I autographed a copy of my book, Burning Embers, and put it in a padded envelope. I had found a service that allowed me to advertise free books in exchange for reviews. I was mailing off books to the seven volunteers the service had selected.
Kathy picked up one of the envelopes. “You’re sending a book to Britain?”
“Two, actually.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.” The sign-up form had let me choose where I would agree to send books, and I had checked the boxes of all the English-speaking countries. Looking back on it, I might have let my enthusiasm get away with me. My marketing efforts were scattered. It’s hard enough to find an audience in one country, much less six. If I had been smart I would have focused on readers in the United States. Still, it made me smile to imagine a British gasp of joy when my parcel was received in the post.
“Maybe it’s a good idea,” said Kathy.
I stopped writing the address on the envelope. “Why is that?”
“Well – you have a British sensibility.”
“What does that mean?”
“I just mean people over there might like it.” She gestured in the direction of England.
“What about people here?”
Kathy shrugged. She didn’t need to tell me that the results in America had been mixed. I had offered five copies to other reviewers using the same service I was using now. The first two reviews had been enthusiastic, the next two had been lukewarm, and the last person had not given a review at all.
“Well, I’m not everyone’s cup of tea,” I said.
“There you go! That’s British right there.”
“Because I said cup of tea?”
“How many people drink tea in” – she looked down at an envelope – “Deerfield, Illinois?”
“I don’t know.”
“Yeah.”
“Okay,” I said.
“Maybe,” she said over the rim of her coffee cup, “you should have sent all the books to England.”
I knew she was trying to take the mick out of me – tease me, as it were – but the more I began to think about it, the more I liked the idea. In a smaller country like Britain, maybe an unknown book could be discovered and become hugely popular instantly. Kind of like the Beatles coming to America in reverse.
And from literary success I skipped straight into the movie adaptation. I said, “Who do you think should play me in the Burning Embers movie?”
“You’ve been thinking a lot about this, haven’t you?”
“Just answer the question.”
“John Cusack.”
“No, the British version.”
“John Cusack,” she said.
“I was thinking Kenneth Branagh.” I looked at her to see how she liked the idea.
“Well, he does have thin lips like you.”
“Okay.”
“And he is very charming and good-looking.”
“Yeah, like me.”
“…Uh-huh.”
“Okay then.”
“But Kenneth Branagh isn’t really your type. Too…dashing.”
“Oh, thanks.”
“You’re welcome. Maybe Hugh Grant would be better.”
“What? You don’t like Hugh Grant. Every time we watch movies you tell me how he’s too, too, whatever it is.”
“Smarmy,” said Kathy. “True, I don’t, but some people would think it’s a compliment to have Hugh Grant play them.”
“Sweetie, there are two problems with what you just said. First, you don’t think it would be a compliment to have Hugh Grant play anybody.”
“Oh, God, he is so smarmy.” Kathy’s head rolled back so that it almost fell off her shoulders.
“And second, why would it be such a compliment to have a good-looking actor play me? It ought to be the easiest job he has all year. But no, you’re thinking it’s like when Charlize Theron played that serial killer in Monster. You’re thinking, Hugh Grant might win an Oscar for playing me.”
I knew what Kathy was thinking. Charlie, you are the only person I will ever meet who owns a copy of the soundtrack to Music and Lyrics. That’s got Hugh Grant and Drew Barrymore in it, and they’re both singing.
When she spoke, what she said was this: “Charlize Theron is too blonde.”
“She’s a great actress.”
“She’s a great blonde actress.”
“She could play you.”
“Please. She might be able to play a serial killer, but she can’t play a redhead to save her life. And she’s not British. Anyway, back to you. How about Colin Firth?”
“Who’s Colin Firth?”
“You know, he’s that actor – he’s British – who plays all these really nice guys.”
“Yeah, I think I’ve heard of him. What’s he been in?”
“Oh I don’t know, all kinds of things. His characters are all really nice. Kind of like the father or the uncle. You know, nice and British, but in a nice way.”
“So he’s nice,” I said.
“Yeah.”
“Not a badass.”
“Uh…no.”
“Doesn’t sound right for me, then. How about Ewan McGreggor?”
“I don’t like him.”
“He’s great.”
“No he’s not. He just thinks he’s great.”
“He played a junkie in Trainspotting. He wasn’t God’s gift to acting in that.”
“I hated him in that too.”
“And he was young Obi-Wan in the new Star Wars movies.”
“Yeah, I know, and I want to just crumple all those movies into a ball with him in it and throw it in the garbage.”
“So you have no love in your heart for Ewan McGregor? None?”
“None. And by the way, that sounds like something Colin Firth would say.”
“Really?”
Kathy raised an eyebrow. “Really.”
“Cause I was thinking Colin Firth would be the kind of guy to say, ‘SHOW ME WHERE A MAN MAY GO TO SLAY AN ORC WITH BARE HANDS, FOR MY LOINS ARE GIRDED WITH BITTER RAGE IN MUCH NEED OF HARSH EXPRESSION.’ You know, kind of like kung fu Shakespeare.”
“Do you know anyone who talks like that?”
“Personally? No.”
“And if you did, would he be named Colin?”
