Dirty Movies

by Cate Andrews

  Just then, her Hair Stylist Gemma came bustling in with overflowing bags of expensive hair products.

  ‘Ready for your close-up, sweetums?’ she beamed at her.

  Maisie said nothing and pulled out her iPhone.

  Unfazed by her rudeness, Gemma set about unwinding the long black lead of the hair tongs and lining up rollers as large as swiss rolls, humming away to herself as she did.

  ‘Oh shut up, Gemma, you’re giving me a headache,’ snapped Maisie.

  Gemma pursed her lips and expertly divided the actress’ hair into sections. Maisie squirmed under her touch, but not unpleasantly so. Gemma’s fingers were so pudgy, it felt like giant marshmallows were massaging her scalp.

  ‘Where’s your Mikey today?’ murmured Gemma, spritzing a whole bottle of heat protector serum over Maisie’s head. ‘I didn’t see him in the catering tent at breakfast.’

  ‘His name’s Michael,’ said Maisie withering, ‘and he’s back at the Studios. Some conference call about a script he’s been developing.’

  ‘Something for GBA?’

  ‘Nope, some low-budget crap.’

  Maisie had barely looked up from the E! Channel when Michael had told her about Love Letters. Even the prospect of him going it alone hadn’t warranted a flicker of interest. The only way he could hold her attention now was to drop down dead. Besides, without Global’s backing the budget was never going to amount to anything more than her clothing allowance on A Desert Affair. Maisie loathed low-budget Indie flicks almost as much as Stephen and Vincent. It had never once crossed her silly little mind that he had just gifted an answer to all their prayers.

  ‘Michael branching out alone then?’ murmured Gemma.

  ‘I guess so. Stupid idea if you ask me. Oh for gawd’s sake, you’re so slow. Are you gonna start curling my hair or what? I’m due on camera in two hours.’

  But Gemma wasn’t listening. Discretion had never been Maisie’s forte and she had made a packet over the years selling on the actress’ throwaway tidbits to the tabloids.

  ‘More serum needed, sweetums,’ she muttered hastily, pocketing her phone and shooting off to the back of the trailer. ‘So, um, what was Michael doing drinking with Lily in the bar last night?’ she called out to Maisie as she speed-texted her contact at The Sun. ‘Have they worked together before?’

  Maisie narrowed her catty green eyes. ‘What are you insinuating?’ she snapped. ‘He wouldn’t look twice at that drab nobody!’ Suddenly, she was fed up with Gemma’s needling. Whipping out her phone she started texting too - Gemma’s marching orders to her agent.

  ‘Sorry sweetums, I thought you’d know all about it,’ crooned Gemma innocently, popping up behind her. ‘What’s all this I hear about him babysitting her son as well?’

  Maisie jerked her head up in surprise and the hot tongs slipped from Gemma’s hand. She snatched at them wildly and an acrid stench hit filled the air.

  Maisie wrinkled her nose. Singed finger didn’t smell nearly as pleasant as toasted marshmallows. But what on earth was Michael playing at? Hanging out with that weedy woman and her snotty brat? He might be about as arousing as a garden slug but he wasn’t a bad-looking guy. Lily Moore had the dress sense of a geeky teenager and was in dire need of a decade at Fat Camp. It must be a pity call. It couldn’t be a booty one.

  ‘I’m sure it’s nothing, darling,’ murmured Gemma. ‘I mean how could he possibly look at another woman when he’s with you?’

  ‘Of course you’re right,’ agreed Maisie catching another glimpse of herself. The idea of anything other than total fidelity from boring old Michael was laughable.

  All of a sudden, the door blew open and their trailer was invaded by the shouts and business of the unit base.

  ‘Gemma, leave us!’ ordered Stephen, appearing in the doorway. ‘I’d like to discuss Maisie’s upcoming love scene with her in private.’ As he spoke, his dark eyes flickered to the front of Maisie’s grey silk dressing gown.

  ‘Certainly Mr De Vires.’

  As Gemma waddled out, he yanked Maisie to her feet and caught her face between his hands. Bending down he traced her lips with his tongue. She grinned and reached for his cock.

  ‘Not now darling,’ he chided, swivelling his hips to the side like a Tango dancer. ‘We need to talk.’

