Dirty Movies

by Cate Andrews

  ‘A GBA runner with a brain, eh? OK I’ll send someone out. What’s her name?’

  ‘Polly Winters.’

  Polly Winters. He liked the way it rolled off his tongue.

  ‘I hope to god she works out,’ confided Janie. ‘Stephen and Vincent have been appalling to work for recently.’

  ‘I know, sweetheart, just hang on in there.’

  ‘Oh I will. I always do. It just winds me up when critics use words like, ‘supremely talented’ and ‘pioneering’ to describe the bastards, when ‘cantankerous’ and ‘pig-headed’ are far more appropriate.’

  Joe laughed. ‘I take it you don’t fancy an all expenses break to Morocco for the next few months then?’

  ‘Are you insane?!’ she shrieked, ringing off immediately.

  Joe passed the phone back to Danny. For a fleeting moment he wondered why Janie stayed so loyal to Stephen in the face of all the trouble he caused.

  ‘How’s our transport captain booked for this evening?’ he asked Danny.

  ‘Booked, we’ve eighteen costume fittings already,’ came the reply, as the 2nd AD shared his chocolate digestive with a dirty white studio stray. The pooch’s stubby tail was wagging so fiercely it was pumping out more breeze than his desk fan.

  Shit, thought Joe, chucking his own digestive to the dog. He would have to collect Polly himself now. That left precious little time to track down his brother.

  Right then Stephen, he reflected wearily, picking up the receiver once more. Where the hell are you this time?

  Many miles away, in a beautifully decorated, fully air-conditioned room, Stephen De Vries was lying flat on his back, stark naked, enjoying the delights of a post-coital cigarette. Besides him, and equally as exposed, lay his much younger, impossibly beautiful leading actress, Maisie Peach. At twenty-four, and with a little help from Stephen’s determination to cast her in four of his last five box-office hits, she had recently achieved superstar status and was luxuriating in every last golden minute of it.

  Reaching out to take a sip of champagne, Maisie squealed as the director grabbed her breasts and pulled her back into bed.

  ‘Stop Stevie, the sheets,’ she wailed, as the spilt booze stained the delicate ivory satin a sludgy beige.

  ‘Fuck the sheets,’ growled Stephen, a lit cigarette clamped between his teeth.

  She started giggling again. ‘Your ciggy’s sticking out at the same angle as your erection, darling.’

  ‘Then i’d prefer it if you lavished your attention on the considerably larger of the two.’

  Maisie plucked the cigarette from him, curled her tongue suggestively around the filter and flicked him a wicked grin.

  ‘Like this you mean?’

  ‘Bitch!’ he hissed as his handsome face creased into a snarl. ‘Give me back my cigarette.’

  ‘No way!’

  ‘Come along now Brittney,’ he sneered, ‘give it here…’

  ‘You asshole!’ pouted Maisie, chucking his cigarette straight at his chest. ‘You know I hate it when you call me that.’

  ‘Good thing I made you change it then. What on earth was your mother thinking?’

  ‘Blame the midwife, she named me. My mom couldn’t be bothered.’ She glanced out of the enormous window of Stephen’s Knightsbridge penthouse. Her mom had a postcard of that very skyline stuck to the fridge in her trailer. When Maisie had bolted, aged eighteen, she had scrawled her farewell note across the front of it.

  Gone to LA. Back Never.

  Within weeks, she was working in a bar on Sunset. Within months, GBA Development Executive, Michael Wilson, had walked through her door. Maisie had recognised money and opportunity the moment she laid eyes on him, an opportunity that was blushingly requesting two Mojito Crillo’s with more heat in his face than a furnace. Still, it was only after he introduced her to up-and-coming director, Stephen De Vries, at an industry shindig the following year that she finally knew in whose bed her destiny lay. Within hours of meeting, the treacherous couple had embarked on a torrid, clandestine affair that had endured these past few years.

  ‘Shall we tell Vincent the good news?’ drawled Maisie, kicking her black lace bra off the foot of the bed. Earlier that day, she had used her considerable leverage, as Michael’s girlfriend, to convince him that she was the best choice for A Desert Affair. The poor bastard had been fair game as soon as she had licked her lips and dropped to her knees.

  Stephen nodded and picked up his Blackberry.

  ‘Vince, it’s me.’

