Beautiful People

by Wendy Holden

  Hugh swilled down half a glass of Frascati before answering. "Well, it's obvious. We must look to the mothers and fathers to take responsibility. Discipline questions are not something the schools can be expected to solve all by themselves."

  "Yes, I'd agree with that," Richard said, nodding seriously.

  "We must go back to the parents."

  "Absolutely."

  "And sterilise them."

  Richard Fitzmaurice choked on his white wine. "What?"

  "Just think about it." Hugh smiled calmly. "If all women of social classes C, D, and E were sterilised, they could screw whatever drug addicts and wastrels they fancied, and the country and community wouldn't have to tolerate the resulting destructive, disruptive, and invariably stupid offspring." He grabbed a handful of nuts from the table and shoved them in his mouth.

  It was at this point that Georgie returned with another two bottles. "Sausages!" she hissed at Richard, her eyeballs rigid with meaning.

  Torn from the argument, still churning with indignation, he looked at her uncomprehendingly. What did sausages have to do with anything?

  "Sausages!" Georgie squealed, her grip tightening painfully on his forearm. "In the kitchen. Nibbles."

  "Oh. Right. Er…yes. Okay." Still coursing with most unhostlike feelings, Richard fled to the kitchen for the honey-glazed sausages. He found them on the butcher's block in a gold-and-white Meissen bowl that struck him as rather too grand for mere bangers.

  "Here comes my honourable friend!" Hugh declared loudly. "With the sausages, ha, ha! I'm peckish."

  Georgie turned. Her welcoming smile was only half-formed before it disappeared into a worried frown. "You've forgotten the dip!" she hissed. "And the napkins! The ones with the fleur-de-lys pattern."

  Richard fled back into the house, taking the bowl of sausages with him. "Hey!" Hugh called after him in alarm. "Leave the bangers, old chap." But Richard, pretending not to have heard, had gained the house by then.

  The sausage victory, he now discovered, was a Pyrrhic one. He lingered over the napkin hunt as long as he decently could. Finally, with dips and the requested fleur-de-lys finger-wipers, he emerged to find Georgie waxing lyrical about the Tuscan farmhouse they had rented for the holidays. Richard instantly felt the tremor in his knees and feet that always meant danger, a feeling that increased as Hugh turned towards him, his large white teeth gaining a bloody-red flash from the sunset.

  "Jolly decent of your wife to ask us to Italy with you, old chap. We'd love to come with you—as your guests," Hugh hastily added, with emphasis.

  The sun chose this moment to finally sink behind the neighbours' wall, and the evening suddenly felt dark and cold. The aghast Richard hardly noticed, absorbing as he was the fact that Hugh had used the time he had spent looking for napkins to make further progress in his life's work of securing complimentaries. Far from demonstrating there was no such thing as a free lunch, Hugh had now abundantly illustrated the fact there was such a thing as a free holiday too.

  Chapter Twelve

  A frown creased Arlington Shorthouse's tanned, lean, and strangely elastic face. Behind his thick lenses with their distinctive heavy black frames, the small grey eyes narrowed with annoyance. He shifted his short body irritably in his chair. As well as cross, Arlington felt tired. It was only seven in the morning, but it had already been a long day.

  Arlington worked twenty-four seven, three-sixty-five. He was always open for business. Even, quite literally, on the operating table. He'd tried to take calls once while having his appendix removed, but the surgeon had snatched away his mobile. Arlington hadn't been back to that hospital since; the surgeon had obviously been in the pay of a rival studio.

  Arlington cleared his throat and drummed his fingers irritably on his desk. He hated it when the studio made turkeys; they felt like a personal failure. And the people who were in them made him feel the same way. They made him feel small, a sensation he particularly hated as Arlington was indeed small. Very small. Short by name, short by nature. "Pocket rocket," the fourth of his six wives had called him, immediately before finding herself in the middle of one of the most acrimonious divorces in show-business history.