  Maisise scowled. ‘Words, words, words, why must my life revolves around fucking words!’ she screamed, missing the irony completely. ‘Come on Stevie, your wife’s arriving any day now. We won’t be able to fool around with that old witch breathing down our necks.’

  Stephen picked up a nearby pot of hand cream and took a sniff before dropping his bombshell.

  ‘Then maybe we should cool it until she goes. I can’t afford to have anything tip her over the edge right now.’

  Maisie looked at him in amazement. ‘But you said you wanted her to drop down dead! Repeatedly!’

  ‘I wasn’t being serious darling. We’re at a crucial stage with our Pirates publicity. The Premiere’s in two weeks. The untimely death of one’s wife may just be enough to jeopardise one’s film’s marketability.’

  ‘Then leave her!’ screamed Maisie, marching up and down the trailer and leaving a path of trampled rollers in her wake.

  ‘Calm down darling, I will. But I need her to give me a divorce first remember.’

  ‘For god’s sake, Stephen, you’ve been asking her for, like, forever. What makes you think you’re ever gonna succeed?’

  ‘Because this time I have a plan.’

  Maisie eyed him skeptically. His last ‘plan’ had involved her sitting tight until he could think of another one. That had been five years ago.

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘Then you’re an idiot. Trust me, darling, it’s devious, cunning and utterly brilliant, even if I do say so myself. Stop pacing and come here,’ he said, patting a chair. ‘I’ve thought of a way to get rid of her…Michael…the whole fucking caboodle.’

  Maisie sat down faster than a musical chair champ. If Stephen was planning to axe Michael from the equation then he must be serious about their relationship. She watched him pull up a chair beside her.

  ‘How…?’

  She was silenced with a kiss.

  ‘Vincent’s got these pills,’ he murmured pulling away. ‘A few years back the stupid dick mixed his drugs with his daiquiris. Sent him doolally then knocked him out cold.’

  He waited patiently for Maisie to catch on but her face remained as blank as unused film stock. Stephen felt a flash of irritation; Maisie was so much dimmer than anyone gave her credit for.

  ‘Engage your brain, Brittney. This isn’t The Krypton Factor here,’ he snapped, as her facial expressions plodded through a jackpot wheel of emotions, from confusion to disbelief then eventual delight. Hurrah! The light bulb had finally gone off!

  ‘Oh my gawd!’

  ‘Exactly! We spike their drinks, shove them in a room together and happen to be standing by taking photographic evidence. I then file for divorce citing adultery and you,’ and more importantly me, thought Stephen, ‘can ditch Michael without losing face with Global.’

  ‘But honey its fabulous!’ she squeaked, rubbing her hands together in glee.

  ‘Extortion really is the most practical of sins,’ admitted Stephen, ‘and very convenient when you need a job done quickly. The only obstacle will be prising a vodka bottle from Christine’s hand long enough to plant the pills.’

  ‘When?’ whispered Maisie, breathless with excitement.

  ‘Next Saturday. It’s Joe’s birthday so everyone will be plastered. A perfect opportunity to set our little plan into action, don’t you think? Plus it’ll take a while for Vincent’s dealer to source the tabs and ship them over. All concealed of course.’

  ‘I love it, and I love you darling!’ cried Maisie, throwing her arms around his neck.

  ‘I love you too, honey, but hush now, not a word to anyone.’

  ‘I promise.’

  ‘Good. Now get that dressing
gown off,’ he said, reaching for the cord. ‘As your superstar director, I insist on a little one-to-one coaching before your next scene…’

  Chapter Eighteen

  Joe glanced at the call sheet just long enough to get the gist of today’s schedule. In doing so, he deliberately blanked the date in the middle of page and completely ignored the cheeky birthday wishes written next to his name. Since Cassie’s death, this day was a non-event to him, twenty-four hours of oblivion - a gaping black hole in his universe.

  Cassie had always gone nuts for a celebration. Birthdays with her meant sensational presents and riotously inappropriate parties, like the time she hired a boat down the Thames and burst out of the cake in a red negligee, then got her foot caught climbing out and sprawled headfirst into the buffet table. He missed her so much today he could barely breathe. But now Danny had gone and shouted his mouth off about it and bullied him into celebratory drinks in the bar tonight, when all he wanted to do was slink off to his room, consume a litre of Bacardi and count down the minutes to midnight.

  Thirty-three.

