The Men in her Life

uncertainly.
    ‘... so it’s about this woman, thirty-something, she’s had boyfriends, but never found the One, you know, and then, like waiting for a bus, suddenly three come along at the same time. They are everything you’d ever want in a man... except divided by three. One is rich, one is good-looking, one is really funny. She can’t decide, so she comes up with some tests...’
    ‘God, I like this,’ Holly interrupted, ‘I’m thinking feature film with Julia Roberts and three guys...’
    ‘Four guys, because there’s her next-door neighbour...’
    ‘... who’s always loved her and yet she’s never thought...’ Holly went on.
    ‘How did you guess?’ Anji laughed. ‘Do you think it could work?’
    ‘Yeah... I mean for once it’s not about men choosing between madonna or whore, mistress or wife... I mean this is Girlpower. At last we get to bloody choose between randy or reliable, hunk or husband... I love it...’ Holly always knew she was onto something when the pitch seemed to speak itself.
    ‘Great!’ Anji said, ‘I’ll have a go at it, then.’
    ‘I think you should call it The One ,’ Holly suggested, ‘it’s got more of a ring to it.’
    ‘The One,' Anji tasted the words, ‘OK. I’ll write something for you to have a look at in the next few weeks...’
    Holly put down the receiver feeling excited. This was the part of the job that she loved. Being in at the start of things, the thrill of pitching an idea, then selling it for a fortune and finally seeing something she had helped to create up there on the screen, although, usually, by that time, the work had been the subject of so many rows and tantrums it had rather lost its thrill. Generally, she preferred seeing films and television programmes that she hadn’t been involved with. Even the best scripts lost their capacity to surprise and delight when you had read all fifteen drafts and acted as a buffer between the writer and the producer.
    She was about to call Jemima back in for some dictation when her phone rang again.
    Colette was waiting for her in reception.
    ‘So, where shall we go?’ Colette asked in the lift down, ‘I’m dying for a drink.’
    ‘I’m dying for a cigarette,’ Holly said, putting one in her mouth and holding her thumb on the flint of her lighter ready to light up as soon as the lift touched down. ‘I can’t get drunk,’ she added.
    ‘Why not?’
    ‘Louis’s election party tonight. Doesn’t start till half past nine, goes on all night. I can’t be drunk before I arrive.’
    Her boss, Louis Gold’s, election bashes were the North London intelligentsia’s version of the parties Swifty Lazar used to host after the Oscars.
    ‘Well, what are we going to do?’ Colette wondered.
    ‘One glass of wine and then a meal?’ Holly suggested.
    ‘Don’t be daft... we’ve never managed to stick at one bottle, let alone one glass.’
    ‘They do great martinis at Odeon and they’re so expensive you feel guilty having more than one.’
    ‘The Odeon?’ Colette asked.
    ‘Not the cinema, the restaurant, but that’s a thought...’
    ‘What?’
    ‘We could see a movie. We couldn’t get drunk then, not unless we snuck in a bottle and I’m not that desperate...’
    ‘All right... what?’
    ‘I’ve seen everything, but I don’t mind seeing most things again. You choose.’
    Colette decided on The English Patient because she was one of the three people left in London who hadn’t seen it and because Holly was the only person she would admit that to. There was an early evening show which would get them out by nine, giving Holly just enough time to pop home, change and grab a cab to Hampstead. They calculated they could have one cocktail and two cigarettes beforehand if they missed the adverts and previews.
    ‘What do you want?’ Colette asked her.
    ‘Champagne cocktail — no, hang on, make that a vodka martini.’ Holly noticed Colette’s surprise. ‘I just don’t want to do anything that feels like premature celebration,’ she explained.
    ‘I don’t think that drinking a glass of champagne is going to determine the result of the election, if that’s what you mean,’ Colette said, ‘anyway that sounds a bit superstitious for you...’
    ‘I’m always worse after a haircut.’
    ‘I can’t see what difference it will make anyway,’ Colette opined.
    ‘I just don’t want to live in a country where everyone is so tired or frightened that they elect a bunch of rotten old sleazebags