  Arlington had tried to conquer his small height the way climbers try to conquer Everest. He had tried big hair, lifts in his shoes, even hats. Chairs, in the end, were the only satisfactory answer: while everyone else in his office had to sit on seats at a level normally associated with nursery schools, the throne-like construction behind Arlington's burr-walnut desk had special padded cushions to raise him to a comparatively towering height. As the effect was lost whenever he stood up, Arlington sat on this chair behind his desk for entire meetings. He was careful to drink little beforehand. Comfort breaks severely compromised his status.

  From the summit of his chair, Arlington could look out across his meeting room like the commander of a tank. He did so now, and those present stiffened in response. There was about the room, with its grey carpet, grey smoked-glass walls, and framed maps of the world showing the cities in which NBS's films had opened and what the box office takings were, an air of the war cabinet. And this was appropriate, as to all intents and purposes, a war room was what it was. Arlington regarded himself as being in a permanent state of hostilities with all the other studio heads in the world and anyone else who dared to challenge him.

  Mitch Masterson was among those present. He was at the boardroom table, his large, plump bottom crammed uncomfortably into one of the diminutive chrome chairs beneath the unusually low, black-ash table surface. He was trying hard not to look how he felt, like a dad at a kindergarten parents' evening. Mitch didn't have kids, thank God, nor did he want them. His clients were his children, although not in the nice way that sounded. They were like children in the sense that they were unreasonable, endlessly demanding, spoilt, violent, prone to screaming and tantrums, and could not be trusted to behave.

  She had a meeting with the head of the studio, her ultimate boss, Mitch was thinking, and was she on time? Was she even in the building? The hell she was. Great start, he thought, trying to shove his fat and trapped legs into a more comfortable position below the tiny table. He looked at the other men doubled painfully up on the miniature furniture for support, but they stared back at him coldly. Arlington Shorthouse's lieutenants, they clearly knew, like everyone else, that if you wanted to make it big at NBS, you had to think small.

  "I'm so sorry Belle's late, Mr. Shorthouse," Mitch assured him, the pain in his voice in every way reflecting the pain he felt physically. His awkward sitting position meant that cramp was now paralysing his leg. It had also totally creased and screwed up the new Armani suit he had bought for the meeting, inside whose lined interior he felt great patches of nervous sweat spreading from beneath his armpits. He'd put a Hollywood-power-meeting level of deodorant on as well, but it hadn't seemed to make the slightest difference.

  Arlington Shorthouse ground his veneered teeth and stared at his burr-walnut desk. He tried to still the panic that was rising within him at the thought of all the time he was losing: whole seconds, entire unfilled minutes that he would never get again, and which, no doubt, his rivals at other film companies were using to streak ahead.

  The desk was no comfort however. It was grand, with its green leather top and scrolled gilt handles, and it was even historic, being the desk that all the presidents of the company had used before him. Legendary film stars had signed contracts here. Douglas Fairbanks had even scratched his name in the leather. Belle Murphy had signed here too, and a contract of historically huge proportions. Arlington felt sick at the memory.

  He looked at his Breitling watch and scowled. She was fifteen minutes late now. No one was ever fifteen minutes late for Arlington Shorthouse. No one was ever one minute late for Arlington Shorthouse.

  Something had to be done about Belle Murphy. And would be, today, here in this room, by these people. Arlington, skimming over the wretched Mitch with his cold grey eyes, appraised his henchmen.
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  Nearest to him, at the end of the black-ash conference table, sat a dark, handsome man in a red, striped shirt. Arlington's battleshipcoloured gaze raked approvingly over Michael J. Seltzer, NBS's Head of Creative. He was young, good-looking, smart, determined, undoubtedly gifted, and sitting ramrod-straight in his chair, completely focused on the moment. There was a lot about the Head of Creative that reminded the company president of himself at a similar age.

  Next to him sat Chase McGiven: young, restless-looking, and thin-faced, with burning eyes and fashionably cropped dark hair. As NBS's CEO of global communications, he'd come up with some interesting thinking about Belle Murphy. Very interesting thinking indeed.

