by Cate Andrews
‘Polly listen, Stephen’s only ever been interested in winning Oscars, screwing hot women under the age of twenty-five, and making the lives of his employees miserable. Whilst he may not have achieved the former, he certainly makes up for it with the latter. You’re in a very long line of people he’s upset this afternoon.’
Polly looked away and rubbed her face with her sleeve. ‘I’m not crying,’ she said defensively, ‘I’ve got a stray lash.’
Not in both eyes you don’t, thought Rachel.
Anyway, I think it’s high time you addressed the positives.’
‘No job, no money, no life?’
‘Rubbish. Stephen’s not going to sack you …yet. He usually gives his runners a three-strike policy. At least now you know what you’re up against.’
Polly stared moodily into her beer. ‘Better ask my grandfather to dig out his old WW2 tin hat. He’d never have faced Dunkirk without the essentials.’
‘Oi Oi mugs ahoy!’ grinned Rachel. ‘I have to admit it, Stephen did seem exceptionally grouchy this afternoon. I have two theories,’ she said, holding up her thumb. ‘One, your little mishap forced him to make pleasantries with Michael, which is a bit like sticking a red hot poker up his bum, and two,’ she held up her index finger, ‘with that extra cast rehearsal this afternoon, he didn’t have time to factor in his requisite daily lunchtime fuck. Fortunately, our costume runners are usually only too happy to oblige, so with a bit of luck he’ll bang a couple tonight to make up for it.’
‘Can you sew, check, run errands, check, screw the director, check!’ Polly shook her head in amazement. ‘So what’s the story behind this Michael guy? Why didn’t Stephen want to take his call?’
‘It’s the age-old clash of testosterone, dicks at dawn, twelve paces and all that,’ said Rachel dismissively. ‘Michael’s just been promoted to Exec status by Papa Wilson which Stephen and Vincent are none too happy about, plus he also happens to be a very attractive guy. Stephen’s such a narcissist. He hates anyone on set with bigger biceps than him.’
‘Have you met him before?’
‘I wish. Before his promotion, he headed up the Global Studios Development Department in LA, but Sally Bouvier, one of our Costume Designers, has. According to Sal, he’s all rugged and suntanned and turns up to meetings in board shorts.’
Polly instantly pictured a Matthew McConaghey type. ‘Yum, he sounds heaven.’
‘Aw Polly, I never knew you felt that way about me,’ grinned Danny as he plonked two fresh beers down in front of them.
Rachel raised one eyebrow as he made to sit down. ‘Go away Danny, there aren’t enough chairs at this table for you and your ego.’
‘There’s gratitude for you.’
‘I’m serious. Girls only tonight.’
‘Alright, alright, keep your hair weaves on,’ he muttered, retreating back to the bar.
‘Oh look, here comes Sally now,’ said Rachel, perking up as a woman in a purple velvet mini-dress with bright green frills bee-lined straight for their table.
Polly took one look at the approaching stranger and wished she had her sunglasses handy. Sally’s dress clashed so violently with her red curls that it was wounding to both her fashion sensibilities and her retinas. Completing the ensemble, were two dead symmetrical, clown-style rouge-red circles of blusher on each cheek.
Slamming down her vodka and slopping most on the table, Sally threw herself into the spare chair next to her.
‘That awful, awful little man will be the death of me’ she declared, mopping at her brow with a bright pink polka dot handkerchief. ‘Hitler had nothing on our jumped-up little despot of a director!’
Polly gazed at her in amazement. She had never met anyone so effusive. Sally’s personality was rolling off her in great waves and she kept wriggling about as if her chair was one giant pincushion. Enjoying the theatrics too, Rachel was loath to interrupt.
‘Sally, for god’s sake, stop for a sec before you combust. Vincent will only sue you for breach of contract. Meet Polly, she has the unenviable task of being Stephen’s runner for the next few months.’
Sally turned her bright green cat’s eyes on her. ‘Gosh, you poor thing! At least we costumiers can hide away in our wardrobe trailer when it all gets too much, but you, my dear, are really in the firing line.’
‘Perhaps Polly can come and hide in your trailer when it gets too much,’ suggested Rachel with a grin.
‘Fabulous idea! But don’t tell anyone else our little secret or we’ll have the entire crew clamoring to get in. Darling Nancy’s still there now bawling her eyes out.’