  This was met with a long distance howl of fury. Stephen promptly drowned it out with a well-placed satin bolster. Vincent loathed being cooped up on airplanes for hours on end with only a handful of beleaguered flight attendants to bully. Having just arrived in Morocco, he would be itching to scream at someone who wasn’t dressed in Polyester-blend.

  ‘Calm down you stupid fucker, you’ll give yourself another heart attack,’ chided Stephen, calmly retrieving the receiver. ‘I’ve got some good news. Maisie’s in the movie. The silly fuckers backed down. Get Gillian to clear some more space on that bookcase pronto, looks like we’ll be having a few more awards heading our way.’

  Hanging up, he gave Maisie a lingering kiss, cupping her breasts in his hands. He should be in Morocco as well, but the lure of a naked Maisie had been far too tempting to pass up. If only poor, cuckolded Michael could see us now, thought Stephen, triumphantly, removing his left hand and sliding two fingers upwards.

  Unlike his dalliances with groupies and celebrities, Stephen had done everything in his power to keep the details of their liaison leaking to the gossip-frenzied press. Indeed, only a chosen few within his inner, inner circle were even aware of its very existence. This wasn’t to spare Christine’s feelings, Stephen couldn’t have cared less if she thought he was humping the entire cast of A Desert Affair, including the camels, but he did care what tittle-tattle Global Studio Boss, Walt Wilson, was privy to. Walt happened to be Michael’s father, so in a move more MI6 Operative than movie director, Stephen had persuaded Maisie to carry on her relationship with Michael, all the while meeting up with him for explosive trysts on the sly. In an unexpected twist, she had turned out to be quite a talented little actress and Michael was still oblivious of their deception.

  Suspicious of tall men ever since Jeff Goldblum had trodden on his foot at the Emmys, Stephen had loathed Michael on sight, all lofty six foot two of him. He was also broad-shouldered, exceptionally handsome and possessed the kind of deep Californian sun tan that Stephen could never achieve no matter how many weeks he spent sunning himself by a pool in St Barts. To top it off, Michael had an irrefutable, untouchable standing in Hollywood, thanks in part to father who was more feared and revered than the Godfather himself.

  Stephen’s tongue was just edging downwards when the rhythmic howls of his bedside alarm clock signaled an incoming call. With only a select few aware of his number, his stupid office manager excluded, he deduced that it must be his gutless sap of a brother calling.

  Groaning in displeasure, he slid back up the bed, rolled over and pulled Maisie on top of him. At the same time he reached for his phone.

  ‘Stephen, it’s Joe.’

  Instinctively, Stephen’s upper lip curled in distaste.

  ‘Janie’s trying to reach you. She wants to know why you weren’t on the plane.’

  Maisie chose that moment to skewer herself onto his cock. Stephen let out a strangled groan.

  ‘Hello, hello? Stephen, are you still there?’ Joe focused hard on a patch of speckled grey black mould on the wall above his desk and tried not to picture what, and whom, his brother was most likely doing.

  Stephen fingered Maisie’s nipple with his free hand as she rocked faster and faster. He was dimly aware, as his brain started clouding in ecstasy, that his brother had never once had the balls to remonstrate with him over his bad behavior. Still, deciding to play nice where the Studio was concerned, he puffed out a terse directive that he better be booked on the early mornin
g flight out of Heathrow tomorrow. ‘And it better be First fucking Class!’ he finished with a howl as Maisie collapsed on top of him, exhausted.

  Back in Morocco, Joe replaced the receiver and felt his very own rush of fatigue. Clucking at the little white mongrel under his desk, he stood up and started rooting around the desk for his car keys.

  ‘Hey, where are you off to?’ asked Danny in surprise, as Joe spied them lurking under his Rolodex. ‘It’s beers o’clock in ten.’

  ‘Shan’t be long’ said Joe, heading for the door. ‘I’ve just got to go and pick up our new runner.’

  Danny gave a cackle of amusement.

  ‘I do hope that’s not a euphemism, Joseph,’ he said slyly, ‘I thought that was more your brother’s thing.’

  Chapter Six

  The plane banked sharply then righted itself with a series of bone-crunching judders. Polly’s eyelids fluttered open and, for the briefest of moments, she imagined that she was still tucked up under her duvet back home. Then her knee connected with the in-flight tray and the remains of her half-eaten beef casserole and cheesecake went shooting off across the aisle. Polly gazed down at her neighbour’s trousers in fascinated horror. Brown raspberry mush was creating an extraordinary tie-dye effect on pristine white linen.