  Yes, thought Arlington. There a lot about Chase, as well, that reminded him of himself at that age. Not wanting to waste a second, always some plan on the go, some scheme buzzing in his head.

  The final member of the trio was Bob Ricardo, NBS's Head of Finance and the sharpest guy in the business. He looked sharp too, Arlington thought, with his pointy nose, bristly grey hair, surgical-looking rimmed glasses, and sharply cut grey suit. Bob sat upwards, stiff and alert. In front of him was a large calculator with oversize keys next to a floppy, white book open to display columns of figures. Yes, Arlington thought. Bob was ready. He had an eagerness about him that reminded the studio head of himself when younger, although that couldn't be right because Bob was more or less his age.

  A sudden movement behind the smoked-glass walls dividing the inner sanctum from the outer area caught Arlington's eye. It was his PA, Miss van der Bree, her arms flying in the air as she tried to restrain something or someone. Someone now appearing at the doors of his office. Holy shit. Arlington's tanned hands flew to his chest to check that his bulletproof vest was in position. It was. His handgun was, as usual, in its holster under his arm. Physically as well as professionally, he was never less than prepared to withstand an attack from a rival studio.

  The doors flew back, and in, rather to everyone's amazement, came Belle Murphy, her lavishly lipsticked mouth stretched in a dazzling smile the width of a watermelon.

  "Hi guys!" she trilled. The guys waited for a reference to her lateness, followed by an apology. They were disappointed on both counts.

  Belle looked, Mitch thought, not only smaller than she appeared on screen—every star looked like that—but even smaller than when he had seen her last. Clearly her relationship with food had got that bit more distant in the meantime. For all the movement and vitality of her presence—the shining hair, the flashing sunglasses, the exposed and prominent rounded domes of her breasts rearing beneath a necklace of very big diamonds—Belle's body, Mitch estimated, was about the width and thickness of a copy of Vogue. And not a Christmas issue, either.

  She looked pretty good, all the same. He noted with relief her clinging grey silk dress with plunging neckline, black high heels, enormous black sunglasses, and the way her cascade of white-blonde hair pushed back from her face and poured over her shoulders as far as her elbows. She was working the high-octane glamour look, as she should be. She was doing that bit right at least.

  He shot a timid yet triumphant look at Arlington. Surely even Hollywood's chillest lizard, however angry, couldn't be immune to such a tasty piece of ass as this. He took heart when he saw that Arlington was apparently staring at Belle's breasts.

  Arlington was, however, looking at the bag Belle had under her arm. It was huge, heavy with gilt and buckles, and almost as big as she was. He recognised the type without enthusiasm. His fifth wife had had one in every colour. They cost a minimum of two thousand dollars a pop. What was even less appealing to Arlington was the presence in one corner of the bag of a small, brown dog with a very big diamond collar. It was one of those trembly, skinny, yappy ones, Arlington saw with dislike. It looked restlessly about with enormous and very prominent black eyes. They held a ruthless expression, a look that clearly warned it might go for the throat at any minute. Arlington recognised the expression; it was one he often used himself in business meetings.

  Mitch's expression, meanwhile, was one of abject misery. That Arlington Shorthouse disliked dogs was common knowledge in Hollywood. NBS was the only studio that never put out movies with dogs in them, which were the sort that more or less kept all the other studios afloat.

  "Darling!" breathed Belle in her trademark little-girl voice. Holding out her arms, she staggered across the carpet in her high heels towards the burr-walnut desk. "Arl! May I call you that, for short?"

  The sound now filled the room of four strangled, horrified coughs. Four minds reverberated with one single thought. She had called him Arl, Mitch realised, cringing. No one called Arlington anything for short. No one ever said "short," and she had done that too. "Short" was not a word that was ever breathed in Arlington's presence.

