Dirty Movies

by Cate Andrews

  Stephen wasn’t it for the dosh. He craved adulation, like his wife craved Oxycontin, and he was desperate for his films to emulate the cinematic tour de forces of his idols, Scorsese and Spielberg. In order for this to happen, he needed a wily Producer to fund-raise and supervise, leaving him to run amok with his cameras.

  By the time the pair stumbled out arm-in-arm later that night, after bonding over a shared admiration for Ridley Scott’s Gladiator and Sunset House’s magnificent Beef Wellington, Stephen knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that Vincent Edwards was exactly the fellow he had been looking for.

  The formation of this partnership raised more than a few production office eyebrows, but, determined to succeed, they founded GBA Pictures before the year was out. At a time when many Hollywood Studios were cutting back on first look deals with small independent production companies, Vincent and Stephen’s growing notoriety caught the attention of Walt Wilson, the infamously mafiaesque boss of Hollywood power-house Global Studios. The resulting deal was a blinder. Not only did it promise GBA a pot of considerable developmental funds to misuse as they saw fit, it also bestowed upon them a very talented Development Executive to seek out the finest scripts around.

  With Global’s marketing and publicity team on tap to promote their pet projects, it wasn’t long before GBA had established bases in London and Los Angeles, a titanic reputation and several box office smashes to boast about on both sides of the Atlantic.

  Six years later, Vincent wasn’t feeling quite so peachy about the whole deal. In the last few months, Walt Wilson had begun using their daily morning debriefs as his own personal target practice and Vincent’s left ear was developing tinnitus as a result. Alarmed by falling cinema audience figures, the studio boss had taken it upon himself to ensure profits continued by exerting his considerable authority and dabbling in as many creative decisions as possible.

  To add fuel to an already blistering fire, Walt had just promoted their Development Executive to Executive Producer in a thinly disguised GBA mole-planting exercise. Intensely irritated by this latest development, Vincent had set out to clash heads with the new Executive, the latest episode being the on-going debacle over the casting of GBA acting regular, Maisie Peach, for A Desert Affair.

  Fed up with being shouted at by Walt, Vincent slammed the phone down and stormed into the production office in search of Gillian and a quick wank-job in the stationary cupboard. Instead, he found a deserted office, save some girl with long dark hair and obscenely tight jeans quivering next to the photocopier.

  ‘Where the fuck is everyone?’ he bellowed at Polly, his rage only heightened by his latent sexual frustration. ‘Bloody part-timers! I’ll can the lot of them! Where’s my finalised meeting schedule for Morocco?’

  ‘They’ve just popped out for a spot of lunch’ gasped the reply. ‘Let me have a look on Rachel’s desk and i’ll see if I can find it for you.’

  ‘Who the hell are you, anyway?’ This was fired this more at Polly’s chest than her face.

  ‘My name’s p-p-p-Polly, I’m the new r-r-runner, Janie’s just hired me,’ she stammered, quailing under the mega-wattage of his interrogation.

  ‘Whatever. I need it on my desk in ten minutes.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Edwards’

  ‘Or else…’

  Polly nodded frantically, ‘no problem, Mr Edwards.’

  Satisfied for now, he stormed back into the corridor kicking a chunk out of the doorframe as he went. Meanwhile, Polly had belted over to Rachel’s desk and was sifting through the mounds of paperwork. Oh, why did there have to be so many different versions of everything, she thought in a panic. Even if she did find his bloody schedule, chances are the dates and times of the various meetings would have changed already. Everything moved at such a terrifying pace in this office. Terror soon turned to relief, however, when Rachel appeared in the doorway clutching a half-eaten prawn sandwich.

  ‘Help,’ whimpered Polly, diving forward to steady a row of lever-arch files that were threatening to condemn Rachel’s wilting pot plant to a revolutionary-style death at the jaws of the office guillotine. ‘Vincent’s been in here asking for some sort of meeting schedule and I can’t find it anywhere.’

  ‘Hang on, hang on, don’t stress. I printed it off before I went out,’ said Rachel calmly, wiping a sliver of mayonnaise off her chin. ‘Here,’ she added, unearthing a piece of paper from the printer tray. ‘Now go and give it to him before he’s back in here screaming blue murder. He really, really hates asking for things twice!’

