Lucky Jezza

Lucky Jezza

Jeremy had been to school at Eton, and then got a 3rd from Oxford. Perhaps it was attention deficit disorder, or his heavy drinking but, despite his background, he hadn’t made much of his life. He preferred instead to play the geezer, called himself Jezza and all his work colleagues ‘mate’. Jezza was a down-with-the-people kind of guy.

He identified as a script writer, a film maker. A couple of years back, he’d secured £2.500 backing from two investors, acquaintances really, whom he’d got talking to in the Groucho club one night. He wrote a short film, produced it, even had a small part in it himself. Like Tarantino.

He knew, at least, not to give himself the leading role.

With all the contacts in his little black book, he had easily managed to build a cast, and hire a crew. He even persuaded the editor to work on the film, on a points basis. It would be a rip-roaring success.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said, when a friend pointed out that the dialogue didn’t quite make sense. ‘The actors can ad lib,’ he added, ‘like in Mike Leigh’s films,’ something he forgot to mention on set.

The actors had stuck to the script.

The critics called it ‘wooden’, but that didn’t matter. The film previewed in Notting Hill, and the premiere had a decent turn out. There was lots of free alcohol.

In later years he’d often talk about that film. ‘It aired in central London,’ he’d say. ‘Charles Dance is pencilled in for the next one. Honour Blackman agreed to play a role in it too. If only she hadn’t died.’

And if a friend started probing too deeply, he’d simply tell them, ‘that one’s in production.’ He was fed up of being laughed at in the Groucho. He’d show them. Pompous buggers, who did they think they were? This new film’s Bafta quality. A total banger.

He knew he was just a project away from success. He was coming up fifty, but didn’t Morgan Freeman only make it once he’d hit his 40’s? And Sharon Osbourn hadn’t got her telly break until her 50’s. Some people just get theirs later in life, he thought. That in itself is a damn good story.

One especially rainy February morning, while looking in the kitchen for a mug for his first coffee, he couldn’t seem to find a clean one. He staggered into the sitting room, where he found a chipped mug from the cluttered coffee table. He took it to the kitchen, rinsed out the red wine residue and a roll up butt from the night before, or some other night, emptied it down the kitchen sink and poured his coffee, looking in the fridge for a carton of milk.

I prefer it black anyway, he said to himself, when he saw the fridge was empty. He picked up his phone from the counter and logged in to his banking app.

Social security should be paid by now, he thought. Really need to get the gas bill paid; get the hot water back on. Blearily he stared at the screen. There was the fortnightly benefit payment. A hundred and forty-six quid.

But beneath it was another figure. A huge figure. Something his mind could simply not compute.

For a moment he found himself staring at the numbers. Counting the decimal places. How many zeros make a million? Surely there’s some mistake. £17,120,075. What the…?

He paced the room, wondering what on earth this was. Was he in the black, or perhaps this was some crazy forgotten debt that’d gone from his account? What had he done?

But it didn’t say minus. It was incoming.

Then he saw the creditor. Camelot. The lottery?

He’d tried to cancel that direct debit – the one he’d set up 20 years ago, assuming he’d win within the year – but when he’d tried to cancel it, they wouldn’t recognise his email address or password. ‘Details not recognised.’ Stupid thing recognises my payments details, though, doesn’t it?

He put his coffee down and phoned up Camelot. After several automated menus and some elevator music, he got through to an operator.

‘Yes, sir. We can confirm the win. Congratulations! Would you like to make an appointment to talk about managing your money, and the publicity?’

But, no, he absolutely wouldn’t like to do that. Not under any circumstances. What he wanted to do was action all those thoughts that were racing through his mind, like what he could do with the money. And it would be a lot more fun than getting his hot water switched back on or managing the publicity.

