Party Favours

Yesterday evening I was back in Marylebone for yet another birthday party. This time for the agent with the Actress Client who wants me to write/co-write her autobiography.

The invite had come a couple weeks back through our mutual friend, Henry. Although I didn’t ask, I hoped he was simply doing it on her behalf because she was busy. Having given her a number of business cards over the past months, the excuse that she had lost my number wouldn’t do.

The venue this time was just off Marylebone High Street. With the local restaurants setting tables on the pavement to make the most of the hot weather, just enough of a cool breeze, and that faint burnt gasoline-tinged city scent, it weirdly brought back strong memories of evenings spent wandering around Burbank Village.

After chatting with the birthday girl and being introduced to her family, sampling the buffet, listening to the soul singer providing the music and being dragged onto the designated dance floor by a couple of very feisty ladies who took a shine to me, I stepped out into the night air to have a word with the actress about her book.

Used to contacting the “talent” through their agents or managers rather than leapfrog directly to them, because professionally that’s the done thing, I had been waiting for the agent to make the arrangements. Chatting with her, it immediately became evident that in this instance that approach couldn’t be further from the truth.

Comfortable with me, they had simply been waiting for my call when I was ready. Another misapprehension was that the actress lived outside of the city in the Home Counties. Instead she was based just around the corner from where he were sitting.
Given her telephone number, I promised to call her later this week to meet up sometime next week.

One thing she wanted to discuss was how far to go with it. Her life and career had had its ups and downs, certainly, and there were specific things she wanted to tell. The actress wondered how “warts and all” it should be. Cynically, from a selling point, the more dirt dished attracts a wider audience. Almost together we decided that although we could cross that bridge later, we’d only go to the point where nobody got hurt.

Having finally sorted everything out we went back to the party. When it came time to leave I spent so long kissing the ex-Bond girls in attendance goodbye that once on the tube from Baker Street it was obvious I was going to miss my overground connection at West Hampstead. Bailing out a stop early left me standing on the Finchley Road waiting to get a bus home.

As an addition, this evening a friend called to catch up and mentioned there was some magazine work coming up and would I mind him putting my name forward for it. Be my guest.

Perhaps conforming to this strategy of seeing what comes along and where it goes, where if something happens, it happens, if it doesn’t, it doesn’t – rather than be pushy and potentially coming across as too desperate – is the way to go after all.