  Jeez, it sounded so old. He could imagine Cassie teasing him, asking if he’d noticed any grey pubes this morning.

  ‘Hey Birthday Boy, can you give me a hand with ze boxes?’ called a voice, suddenly.

  Joe stuffed the call sheet back in his pocket and nodded at Khalil. He had wallowed in more than enough misery this morning.

  ‘Sure thing, where do you want them?’

  ‘Let’s put zem on zat golf buggy and I’ll whiz ‘em up to Studio Three.’

  That week, the unit had switched from their desert location to the studios. This meant that the piping hot sand dunes had been replaced by a laborious twenty-minute trek between each gigantic sound stage. Fortunately, in a rare fit of generosity, Vincent had just splurged on a whole fleet of golf buggies to ease their weary, sunburnt shoulders.

  ‘Are you ‘aving a good birthday?’ panted Khalil, as he wrestled with a large silver peli-case. The temperature gage outside the production office was nudging fifty and the Location Manager’s chest was already soaked in sweat.

  ‘Trying not to think about it, mate,’ answered Joe truthfully, cursing as his own box slipped through his sweaty fingers and hit the ground with a thud. ‘I might feel more cheerful once we get today in the can though.’

  Khalil grunted in agreement. The next scene reeked of bedlam, as did any that comprised of a huge man-made sandstorm, twenty horses and a very highly-strung leading actress. Joe had been dreading it for days. The SFX Team had already created havoc during rehearsals with their jet-propelled wind-machines and the Unit Nurse was fed-up of all the scratched retinas and bloodshot eyes on set. Joe had just dispatched Rashid to snap up three hundred pairs of goggles from the local hardware store.

  Cadging a lift up to set, he spotted Polly and Rachel nattering anyway behind two camels and a chain-smoking ‘Bedouin’ from Birmingham.

  ‘For god’s sake, don’t take it personally,’ he heard Rachel say, as he jumped out and made his way over. ‘The woman makes Cruella De Ville seem tamer than a pet gerbil.’

  Joe grinned as he kissed both girls hello. ‘I take it you’re talking about my dear sister-in-law?’

  ‘Yup, and Polly’s got exactly thirty seconds to swot up on my entire arsenal of survival tips,’ said Rachel. ‘Any last pointers you wish to add?’

  ‘A crate of Bollinger’s a cert. Makes her crimbo present a cinch every year.’

  ‘Oh, bugger off Joe you’re not helping. More booze is the last thing Christine needs.’

  ‘Says the woman who had a suitcase thrown at her last year when she misplaced her hip flask.’

  Rachel threw up her hands in defeat. ‘I forgot all about that little episode. Sorry Polly, but you can’t win ether way. Teflon-skin, remember…’

  ‘Yes good luck, sweetheart, best of British.’

  Polly giggled. ‘Thanks a bunch, Joe.’ She watched him jog over to re-join Khalil. He looked so pale and preoccupied today. She hoped he wasn’t one of those guys who viewed growing old as a kind of terminal cancer; a new organ invaded with each passing year.

  ‘You’re sure you’re ok with this?’ asked Rachel anxiously.

  ‘Stop fretting! I’ll be fine!’

  ‘Only if you’re sure…

  ‘I’m sure!’

  ‘Then you better be off. Best not to anger it from the get-go.’

  ‘Do you need anything from town?’ she asked her, turning to leave.

  ‘New job wouldn’t go amiss.’

  ‘Easy-peasy, so long as they take Visa,’ quipped Polly, glancing uneasily at her friend. These days, Rachel seemed to lurch from black gloom to even blacker gloom with a rare sprinkling of the old Matthews acrid-dry humour in between. What’s worse, Gillian had just delegated her entire job downwards so that she could spend more time on set, or rather keep her beady eyes on Vincent.

  With Rachel drowning in budgetary issues, Polly had been left to pick up whatever coordinator jobs needed doing, and the two were working their socks off to prevent the production office falling apart. As a result, sleep had become a thing of the past, a leisurely hot shower more than a distant memory and, like a production office mug in the hands of an irate Stephen, the reliably rock-steady Rachel was showing more and more signs of cracking.

