Dirty Movies

by Cate Andrews

  Shrugging off his clothes, he buried his nose in his blue t-shirt. Lily smelt of cheap shampoo and kindness, he decided, as raised voices erupted downstairs. Pausing to eavesdrop on the way to the bathroom, he quickly deduced that Stephen was in the midst of a monumental tantrum about the lack of fresh croissants at breakfast. Michael scowled as he stepped into the shower cubicle. Lily may as well shelve the hairdryer and order room service. Today’s shoot was gonna be a dead duck until Stephen’s personal chef flew over a suitable alternative for their hell-lustrious leader.

  Reluctant to join the rest of the overheated, over-caffeinated crew in the hotel lobby, Michael dressed and retrieved his Love Letters script from the room safe. He had every intention of continuing his notes, but as he lay there propped up on the bed and chewing the end of his biro, he couldn’t stop wondering if Lily had finished her hair yet. She was so gentle and sweet but, like Bambi’s mom, she had a constant air of impending doom.

  Strolling into the bathroom again, he blasted his face with icy water. He would bet anything that her woeful excuse of a nanny was the girl he had seen holding court over the sound crew last night. This meant Lily Moore was either desperate for childcare or a very poor judge of character. Irrespective, the pool drainage system hadn’t been the only one partaking in some serious underwater action with the Boom Op at 2am this morning.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Rachel delved into her laptop bag and tossed a small black canister into Polly’s lap.

  ‘Happy Birthday to youuu!’ she warbled tunelessly, drawing up the patio chair next to her.

  ‘You’re four months out but thanks anyway,’ muttered Polly inspecting her present. The writing on the side of the canister spelt out B-O-G OFF Pepper spray in shimmering silver letters.

  Confused, she picked up her cocktail. Beside her, Rachel was happily getting stuck into her own, her mouth consuming great slurps of pink alcohol like a large salmon gulping for oxygen. Only three weeks into the shoot, and already in dire need of a second wind, she and Polly had just returned to the hotel after another marathon eighteen-hour slog. Nonetheless, the coordinator was determined to soak up some semblance of her Friday night, even if she only had another five minutes to do so.

  ‘It’s not another gift from him is it?’ guessed Polly, making a face.

  ‘No, Janie. It arrived this afternoon.’

  Polly was even more confused. Janie’s sense of humour was almost as complex as the woman herself.

  ‘I hardly think Stephen needs a deterrent,’ she said, rolling her eyes, assuming the pepper spray was a dig at their director’s habitual weakness for runners. It had been tricky stuff explaining away Stephen’s sudden, almost obsessive, dislike of her but so far Polly had stuck to her promise and kept her mouth shut. His dirty linen was still firmly stashed in the hotel laundry basket.

  ‘Oh, it’s not intended for him, who F.Y.I. wants another crate of fresh ciabatta flown in from Giuseppes tomorrow… Damn, speaking of crusty Europeans I forgot to book his daft wife’s flight today. For god’s sake Polly, remind me tomorrow otherwise I’ll be booking a one way home for myself.’

  Polly was surprised. ‘Christine’s coming here? I thought she was still in hospital?’

  ‘It’s another miraculous recovery! Hurrah! Hardly surprising, Christine’s doctor substituted her tranquilisers for orange smarties after the last attempt.’

  Polly re-examined the canister. ‘I don’t understand. If it’s not for Stephen then who is this meant to… Oh. Oh I see.’ The penny finally dropped of its own accord.

  ‘Janie was concerned about your dilemmas with Danny,’ said Rachel, trying to keep a straight face. ‘Ha, would you listen to me? When did I start speaking like a daytime chat show host? I should whip up a treatment and flog it to Channel Four. It could prove a nice little earner now Richard and whatsername have hung up their prompt cards.’ She signalled to the hovering waiter. ‘Anyway, Janie hoped it might help dampen that inexorable Irish ardour.’

  Polly pouted as Rachel ordered another round of drinks. Spurning Danny’s advances was proving about as effective as a leaky garden hose. His desperate attempts to woo her back into ‘sand dune’ had even earned him the nickname Danny Juan from a gleeful Rachel. Polly was fed up of him hovering around her like a pesky wasp. This morning she’d spent over an hour binning all the flowers he had sent her after Gillian complained about the sulphurous pong.

