by Cate Andrews
‘Fashion,’ they answered simultaneously, grinning at each other.
‘Oh, right,’ said Joe, losing interest immediately. ‘I’m thinking of catching a bite to eat with Michael after work if you girls fancy it? Rashid’s been telling me about some local restaurant in town. I could give you the heads up when we leave?’
‘Thanks Joe, that sounds great!’ enthused Polly, trying not to gawp as he bent down to unplug the meeting room’s flat screen.
‘Earth to Polly,’ smirked Rachel, as she handed her a huge pile of leftover scripts. ‘Can you take these back to the office? I’ll follow in a bit with the rest.’
They watched her stagger out of the door.
‘I think you have an admirer, Joseph,’ muttered Rachel.
Hours later, with the gentle, early evening breeze beginning to tickle the tips of the palm trees outside, Michael strolled into the production office. The place was deserted, except for Polly who was on all fours wrestling with the temperamental Moroccan photocopier in the corner. Rachel had zipped off to the Make-Up Department to pinch some fake-tan, Vincent and Gillian had stormed off straight after the meeting for some splenetic screwing, and Stephen was still, thankfully, AWOL.
‘Hey, you must be Polly,’ he called out.
Jumping up in fright, she smacked her head hard on the open paper tray of the photocopier and blushed right to the roots of her fringe.
‘Um yes, ouch…hello,’ she muttered, hoping that her glistening forehead looked more ‘healthy glow’ than all out sweat-fest.
‘I recognise your voice,’ said Michael in surprise. ‘You’re the chick who dropped the phone, then patched me through to Stephen. Nearly gave me a heart attack. He never takes my calls.’
‘I’m so sorry, Mr Wilson,’ said Polly sheepishly. ‘It was so unprofessional of me.’
‘No need to apologise. And what’s with all the ‘Mister’ crap? Makes me feel like a fifth-grade teacher, or worse, my father. It’s Michael to my face, but you have the go-ahead to call me an asshole in private. I’ll probably deserve it at some point in the next few months anyway.’
Polly smiled. ‘Michael it is then. And I really am very sorry about the phone thing. I’m not very good with technology.’
‘Are you any more fluent now?’
She shook her head ruefully. ‘I tried to put a call through to Stephen this morning and ended up patching some VIP through to the studio canteen. Needless to say he didn’t call back.’
‘Probably my father.’
‘Let’s hope he likes couscous then. They don’t seem to serve much else.’
Michael burst out laughing. He liked this girl. ‘I believe a decent carbonara is more his thing. Look, Joe’s outside with our driver. We’re heading out in five.’
‘Hooray, I’m starving! Let me go and find Rachel and we’ll meet you outside.’
The rest of the evening unfolded in a pavement café besieged with broken white garden furniture and lively locals, all consuming excellent food and finishing up their meals with the delightful combination of a piping hot mint tea and an after-dinner smoke.
‘This country is so beautiful,’ sighed Polly, glancing around as she lent back in her chair to ease her aching belly.
The setting sun had woven a spectacular web of reds and golden hues around each dusty brown building and a couple of men were setting up a mini souk opposite, shouting out angry instructions at each other in a chaotic jumble of French and Arabic.
‘Just wait ‘til you see the sun setting over the desert,’ murmured Joe.
‘Sounds amazing. Do you think I’ll get the chance?’
Joe picked up Rachel’s cigarettes and started tapping the box lightly on the table.
‘I don’t see why not. I’ll take you out next Sunday if you like. I’ll need to check on the location for Monday morning anyway,’ he added, ignoring Rachel’s warning shot across the table.
Polly was beside herself with excitement. Michael was looking pretty interested too.
‘That sounds kinda neat. Can I join you?’
‘The more the merrier,’ said Joe, glaring back at Rachel.
Just then, Michael’s cell phone started bleeping.
‘That’s Maisie, she’s arrived!’ he yelped, scrolling through the message. ‘You guys mind if I duck out? I’ll send the car back later. Thanks for an awesome night!’ And tossing a wad of dirhams onto the table, he legged it back to the waiting jeep.
‘Lucky Maisie,’ murmured Rachel, pouring herself another mint tea. ‘I’ve never seen anyone snap to attention like that.’
‘Give him a break, Rach, the guy’s in love.’
