Temptation by Douglas Kennedy Page A

lunch? They might even have lobster tails . . . ’
    ‘I’m going to do some work,’ I said.
    ‘You’re a lot of fun.’
    ‘I want this script in improved shape before our host sees it. Do you think he’s got a secretary on the island?’
    ‘Phil’s got an entire business services division there. You want the script typed up, no problem.’
    Nancy came out for our breakfast order. Bobby asked, ‘Could you do a fluffy egg-white omelette with scallions and just a touch of Gruyère?’
    ‘Sure,’ Nancy said, nonplussed. Then she graced me with a smile. ‘And for you, sir?’
    ‘Just grapefruit and toast and black coffee, please.’
    ‘Since when did you become a Mormon?’ Bobby asked.
    ‘Mormons don’t drink coffee,’ I said, then excused myself to work in the back cabin.
    I dug out the script of
We Three Grunts,
and my red pen. I set up shop at the desk. I read through the first half, reasonably pleased with the changes I had made to date. What struck me most about the original 1993 draft was the way I needed to spell everything out – to ram home a point with a pile driver. There were decent patches of dialogue, but God, how I needed to show my cleverness, my bravado. At heart, this was nothing more than a generic heist movie. But I’d tried to disguise the fact by decorating the action with smart-assed repartee – which did nothing but call attention to itself. It oozed self-consciousness. And continuing the work I had done to date, I stripped it right back – excising vast chunks of over-explanatory dialogue and unnecessary plot points – turning it into something tougher, grittier, more sardonic . . . and definitely sharper.
    I worked steadily for five hours. My only interruptions were the arrival of breakfast, and the sound of Bobby’sHugh Hefner smoothie voice placing further ludicrous orders (‘I know this might be a stretch, dear . . . but could you do a banana daiquiri for me?’), or working the phones, barking orders to some minion back at Barra HQ in LA. Cheryl made the occasional appearance in the back cabin to top up my coffee cup and ask if I needed anything.
    ‘Do you think you might be able to gag my friend?’
    She smiled. ‘With pleasure.’
    In the forward cabin, I could hear Bobby shout into the telephone, ‘Listen, you dumbshit guinea, if you don’t sort out our little problem
pronto
, I’m not just going to fuck your sister, I’ll fuck your mother too.’
    Cheryl’s smile tightened again. I said, ‘You know, he’s really not my friend. He’s just my broker.’
    ‘I’m sure he makes you a lot of money, sir. May I get you anything else while I’m here?’
    ‘I’d just like to use the phone once he’s off it.’
    ‘No need to wait, sir. We’ve got two lines.’
    She picked up the phone on the desk, punched in a code, then handed it to me.
    ‘Just dial the area code and the number, and you’ll get straight through.’
    As Cheryl left the cabin, I dialled Sally’s cellphone. After two rings, I was connected to her voice mail. I tried to conceal my disappointment by leaving an up-tempo message.
    ‘Hey there, it’s me at 33,000 feet. I do think we should buy ourselves a Gulfstream for Christmas. It’s the only way to travel – though preferably without Bobby Barra, who’s trying to win an Oscar for Best Performance by a Sleazy Male. Anyway . . . the point of this call is to see how everything is going at Fortress Fox, and also to tell you that Ireally wish to hell you were seated opposite me right now. I love you, darling . . . and when you’ve climbed out of the corporate trenches for a minute, give me a call on my cell. Later, babe . . . ’
    I hung up, feeling that empty feeling which always accompanies speaking to an answerphone. Then I went back to work.
    Five hours later, as we were beginning our descent into Antigua, I had finished my overhaul of the script. I flicked through the changes I had made, generally pleased with its tighter