‘Shit! Joe said he was on his way to sort that mess out hours ago.’
‘Oh he’s still there, bless him. Eleven hours later, can you believe? He’s such a sweet, sweet boy. Have you met our exquisite 1st Assistant Director yet, Polly dear?’
Polly nodded. ‘Yes, last night. He picked me up from the airport, then we had a drink here.’
‘Aha!’ cried Sally excitedly. ‘You must be the girl all the make-up ladies were in a faff about this morning.’
Rachel’s gossip antenna went bananas. ‘What have you heard, Sal?’ she urged, eyes shining.
‘Apparently Joe couldn’t take his eyes off some pretty new thing he was drinking with last night. Everyone’s talking about it.’
Rachel whipped round and stared at Polly in amazement.
‘Rubbish,’ said Polly quickly, ‘they must be talking about someone else. I’m far too young. There’s no way he’d ever be interested in me.’ With a jolt, she realised she was fishing.
Rachel’s response was unflatteringly skeptical. ‘She’s right. I’d be amazed if that was the case. The make-up department were most likely on their fifth bottle of red and counting pink elephants as well.’
‘Well I’m glad that’s settled,’ said Polly tightly.
‘Oh, don’t take it like that. Everyone fancies you like mad! Danny’s practically tripping over himself to speak to you every chance he gets. The thing is, Joe’s different. He keeps himself to himself. No indiscretions of note. To be honest, we all thought he was gay until we found out about his wife.’
Polly tensed. ‘He’s married? I had no idea.’
‘Gosh no, not anymore darling,’ said Sally, ‘but that reminds me…’ She leant forward and beckoned the girls to follow suit. Rachel sparked up another ciggie immediately.
‘Keep this between us girlies but my husband’s niece’s uncle used to be a colleague of Joe’s ex, Cassie.’
‘Oh my god, what was she like?’
Polly glanced at Rachel. The coordinator was so riveted, she was hovering an inch above her seat and crouched low over the table like a champion skier. Any minute now, she would take off and slalom straight into the swimming pool.
‘Spit it out Sal!’ she urged, puce with the effort of it all.
‘I don’t know that much really. Only how she carked it.’
‘Joe’s wife’s dead?’ gasped Polly.
‘Has been for yonks’ said Rachel. ‘At least six years, isn’t it Sal? Besides, I already know how she died. Car crash.’
‘Says who?’
‘Danny.’
‘Then you heard wrong. I have it on good authority she topped herself.’
Both girls rocked back in their chairs, horrified.
‘But that’s awful!’ Polly was appalled.
‘Ghastly,’ agreed Sally. ‘Joe found her body in the tub. Looked like a horror scene, apparently. Bit ironic considering she was the Art Director on Nightmare vs Halloween Avenue: Part Twelve.’
‘Imagine coming home and finding your wife like that,’ whistled Rachel. ‘Six years did you say? It must have around the time of Stephen’s first picture for Global…’
‘…And the first time the pair worked together,’ finished Sally. They looked at each other, speculatively.
‘So within two months, Joe lost his darling wife and gained a dickhead of a brother. Poor bastard. I’m surprised he didn’t cl
imb into the tub himself.’
‘What do mean gained’ asked Polly.
‘They hadn’t spoken for years. They’re only half-brothers really. Daddy was some big-shot diplomat who spent as much time zipping in and out of women’s beds as he did zipping round the world.’
‘They’ve never been close,’ added Sally. ‘I put it down to the trials and tribulations of an eight year age gap. Not an easy one in the best of circumstances.’
‘It might as well be eighteen years with the way Stephen treats him,’ said Rachel angrily. ‘It’s disgraceful the way he’s always putting him down in public.’
‘I agree, but it was decent of him to reach out to Joe after Cassie died. He gave him a job, kept his mind occupied…’
‘Stephen…compassionate?’ The coordinator snorted so hard a stream of beer came shooting out of her left nostril. ‘I don’t buy him in Jesus robes for a second. He never wears beige, says it reminds him of baby vomit.’
‘So why do you think he did it, Rachel?’ Polly was riveted. Death, tragedy, sexy, sparring siblings. This was proper Shakespearean stuff. Global Studios were missing a trick here. They could make a fortune by flogging the De Vries life story.