‘I’m just bitter. I have meaningful relationships with camera companies and travel agents these days.’
But Joe didn’t seem to hear. His eyes were following their Exec’s car as it turned into the next street and disappeared. Stephen had always given him the impression that Maisie and Michael had a relationship of extreme press convenience, yet the American’s reaction just now had confirmed his worst suspicions; that his brother was a lowdown, dirty, lying son-of-a-bitch. Fuck, fuck, fuck, he thought bleakly. This was not going to end well.
Blissfully unaware of Joe’s inner turmoil, Polly sat beside him cooing at an inquisitive stray that had plonked his head in her lap.
‘Cupboard love,’ he warned, looking over.
‘Good’ said Polly, picking up her half-empty dinner plate. ‘As he’s obviously starving, I’m only too happy to oblige.’
Joe watched her move off down the street tossing great, greasy, congealed chunks of leftover lamb tagine to her new friend.
‘Here’s an odd thing,’ said Rachel suddenly, watching him watching Polly.
‘What?’ asked Joe, reluctantly tearing his eyes away.
‘I booked Maisie a flight from London this morning, which means that she rolled up a good seven hours before that text turned up. Call me cynical, but that doesn’t sound like the lovesick action of a devoted girlfriend to me.’
‘Oh for god’s sake, everything doesn’t have to be a conspiracy, Rachel,’ said Joe irritably. ‘Perhaps she fell asleep by the pool? Two days of press junkets would be enough to frazzle anyone’s brain.’
‘Except Maisie doesn’t have a brain to frazzle,’ said Rachel pointedly.
Joe grinned. ‘Can’t argue with that. Now stop rooting for scandal and pass me the cigarettes. I’ve already eaten my weight in food this evening so I may as well quadruple my risk of heart disease.’
Bidding goodnight to the girls in the lobby, Joe made straight for the hotel bar. He was craving an extra strong, after-dinner digestive to hush-hush the rip-roaring rumpus of apprehension building up inside. Catching the bartender’s eye, he ordered an almanac and downed half in one sip. Slamming the glass back down, he had a sudden image of Polly’s face after her first taste of Casablanca two nights ago.
Joe rubbed his forehead and quickly ordered another. He had seen too many GBA runners slip up on Stephen’s oily charms and tumble into bed with him. Was Polly going to play to type? He hoped not. If he was honest, it made him sick just thinking about it.
Hearing a loud splash, he swung round to see Dan their Director of Photography, diving fully clothed into the swimming pool outside. As usual, he was surrounded by a throng of adoring near-naked beauties, no doubt paid for by his hideously large per diem allowance, and the usual hodgepodge of camera assistants, clapper loaders and general hangers-on. Camera crews worked hard and played hard and Dan and his crew were no exception. Irrespective of their tight schedule, this lot wouldn’t be seeing their beds much before 4am.
Overcome with fatigue, Joe drained his drink and slipped out of the bar. Not only did he have to incorporate the changes from this afternoon’s meeting into his schedule, he needed to thrash out a damage limitation strategy for his brother’s twisted little ménage a trois before all hell broke loose on set.
Chapter Eleven
‘Lucy? Lucy it’s me!’ shrieked Polly, but
the telephone static was abysmal. It sounded like a swarm of hornets were on the rampage in there.
She tried again. ‘Lucy? Are you there?’
Miraculously the line seemed to clear then.
‘Polly, is that you? Oh, thank God you’re alive!’ she heard her friend yelp. ‘You haven’t called in ages. I thought you’d been taken hostage by a rogue posse of sexy camera crew!’
Polly could hear the quiver of relief in her friend’s voice. She should have phoned home sooner. Much sooner.
‘Spill your guts, then,’ cried Lucy, ‘I want to hear all the scandal!’
Polly glanced at the magnolia wall partition separating her and Gillian’s room.
‘To be honest there’s not much to tell.’
‘Err, hello?’ scoffed the reply, ‘can you put my friend Polly, notorious gossip hound of Surrey, and dedicated subscriber to Hot! Hot! Hot! on please? There seems to be an impostor on the line. What sort of non-committal response was that?’
‘Ok. Hang on a minute,’ whispered Polly, stretching the dirty yellow phone cord as far as it would go until she was crouching down between the bathroom and the TV table. All of a sudden, she lost her balance and fell backwards into the open wardrobe.
