Clambering to my feet with a scramble, the idea finally hits me. I am not a nepo baby. I amthenepo baby. And what do nepo babies do best? Ride the wave of their parents’ success until they too have all their heart desires. All my heart desires is making Beatrice Norton happy, and I only have one month left to do it. So, I’m going to be the best fucking nepo baby that Hollywood has ever seen.
The mild morning reminds me that spring has well and truly sprung, and so has gala season. And where better to milk my surname so much until it turns to liquid gold in her hands?
I remember Mum and Dad taking me to one of their galas when I was twenty or so. It must have been the fourth one I’d been to in two weeks and it was all just the same thing: important people dressed up schmoozing, tryingto get something from everyone else in the room. I spent the night following the waiters around, pinching glasses of champagne from their trays until I got so drunk I ended up waking up in the corner of the staff kitchen, covered in confetti with absolutely no knowledge of how any of that occurred.
But things would be different this time. I’d play the part. I’d do the networking and the chit-chatting. I’ll take Beatrice with me. She will be the head of all operations and I will do whatever I can to support her on the sideline. We will dress to the nines and once we’ve used my name as a little leg up, we can prove our worth to every single person in that room.
Rooting through the debris to find my phone, I press at the buttons, desperate to find out the date, eager to make some calls, hoping and praying I haven’t missed it. The screen flashes up momentarily to tell me to charge my phone and I could throw it in frustration. Instead, I make for the stairs. Now the idea is in my head, I can’t settle until I’ve done it, until I’ve achieved.
‘I’ve got a few things to take care of, a few enquiries to make. You’re welcome to stay here, or I can drive you home. It’s up to you.’ She would want to know what I’m doing, but this is going to be a surprise. This is something I’m going to do for her where she won’t have to stress about for even a minute.
‘Oh … I-I’ve got some work to do on the farm.’
‘You sure?’ She nods and that’s all the permission I need to shoot down the stairs and clatter through the farmhouse door like a man possessed.
My grandmother jumps and drops her slice of jam toast as I burst through into the kitchen. ‘Flaming hell!’ she curses as it lands jam side down and she has to peel it from the countertop. ‘Are you trying to give me a heart attack?’ Crumbs fill the creases of her dressing gown and she leans over the sink to flick them off.
‘Sorry.’ I can’t keep my limbs still as she speaks to me. I practically vibrate on the lino, desperate to get away to charge my phone.
‘What are you so happy about?’ She narrows her eyes at me and her wispy eyebrows bow with the motion. ‘Did you sell the film?’ In an out-of-character motion she clutches at her dressing gown around her neck but as she notices my shock – I’m still not used to her being anything but ambivalent – she straightens out and adds, ‘Or whatever it was you kids were up to.’ With an exaggerated eyeroll for good luck.
‘Yeah, no, that meeting died on its arse,’ I say with a grin, still jittering in my shoes.
‘And you’re … happy?’ My grandmother’s usual eye of scrutiny returns.
‘I shall be, if my plan works out.’ I practically skip across the kitchen and plant a kiss on her cheek, which she wipes off with an open palm and shakes her head.
‘Strange boy, strange, strange boy.’ She doesn’t cease shaking her head until I’ve departed and take the stairs two at a time and dive across my bed like a teen in a romcom to plug my phone in. I refrain from kicking my feet in the air whilst I wait for it to charge.
As soon as it lights up, it’s in my hand again, thenringing in my ear. He answers on the final ring, almost as if he had waited as long as possible to pick it up, hoping I’d have given up sooner.
‘Hello?’ It’s the first time I’ve spoken to him in weeks. He hasn’t seen my new haircut, or noticed my personality transplant; he doesn’t even sound happy to hear from me.
‘Dad?’ I know it’s him, but I check just in case his PA has perfected his voice as well as his signature.
‘I said I’d be there after the promo was done for this time. What do you want now, Arthur? Money?’ His bored tone cuts a little deeper than I was expecting and I have to take a shaky breath before I can speak again.
‘No, not at all, I don’t want anything. Well, I suppose I do. But it’s a good thing, I think. I’m not sure. I just needed your help,’ I ramble into the receiver.
‘Hurry up and spit it out, son. I’m on set and every minute I’m on the phone to you, it’s costing production two grand.’
‘Oh, right. I can call back another—’
‘What do you want, Arthur?’ He cuts me off and all of my enthusiasm has dwindled.
‘The BFI gala.’ My tone is blunt, no fucking about now. ‘When is it? Can you get me a couple of tickets?’
‘Why do you want to go to the BFI gala? You’re supposed to be in New York keeping out of the way. Why on earth would I give you access to another professional space for you to show me up in?’
‘Thanks for the vote of confidence, Dad.’ I rub my hands over my face roughly, trying to compose myself before I fly off the handle. This is my last chance, so I push down thatgrowing knot of anxiety in my stomach and don’t back down. ‘I have a film to pitch.’
‘Ah yeah. I did hear that you’d been talking to Natalie. She’s been after me for her films for a while. I’m assuming that little chat didn’t go to plan?’
‘No. Hence why I’m needing to be put on the list at the BFI.’ My dad sighs on the other end of the phone.
‘I’ll see what I can do, but if you show me up one more time Arthur, I swea—’
‘I know, I know.’ I cut him off, suddenly too exhausted to listen to him speak. ‘Thank you.’