‘Stephen’s number one motivation of course: self-interest. His films were straight-to-DVD mush before Global snapped him up. After years of razzie nominations, the pressure to deliver a piping hot product to the biggest studios in the world must have had him quaking like a turkey on Christmas Eve. Think about it,’ she said warming to her subject. ‘He’s got a string of flops, he needs an ally, preferably one who’s adored by the industry. Hey presto, there’s fiercely loyal baby brother grieving away, who also just so happens to be the best 1st AD in the business. Here’s what I think… He manipulates Joe’s heartache by convincing him the best way to get his life back on track is to throw himself into work. Preferably with him!’ She concluded all this by crashing her fist down on the table and sending everyone’s drinks flying.
‘You and your theories,’ tutted Sally, dabbing at a splash of vodka staining her awful outfit. ‘Anyway, those make-up girls have really got it in for you now. They’ve been trying to lasso Joe for years but he’s never shown a blind bit of interest. I don’t know why they’re bothering. He’s clearly got his dead wife on a pedestal ten stories high. No one else stands a chance!’
‘He was only looking out for me on my first day,’ agreed Polly reluctantly. Her spine-tingling chills at Joe’s rumoured interest were nothing more than inconsequential quivers now, especially in the wake of Sally’s revelations. ‘Besides, I have a long-term boyfriend,’ she added casually.
‘You never said!’ cried Rachel, outraged by this atrocious oversight. ‘Once you’ve got another round in you’re not leaving this table until I hear ALL about him.’
Forcing a smile, Polly shot off to the bar. What a silly fib to tell, but her feelings were pulling her in two directions and causing all kinds of traffic chaos. Either way, the odds of competing with a dead woman for Joe’s affections didn’t look favourable from any angle. Sensing trouble, she picked up the drinks tray and headed back to her table.
‘Fill me in on Michael, Sal,’ she heard Rachel ask as she sat back down again. ‘Polly says he’s got a gorgeous voice, but does his body do it justice?’
Sally grinned and produced the latest copy of the weekly gossip magazine, Hot! Hot! Hot! from her bright orange handbag. She tossed it into the middle of the table.
‘Turn to page five, girlies, and judge for yourself.’
Rachel did as she was told and let out a whistle. ‘Oh wow, he’s sexy as…’
‘Lemme see, lemme see.’ Polly bent over to catch a glimpse.
Dominating the page was a Pap shot of the American actress, Maisie Peach, snogging the face off a tall, blond and very suntanned man outside some infamous LA celebrity hotspot. The accompanying headline was suitably salacious.
Hollywood’s Golden Couple set to wed?
As Polly read the blurb underneath, she couldn’t help giggling. The whole article seemed to be based around the fact that Michael was seen loitering twenty feet away from Harry Winston’s front door. Probably waiting for a bus, she decided.
Rachel was making an odd gurgling noise in her throat that sounded very much like ‘lucky cow.’
‘I can’t believe you haven’t met him before, what with Maisie being such a regular fixture for GBA,’ said Sally searching through the magazine for more shots of the pair. ‘They’ve been together for yonks. I’m stunned he’s never flown out to see her.’
‘Maisie doesn’t like him hanging around during filming, which makes my overly suspicious mind tick. I reckon she’s got a secret lover hidden tucked away in her million dollar trailer. Any ideas Sal?’
‘Not a dicky bird.’
‘What’s she like?’ asked Polly, gazing enviously at Maisie’s smooth, sculptured midriff. It was so perfect it looked painted on.
‘A proper diva,’ confided Sally.
‘Any truth in the marriage rumours?’
‘Well his secretary has been overheard making lots of covert appointments on his behalf…’
Sally and Rachel continued to speculate on the stormy love lives of celebrities long into the night. When Polly found her eyelids drooping in protest over another A lister’s marital disharmony, she made her excuses and left. Truth was, she was still shattered from her run-in with Stephen earlier, and the thought of having to face him again in seven hours was more sobering than a triple espresso.
Weaving her way under the arches and across the courtyard, she smiled at the hotel porter scooping out handfuls of dirt, leaves and a grubby white bra clogging up the swimming pool, before glancing wistfully at the empty woven sun lounges. There was no way she would be sampling them anytime soon. Not if today’s working hours were anything to go by.
