Dirty Movies

by Cate Andrews

  ‘Oh shut up Joe, you’re embarrassing yourself,’ snapped Christine. ‘I wouldn’t be at all surprised if they were screwing one another. To be honest, things would make a lot more sense if they were.’

  They glared at each other for a moment: him rigid with confusion, her pulsating with distaste.

  ‘God I detest you,’ she said suddenly, her every word as barbed as a Beverley Hills mansion’s security fence. ‘You’re nothing but a court jester kept about for his brother’s amusement.’

  Polly was so shocked she dropped the vase of yellow roses that she had been loyally shielding.

  ‘You do realise that you’ve devoted the last six years of your life to a man who’s been playing you for a fool from day one?’ she went on, pausing only to re-attach her sunglasses. ‘Have you ever wondered why he only started returning your phone calls after your wife died?’

  ‘You leave Cassie out of this,’ croaked Joe.

  ‘On the contrary, I think you’ll find she has everything to do with this.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Oh, i’ll let you figure it out. Call it a goodbye puzzle from me to you,’ she said, flashing him an evil smile as she stepped back to let the doors ping shut.

  Joe couldn’t breathe. Christine’s parting shot was smothering him, suffocating him, cutting off his airway. He clutched at his throat in a panic.

  ‘Joe! Are you alright?’ cried Polly, watching him in alarm.

  ‘I’m fine, I’m fine,’ he gasped, ‘but it appears my sister-in law prizes her insults more than her antiques. I presume you’ve heard about Michael?’

  Polly nodded numbly. ‘Everyone’s devastated. There’s talk of a silent protest.’

  ‘A Sound Mixer’s worst nightmare, I believe it ranks up there with flight paths.’ He managed a weak smile.

  ‘Do you think Michael found out about Maisie? Do you think that’s why he left?’

  ‘I’m not sure, sweetheart. Listen, is Rachel still downstairs?’

  Polly nodded. ‘She’s been holed up inside the hotel’s general manager’s office for ages convincing him not to throw us out.’

  ‘Little wonder. The place was totaled.’

  ‘For a man who doesn’t like his birthday, you sure know how to party. And so does everyone else apparently. The list of walking wounded is long and extensive. Fiona and Sally are convinced they have alcohol poisoning, though I suspect it’s more of an excuse to call on our dishy unit male nurse for a shot of Vitamin B12. Oh, and Simon had another punch-up with Richard over Charlene. They’re both sporting broken teeth. Khalil’s spent the last hour phoning round emergency dentists.’

  Joe’s stomach started growling. He needed to soak up some of that vodka.

  ‘Fancy a bite to eat?’ he asked her. ‘It’s nearly lunchtime and I’m famished.’

  Polly considered it for a split-second, then smiled. Nevermind those three bowls of cereal and two bacon sarnies that she had already consumed that morning. Joe De Vries was worth the calorie overload any day of the week.

  The pair was still huddled over steaming bowls of couscous and lamenting Michael’s departure when Stephen returned to the hotel. Striding into the courtyard with more of a John Wayne swagger than usual, the director clocked his brother by the pool and moseyed on over.

  Joe watched him approach and felt his fingers reaching for the bread knife. Stephen didn’t look remotely upset that his Executive Producer had just abandoned them mid-shoot. Judging from the merrily stained cheeks and glittering blue eyes, Joe wouldn’t be at all surprised if he had been toasting Michael’s demise with a bottle of some immeasurably expensive vino.

  ‘Crack open the Dom P,’ bragged Stephen, thumping his hand down triumphantly on their table. ‘Yankie doodle dandie’s fucked off back to la la land!’

  Joe lowered his eyes and glowered into his couscous. ‘I take it you’re referring to Michael?’

  ‘Indeed I am. What the hell are you looking so pissy about? You should be polishing my shoes with gratitude. I’ve just saved you another two months of refereeing Michael and Vincent’s money squabbles.’

  ‘And Christine?’ said Joe tonelessly. ‘Are you going to crow about her departure as well?’

  Stephen’s scowl loosened. ‘Ah yes…I’d forgotten all about that unexpected little bonus.’

