by Cate Andrews
‘You! Persephone, or whatever your name is, get those monstrosities out of my sight!’
Trying not to giggle, Polly dutifully stepped out of the lift and whisked them away. Alas, no sooner had she left the carriage, the doors sprang shut sending her escape route hurtling back down to reception. Even the hotel machinery was hell-bent on escaping this woman’s craziness.
With arms wilting under the weight of four-dozen roses, Polly waited impatiently for the carriage to return. She was even pondering the intricacies of the narrow outside staircase when she was distracted by the sight of Christine hoiking up her fake balloon breasts inside her skin-tight Herve Leger bandage dress. As she watched, the actress gave them one final tweak before sidling up to Stephen’s suite with all the swagger of a geriatric Jessica Rabbit on heat.
‘Darling it’s me.’ Polly heard her simper, out-huskying Katharine Hepburn. Even her knock was obscenely seductive.
Two seconds later, the door swung open and Stephen appeared in a cloud of bathroom steam. Oh my god, it’s Close Encounters of the Cuckolding Kind, thought Polly.
‘Christine,’ said Stephen, staring dispassionately at his wife.
‘Darling’ The husk was back. She lent in to kiss him but Stephen ducked away and her nose collided with his neck.
‘Petunia! I want my luggage!’ shrieked Christine suddenly, turning to vent her humiliation on her.
‘I’m on it!’ yelped Polly, spying the returning lift.
Spilling out into the lobby, she went smack into Rachel.
‘Save yourself!’ she shrieked, clutching the front of the coordinator’s t-shirt.
Rachel made a face. ‘Christine living up to expectation then?’
‘Oh my god, she’s a horror! Hey, why aren’t you in the bar?’
‘I’m waiting for a package to arrive. Vincent’s breathing down my neck about it so I’m stuck out here until the courier turns up. You go, I’ll catch up in a bit.’
Polly noted the heavy dark circles under Rachel’s eyes. ‘Why don’t I go grab us a couple of drinks and wait with you?’
Rachel smiled at her gratefully. ‘Sounds good. I could murder a beer.’
Returning with two chilled Casablanca’s, Polly perched on the marble lip of the fountain beside her.
‘So what’s in Vincent’s package then?’
‘No idea.’
‘What time did you get back from the studios?’
‘Bout ten.’
‘Did I miss anything?’
‘Nope.’
Polly took a sip of her beer. Rachel clearly wasn’t in the mood for idle chitchat. She took another sip and tried again.
‘So how did you and Gillian meet?’
‘Some TV drama yonks ago, just before she hooked up with Vincent actually.’
Polly was surprised. It seemed a long time to be putting up with Gillian’s fictional management skills. ‘So, has she always dumped her workload on you or is this a recent development?’
‘Oh no, this is nothing new.’
‘Then why keep working for her?’
Rachel regarded her coolly.
‘Has my fucking package arrived yet?’ bellowed a voice suddenly as Vincent appeared in the doorway of the bar. With his hands on hips, he looked like a short, squat, shiny-faced teapot. The front of his shirt was soaked in beer and his nose and cheeks were stained red with sunburn and excess.
‘Not yet, Vincent, but we’re expecting the courier any minute,’ yelled Rachel, jumping up.
‘Then get on the blower and hassle FedEx, you stupid cow. This is important.’
As his voice rose, the noisy hubbub behind him petered out. Everyone in the bar was listening in and thanking god they weren’t Rachel. Whipping out her phone, the coordinator shrank into the shadows of the lobby to make the call.
‘Where the hell are you running off to?’ yelled Vincent. ‘Stay here and make it in front of me, that way I can ensure you do it properly.’
Polly glared at the producer. How dare he humiliate her like that!
Just then, the lift doors sprung open and Stephen stormed out into the lobby.
‘Which one of you fucking imbeciles booked my wife’s flight ticket?’ he screamed.
It was like the London blitz all over again. Under attack from both sides, Rachel froze.
‘I did,’ lied Polly. Stephen was spoiling for a fight and her friend had already taken more than enough of a battering. But Rachel was having none of it.
‘Polly’s drunk. It was me, I booked it,’ she said quietly.