Back in her bedroom, she was just setting her alarm to the eyeball-busting time of 4:45am when there was a loud commotion from Gillian’s room next door. Must be Vincent popping round for a midnight feast, guessed Polly. Sure enough, the sheer brute of the thrusts coming through the wall, minutes later, were so ferocious, that her bedhead was soon rattling away in protest.
In a hotel room across the corridor, Lily too was banging away with equal fervor, but her partner tonight was no more stimulating than a second-hand laptop with a squeaky ‘return’ button and a hairline fracture running across the top half of the screen.
She had spent the whole evening wrestling with a new script breakdown for the big production meeting tomorrow, creating endless synopses of scenes, characters and descriptions to ensure continuity in every element of the film. Whilst most of the crew would be dozing off by now, Lily was being kept awake by fear and willpower alone. Often the only link to the film’s chronological continuity, with scripts largely shot out of story sequence, Vincent loved to pick on her during these meetings and she was determined to make sure that he didn’t show her up this time.
Caught up in her page counts, Lily cringed as her left elbow lightly grazed an open folder and swirls of loose paper fluttered to the ground. She glanced over at her young son curled up on top of the bed covers. Lucas stirred but didn’t wake and the air whistled through her teeth in relief. Half an hour of placating an overtired crosspatch would have put her way behind schedule, and once again, she tried valiantly to ignore the waves of resentment towards her errant nanny. Charlene had just embarked on a tempestuous relationship with Simon the Clapper Loader and was nowhere to be seen between 7pm and 5am. Lily was happy for Charlene, she really was. She just wished it were her enjoying some fantastically passionate affair instead. Not with Simon though. He looked a bit like a ferret with his overbite and beady eyes… She jumped as her mobile started vibrating.
Meet me in Room 21.
Oh dear, that’s all I need, she thought despairingly, scraping her greasy ash-blond hair into a ponytail and rubbing her eyes. Scribbling a quick note to Lucas, she picked up her room key and stepped out into
the balmy night. A few minutes later, she knocked softly on the door to Room 21. Vincent opened up immediately.
‘Hello Lily,’ he purred, running his piggy eyes over her body. Lily shuddered. The Producer repulsed her.
With his giant bulk blocking most of the doorway, she shot past him holding her nose, Vincent always smelt like singed cat hair, and hovered by the edge of the bed. She could hear Gillian singing away tunelessly to herself in the shower.
‘What do you want Vincent? It’s late and I’ve had to leave Lucas alone.’
‘Latest child-support payment,’ he sneered, incensed by her weary apathy. ‘You can see yourself out.’ He chucked an envelope of cash at her feet. It skidded across the terracotta tiles and came to rest four inches away from her shabby blue flip-flops.
Blinking back the tears, Lily stared down at the torn manila. She had a sudden, wild urge to throw the money back in his fat face, kick him in the balls and run off screaming into the night. Instead, she quietly picked up the envelope and left.
Chapter Ten
Michael felt like a zombie extra from a Michael Jackson video as he rocked up to Erizo Studios’ dingy meeting room the following day. Crippling jetlag and sleep deprivation had transformed his healthy golden complexion into a pasty mushroom colour, and he had yawned so much in the car ride over that the right side of his jaw was stiffer than a Viagra mishap.
Pausing in the doorway to remove his sunglasses and pop a fresh tab of chewing gum into his mouth, he couldn’t help but grin as forty pairs of eyes turned to gaze at him in wonder. Polly had to rise two inches from her seat behind Stephen to take a better look. She felt the breath catch in her throat. Those paparazzi photos hadn’t done him any justice whatsoever. He was more dazzling than the sunlight streaming in through the dirty windows.
Michael’s long blond hair, still damp from a speedy thirty-second shower, was scraped back off his face, but damp tendrils kept escaping and drifting into his flawless blue eyes. Denim jeans hung low off lean, surfer boy hips and the sleeves of his navy striped linen shirt had been pushed up to display muscular, tanned forearms. Even the shadows under his eyes and his stubble seemed purposely cultivated to make him look more rock god than exhausted Executive Producer. Polly watched him slip quietly into the nearest empty chair and pull out a notebook and script.