‘Can you still hear me?’ she hissed, dislodging the hotel iron from under her left bum cheek.
‘Just about. What’s going on? You’re very faint. Have you gone and locked yourself in the stationary cupboard again?’
‘Ha very funny. I’m in my hotel room but the walls are as thin as posh spice’s profile and my evil PM’s right next door.’ Knowing her luck, Gillian probably had a glass pressed up against the paint job right now waiting for some bitchy comment about her precious Vincey-poo to slip out.
‘Stop procrastinating, you dimwit, and give me some gossip.’
‘Oh Lucy, this place is to die for,’ gushed Polly. ‘Can’t you raid your editor’s expense account and come out for a visit?’
‘No such luck. The tight bastard probably sleeps with the sort code under his pillow.’
‘Any secret savings tucked away?’
‘Only in my dreams. But then again so is that million-dollar Malibu wedding to Keanu Reeves.’ The truth was Lucy had approximately 53p to her name and a very snooty letter from the Inland Revenue hidden behind the photographs on the mantelpiece. ‘Ahem, gossip Polly?’
‘Oh right.’ But no sooner had she said it when there was a piercing beep on the line and some lady started jabbering away at her in Arabic. ‘Shit! Now I only have three minutes left before my phone card cuts out. I’m sorry I didn’t email you all week but we’re really isolated and the web connection’s slower than a snail.’
‘Any Bedouins tried to ride you off into the sunset yet?’
‘No, but there are some gorgeous men out here,’ said Polly, thinking of Joe.
‘Then you need to get your broadband fixed! Your IT guy needs to know that it’s a matter of urgency. I need to know everything otherwise I’ll explode. My blood will be on their hands!’
Polly giggled. ‘Oh wait, you’ll never guess who I met at cast rehearsals today.’
‘Who…? WHO??’
‘Just some actress called Maisie Peach,’ said Polly, as nonchalantly as possible.
Lucy shrieked.
‘Is she a total bitch? Is she getting married to that gorgeous man? Please say she’s got more spots than Mr Blobby!’
‘She’s ok,’ lied Polly. In truth, Maisie was a nightmare, packaged up in five foot four inches of physical perfection. ‘But Zach Roberts has just signed on, so there’s hope for the on-set, sex-bomb ying and yang.’
This was met with more silence, peppered with the ever-pervading buzz of static.
‘Lucy? Are you still there?’
There was a strangled squeak. ‘Hang on a minute, I’m just teaching myself how to breathe again.’
Polly smiled.
‘I’m going to have beg, steal or borrow a plane ticket out there now. There’s no way my best friend’s hanging out with Zach Roberts without me.’
‘Hallelujah! I need all the help I can get.’
‘Ah. Dishy De Vries not quite living up to expectation then?’
‘He’s a bit precious,’ admitted Polly, ‘and SO scatty. I’ve had to replace his laptop twice this week already. Oh, and he left one hiking boot behind so I had to ship the other out specially. What sort of numpty only packs one hiking boot?’
‘Sounds an idiot,’ agreed Lucy. ‘Never saw the appeal myself,’ she lied. ‘You hang on in there. This time next year you’ll be a mega-famous producer and he’ll be a washed up out-of-work nobody begging you for work.’
‘Ta for the vote of confidence but I seem to spend most of my time fielding calls from Hollywood agents begging HIM for work, or rather for their clients.’
Polly had encountered a particularly sticky moment with one such agent yesterday, who had flatly refused to accept Stephen’s rebukes of his four-time Oscar nominated scriptwriter’s latest masterpiece. In the end, his language was so colourful, she had half-expected to find rainbows spouting out of the mouthpiece.
‘When does the shoot kick off?’ asked Lucy.
‘Tomorrow morning. My call time’s 5:30am. Awful, awful.’
‘I’d happily trade places to hang out with Zach Roberts. Good luck with it all and email when you can. I want to hear all about…’
‘Sorry Luce, have to go. Danny’s just arrived!’ interrupted Polly, suddenly. ‘We’re taking a trip out to the desert this afternoon to check on the first location.’
‘Lucky cow! Who’s Danny anyway?’
‘2nd AD. Irish. Cool hair. Normal guy height.’
