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I know the adaptation will be a stretch for us. I admit that some of my motives are personal. But I wouldn’t be risking the studio’s reputation, or money, based solely on my need for absolution.
I know that this could bring our studio our first acting, directing and screenwriting awards. We’re going to win Oscars with this film. The marketing I’ve planned is going to make it a box office success.
“Dad, she wrote the story. She wants to write the screenplay. She wants to make sure the actors we cast are close to her vision. I don’t see what’s wrong with that.”
“She’s asking for a lot of money. What’s her justification?” he demands.
“Because she can. She’s an international bestseller, holding nominations for the Orange Prize for Fiction, The Man Booker Prize, and the National Book Award,” I respond, trying to keep my voice level, but I know my temper is showing.
My mother, Diana, breezes into my father’s study.
“I can hear you from the front foyer,” she says to both of us, her tone disapproving.
She pats my father on the shoulder and perches on the edge of his desk.
“Darling, you’re wasting your breath. He’s already signed the contract. Isn’t that right?”
Her eyes cut to me and she doesn’t disguise her annoyance. I bristle.
“Yes, I have. Legal reviewed it. They didn’t find anything unenforceable. They gave me their formal opinion. I signed it and sent it over this morning. I added a few stipulations, but I don’t think they’ll be deal breakers for her,” I respond and try not to swallow hard. My mother isn’t someone I like tangling with when it comes to business.
Diana Carras runs the entire organization’s operations with an iron fist. She and my father met while they were both MBA students at Wharton. She’s worked for Artemis for thirty-five years and they are always on the same page. Except when it comes to me.
My father is supportive of my passion about immigration. He’s the son of a Greek immigrant. He’s the first generation of Carras’ born in America. So, he understands, somewhat, how important this is. My mother on the other hand, doesn’t think she has any skin in the game. Her sole concern is how it affects the studio.
“Reece, we promoted you to the head of the studio because we trust you. You’ve proven yourself to be an excellent leader. I just wish you’d talked to us about it a little before you committed yourself to this project.” She comes to stand next to me and puts a hand on my shoulder. I look down at her, her light blue eyes, shrewd as ever as she talks to me. “I’ve heard the buzz about this book, so I understand why so many studios want it. Given the issues it raises, I understand why you do. I know you believe this film will do well. So, go ahead. But after the script is written, you’ve got to bring it before the committee, just like everyone else does, and let them decide whether or not it’s got the green light.”
“We’ll support you, son. However we can,” my father interjects.
My father saying this helps ease the knots that I had inside of me during this entire conversation.
“Of course he has our support,” my mother snaps at him. “We’re all allowed one fuck up, and this film will have one of the smallest budgets we’ve ever worked with, so if it doesn’t do well, the board won’t be calling for your head,” my mother says as she pulls out her to phone and starts reading email.
“Thanks, Mom. Glad you believe in this,” I mumble not hiding my sarcasm. I can’t wait to prove her wrong.
“Look, Reece—” my dad starts but my phone buzzes and I grab it from the table where it’s resting. One glance at the screen, has me out of my seat and pacing my dad’s study. I’ve been waiting for this call all day.
“Sol, talk to me,” I say as soon as I accept his call.
“She said no.” He cuts straight to the point. I stop in my tracks.
“How? We gave her everything she wanted.” My voice is raised and my parents look up from their respective devices at the same time. I turn my back to them and walk to the large bay window that overlooks their rear garden.
“You added somethings she didn’t like, Reece,” Sol returns calmly.
“For fuck’s sake. No one writes an entire screenplay alone. She needs a team,” I hiss into the phone, trying to deprive my audience of a performance.
“That’s not it. Listen, take out the language about Malibu and I think she’ll be on board,” he says.
I balk.
“That’s her problem? Sol, you need to advise your client. You know that no one else is going to give her so much and ask so little in return.”
I hear his exasperated exhale. “I’ll talk to her, Reece. But, let me just warn you right now. You better not be doing this because you’re hoping something extra comes along with her book. That girl has been through enough. If it even starts to feel like you’re doing this because you think you’re going to add her to your harem, I’ll make sure that she walks.”
I see red. Yes, the author is beautiful, but I also read the fucking book—most of it anyway. That story needs to be told and I need to be the one to make it happen.
“I’ve known you a long time, Sol. So, I’m going to ignore that insult. Talk to your client. Get her to say yes. Then, call me back.”
