My Best Friend's Wedding

INT. BOULEY RESTAURANT, NEW YORK - NIGHT

Dim lighting, crowd buzz, a long line of the rich, the celebrated,

the congenitally impatient. Everyone in this queue holds a

reservation at least an hour overdue. Tourists can't even make the

line. PAN ahead to...

... the burnished dining room, the tables of power, the elegant

service. Covertly, many eyes are drawn to the one table receiving

by far the most lavish service of all. Captains hover, presenting

delicacies, pouring wines, murmuring obsequiously to a guest whose

person they screen from our view. We can see, however...

... the honored guest's companion. Ignored, bemused, across the

table. This is DIGGER DOWNES, 36, darkly attractive. Kind eyes,

an intellectual's mouth, Saville Row's most unobtrusive and

conservative chalk-stripe suit. He is gay, but you wouldn't guess

it. Loyal and wise and generous, and you might. He watches with a

quiet twinkle, as the Captains now step back, revealing to us...

... their most unlikely icon. JULIANNE POTTER, almost 28, wears

her favorite bulky sweater over a bunch of other stuff she pulled

together in fifteen seconds. She is unkempt, quick, volatile,

scattered, and beneath it all, perhaps because of it all, an

original beauty. Dark liquid eyes, a cynical mouth, slender

expressive fingers, which point to...

CAPTAIN:

A variation on our squid ink

risotto. Trace of Moselle, to

sweeten the stock.

She doesn't like that idea at all. Shoots him a sharp look of

doubt that makes him smile. Murmur...

CAPTAIN:

Don't kill us on this one, it's

a long shot.

Places the moist lump of black rice before her. She takes a

surprisingly small amount, rolls it over her tongue. Makes dead

flat eye contact with Digger. And nods, it's actually quite nice.

The Captain breathes with relief. She turns her dark eyes to him.

The tone says they're pals...

JULIANNE:

I'm writing it up as inventive and

confident. Which it is. Off the

record, I'll need an extra boat of

the ink. Or a salt shaker.

CAPTAIN:

I'll toss a coin.

As the Captain splits, Digger looks around at the other tables,

which makes many pairs of eyes awkwardly glace away.

DIGGER:

Is it ever embarrassing, having

your bum kissed in public?

JULIANNE:

If your ass isn't chapped, you

are not a good-writer of note.

She glances at her two remaining waiters, who shamelessly fawn

nearby.

JULIANNE:

Is it sad to be an editor, and bask

only in reflected insincerity?

DIGGER:

I've adjusted, and thanks for asking.

She leans forward, as if sharing something conspiratorial.

JULIANNE:

See the pull of a book like

Twenty Chefs, is not who I

put in. It's who I leave out.

DIGGER:

Which is everyone you couldn't

get in.

JULIANNE:

Plus some guys whose food I don't

like.

Pushes the risotte across to him. He lifts a fork.

DIGGER:

This fellow from Newsday ever

call?

She shrugs. Pulls a cellular out of a large, jumbled bag.

JULIANNE:

I'll buzz my machine. Inventive

and confident, yeh?

She dials. He tastes.

DIGGER:

Needs salt.

JULIANNE:

Is Newsday a real interview, or

just some cute guy you're setting

me up w...

DIGGER:

... I don't send you men, anymore.

You don't know what to do with them.

She's punching in her code.

JULIANNE:

Sometimes I do. Like for two months.

DIGGER:

... weeks.

Over the phone, we hear her answering machine...

MAN'S VOICE (V.O., soft)

Hey. It's Michael.

And her face changes. Warms. Just to hear the guileless voice.

MICHAEL (V.O.)

God, it must be, what, months, huh?

I can't wait to talk to you. I'm

in Chicago at the Ritz Carlton...

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