  ‘Well don’t just sit there, do something!’ screamed her neighbor. ‘They’re FCUK and new on today!’

  Ghastly dry-cleaning bills flashed before Polly’s eyes. Meanwhile, aware of some spillage crisis unfolding in seats 23A and 23B, two air stewardesses bustled onto the scene with armfuls of damp cloths.

  Polly waved them away, stuffed her soggy cardigan into the front pocket of her laptop bag and wrenched apart the sticky pages of the in-flight brochure. Her ears were beginning to pop and the only thing she detested more than gravy-soaked jeans was an aircraft’s descent, ascent or any type of movement for that matter. Fortunately, she was soon engrossed in an article by the Moroccan Tourist board, inviting her to explore the mystical delights of a country only one hour behind GMT at this time of the year. Not much danger of jet lag tonight then, she thought, cheering up immediately.

  Polly had been staving off the early warning signs of a nasty hangover when Indiana Jones started whooping away at 6am again. Gulping down the waves of nausea, she silently cursed the three main perpetrators; Lucy, Lucy’s little brother Tom, and the extended happy hour at the pub down the road.

  ‘Morning Janie,’ she croaked, as her left hand rummaged around in the bedside drawer for her stash of emergency painkillers. ‘Everything ok?’

  ‘No, it isn’t!’

  Polly groaned inwardly. She was getting used to the office manager’s penchant for dispensing with chitchat and going straight for the jugular, but could have done with a bit of sugarcoating this morning.

  ‘There’s been a catastrophe,’ continued Janie, ominously.

  These words felt like a brutal hammer blow to Polly’s poor mangled head. Scenarios started flashing in her brain like the bulbs of a paparazzo. Travel agency in meltdown, itineraries up in flames, Vincent in mistaken economy seat-booking shocker. Vincent…

  Amidst the dirty fug of dehydration and sleep deprivation, Polly felt the first pangs of uneasiness. Could this have anything to do with twenty crew contact lists she had forgotten to print out for him yesterday? He was always losing the stupid things and kicked up such a fuss when he didn’t have oodles of spares stuffed into the lining of his enormous jackets.

  ‘Darling listen,’ began Janie urgently. ‘Bella’s bailed and I don’t have time to hire someone new. We need you to fly out to Morocco as Stephen’s location runner for the next few months….Polly? Polly? Did you hear what I said?’

  There was a strangled squawk.

  ‘Good girl,’ said Janie interpreting the squawk as a positive. ‘Now i’ve pencilled you on the 5:15 flight this afternoon. Are you ok to get to Heathrow yourself or do you need a taxi?’

  ‘This afternoon??’ gasped Polly, crashing back down to earth. ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Of course I’m serious,’ snapped Janie. ‘You must be there for when Stephen arrives.’

  Polly surveyed her bedroom in a panic. Where was her suitcase? Where the HELL was her suitcase? Hang on, did she even own a suitcase?

  ‘So, shall I book you a taxi or not? I’m sorry to rush you, Polly, but I’ve eighteen cast medicals to book, the main budget to revise and a hysterical actress who’s convinced she’s going to catch Malaria from the hotel catering.’

  ‘I’ll make my own way,’ mumbled Polly. Hopefully, Lucy’s Vauxhall would make it down the M25 without blowing up on the hard shoulder.

  ‘Good. That’s one less thing I have to worry about. I’ll give Joe a call and let him know what flight you’re arriving on. He’s holding the fort until Rachel and Gillian arrive later on today. He’ll send someone out to pick you up.’

  ‘Thanks Janie, but how will I know who to look for? Will the driver have a name board or…?’

  ‘I’ll confirm the tickets and text you the E-Ticket reference,’ interrupted Janie. ‘You’ll be connecting with a flight down to a place called Erizo when you reach Casablanca. It’s a small town on the edge of the Sahara. Have a safe trip and good luck.’

  There was a click and she was gone.

  Once on the ground, Polly and her gravy-soaked jeans had to endure an undignified scrum at Erizo Airport’s doll-sized, creaky and overladen luggage carousel.

