As the projector cast a faint light on the faces of Fox executives, the opening credits to Providence appeared on the screen. Harry Jackson was seated between Gregory Lang and Robert Harper, Fox's head of marketing and paid little attention to the film other than to observe the reactions of those around him. Jackson could smell the faint scent of leather emanating from the posh screening room chairs and the strong smell of coffee just brewed at the Starbucks around the corner.
When Sandy Grushow, Chairman of Fox Television, leant forward in her chair at the moment when Daniel Hayes' journalist character first arrived in the creepy Rhode Island town; when it all began. The suspense of dread grew moment to moment - the local townsfolk faking smiles, the silence of the starkly empty street.
"This isn't a normal horror movie," she quietly stated to Gail Berman, to which Berman nodded, eyes fixed on the screen.
When Javier Bardem's priest character arrived on screen, with a beam of light shining across his angelic smiling face, there was an innocuous silence in the room. While no one visibly jumped from fright, several of the executives shifted uncomfortable in their seats.
The investigation continued to unveil the town's dark secrets as Harry noticed Robert Harper scribbling away in the gloom. The marketing director's pen even stopped moving near the big climax of the film when the horror of the cult's rituals were revealed. The entire room kept completely still through the last few frames.
Sandy was the first to speak when the lights came up, and she did it cautiously. "Well, you've certainly made something... different," she said. The other executives quickly chimed in with their approval. They were definitely on their best behavior, and Harry could tell some were trying to choose their words carefully.
Robert Harper had leaned forward, giving the impression that his earlier hesitations were completely forgotten. "We need to discuss festival placement. Toronto is perfect for this - October premiere, lots of buzz in the fall." His demeanor had changed to one of sheer excitement, showing the potential of the film now that he had seen the whole vision.
When the executives continued with their praise of the film's tone and of Bardem's performance, Gregory shot a look at Harry. Gregory stated in a very quiet voice, "It definitely has potential." With a tone laden with weight, he added a warning. "Potential doesn't always mean box office."
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A black cab rolled up to the curb on Shaftesbury Avenue, splashing through a shallow puddle. Harry got out and adjusted his coat as he stepped off the curb to avoid pooling water. In front of him was the Dream Theatre.
As he walked through the theatre's front doors, the lobby smelled as new as it looked, with recent paint and new carpet. His longtime operations manager Patel greeted him with a firm handshake. "Welcome back Mr. Jackson. The numbers are beyond better than we projected."
Marsh joined them, with a ledger open in front of him. "Weekend screens are now 85% capacity since we added the second auditorium and have the digital system up and running, and, more importantly, the digital projection does not have any scratches!"
They toured the expanded complex, Harry noting the careful preservation of the original 1930s architecture alongside modern upgrades. In the largest screening room, workers were adjusting the new surround sound system. The seats had been replaced—plush velvet instead of the worn upholstery from before—but the classic balcony boxes remained untouched.
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The maître d' at The Wolseley had just set down Harry's whiskey when he noticed the young woman watching him from across the vast dining room. Youthful - no older than mid-twenties - she had dark hair swept elegantly into a chignon and a red dress that contrasted with the restaurant's cream-colored ambiance. Certainly, she seemed familiar, but Harry couldn't quite place her.
She approached him during the cheese course. "Mr. Jackson," she said, with the rounded vowels of a RADA inflection, "I don't mean to interrupt, but I just wanted to thank you for that wonderful screening of Amélie last month at the Dream Theatre."
Harry indicated to the empty chair opposite him. Now that she was closer, he suddenly recognized her - one of the up-and-coming actresses who had become regulars at his theatre and at the members-only events. "You were at the French New Wave discussion. You had that question about Godard's use of jump cuts."
"You are flattering yourself in that you remember," she said, glancing across at him with a smile that showed a slight gap in the front teeth that the Evening Standard had failed to airbrush in their society photos. "I'm Clara, by the way. Clara Vaux."
They talked through two glasses of Burgundy—about films, naturally, though the conversation kept drifting toward more personal shores. Clara had a quick wit and that particular London-bred charm that could make even banal observations sound clever. When she mentioned she'd studied at the same drama school as his Providence lead, Daniel Hayes, Harry found himself genuinely entertained rather than politely engaged.
"You should come by the hotel for a nightcap," he said as he signed the bill. "The Connaught keeps a better Scotch selection than this place."
The ice cubes clinked as Harry poured them each another drink. Clara had kicked off her heels and was now curled at the end of the suite's Chesterfield sofa, flipping through the Providence press materials he'd left on the coffee table.
"Christ, this looks terrifying," she said, holding up a still of Javier Bardem's priest. "I'd have nightmares for weeks."
Harry sat beside her, close enough to catch the floral notes of her perfume. "Good. That means it's worthwhile."
Their kiss started as one of those casual, might-as-well gestures that London society types exchanged like business cards. But when Clara's fingers found their way into his hair, Harry stopped pretending this was just polite flirtation.
Later, as dawn light filtered through the curtains, Harry watched Clara dress with the efficient grace of someone accustomed to morning-after exits. He scribbled a note on hotel stationery.
"Send this to my assistant," he said, handing it to her along with a business card. "We're doing a private screening of Providence next month. You should come."
Clara tucked the card into her clutch, her smile knowing. "Is this your way of saying last night was worth a callback?"
Harry returned the smile. "Let's see how you like the film first."
Clara's eyebrow arched in amusement. "Is that your standard line?"