  Mitch, who knew how the studio head also loathed unscheduled physical interaction, now watched in horror as Belle seized Arlington's neck with a white hand on which a huge diamond ring glittered. "Mwah! Mwah!" Arlington gasped with pain as her razor cheekbones banged against his smooth and elastic cheeks.

  It crossed the screeching, veering chaos of Mitch's mind that Belle might be drunk.

  Belle, having smeared Arlington's tanned cheeks with red lipstick, now stood unsteadily erect in her five-inch stilettos. She held up the bag with the dog in.

  "Gentlemen," she pouted breathily, batting her wide, blue eyes behind her sunglasses. "I'd like you all to meet Sugar. It's Sugar's fault we're a tiny weeny bit late. I had to take him to the dog beautician for a manicure."

  The men in the room stared dumbly. Each and every one of them was familiar with star behaviour. But this woman wasn't even a star anymore. Mitch stared at the floor, wishing it would not only swallow him up but also mash him to a pulp. He felt he didn't want to live anymore.

  "There you go, precious," Belle crooned to the dog as she put him on the floor. "You go run about, sweetie." As Sugar immediately shot beneath Arlington's desk, Belle beamed at the studio head. "See, look. He likes you."

  "I don't like him," Arlington said ominously.

  Belle's megawatt grin abruptly disappeared. Her big mouth, which was painted shiny and red, bunched disapprovingly, and her darkened eyebrows snapped angrily together. "How can you say that? Sugar's so sensitive. So easily hurt, poor baby." She bent under Arlington's desk and cooed some endearments. At least he gets to see her tits now, Mitch thought.

  "Look, shall we get on with the business?" asked Bob Ricardo, looking at his boss and drumming his calculator with his fingers.

  Arlington flexed his stubby hands and stared at his neatly clipped nails. "Look, baby. So you were huge last year. But a year's a long time in showbiz. You're losing it, and there are plenty of other girls out there just dying to take your place. Bob?"

  "Basically, the bottom line is this. Bloody Mary cost two-hundredand-fifty-million dollars to make, and so far it's grossed thirty."

  "Thirty million?" Belle beamed. "Hey, it's only been out two weeks. Thirty million's pretty good."

  Bob shook his bony, crop-haired head. "Not thirty million dollars. Thirty dollars. Three-oh."

  Mitch gasped. He'd no idea it was this bad. This was historic.

  "Thirty?" croaked Belle.

  "Thirty," confirmed Bob in his grating tones.

  "Thirty dollars! But that's impossible!" Belle shouted. "No one's

  ever made…"—she screwed up her mouth to spit out the words— "thirty freaking dollars on a two-hundred-fifty-million-dollar picture! It's impossible, right?"

  "Wrong," Bob said with relish, his lean fingers gently tapping the white surface of his balance book. "Sure, it's made a few million, but when you take away the taxes, the costs, and so on, well…" He pulled a face. "Thirty's what you're left with. Which means," he frowned and tapped the large buttons of his calculator, "a deficit of two hundred forty-nine million, nine hundred ninety-nine thousand, nine hundred and seventy dollars."

  Even though he had heard it before, th
e figure hit him just as hard as it had the first time, right bang slap in the balls. Arlington closed his watering eyes and swallowed. Forget calling this a turkey. It was an outbreak of swine flu. An epidemic of H1N1 right through their balance sheet.

  The extent of the damage was still, in fact, coming in. There was some confusion over whether Bloody Mary had been number six or number nine in Moldovia. "It's the right number, all right," their contact there had reported. "Right now, we're just establishing what way up it is."

  "You got your sums wrong!" Belle gasped, breasts heaving up and down agitatedly. "The critics said my acting was great!"

  Arlington pursed his lips. "No one gives a gnat's snatch about the acting."

  From under Arlington's desk, the dog growled.

  "I always said we should make a sequel to Marie," Belle declared passionately. "But no one would listen to me." She thumped a skinny fist heavy with diamonds so hard against the prominent bones of her upper chest that it seemed to Mitch that she might snap them.