  Smiling gratefully, Polly snatched the meetings schedule out of her hand and legged it down to Vincent’s office.

  ‘Mr Edwards, Mr Edwards, we found your meetings schedule! It was on…’ Without bothering to knock, Polly burst through the door then froze in horror.

  Gillian was perched on the edge of the desk opposite Vincent, her legs akimbo, short denim miniskirt rucked up around her thighs and busily chomping her way through a plastic punnet of fruit. Ignoring Polly, she took her time to root out an extra-large strawberry before thrusting it at their Producer who gobbled it up like a hungry turkey. On the filing cabinet next to them, like some grisly fait accompli, sat an empty bottle of champagne, the gold foil of which was stained with cheap red lipstick. Averting her eyes, Polly tried not to gag. The whole scene had the mucky, unsavoury tinge of a porn set.

  ‘What the hell are you gawking at?’ snarled Vincent, spotting her lurking by the door. ‘Leave it in my tray and get out!’ Half-eaten chunks of strawberry peppered Gillian’s leg and Polly watched her flick them off with a sigh.

  ‘So sorry to disturb you,’ she gasped, slamming the paper down on his desk then colliding with the same waste paper basket that Rachel had knocked over earlier. As a result, her departure from the room was accompanied by the sounds of diet coke cans hitting the floor all over again.

  ‘Still alive’ observed Rachel dryly, as Polly crept back into the production office a few minutes later.

  ‘Barely.’ She paused as she struggled to come up with the words that wouldn’t make the whole scene sound quite so revolting.

  Rachel studied her face for a moment then chuckled. ‘Oh dear, you’ve either had a marriage proposal from Zach Roberts or you’ve witnessed the gruesome twosome at it. Considering Zach’s off shooting Legend of the Dwarves in New Zealand right now, my money’s on the latter.’

  Polly gaped at her. ‘They’re an item?’

  ‘It’s the worst kept secret in Soho. Vincent’s been having it off with Gillian for years. He slots her in between his marriages like dentist appointments.’

  ‘But how did they meet?’

  ‘Some film production years ago.’ Rachel started rooting around her desk for her cigarettes. She always found smoking a necessary accompaniment when sharing a particularly juicy piece of gossip. Nicotine helped deaden the guilt of dissecting her peers so liberally.

  ‘He never works with anyone else now, which is a pain because Gill’s a tricky bitch,’ she said, pausing to take a drag. ‘And don’t ever let her hear you mouthing off about her precious Vincie-pooh ‘cos every little bit of gossip goes straight back to him…’

  Taking her own advice, she quickly shut up as Gillian flounced back into the room picking strawberry seeds out of her teeth.

  Two days later, Polly felt like one of those broken-down donkeys from the plea adverts on daytime TV. Her feet were killing her after darting up and down Oxford Street for last-minute plug adaptors and sun cream, and working fifteen hour shifts had left her light-headed with exhaustion.

  Thank god it’s Friday, she reflected, trudging up the stairs with a fresh load of carrier bags, the plastic handles making mincemeat of her palms. Earlier that day, she had been dispatched across London on an errand for Vincent. Thinking it would only take an hour, she hadn’t factored in a brain befuddled by fatigue, nor a complex, unfamiliar London tube map, and in the end she had terminated in the Outer Hebrides of Zone 6 by mistake.

  The core product
ion team was shipping out on an early flight to Casablanca first thing Monday. Rachel had assured her that things would be a lot less hectic then and Polly couldn’t wait. She needed at least a week to catch her breath.

  Acting as a lifeline amidst the anarchy was the first tentative bud of friendship with Rachel. In another stroke of luck, moody desk-mate, Bella, had been forced to accompany Stephen on a whirlwind of UK casting sessions all week so her appearances in the office had been limited to short-lived strops as she clomped through the door for some casting agent’s resume or Stephen’s dry-cleaning. Polly had yet to meet the fêted director but Rachel was making damn sure that his reputation preceded him.

  ‘Just stroke his ego. Whatever Stephen wants he gets,’ she said, cramming a whole chocolate brownie into her mouth over lunch that day. ‘He’s talented, but oh my goodness does he like to throw his toys out of the pram!’