  To Polly’s indignation, he then proceeded to sit down at the table and hoover up all of her remaining couscous. Not content with robbing her of her film school idolisations, the bloody bastard was now pilfering her lunch! Across the table, Joe sat bracing himself for the killer pounce. It was only a matter of time before the truth came out, but it was a bit like waiting to learn your fate in a round of redundancies, the sort where only the boss and his crooked business partners were invulnerable.

  ‘Aren’t you going to enlighten us?’ he snapped, unable to take the suspense any longer. ‘I’m sure you’re dying to share the real reason why Michael left.’

  ‘I’d be delighted to,’ said Stephen, grinning as he loaded up another forkful. Smacking his lips together, he sat back in his chair and sighed happily. ‘Maisie caught Michael and Christine in bed together this morning.’

  There was a horrified pause.

  ‘Bullshit.’ spluttered Joe.

  ‘No way.’ gasped Polly.

  Stephen smirked and scrolled through the photos on his phone. ‘They’ve turned out rather well, even if I do say so myself,’ he purred, clicking on one and sliding the phone across the table to Joe. ‘I’m thinking of having this enlarged and mounted next to my BAFTAs. There are seventeen in total. Do take your time.’

  Joe took the phone and steeled himself.

  He recognised Michael’s perfect profile instantly. It was nestled between the curves of a woman’s naked breasts, but there was no way in hell they belonged to Maisie. Her 32DDs had been splashed across movie theatre screens so often it would be a miracle if anyone didn’t recognise them. The woman’s face was partially obscured by her blonde hair but there was no mistaking the smooth arc of that surgically enhanced cheekbone.

  Sickened, he threw his phone back at Stephen. ‘How the hell did you get these?’

  ‘I happened to be passing with my iPhone when Maisie made her little discovery,’ replied Stephen blithely. ‘I thought it might be advantageous to take a couple of snaps. Help speed up divorce proceedings and all that.’

  Joe tossed his napkin away and stood up to leave.

  ‘But you can’t go, you haven’t heard the best part,’ gloated Stephen, clamping his hand on his arm. ‘I, for one, am thrilled to announce that Michael Wilson will no longer be Executive Producing on A Desert Affair, or any other GBA film for that matter.’

  This was the news that Joe had been dreading. The ‘Killed in Action’ telegram he had been sweeping under the linen tablecloth all lunchtime.

  ‘You can’t be serious.’

  ‘Indeed I am,’ chuckled Stephen. ‘He informed me of his resignation first thing this morning, and who was I to contest? I did catch him in bed with my wife after all…’

  ‘Well you don’t need to look so smug about it,’ snarled Joe, ripping his arm away.

  ‘Besides, he can always go and get another job at Global,’ chirped up Polly, swiping back her fork in her own little act of defiance. ‘His father does own the studios after all.’

  Stephen shot her a withering look. ‘Not this time you silly girl. After I informed Mr Wilson of his beloved son’s shameful behavior, he was none too impressed. However, the real ‘piece de resistance’ came when he learnt of Michael’s secret production company. Seems those Italian-Americans aren’t too hot on the family betrayal thing.’ What a marvelous slip of the tongue by Gemma that had been, reflected Stephen, draining Joe’s sauvignon and relishing his stunned silence twice as much. Once Maisie had left the set on Friday night, he had sought out a quick fuck with her ever accommodating, soon to be ex Hair Stylist. With Gemma’s tongue loosened from three vag-tastic orgasms, all sorts of in
teresting little pillow talk delicacies had fallen his way.

  ‘Well good luck to him and his new company,’ said Polly, not quite grasping the implications. ‘He’s more than talented enough to make a go of it.’

  Stephen shot her down in a trice.

  ‘Oh, keep out it! Walt’s so distraught by his son’s treachery that’s he’s disowning him completely. Without Walt’s backing in Hollywood, he’s more likely to win the lottery than make movies again. Michael Wilson, my dear, is totally fucked!’

  Polly gazed at him in horror. Poor, poor Michael, she thought dimly, as Joe finally stormed out of the courtyard. In the space of a truly catastrophic twenty-four hours, their divine Executive Producer had lost the love of his life, a job he adored, his family and his reputation.

