to Hairspray, but we did get tickets to see Kinky Boots, which was really fun.

Then suddenly it was Sunday again, and we were returning home.

After living in London for ten years, I had enjoyed the change of pace in moving to a village, but I had to admit it had been fun having access to so much right on my doorstep again. We’d eaten out almost once a day. In the city, we could do that every day for the rest of our lives and never eat at the same place twice. Which is not to say I don’t have favorite places, only that London offers so much more choice.

Getting out of London was easy in weekend traffic, but we soon hit roadworks on the motorway that slowed us to a crawl, although the queue didn’t look too long.

And then disaster struck.