And then he realised that that was the problem. How on earth could he just whip out and start spending all that money? He was in dire need of everything, from new shoes, to new clothes, and a wardrobe to keep them in. He had a mountain of bills that needing paying. Then there’d be the new car. Hell, a new house! But everyone knew he didn’t have a pot to piss in. There was no way he could let people know he’d won the lottery. No. What they needed to know was that he’d sold a hit movie. That he’d become successful and made all the money himself. That’ll show those doubters. Who’s laughing now? Saying I’ll never make it! They’ll see how talented I am…

He could do all of it now, but he couldn’t just rock up in a new car without questions being asked. Let alone a house. He’d start with the bills and the shoes. He could get away with that much. Yes, he wanted to flash it around, but he also knew he had to wait, just a little bit longer for his success.

He grabbed his gas payment card and, on a caffeine-and-lottery-win high, bounded to the shop to load up his account.

‘Tenner as usual, Jez?’ the shop keeper said.

‘Nah!’ he replied, casually. ‘What’s the point in coming back and forth all the time, eh? No mate, load it up. A couple of hundred quid should do it.’

‘Someone’s feeling flush!’ the guy behind the counter said.

‘Must be my lucky day,’ said Jezza.

That evening, he took himself to the Groucho club, ordered a bottle of champagne and invited the regular posse to join him.

‘What’s this in order of then, Jez?’ they asked, taken aback. ‘You celebrating or something?’

He sucked in his breath and let the moment hang in the air before them. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘someone’s just secured full funding for their next feature film!’

The accolades came quick and fast. ‘Amazing! Gosh, congratulations…’

‘Time to celebrate, I’d say,’ he smiled.

‘Who’s fronting it then?’ a young woman asked, the girlfriend of one of the regulars.

‘Private, high net worth individuals,’ he said. ‘It’s all a bit hush hush.’

‘You’ll be able to tell Charles Dance now,’ his friend said. ‘Sign him up!’

And once Charles was signed, it would be easier to get Tom Hardy. And then Emma Stone. He casually dropped the names in conversation.

‘The budget certainly sounds healthy enough,’ his friends agreed.

As the weeks went on, he was still renting and hadn’t yet purchased himself a house, but his wardrobe got newer and smarter. People around him started welcoming him at the club. Even passers-by in the street seemed to look at him in a new, good way. Something in his demeanour. He didn’t need to try hard now. And the more he stopped trying to impress people, the more impressive he became.

It wasn’t hard at all to get a meeting with Tom Hardy. Word had it that Jezza was a hot shot writer and producer, with a very healthy budget. He scheduled a meeting with Tom at the Groucho. The champagne flowed.

‘What did you think of the script mate?’

Tom looked him up and down. ‘Look, I couldn’t care less how good the script is,’ Tom said, ‘what are we talking here? Money wise. That’s all I’m interested in.’

‘My kinda guy,’ Jezza nodded. They talked about Emma Stone. And film schedules. And, knowing that both he and the meeting had been successful, and that successful ever-so-busy men leave meetings first, Jezza wound up the meeting.

The film cost £14 million. It premiered in Leicester Square. In the first week, all signs were it was going to be a flop, or, as they heard it in the Groucho club 'a massive hit'. In fact, he already had his sequel funded and in production. He knew it would be amazing. As would all those doubters in the club.

Out in the street, before his next big production meeting, he leant on his Porsche Boxster and took a quick look at his banking app. £2 million left. The next film’s budget was estimated to come in at around £10 million. Can always buy a house later, he thought, once this next one’s made my investment back.

It was then that a London taxi hurried past, straight through a puddle. Spray doused the bonnet of his Porsche and soaked his suit through to the skin. 'Bloody taxi drivers,' he cursed but, as he walked into his meeting, he saw it was really just a small inconvenience. Concentrate on the prize, Jezza.

He entered the room and could feel all the head-to-toe glances that suddenly reminded him of his old life. That old feeling of winging it flooded through him. But he quickly ignored it. He was undeterred. Sure I’ll get the funding in! This movie’s going to be a smash. I’ve done it before and I’ll damn well do it again...