‘Well it doesn’t matter either way, you’re both as hopeless as each other. Why on earth did you book her in Economy? That’s just unimaginable incompetence! Don’t you know who she is?’
‘But I thought that’s what...’ Rachel stopped suddenly when she spotted Christine lurking in the background. Something odd was going on here.
‘Of course that’s not what I asked for! How on earth could you think I’d want to subject my darling wife to such lower class standards!’
By this point, Vincent was hissing and spitting like an overfilled kettle.
To Polly’s horror, he suddenly launched into a bitter and untruthful tirade outlining Rachel’s general uselessness. Putting a defensive arm around her shocked, embattled friend, Polly did her best to reason with them both.
‘Please calm down, I’m sure we can sort this out,’ she began shakily. Stephen looked ready to throttle her. ‘I’ll re-book your wife’s ticket first thing tomorrow and see that she flies back First Class, Seat 1A, and…oh, oh look! Hey-presto, the package is arriving!’ she cried, spying a dusty, harried courier lumbering into the lobby.
‘Oh thank goodness,’ whimpered Rachel, rushing over to sign for it.
The package was in her possession for exactly two seconds before Vincent snatched it away. Polly watched him rip it open, peer inside, then doll out the briefest of nods to Stephen as he made his way back to the bar. Meanwhile, the rest of the crew had resumed their celebrations and the steady chimes of chinking glasses were soon ringing out again like a campanologist practice session.
‘I don’t know what you two are playing at but you better up your game, quick smart,’ snarled Stephen, grabbing Christine’s arm and hauling her off to the restaurant. As soon as he was gone, Rachel fled the lobby in tears.
What a hideous, hideous day, thought Polly, sitting back down with a bump. She was so overcome with homesickness she could almost smell the fabric softener on her pillowcase.
‘Looks like someone’s enjoying my birthday almost as much as me,’ said a voice, as Joe came strolling in from the car park. ‘Shall we both stick pins in our eyes to round off the evening?’
When she didn’t react he realised she was crying.
‘Sweetheart, what’s wrong?’ he cried, rushing up to her.
‘Vincent and Stephen just savaged Rachel.’
‘Christ, a double-hitter.’
‘It was like watching two pit bulls squaring up to a squirrel.’
Joe whistled and sat down next to her. ‘Poor Rach. Are you ok?’
To Polly’s horror, she started leaking tears again.
‘Stop being nice to me,’ she begged him, wiping her nose on the frayed hem of her t-shirt. ‘Be more like your brother. Why is he such an arsehole anyway? He makes film sets so…so…’
‘Hostile?’ Joe stared down at his Converse trainers. At the same time Polly caught sight of the childish Peppa Pig ‘happy birthday’ badge pinned to his T-shirt.
‘Sorry, Joe,’ she sniffed. ‘I’m being selfish and self-indulgent and I’m ruining your evening’
‘Can’t wreak havoc on a car crash,’ he muttered
‘Is that why you’re not in the bar celebrating?’
He looked away. ‘I needed some air.’
There was a pause.
‘My wife felt the same as you,’ he said slowly. ‘She couldn’t bare GBA film sets. Said they reminded her of some CNN footage she’d seen; falling miss
iles and bloodied innocents at every turn.’ He stared at his shoes again. ‘I guess what I’m trying to say is every job is different. Don’t dismiss the whole industry because of one rubbish experience.’ He stopped talking then and they sat together in silence, both of them lost in a hailstorm of their own emotions.
‘I need vodka,’ he announced abruptly. ‘And lots of it’
Polly smiled weakly. ‘Anyone would think you don’t like birthdays.’
‘I do. Just not mine.’
‘But…’
‘Come on, Winters,’ he chivvied, tugging her to her feet, ‘stop miffling and start moving.’
‘Do you think I should go after Rachel?’
He shook his head. ‘She’ll be fine. It’s nothing she hasn’t dealt with before.’
‘But what if Vincent fires her?’
‘Then she’ll be the lucky, lucky sod who finds herself on a flight home tomorrow.’