  Nursing a bruised shoulder and a throbbing toe where some merciless git had rammed her with his trolley, she hauled Lucy’s suitcase into the arrivals hall and scanned the crowds for someone, anyone, who might resemble a production driver. Like a magnet, her eyes kept returning to a faintly familiar-looking man with scruffy brown curls lounging next to a taxicab booth. He was wearing dark blue combat shorts and an off white T-shirt, a uniform more suited to the parks of England than the heart of North Africa, and his pale pallor was a marked contrast to the rest of the crowd. He also happened to be the most attractive man she had ever seen.

  To her horror he suddenly looked over and started waving in her direction. Without thinking, Polly dived down behind a passing baggage trolley. She was just plucking up the courage to peer over a mountain of blue tartan shoppers, when a warm hand touched her shoulder. Spinning round she found herself gazing up at the very same man she had been admiring.

  ‘Hi. Are you Polly Winters?’ he said, smiling down at her.

  ‘Who’s asking?’ she mumbled, looking faintly bewildered and hugely embarrassed all at the same time.

  ‘Joe De Vries,’ he said, hauling her to her feet. ‘As the rest of the gang are busy drinking themselves stupid in the hotel bar, I thought I’d swing by and pick you up myself. Can’t leave our precious runners stranded in airports now, can we?’

  ‘But I was told to expect a production driver,’ countered Polly, feebly.

  ‘Then you’re in for a disappointing evening. Of course if you’d rather stay here…?’

  As if, thought Polly. Joe was even better looking close-up.

  ‘C’mon, sweetheart,’ he laughed, bending down to retrieve her case. ‘My jeep’s parked out front. If we get a move on, we’ll be back at the hotel sipping a beer within the hour.’

  With Joe leading the way, they exited the icy-cool, air-conditioned terminal and went slap bang into a wall of fierce humidity. Feeling tiny beads of sweat form unattractively on her upper lip, Polly hastily wiped them away before jumping in the passenger seat.

  ‘Sorry for the lack of air-con, it blew up on the way here,’ apologised Joe, leaning across to wind down the window for her. ‘We’ll have the put the blasted thing up again when we hit the desert though, unless you fancy a face full of locusts.’

  Polly heard the words desert and locusts, but she was having terrible trouble concentrating on anything else with his cheek hovering six inches from hers.

  ‘Is everything ok?’ he asked, looking at her oddly, sitting back in his seat.

  ‘Mmmm
.’ Polly didn’t trust herself to speak.

  Frowning, Joe turned the ignition key and the jeep’s engine spluttered into life, accompanied by a blast of vintage Huey Lewis.

  ‘Oops,’ he grinned sheepishly, taking a well-aimed swipe at the volume button. ‘Tell me quickly, is bribery still an option or will my guilty secret be hot gossip by last orders?’

  Polly stifled a smile. ‘Are you referring to your questionable taste in music?’

  ‘That wasn’t just any music, Miss Winters,’ he replied seriously, ‘that was proper, bona-fide eighties movie soundtrack stuff.’

  ‘Back to the Future,’ countered Polly smugly. ‘I’ve seen it seventy-three times myself.’

  ‘Have you really?’ Joe looked impressed. ‘But surely you’re too young to remember the eighties?’

  Polly felt her face flush with indignation. How old did he think she was, ten?

  ‘I’m surprised you remember them yourself,’ she retorted quickly. ‘Weren’t you too busy applying for the OAP winter fuel allowance?’

  Joe stared at her and Polly blushed.

  ‘Sorry, that was rude.’

  ‘Nah, don’t be, I can take the banter,’ he said, his grin slowly returning. ‘It’s always nice to meet a fellow 80s fanatic. By the way, I’m not that much older than you.’

  ‘Thank goodness,’ said Polly in mock relief. ‘I didn’t fancy the thought of hanging out with a bunch of geriatrics for the next few months. You weren’t being serious about the locusts earlier were you?’

  Joe dropped the clutch and coaxed the jeep into gear. ‘Not such a fan of bugs, eh? That doesn’t bode well for our night shoots. The last film we shot out here was a Sound Mixer’s worst nightmare. We were frequently interrupted by the sound of frazzling insects on the exterior lights.’

  Polly wrinkled her nose in dismay.

  ‘I seem to recall a few unwanted ‘extras’ slithering into scene as well.’

  ‘You mean snakes???’ She looked at him in horror and Joe burst out laughing.

  ‘Don’t worry, Polly, I’ve been here a week and I’ve yet to see either!’