  ‘Tell me more!’ begged Polly, completely engrossed as she nibbled the edges of her custard cream.

  Rachel grinned and pulled out her cigarettes.

  ‘Well, there was the time when he refused to go on set because his leading actress turned up in a car bigger than his. He locked himself in his trailer for two hours that day. Then there was another occasion when he shut down the entire production because the Grips had hidden his Director’s Chair as a joke.’

  Polly started giggling. ‘Why do the sexiest men have the most out-of-control egos? Do you fancy him?’

  Rachel choked on her brownie. ‘God, Polly, i’d rather sleep with Freddy Krueger! Besides, I’m not his type. He prefers big boobs and blond hair to match the brain-dead interior.’

  ‘A blondie zombie! Bet you can’t wait till Morocco…’ murmured Polly, enviously, changing the subject as she gazed at the rain pelting the pigeons outside. ‘Just think of the tan…’

  ‘Not likely,’ scoffed Rachel. ‘The sun will prove more elusive than a size 10. I’ll be stuck working eighteen hours a day in some non-air-conditioned dust bowl in the middle of nowhere again.’

  ‘Don’t you like working on location?’ asked Polly in surprise.

  ‘Not with this shoot shaping up to be another nightmare.’

  ‘What’s so tough about this one, Rach?’

  Rachel sighed and rolled her eyes skyward. ‘Well, first off, the script hasn’t been ‘locked’…it means finalised, ready for action,’ she explained quickly, as Polly looked blank. ‘And no one can decide on the lead actress so everything’s going to be a last minute logistical headache. Plus, the Sahara’s going to be boiling hot which will only encourage Vincent to lose that horrible temper of his even more than usual.’

  ‘No bonuses at all then, besides the fat pay check and five star hotel luxury?’ teased Polly.

  Rachel thought about it for a moment. ‘Well, I suppose there’s always Joe…’

  ‘Joe De Vries? The 1st Assistant Director?’ asked Polly, recalling his name from the crew telephone list she had spent all morning photocopying. ‘Hang on, but isn’t he Stephen’s brother?’

  ‘Yeah, but don’t let that put you off, Joe’s a saint. He keeps everyone saccharine sweet, including Stephen most of the time which is no mean feat’ she warned her. ‘Oh Polly, I’m sorry to sound so down about it all but I’ve done these shoots for the last ten years now and they’re all the same; utterly exhausting and about as glam as working as a tranny’s bikini waxer. If I were you I’d be counting my lucky stars I’m staying put. Between you, me and the last brownie that keeps winking at me from the top of the counter over there, I wish to god I was joining you.’

  Chapter Five

  The hour was creeping up to five am as Joe De Vries pulled up to a huge, deserted, dusty-brown film studios on the edge of town. Since arriving in Morocco two days ago, he had been blown away by the intensity of the desert temperatures and he preferred to get the bulk of his work out of the way before the heat of the midday sun melted his brain cells. Besides, the complexities of Vincent’s latest schedule revisions gave him a bad enough headache anyway.

  Grabbing his laptop, he opened the jeep’s door as a number of stray dogs surged forward from the shadows to greet him with energetic barks and wagging tails. Picking his way through the flea-bitten welcome committee, he entered the Production Office for A Desert Affair, better known to him and the rest of the crew as a crumbling shack that reeked of rotten wood, and struggled with the window shutters behind his desk. Eventually the swollen latch gave way and the rose-tinted hues of early morning flooded into the room.

  Joe yawned and rubbed his eyes. He needed coffee and he needed it fast. Spying the ancient kettle in the corner of the room, he weaved his way through an odd assortment of mismatched furniture and launched himself at the power switch. It was far too early for a triple macchiato, but Joe never felt fully awake without the familiar, spicy rush of caffeine pumping through his veins.

  Unlike his illustrious older brother, Joe had never hankered after the same headlines but he adored the industry just the same. Whilst Stephen was off schmoozing and screwing his way to the top, Joe had quietly carved himself a very successful career and at the age of thirty-two was widely regarded as the best First Assistant Director in the business. He was a born diplomat, with a flair for handling any situation with great tact and compassion, and was always on hand to diffuse temper tantrums, a regular occurrence in an industry that has a tendency to mollycoddle the frailest of egos.