  Chapter Twenty

  Whilst Stephen was employing some serious shock and awe tactics and pinching Polly’s couscous, Michael was 33,000 feet high but feeling twice as low. Much to the consternation of his neighbor, he kept punching his armrest in his frustration and jogging her elbow, which in turn kept shunting the book out of her hand and sloshing her Bloody Mary. Any minute now Dan Brown’s noble scholar was going to have to quit tearing up the streets of Rome and navigate his way out of a vodka and tomato juice-filled seat pocket instead. Without thinking, he lashed out again and felt hot tears of shame coursing down his cheeks.

  ‘Excuse me, do you mind?’ A pair of reading glasses perched on top of a ruddy nose swiveled round to glare at him. Michael glared back with equal intensity and ‘glasses’ quickly retreated. Grabbing the in-flight magazine, he flicked mindlessly through the pages but it was the same one as before and he had no desire to read about cockroach copulation and lairy camels again.

  ‘We’ll be landing in Los Angeles in one hour, Mr Wilson, would you like a final drink before we start our descent?’ asked the flight attendant.

  He thrust his empty whiskey glass at her. ‘Double please.’

  ‘Certainly Sir.’

  Having already demolished three quarters of the bottle, he wasn’t planning on quitting yet, not this side of summer anyhow. In fact, Michael was on a one-man mission to completely obliterate the last twenty-four hours, at least until his bleeding heart started to clot.

  Whilst the flight attendant fiddled around with the icebox lid, he caught a whiff of her scent. Someone’s been taking advantage of the duty free, he reflected idly, then paled as a terrible, booze-soaked image flashed before his eyes.

  Clarins

  Christine’s favourite.

  The unfamiliar body draped across his. No wait, stop, think of camels.

  The heavy, naked breasts with their subtle surgical scar. Cockroaches, cockroaches. Must drink faster.

  The condoms on the bedside table. Oh shit.

  Next thing he knew, he was up and out of his seat and sprinting after the flight attendant. Seizing the bottle of whiskey he ripped off the lid and took a monumental swig.

  ‘Sir, SIR stop!’ protested the young girl. ‘I really must insist.’

  Fortunately most of the cabin was far too preoccupied with a steamy sex scene unfolding on their micro-screens to take any notice. Slinking back to his seat, Michael started plotting a barhopping crawl up and down Sunset Boulevard. No, not Sunset, he revised quickly, that was where he met Maisie and that hurt was too raw. Venice? No again, too many dippy hippies. Screw it, he may as well start at the airport hotel bars and work north. He would end up back in Hollywood eventually. Just so long as the bars were dark and dingy enough to conceal his black eye. Maisie had imparted a few hefty blows on him this morning. It was no less than he deserved but he wished to god he hadn’t helped her land a role in that boxing movie last year. All those months of intensive fight training had delivered some serious damage to his face and his ego.

  Shivering with misery, he requested his jacket back from the First Class locker. It was delivered with a flourish, without a single crease, but with a square-shaped lump ruining the line of the lapel. Frowning, he reached into the inside pocket and pulled out a small grey jewellery box. His resulting groan was so loud and anguished, it matched those coming from the headsets all around him. He may as well flog the diamond on eBay. There was no way Maisie would marry him now.

  Once they landed, he stormed through LAX’s International arrivals terminal and promptly got stuck into the limo’s minibar, but when they hit the 101 Freeway he pulled out his phone. He may as well fess up to his Pa now before the papers got wind of it.

  After ten rings the call went to voicemail. That’s odd, thought Michael, frowning. His father was so keen to keep abreast of industry developments, he was known to carry three identikit cell phones with him at all times.

  He tried again.

  Still no reply.

  Next, he called his father’s PA. She answered on the first ring with a voice chillier than the bottle of champagne he was swigging from.

  ‘Michael. I was expecting your call.’

  ‘Good afternoon, Selena. I trust you’re well.’

  Selena Madders was a forty-year-old tyrant in black slacks and statement necklaces whose frigid conduct had reduced many a bolshie young Director to a cowering wreck. She had steered Walt Wilson’s ship with brisk efficiency for over fifteen years now, a World Record in Hollywood PA terms where a First Year Anniversary is usually marked with a Purple Heart, and was both feared and revered throughout the industry. Michael held a grudging admiration for her but kept his distance.

