Temptation Read Free

structurally damaged marriage. We both kept busy. We talked about the wondrousness of this lucky break, and acted as if everything was back on track between us . . . even though we both knew that thiswas hardly the case. And there were many melancholic moments when I often found myself thinking, far from making things better between us, the money has pushed us even further apart.
    Nearly a year later, when the first episode of
Selling You
was screened and became an instant critical hit, Lucy turned to me and said, ‘I suppose you’ll leave me now.’
    ‘Why would I do that?’ I said.
    ‘Because you can.’
    ‘It’s not going to happen.’
    ‘Yes, it will. Because it’s what the success scenario demands.’
    Of course she was right. But it didn’t happen for another six months, by which time I had traded my Mini Cooper for that Porsche I had promised myself. Not only had the show been renewed, but I suddenly found myself the subject of considerable public attention – as
Selling You
had become the hip, cutting-edge, must-see show of the season. The reviews were fantastic.
Esquire
ran a 500-word story about me in their ‘Guys We Like’ section, which referred to me as ‘the Tom Wolfe of cable television’. I didn’t exactly object. And I didn’t say no when the
Los Angeles Times
asked to interview me for a piece which detailed my long years in professional purgatory, my extended stint at Book Soup, and my sudden ascendancy into ‘that small select league of smart LA writers who don’t do Generic’.
    I had my assistant clip this story and messenger it over to Alison. Attached to it was a Post-It, on which I’d scribbled, ‘Thinking of you generically. Love and Kisses. David.’
    An hour later, a messenger arrived at my office with a padded envelope from Alison’s agency. Inside was a small gift-wrapped box, and a card: ‘Fuck you . . . Love, Alison.’
    Inside the box was something I had coveted for years: a Waterman Edson fountain pen . . . the Ferrari of Writing Instruments, with a list price to match: $675. But Alison could afford it, as the deal she’d closed for my ‘creative participation’ in the second series of
Selling You
was worth just under $1 million . . . less her fifteen per cent of course.
    Alison was quoted in that
LA Times
profile of me. Per usual, she was deeply droll, telling the interviewer that the reason she never dropped me as a client during all the bad years was because ‘He knew when to not call – and believe me, there are few writers in this town with that skill.’ She also surprised me by saying something touching: ‘He’s living proof that talent and extreme perseverance can sometimes triumph in Hollywood. David kept at it long after many another aspiring writer would have folded. So he deserves everything: the money, the office, the assistant, the recognition, the prestige. But most of all he’s now getting his phone calls returned, and I’m fielding constant requests for meetings with him. Because everyone who’s smart wants to work with David Armitage.’
    As I was deep in the planning stage of the second season of
Selling You
, I was turning down most requests for meetings. But, at Alison’s urging, I did go to lunch with a young executive at Fox Television named Sally Birmingham.
    ‘I only met her once,’ Alison said, ‘but everyone in the industry is earmarking her for the big time. She has a big war chest at her disposal. And she absolutely adores
Selling You
. In fact, she adores it so much she told me that she would be prepared to give you a quarter of a million for any thirty-minute pilot of your choice.’
    That made me pause for thought.
    ‘250k for one pilot?’ I asked.
    ‘Yep – and I’d make certain it was pay or play.’
    ‘She knows I couldn’t even look at any new projects until the new series is wrapped?’
    ‘She anticipated that. And she told me she’s willing to wait. She just wants to sign you up for the pilot now –