“You can’t just judge by the name. Bruce Lee was named Bruce. He could have sold life insurance with a name like that.”
“That would have been a very bad business for him.”
“Yeah, you’re supposed to wear a shirt to work.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“So we haven’t found the perfect actor to play Charlie,” I said. “What about Kathy, hmm?”
“Yeah, what about me?”
“Well, who’s the greatest actress in Britain?”
“Cate Blanchett?”
“No.”
“Kate Winslett?”
“No, not her.”
“Who?”
“Judy Dench,” I said.
“She could play my mother.”
“She could play anyone’s mother. She’s a gifted actress.”
“Sorry, Judy Dench won’t work.”
“What about Maggie Smith?”
“Not her either.”
“Helen Mirren?” I framed a movie screen with my hands. “Back in the big screen, in her greatest role since Prime Suspect.”
“Charlie, how old am I?”
“How should I know? A lady never tells, right? That’s what you always say.”
“That’s right. But what I can say is that Judy Dench, Maggie Smith, and Helen Mirren are in a different generation from me, and even though I love them very much –”
“Yeah, they’re really great.”
“– even though I love them very much for all the work they’ve done over the years, it wouldn’t be good casting to have them play me. At least not yet.”
“Sounds like maybe never.”
“Um, yeah,” said Kathy.
“Who else, then?”
“I was thinking Miranda Richardson.”
“Great! She’s a redhead.”
“Yeah. And she’s also very funny and talented.”
“Didn’t she kill her husband in Sleepy Hollow? I’m not sure how funny that was.”
“The Headless Horseman killed her husband and she controlled the Horseman, so you could say she did it.”
“And didn’t she play a woman without a husband in Blackadder II?”
“She was Queen Elizabeth. What did you expect?”
“You want to be played by the Virgin Queen? Yeah, right.”
“Charlie!”
“All I’m saying is there aren’t a lot of husbands hanging around Miranda Richardson, and Burning Embers is about a marriage. See the problem there?”
“No.”
“Well pick someone else.”
“Fine. How about Emma Thompson? She’s excellent.”
“Yes,” I said, “and blonde but not too blonde.”
“Whatever.”
“And I loved her in Nanny McPhee. She just banged her stick on the floor and all her warts went away. And she always wore black, like an English ninja. Do you think we could get her?”
“Well,” said Kathy, “let me make a few phone calls.”
“Are you being sarcastic?”
“No. I have her phone number on the refrigerator.”
“You are being sarcastic, aren’t you?”
“No, I went to tea with her and Renee Zellweger just last week. We exchanged beauty tips.”
“Renee Zellweger? Really?”
“She’s way too blonde.”
“Damn!”
“And I was just being sarcastic anyway.”
“I knew it! I can always tell.”
“You read me like a book.”
“Thank – ”
“Oh! I just remembered. Colin Firth was the father in Nanny McPhee.”
“That’s Colin Firth? Him?”
“Yes. He’s really sweet.”
“He was crushed by his own children!”
“Because he was so nice.”
“If they were my kids there would have been a boot up their ass.”
“Indubitably.”
I looked at Kathy. “That’s sarcasm, isn’t it?”
“Absolutely not. So maybe Colin Firth isn’t a good idea.”
“Damn straight. I could sop up runny egg with Colin Firth.”
“Fine. If you don’t want to be played by Colin Firth –” I head-faked at her and she held up her hands to protect herself – “that’s okay. Who do you think should play you?”
My eyes fell. “You would think it’s stupid.”
“Who? Let me guess: Chuck Norris?”
I didn’t look up. “You’re being sarcastic again, aren’t you?”
“No way. Chuck Norris kicks ass.”
“That’s right. But I wasn’t thinking Chuck Norris. He’s not British.”
“Ah, I forgot.”
“No, I was thinking John Cleese.”
“You like the older actors, don’t you? At least John Cleese makes me laugh, like you.”
“And he was in Harry Potter, like Emma Thompson.”
“So was every other actor in Britain. It’s kind of like a jobs program for actors over there.”
I said, “Yeah, I don’t know what they’re going to do over there when they’ve finished making Harry Potter. A lot of standing around, probably.”
“Nah, they’ll go back to Masterpiece Theater and the Royal Shakespeare Company, that kind of thing.”
“Or kung fu movies. I haven’t seen a British kung fu movie in a long time.”
Kathy moistened her upper lip with her lower lip.
“So,” I said, “John Cleese and Emma Thompson playing us? Do you think it would work?”
“Better than Ewan McGregor and Judy Dench.”
“That could have worked too. I don’t care what you say.”
She patted my shoulder. “You better hurry up and mail those so you can get that movie made.”
“Okay.”
“Before all your actors die of old age.”
“Yeah, right, thanks.” I picked up the stack of envelopes to take them to the post office. “Hey, Kathy?”
“What?”
“Who do you think should do my voice in the Burning Embers video game?”
“Morgan Freeman, definitely.”
I smiled. “That’s what I was thinking too.”
Girl Names is an excerpt from Charlie’s latest book, Burning Embers and other Stories of Marriage, Work, and Family, now available on Kindle, Nook, and iTunes.