  ‘Tell Janie that I’m declining her ‘thoughtful’ gift,’ said Polly tartly, chucking the canister back at her friend. But with Rachel’s fingers full of empty cocktail glasses, cigarettes and luminous yellow lighters, it pinged off her 38GGs like a small toddler on a trampoline and tumbled into a bed of prickly brown weeds instead.

  ‘Well, I think he’s rather sweet,’ said the coordinator, bending down to retrieve it from an agitated cockroach.

  ‘No you don’t. Yesterday, I caught you looking up human castration on the Internet.’

  ‘Ah yes, but only as a last resort.’

  Polly pretended to sulk but she didn’t really mind the ribbing. The last few weeks had been horrendous but things didn’t seem quite so dire when Rachel dressed it down with a bit of humour.

  Ever since the Winnebago/Maisie debacle or WMD as she privately referred to it, aptly nicknamed after all the bloody agro it caused, Stephen had avoided all face-to-face communication with her, but this hadn’t stopped his endless demands filtering down through Joe. Stephen’s brusque, often ridiculous requests always seemed far more achievable somehow when conveyed by his brother.

  With her stress levels already at vein-busting proportions, the publicity machine for GBA’s previous project; Mutinous Pirates 4: Peg-leg Pete and The Treasure Trove of Perfidy had suddenly sailed into action. With the World Premiere imminent, she was being bombarded night and day with calls from PR and advertising executives all demanding ‘dialogue’ with Stephen. Furthermore, his ever-changing press schedule had to be ferried down to set for approval as soon as a new version appeared in her inbox. Any opportunity to escape the baking hot production office was a godsend, but these journeys often made her feel like one of the movie’s protagonists as she navigated the choppy waters of the production jeep’s broken suspension umpteenth times a day.

  ‘Cheer up Polly, it was just a bit of fun,’ joked Rachel.

  ‘Alright for you to say, you’re not the poor sap being stalked.’

  ‘Well at least Danny’s attractive. A little slimeball-sleazoid maybe, but nothing too offensive. Just think - that ugly old spark could have a crush on you instead.’

  ‘Who Bernie?’ cried Polly incredulously. ‘You’re ‘gaydar’s’ up the spout, Rach. He’s been having it off with Horatio from Wardrobe for weeks.’

  Rachel looked stunned. How was it possible that this sliver of set gossip had eluded her? ‘Now you’ve said it that Freddie Mercury moustache does have an enviable precision.’

  ‘Are you kidding? It’s even more threaded than Maisie’s eyebrows!’

  Their laughter was interrupted by a screech from the patio doors.

  ‘Yoo-hoo girlies! How did your production office-y type things go aujourd-weee? Did you lazy devils drink lots of tea and surf gossip websites all day again?’

  Glancing over Rachel’s shoulder, the laughter died in Polly’s throat. Fiona ‘Fifi’ Mullins. Chief Make-up Artist. Chief Set Bitch. This was a woman who flambéed runners reputations for breakfast.

  ‘Tedious,’ snapped Rachel, scowling at her. ‘I can’t believe I get paid to sit around all day downloading Vincent’s porn.’ Her words oozed sarcasm like a water-logged sponge.

  Fifi snickered and teetered over to them in her micro denim shorts and lofty wedges, blonde hair extensions trailing down her back. Her figure was as short on flab as it was on modesty. Please god, make her slip on a stray wet bikini top, prayed Polly. Fifi adored savaging people’s appearances and she was sick to death of having her hair compared to that of a backcombed poodle’s. Unfortunately, on
this occasion, God seemed to have plugged into his IPod.

  ‘When did you get back?’ she asked Rachel, appropriating the remains of Polly’s refreshed cocktail as her own.

  ‘Just now, and its already gone midnight,’ replied Rachel gloomily. ‘So much for my new diet advising me not to eat after 6pm. I’ll be lucky if I digest anything before 6am at this rate.’

  ‘It’ll take more than time trickery to shift those pounds,’ tutted Fifi, wrinkling her nose at the letters stamped across Rachel’s French Connection t-shirt, strained beyond recognition by her colossal boobs. ‘Nevermind, I have some amazingly good gossip to distract you from your rumbly tummies.’

  ‘We know it already,’ sighed Rachel, crossing her arms to conceal the bulges. ‘Charlene’s dumped Simon for Richard the Focus Puller. We heard about it hours ago. It’s causing all sorts of ructions in the camera department. I’ve already had to put a couple of replacement crew on stand-by.’

  ‘God no, that news is older than Gillian’s birth certificate age.’