‘As opposed to a snazzy, sunglass-wearing rock star Leprechaun? God Polly, if you weren’t my best friend I’d disown you,’ said Lucy grumpily, gazing out of the window. England was so miserable and grey. It felt more like November than June. Damn those BBC weather reporters and their sprightly nightly reports. They were connoisseurs of deceitful optimism.
‘Just don’t forget to email m…’ but her words were drowned out by another blood curdling beep and then silence.
Lucy hung up feeling mildly depressed and eyeballed the cookie jar by the bread bin. She wouldn’t mind catching a bit of desert action with this Danny character. The very name itself seemed to inspire images of boyish charm and floppy brown hair. Without thinking, she stuffed a whole chocolate chip muffin into her mouth then greedily eyed its twin.
Wondering into her bedroom, she placed the second muffin down next to her laptop and scooped up a CD case from the floor. Giving the disc a good wipe, she stuffed it into her stereo, sat down and flexed her fingers. A reporter for the local newspaper, she had a review of the Maypole dancing at the local village fete due in tomorrow. Lucy had purposely been putting it off. The local ballet school had encountered such appalling weather conditions that the jaunty, vibrantly coloured ribbons had quickly turned into a sodden tangled, un-photogenic mess. That was before a particularly brutal gust of wind had blown it sideways into a pack of screeching Brownies.
Wolfing down the second muffin, Lucy frowned at the screen. It was going to take all her journalistic cunning and a hefty dollop of writer’s license to spin this into a sunny May Bank Holiday spectacular.
Danny jumped into the jeep and slammed the door.
‘Better warn the camels you’re on the loose,’ he joked, reaching round for his seat belt.
‘Let’s hope they don’t get the hump about it,’ muttered Polly, feeling a jolt of excitement. Up until now, her only taste of Morocco had been the dusty main road connecting their hotel and the Studios.
‘Where are we headed again?’
‘First location. It’s about a thirty minute drive from here.’ He leant over to the driver’s seat and tapped Khalil on the shoulder. Two seconds later, the jeep’s rusty old engine lurched into life.
Despite last Monday evening’s rabid enthusiasm, she and Danny had ended up being the only stalwarts am
ongst the group. Rachel had cried off at the last minute citing a head-splitting migraine, Michael had yet to emerge from his hotel room, where he’d been holed up with Maisie for the last few days, and Joe had vanished first thing this morning on some errand for Stephen. Polly was disappointed, but determined to enjoy herself. Half-listening to Khalil and Danny as they thrashed out last minute cast travel arrangements for the morning, Polly sat back and watched the desolate moonscape skyline unfold as they sped past the smattering of russet-coloured palm trees and broken-down shacks on the edge of town.
Soon, great drifting golden dunes reaching out as far as the eye could see had replaced the haughty, peaked shadows of the Atlas Mountains. As Khalil slowed down to overtake an old cattle herder by the side of the road, Polly noticed that the skinny quarters of the herd were no match for the herder’s jutting collarbone and sunken face.
A mile later, Khalil turned onto a sandy track with a course crudely marked out by whitewashed stones. Peering through the windscreen, Polly could just about make out the shimmering outline of the Unit Base’s glossy white trailers and canvas tents in the distance, distorted and unworldly by the ferocious desert heat.
Suddenly, Khalil veered off again and she was flung backwards into her seat.
‘Hang on Polly,’ yelled Danny, ‘we’re making a detour!’
Beneath her, Polly felt the base of the jeep groan as the four-wheel drive kicked into action. They were now driving right in amongst the sand dunes.
Slowing to a crawl, Khalil motioned for them both to jump out. Polly was gone in a trice. Using her hands and knees she clambered up the nearest dune, barely noticing the white hot sand beneath her fingertips, and leaving both flip flops behind in the process. Collapsing in a sweaty heap at the top, she scraped her fringe out of her eyes and felt her heart stop beating.
The setting sun was already starting to bleed burnt amber tones across the horizon and the desert below was bathed in a blanket of shadows and silhouettes. It looked so alien, so unfamiliar but utterly, utterly breath-taking.
‘Perfect timing!’ gasped Danny as he threw himself down next to her, clutching a bottle of champagne that he’d pinched from the hotel bar. De-corking it easily, he took a slurp and passed her the bottle. She looked down at it and hesitated. She had downed enough booze this week to keep a small vineyard afloat.