  Christine LaVelle wasn’t hard to miss as she came charging out of the arrivals gate and knocking her fellow passengers out of the way like they were skittles. Despite the baking hot weather, she was smothered in a revolting full-length fur coat, the kind that empties mink farms in a single hit, and a humongous, over-sized pair of jet-black ‘Jackie O’ sunglasses, which were clearly impairing her vision. Misjudging the distance between the automatic doors and the handrail, she cannoned off a passing trolley and into the waiting crowd.

  Polly rushed forward to catch her and was rewarded with the same eye-watering stench as a spilt liquor cabinet. Trying not to gag, she tugged Christine to her feet and was boorishly shoved away for her pains.

  ‘Hello Ms LaVelle, I’m Polly Winters,’ she said pleasantly, rubbing the patch of skin of her forearm where Christine’s talons had drawn blood. ‘We spoke on the phone a few weeks ago.’

  Christine removed the ridiculous glasses in one fluid movement and cast swollen, blood-shot eyes over her.

  ‘Oh do stop dispensing with the big ‘i am’,’ she sniffed. ‘I can’t be expected to remember the names of all the insignificants I encounter in my life. Just see to it that my bags are taken care of.’ She indicated behind her where at least a dozen porters were flailing under the weight of an entire vintage Louis Vuitton luggage set. ‘Now where’s my car?’

  ‘Right this way, Ms LaVelle.’

  Polly led her outside to the waiting vehicle. Pushing her out of the way, Christine settled across the back seat and pulled out a cigarette holder. Polly slid into the passenger seat to the terse snap of a Zippo.

  ‘Why was I booked in Economy?’ demanded Christine suddenly, one mega lung-busting inhale later.

  Polly exhaled just as forcefully. Rachel had warned her Christine might kick off about this, but Stephen had flatly refused to sanction an upgrade. If it were up to him, he would have stuffed her in the hold as excess baggage.

  ‘Many apologies, Christine, but I didn’t actually book you ticket,’ she replied meekly. ‘I’ll certainly look into it for you when I get back to the production office though.’

  Why were all her sentences starting with apologies these days, reflected Polly wearily. She was fed up of making excuses for other people’s unpopular decisions.

  Christine glared at her through the cigarette smoke. ‘Well, if you think I’m flying cattle class with the rest of the peasants on the way home then you have a real problem on your hands, darling.’

  Polly watched the sweat beads glistening on the actress’ forehead and nodded. She was mystified why the actress was insisting on wearing that awful coat, but then again, total witches like her must be used to t
he heat. It wasn’t until she glanced in the side mirror that she realised Christine taking swigs from a vodka bottle hidden beneath the great, furry folds.

  Today’s Wrap time had been and gone by the time they arrived back at the hotel. Through the open window, Polly could hear the lively hum of the night’s festivities embracing the early-evening breeze. Maneuvering herself around the gearbox, she gently nudged Christine awake and was awarded a slap for her pains.

  ‘Don’t touch me, stupid girl!’

  ‘We’ve just arrived, Ms LaVelle. I’ve been asked to accompany you to Stephen’s suite.’

  Muttering darkly about disrespectful nobodies, Christine reached into her holdall and drew out a gargantuan make-up bag. Polly then watched, fascinated, as she teased layer upon layer of thick brown foundation into the gaping crevasses around her eyes and mouth. Tipping an entire bottle of perfume over her monstrously large, abnormally perky breasts she declared herself ‘ready’ and staggered out of the car.

  Leaving the mountain of luggage to an apathetic-looking porter, Polly whisked Christine through the lobby, past an inebriated crewmember vomiting into the fountain and out towards the lifts. As the doors pinged open on Stephen’s floor, Christine finally shrugged off her coat and thrust it, along with the now empty vodka bottle, into Polly’s hands.

  ‘Which number?’ she barked.

  ‘Suite on the right,’ wheezed Polly, through a mountain of grey fluff.

  Christine stepped out of the carriage and wrinkled her nose. ‘Good heavens, what’s that smell?’ she demanded whipping back round to take a whiff of her. ‘Oh it’s you. Do go away, it’s deeply offensive.’

  Gladly, thought Polly. The pong was actually the sodden, Vodka-soaked lining of her mink coat but she couldn’t be bothered to argue. She’d had more than enough LaVelle lunacy tonight. But as she was reaching for the lift button, she heard a scream. Probably realised i’m wearing Primark, thought Polly flippantly, sticking her head out of the lift. The actress was now waving a huge, diamond-encrusted crucifix at a vase of yellow roses.