  Rachel immediately uncrossed her arms. ‘Really? Ok then, out with it, Mullins. If it’s half-decent I might even let that dig at my weight pass.’

  Fifi smirked. ‘Of course it is. You know we make-up girls are privy to more tittle-tattle than a Hollywood PA. It comes from glossing loose lips all day.’

  ‘And having listening skills second only to a parking ticket customer complaints hotline employee!’

  Polly laughed despite herself.

  ‘Look, do you want to hear this or not?’ huffed Fifi, ‘it’s not everyday a colleague walks in on a sexy male celeb giving a BJ to his very male assistant…’

  ‘Aha, I knew it!’ crowed Rachel in delight. ‘I’ve been dying to get some dirt on goody-two shoes Roberts for years’

  ‘What, him and Naji?’ Polly was stunned. If Bernie was Freddie then Zach’s Moroccan Assistant was all Charlton Heston machismo. The boy had more beef and testosterone pumping through his veins than the streets of Pamplona in July. ‘But Zach can’t be gay! He’s getting married to whatshername from that TV drama!’

  ‘Ah Hollywood,’ intoned Rachel with a grin, ‘where the streets are paved with sexual contradiction. Is it just me or is this industry running perilously low on heteros?’

  Fifi looked a bit put out by this. ‘What about Joe, Danny and Michael?’ she countered sulkily.

  ‘Ah yes, The Three, un-amorous, Amigos. Let me see, one’s hung up on his dead wife, the other’s fixated with some vacant actress and Danny’s head over heels in love with our ummm someone else.’

  ‘You mean Polly,’ said Fifi smugly.

  Rachel shot her a filthy look. ‘Sorry,’ she mumbled to Polly. ‘I might have let something slip last week.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re so bothered about,’ sniffed Fifi glaring at Polly. ‘This crew are more offended by your crap hair than your sluttish behaviour.’

  ‘Shut up Fi. There’s nothing wrong with Polly’s hair and if sleeping with one guy makes you a whore then what does that make you? Your hole sees more action than a channel tunnel train!’

  ‘Does everyone know I slept with Danny?’ asked Polly faintly

  ‘Just Make-up and Costume,’ said Rachel sheepishly. ‘No one else, honest.’

  ‘What about Joe?’

  ‘I doubt it, unless Danny’s been shouting his mouth off.’

  ‘Why do you care what Joe thinks?’ demanded Fifi.

  ‘Damage limitation,’ said Polly quickly. ‘If Joe knows then it might as well be stamped on the front of tomorrow’s call sheet.’

  ‘Joe’s not one for shouting his mouth off, Polly,’ said Rachel reprovingly.

  ‘And I doubt Stephen’ll give a toss who you’re screwing,’ added Fifi spitefully. ‘Speaking of which, why does he detest you so much? He usually lavishes attention on his little foot slaves.’ Just then, a clump of greasy fringe pinged free from Polly’s ponytail and Fifi visibly gagged. ‘Maybe you’re just a little too bedraggled for his tastes.’

  Polly scowled and tucked the disobedient wisps behind her ears. She would love to push Fifi’s spiteful, yet flawlessly foundationed face under the gleaming surface of the hotel swimming pool and hold it there until her skin resembled all three shades of blue in her designer eye shadow palate.

  ‘If you’re worried about your boyfriend finding out then don’t be,’ whispered Rachel, as Fifi applied another coat of ‘devil red’ lip gloss. ‘What happens on set, stays on set. That’s the golden rule remember.’

  ‘I thought that was more a boys on tour motto,’ muttered Polly.

  ‘It’s far more appropriate for covering up film crew indiscretions. A lot worse happens out here than on a stag do in Amsterdam.’

  ‘Would you take a look at that!’ hissed Fifi suddenly, spotting Michael over by the edge of the pool with Lily’s young son in tow. ‘That gorgeous man over there may be crazy about that stupid actress, who incidentally has botched Botox AND a naff tattoo of a fat cat smoking a cigar on her left bum cheek, but at least I can appreciate him from afar.’

  Polly glanced from Michael to his young companion then froze. Lucas appeared to be cradling an enormous hairy tarantula. Without warning, the little boy broke away from the American and bounded up to their table. Moments later, the night air was awash with flying tarantula limbs, spilt vodka and cigarette ash as the arachnid was merrily tossed in their direction. Rachel screamed the loudest and would have gladly pitched headfirst into the pool if she hadn’t watched a disturbing Discovery Channel documentary late last night on underwater creepy crawlies.