Chapter Nineteen
Joe’s head was clanging like an over-zealous Town Crier when he awoke the following morning. Reaching out for his alarm clock, he felt his hand brush against the delicate velveteen leaves of the hotel pool undergrowth instead. It suddenly dawned on him that he’d spent the night facedown on one of the woven white sun loungers by the pool. As quick as a flash, he checked to see if any facial hair had been shaved off in a fit of drunken tomfoolery. Fortunately, all stubble was present and correct and as prickly as a Wild West cactus.
The courtyard before him was littered with catatonic bodies and a recycling bank’s yearly quota of empty beer bottles. Danny was sprawled out across a hot pink lilo in the middle of the pool, snoring gently and clutching an empty cocktail glass to his chest, like some Club Tropicana hooligan who’d sampled a few too many of the song’s eponymous free drinks. He had lost all clothing, except for a pair of black underpants and one soggy sock, the other having been hoisted to the top of the outside light fixture. Flying the colours for over-the-top decadence, thought Joe grimly. He had a faint recollection of bumping into Polly in the lobby last night but after that everything went a bit foggy.
Shaking the pins and needles out his left hand, he jumped as his redundant wedding ring clanged the metal column of the patio heater yet the noise cheered him up immensely. His hangover would fade but the dreaded birthday thing was done and dusted for a whole other year.
Yearning for his bed, but not the three floors to climb to reach it, he would have happily stayed put by the pool if he wasn’t so damn thirsty. His body felt pickled in vodka and he didn’t fancy his chances of a donation from Stephen if one of his kidneys went caput. Using his belly as a pivot, he slid off the lounger and onto his knees, and encountered squished birthday cake. Joe gagged. Dieticians should be re-creating killer hangover scenarios at Fat Camp and losing their clients a shed-load.
Somehow, he managed to stagger to the outside staircase with some crazed Black & Decker enthusiast drilling holes in his brain. Thank god they weren’t on set today, he thought, clutching the banister as the green creeper started spinning like a Hitchcock vortex. He and the rest of last night’s degenerates were going to need at least twenty-four hours hard detox to recover from this one.
Fifty-five steps and two dry heaves later, he was just slotting the key into the lock of his door when he heard a girlish giggle. Across the corridor, Stephen and Maisie were exiting her suite, talking in hushed tones and stopping every few seconds to grope at each other’s naughty bits. Joe felt the bile rising again and turned away. He was too knackered and too hung-over to feel any of his usual indignance on Michael’s behalf.
Slipping into his room, unnoticed, he grabbed a bottle of Evian, kicked off his shoes and sank into a heavenly nest of yielding mattress springs and crisp white cotton. Alas, his repose was fleeting. It wasn’t long before someone was banging away on his door.
‘Joe wake up!’
‘Go away, Rach,’ he croaked, pulling his pillow over his ears.
‘Joe! Get your arse out of bed, pronto. I know you’re in there, I can see converse under the door.’
‘It’s a mirage. Joe De Vries has officially left the building!’
‘Don’t pull any of that Elvis shit on me. Open up, this is serious…’
‘So is liver cirrhosis,’ he groaned but he managed to drag on a pair of shorts and appear blinking in the doorway. ‘Dear, darling, Rachel, how may I help you on the fine Moroccan morning?’
‘Michael’s gone.’
Joe frowned. ‘What do you mean ‘gone?’’
‘Vamoose, scarpered, left us hanging in a cloud of dust. He caught a flight out of here first thing.’
Joe’s stomach gave an uneasy growl. If bad news were US military threats, this one would have to be a top DEFCON whatsit.
‘Who told you all this?’
‘Danny. Michael’s driver just fished him out of the pool. He dropped him off at the airport hours ago.’
‘It’s gotta be a family emergency. His father had his fifth triple bi-pass in January.’
‘Bullshit, Walt Wilson doesn’t have a heart.’
‘Show some respect, Rach, the guy might be on his death bed.’
‘If he’s carking it then i’m Julia flaming Roberts! Christine’s just been on the phone demanding the first flight back to London. After all that palaver yesterday she didn’t give a shit when I told her BA only had economy left. She was pretty hysterical too. Call me Colombo, but I can’t help thinking the two are related.’
This info blew Joe’s pretext right out the window.
‘When does she leave?’
‘In twenty minutes.’
