A murder story

The last time I saw Rod Hall, he bought me lunch at a Chinese restaurant in a basement just behind Oxford Street in the West End of London. This was early in 2004. He was my film agent and wanted me to write some pitches for him to sell to Hollywood. He was tetchy in the restaurant, although not with me. The service was poor and he apologized to me several times, explaining how much better the place was as a rule.

I can’t recall much about the projects we discussed. I didn’t want to write film pitches anyway. All I can remember about the meal is that when we’d finished patiently waiting for, and then swiftly eating, the stir-fry and silver cod and drinking the champagne, Rod had hurried to get his coat,while I went to the bathroom. He was rushing to make it to yet another of his meetings.