  Seeing Michael bent double with laughter, Polly crawled out from under the azalea and eyed the ‘spider’ suspiciously. It lay motionless on the patio, looking more like a hairy cowpat now than anything else.

  ‘Calm down everyone, it’s a fake!’ she cried.

  ‘Wha...?’ Rachel followed Polly’s gaze. ‘Why Lucas, you little devil!’

  ‘Sorry honey, my bad,’ gasped Michael, arriving on the scene. ‘I just had this thing shipped over from the states for Lucas. He’s pretty excited about it. Let me buy you a round of drinks to make up for it.’

  ‘Shouldn’t he be in beddy-bies?’ said Fifi, pulling twigs from her fringe and shooting Michael a sizzling hot glance. In her opinion, little boys should be neither seen nor heard, especially when they were diverting good flirting time away from her.

  ‘Not yet,’ he said, squeezing the boy’s shoulder. ‘You’re giving mom some space right now, aren’t you? Lily’s getting those production notes up to speed.’

  ‘Where’s Maisie?’ asked Polly suddenly. It sounded like an accusation and everyone turned to stare at her.

  ‘Stephen demanded a last minute rehearsal with the new script rewrites. They’re still at location.’

  ‘Of course she is. I knew that already, how silly of me,’ said Polly blushing.

  ‘I’ll go order those drinks, shall I? I think we’ve pestered you enough for one night. I’ll see y’all bright and early tomorrow, ladies.’

  They watched him steer the little boy towards the bar.

  ‘Lucky Lucas,’ sighed Fifi enviously. ‘Michael Wilson can buy me pressies any day of the week’

  ‘Preferably ones that are eight inches long and vibrate,’ muttered Rachel staring straight at Polly.

  Terrorising production office employees with fake tarantulas proved to be as exhausting as it was exhilarating, and before long, Michael was guiding Lucas back upstairs. The little boy was so whacked it was like steering a Shetland pony in ice skates. He kept stumbling on the sweeping outdoor staircase and nose-diving into the creeper.

  Reaching Lily’s floor, Michael paused for a moment outside her room. Soft ochre light wasn’t the only thing seeping underneath the door. There was no mistaking Vincent’s loathsome snarl.

  ‘What the fuck is he doing with the yank, Lily?’

  ‘I was desperate. I needed to finish these notes. I’m sorry Vincent, it won’t happen again.’


  Lily sounded petrified. How dare Vincent intimidate her like that, thought Michael, launching himself at the handle.

  ‘If my son ends up with an American accent, I’ll kill you.’

  His palm slid off the metal as if caked in WD40. In a daze, he glanced at Lucas but the little boy was happily engrossed in a cockroach climbing the adjoining wall. It can’t be true, thought Michael wildly. That bastard couldn’t be Lucas’ father.

  Just then, there were the sounds of a desk lamp smashing and heavy footsteps.

  Heavy footsteps heading straight towards him.

  As quick as flash, he hopped across the corridor and immersed himself in Lucas’s cockroach. He heard the door open, followed by a pause. He could feel Vincent scorching two piggy-eyed holes in the back of his Ralph Lauren shirt.

  ‘Michael.’ There was a beat. ‘What a pleasant surprise.’

  ‘Vincent,’ he replied, with equal disdain.

  The Producer nodded in Lucas’ direction. ‘What’s this? A new vocation? Good to see you’ve finally decided to leave this tricky movie-making stuff to the experts.’

  ‘On the contrary,’ snapped Michael. ‘Babysitting Lucas is a damn sight easier than chivvying you and Stephen through a shoot.’

  Vincent’s face tightened and he took a menacing step forward.

  ‘One of these days, Mr Wilson, i’m going to crush you like...like...’ Unfortunately Lucas’ cockroach chose that very moment to dart sideways into perilous squishing territory. Vincent took a furious swipe at it, his fist a demolition crane at full swing, and there was an ominous crunch, much like the demise of a chocolate digestive. Shooting Michael an exultant look, he stalked off back down the corridor wiping his fist on his leg.

  Lucas let out a wail and sank to his knees to examine the broken fragments of the bug. What an asshole, thought Michael furiously. Vincent must have taken parenting lessons from his father. He bent down next to the boy and tried not to gag at the colourless goo oozing out of the decimated cockroach.