‘Right.’ Joe began rummaging through his case for a clean T-shirt. ‘And you’re sure Michael didn’t leave a note?’
‘What were you expecting, a medieval scroll pinned to his door?’
Yanking on his Converse, Joe shot her a dirty look as he half-stumbled half-hopped across his bedroom. ‘Where’s Christine now?’ he asked her, shooting out of his room.
‘Stephen’s suite, I believe.’
The footsteps paused and reversed sharply.
‘Oh? And what does Prince Charmless have to say about all this?’ demanded Joe, reappearing in the doorway again.
‘It’s a dignified silence so far but he went somewhere early with Vincent and Maisie.’
Maisie! The memory of her and Stephen this morning flashed before his eyes. His brother hadn’t looked that excited since his five-trophy Golden Globe triumph last January.
‘Joe, what’s wrong?’ asked Rachel, watching his face cloud over like an unsettled April morning.
‘I need to speak to Christine,’ he snapped. ‘Whatever happens, I’ll meet you by the pool in an hour.’
Reaching Stephen’s suite in record time, he could hear the sounds of expensive Arabic artefacts hitting terracotta though the door. Things must be bad, he thought warily. A converted antiques snob after a bit part in Lovejoy, Christine tended to reserve her hostility for staff juniors these days. He tentatively banged on the door.
‘Christine, it’s Joe. Open up.’
The hotel room massacre let up for a millisecond.
‘You dirty De Vries bastard!’ screeched the reply, followed by a loud crash as the flat screen TV was assassinated and its entrails shunted across the floor.
Joe rested his forehead against the doorframe. His surname felt like an archery target.
‘C’mon Christine,’ he said wearily, ‘what’s Stephen done this time?’
At this, her language took on new, exultantly filthy heights, with her sobs and snivels cancelling out every other obscenity like the censored bleeps in a rock song. Eventually, she ran out of steam but the ensuing silence was like the terrible hush over a spent and bloody battlefield. Joe held his breath and waited. Then he heard the door latch click.
Christine looked horrendous. From a plastic surgeon’s dream to The Bride of Wildenstein, her whole face appeared to have melted overnight. Gazing at the tear-stained black-lipped lapels o
f her pink Chanel suit jacket, he felt a rush of hatred for his brother. Stephen wouldn’t treat last year’s Filofax the way he did his wife.
‘I have some news,’ she announced tremulously, her air of tragedy lending a certain gravitas to her usual pretense. ‘It would appear that you are no longer to be my brother-in-law!’
Joe stared at her quivering, plumped-up lower lip in shock. Stephen had been petitioning for this divorce for years. It must have taken a momentous humiliation to finally tip her over the edge, a momentous fake-breasted, starlet-shaped humiliation. Fuck! Stephen and Maisie must have been rumbled! That would explain why Michael took off in such a hurry.
Elbowing him out of the way, Christine dragged the smallest of her Louis Vuitton into the corridor and jabbed her finger at Polly, who was loitering by the lifts after popping up to investigate the commotion.
‘Penelope - call a porter immediately! See to it that the rest of my cases are delivered to my car.’
Nodding dutifully, Polly reached for her phone as Christine and her suitcase continued their stampede towards her and the lift.
‘At least let me carry your things to the car,’ offered Joe, sprinting after her and snatching up the case.
‘Why? Can’t the celebrations start until the witch is seen off on her broomstick?’ she snarled, snatching it back, sweeping into the empty lift carriage and deliberately running over his foot in the process. Like husband, like soon-to-be-ex-wife, thought Polly sourly, recalling her close-shave finger chop in the production meeting.
Meanwhile, Joe was debating whether to bite the bullet, the trigger and everything else in between.
‘Is this because of Maisie?’ he asked her quietly.
Christine reached out to slap her hand across the closing doors.
‘What do you mean by that?’ she demanded, whipping off her sunglasses. ‘What’s that scrawny, talentless tart got to do with anything?’
Realising his gaffe, Joe backtracked faster than a recoiling bungee.
‘I mean, are you upset by how much time he’s spending with her? You needn’t be, Stephen’s a very, err, meticulous Director. He’s always over-rehearsing his actors...’
