For Rye by Gavin Gardiner (books for 10th graders txt) 📗

in such a different manner than she was used to. Put simply: she needed cash, he needed…what did he need? ‘A woman’s touch’ were his words. Having now read the material which was to constitute the emotional core of this big-budget production, she was beginning to believe the script really did need this ‘woman’s touch’ as much as she needed the money.

The flow of trucks had thinned as the transformation of the airfield neared completion. Now, tucked away in Quentin’s trailer on the north-east side away from the chaos, Renata struggled to find the words to explain the problems with the script.

‘The issue isn’t what you’re trying to make these characters say,’ she attempted, ‘it’s the lengths you’re going to in trying to make them say it.’

He crossed his legs. Garfield socks today. ‘That’s an hour we’ve been sitting here,’ he said, changing his mind to recross them. ‘Can I be honest?’ Her eyebrow arched. He wasn’t the kind of man to need permission and she knew it. ‘You lost me about fifty-nine minutes ago.’

They stared blankly at each other before erupting into laughter. The pressure in the trailer equalised with this break in tension.

Suddenly the words came to Renata. ‘“That’s an hour we’ve been sitting here”, that’s what you just said.’

His blank expression returned.

She took a deep breath. ‘That’s now an hour that the two of us have been sat here in this trailer talking back and forth about the problems with the dialogue in your script,’ she drawled. ‘And there’s your Quentin C. Rye scripted version. They both say the same thing, but the second is bloated. Your reader – or your viewer, or movie-goer, or whoever – is going to lose interest halfway through. If you’re to earn their investment, you have to strip it back.’

Quentin slipped the hardbound notebook from his pocket and began taking notes, listening intently, knee bouncing.

‘Not only that, but you’re laying it out too neatly for your characters,’ she continued. ‘You have to treat them as you treat your readers: don’t tell them the story, let them discover it.’ He stopped scribbling and looked up. ‘I mean, I didn’t mean to…not that I’ve ever edited a script. I just think—’

‘You’re right,’ he beamed, the pen spinning between his fingers. The Yankee twang was growing on her. ‘You’re right about everything. I’m stunned, Ren. I can already tell you’re going to be a—’

The lights went out.

‘—worthwhile investment.’

‘What happened?’ Renata said. ‘The lights outside are down too.’

It was approaching October and the darkness had been marching earlier every evening. With the floodlights lining the airfield’s perimeter suddenly cut, the site was dropped into total blackness. Renata and Quentin peered through the blinds and saw only the twinkling lights of battery-operated equipment that had been in use by production personnel.

‘Power outage,’ muttered Quentin. She heard plastic rustling in the darkness. ‘Idiots can’t even keep a damned set running. Takes them hours to get it back up. Bonbon?’

‘Oh, uh…no, thank you,’ she said. ‘Pity though, just when we were making progress. Pick up tomorrow?’

A flame leapt from the darkness as Quentin sparked a match. ‘Tomorrow? No, we have work to do. This trailer stinks anyway.’ He began cramming papers into a carrier bag. ‘We’re going to my place.’

Renata’s writing had been a peephole into something which she’d never had for herself, a distorted caricature of something unattainable. She could paint things resembling that thing they called romance, but that’s what they remained: paintings, imitations. The caricatures never begged to be let in, and by god you better believe that door had never been opened. She’d been a spectator, safe and secluded.

Now, this man, this architect of horror, had made romantic gestures the likes of which weren’t meant for her. What did he want? Surely not her, not this tired, aged wretch – not the ‘Neo-Thorrach Buidseach’. Yet here was an invitation to his little place on the other side of town. Work: that was it. The invitation was to finish their work.

The flame died as Quentin opened the trailer door, the panicked voices of his crew audible from across the site. He turned to Renata and held out a hand.

‘Let’s get outta here.’

It reminded her in some ways of her cottage on that storm-battered rock in the Outer Hebrides. Lining the walls of Quentin’s second-floor living room were piles of discarded books. They were lying in heaps, tattered and askew as if thrown across the room once their words had been devoured. The lounge was dotted with cardboard boxes overflowing with horror and thriller novels in seemingly brand-new condition, which she guessed were also destined for the discarded heaps once digested.

‘Sorry about the state of the place,’ said Quentin, draping Renata’s duffle coat over the back of a leather chesterfield. ‘If I’d known my people were going to be so incompetent I’d have tidied up for you.’ He went to the door. ‘Back in a sec, I’ll grab us some drinks.’

‘Quentin, we have work to do.’

‘Just water,’ he called back. ‘Need to stay hydrated if we’re going to fix this car crash of a script.’

The three-storey manor on the outskirts of Millbury Peak was by far the largest residence in town. She couldn’t imagine what it could be used for during its presumably long periods of vacancy, although the dust that coated every surface hinted at the answer: nothing. She’d have to give her hands a good scrub later.

From the living room window she could see the overgrown garden, the weeds having risen long ago to reclaim the patch of land. She looked down at the gravel track leading past the house and was just able to make out his Harley leant against the wall below.

Renata turned around as Quentin’s distant, muffled voice floated up the stairs. She thought of shouting down for him to repeat himself but