  With a permanent shadow of stubble and a head of messy dark curls, Joe had the sort of likeable, easy-going personality that endeared him to everyone. No task was ever too much trouble and he was universally adored from the Heads of the Departments right down to the lowliest of camera assistants. The same couldn’t be said for his brother however, but, like a soldier blinded by the guiles of patriotism, Joe was unshakably loyal. This tended to cause great consternation with the crew. Not even his closest mates could fathom his devotion to a man as detested as Stephen, particularly after the director locked himself in his trailer after someone pinched the last of his gold-plated coffee beans shipped over from Kenya at eye-watering expense. Stephen had a reputation for throwing more tantrums than his leading actors but Joe was always on hand to ease the tension with a wink and a smile.

  Later that morning, he glanced up as a new email from Vincent pinged into his inbox. Skim-reading the contents, he resisted the urge to delete it immediately and blame its waywardness on the great big empty vortex of the ether. Vincent was still insisting they shoot the principal fight scene in a ridiculously unachievable amount of time and such tight-fisted obstinacy had the potential to bugger up his entire shooting schedule.

  Joe raked at his stubble as his second-in-command, Danny O’Connor, plonked a steaming hot brew down next to his laptop. He grinned up at him gratefully.

  ‘You read my mind Danny boy!’

  ‘Best I can do at 10am I’m afraid. The bar doesn’t open for another few hours.’

  ‘Just as well. I’m one more offensive Vincent email away from booting my laptop across the office. With a couple of beers in me it’ll end up USB stick-side down in the dune outside.’

  ‘Well try and hold off on the fit of vandalism if you can. I’ve got Janie on the line and she’s freaking out about something again.’ Danny made a face and passed the phone over. He didn’t approve of hysteria in the workplace.

  Joe held the receiver up to his ear and braced himself.

  ‘Hi Janie, what’s up?’

  ‘Your fucking brother’s gone AWOL again, that’s what’s up!’ fumed Janie. ‘He’s missed his flight and I can’t track him down anywhere! Any ideas whose Agent Provocateur knicker-elastic he might be twanging this time?’

  ‘No idea,’ said Joe truthfully. ‘Leave it with me and I’ll call round a few places.’

  ‘Thanks Joe. If he’s not in Morocco by Friday to head up the big production meeting, all hell will break loose. Walt Wilson’s already pissed off about his rant in The Sun after Global confiscated his private jet.’


  ‘Can’t believe he’s so shocked.’ Whenever Stephen felt particularly aggrieved about something he liked nothing better than shouting his mouth off about it in public.

  ‘Tell that to Wilson. I’ve been up half the night appeasing him. Ban Ki-moon’s got nothing on my peacekeeping skills.’

  ‘GBA, the anti-UN,’ mused Joe, ‘their goal is to start conflict, not end them.’

  ‘Too bloody right. Usually, i’d laugh it off but it’s hard to maintain a sense of humour on three hours sleep. There’s been another development with the GBA runner situation as well. Bella handed in her notice in last night. I think she was crying but that perpetual scowl was having a little trouble adjusting.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Joe, trying not to sound too elated. ‘Oh dear, oh, dear, oh dear.’

  ‘Quite. Rachel was so upset about it she was dancing round the photocopier at 11pm. If I was a cynical bugger I’d say Stephen’s ditched her in anticipation of some hot Moroccan action.’

  ‘Another one bites the dust, or rather sand in this case,’ he murmured, sweeping a few stray golden grains off his desk. ‘Is it back to the catwalks of Milan then?’

  ‘According to Rachel she wants to re-train as a nurse.’

  Joe grinned. ‘I don’t fancy her bedside manner much.’

  ‘Would you like this bedpan stuck under your arse or up it, Sir?’ snorted Janie. ‘Look we’ve had another runner start in the office so I’m sending her out on the afternoon flight. Would you mind organising to have her picked up? It’s her first time on location so tell your boys to play nice. I need her to stick around for at least twenty-four hours. For my sake more than hers…’

  ‘She another groupie?’

  ‘Nope. Stephen hasn’t even met her yet which is probably why she’s still got her underwear and not her P45. She’s just out of film school so a bit wet behind the ears but keen enough. Rachel’s impressed. Thinks she’s as smart as hell.’