  Selena seemed disinclined to comment on his pleasantries so he quickly moved on.

  ‘I’m trying to reach my father and I’m shit outta luck. Is he having cell trouble?’

  ‘All three phones are working perfectly well Michael, but I’m afraid it’s not possible to speak to him.’

  ‘Why, is he away?’ Michael was surprised. His father hated taking any time off, especially during the all-important Summer Box Office period. Come to think of it, his father hated taking time off during festival season, award season and any other season for that matter.

  ‘Not as far as I’m aware.’

  ‘Then why can’t I speak to him?’

  ‘Because, Michael, he heard about your dirty little exploits in Morocco and isn’t in the best of moods!’ It came out sharper than intended, but Selena wasn’t in the best of moods either. She had planned to spend her day off presiding over her local Jane Austen book club and had been relishing the thought of savaging the sycophantic dullard, Fanny Price, all week. Instead, she was now stuck at Global, clearing out Michael’s office.

  Michael hesitated. Stephen had stuck the boot in already. He shouldn’t have expected anything less.

  ‘It was a stupid mistake, Selena,’ he said quickly. ‘Besides, my father’s a fine one to talk. I gather the latest waitress was on late night TV last week to promote another tell-all paperback about him. Weekends with Walt, is it?’

  Selena made a hissing sound like an outraged cat. ‘That’s completely uncalled for!’

  ‘Fine. I’ll drive over to Bel Air myself and thrash this out face-face.’

  ‘I really wouldn’t if I were you.’

  Something in her voice made him pause.

  ‘Look Michael, Walt doesn’t care who you screw. He’s far more pissed about your new production company, not to mention the fact that he had to hear about it from that rotten rascal, De Vries.’

  Michael closed his eyes in horror. His father valued family loyalty above everything else. Hearing that his only son had been making business plans behind his back would have been crushing. But how the hell had Stephen found out? The champagne bottle slipped from his grasp. There was really only one culprit, even though it ripped his soul apart to admit it.

  Maisie.

  Hell-bent on reprisal, she must have gone straight to Stephen and shouted her pretty little mouth off.

  In the meantime, Selena had stopped drumming her nails against his empty desk and was feeling rather sorry for him. She wasn’t prone to dropping her Queen Bi
tch act for anyone, but Walt had been so incandescent with rage, she doubted father and son would be trading baseball scores for a while.

  ‘Michael, the best thing you can do is to lie low for a while. You know what a stubborn hothead your father is. He’s still blackballing some actor for not taking his call thirty-four years ago. He needs time to cool off.’

  ‘I don’t have thirty-four years Selena,’ said Michael bleakly. ‘For what it’s worth, tell him I was always planning to talk to him about it.’

  ‘I’ll try, but I doubt it will do much good.’

  Christ, he hated her sometimes, almost as much as he hated himself.

  ‘I’ll have your files and boxes sent over to your place first thing tomorrow,’ she added brusquely. ‘In the meantime, I don’t have to remind you that any scripts in the process of development must be returned to Global immediately.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Michael weakly. He knew Studio Policy better than anyone.

  Hanging up, he put his head in his hands and groaned. He was going to have to relinquish his fabulous, fabulous script. For some reason, that final, savage kick to the nuts hurt him most of all.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The last few weeks of production were so catastrophic that the cast and crew on A Desert Affair had little time to dwell on Michael’s absence. On Monday, a small fire had broken out on the main stage destroying a pivotal set. Rachel and Polly had spent the rest of the week holed up in the production office, pleading with freelance Set Decorators and Painters to fly out at the last minute and repair the damage.

  Just as that crisis abated, their lead actor, in a fit of drunken lunacy, made a series of calls to the most salacious tabloid editors in London, outing himself in ways only Oscar Wilde could have dreamt of. With weepy pictures of his beautiful, cuckolded ex-girlfriend splashed across the front pages, the international press had descended on the small desert town of Erizo to catch an exclusive first glimpse of Zach and his rumoured new lover.

  To cope with the press invasion, in his typical penny-pinching style, Vincent had promoted all runners, drivers, nannies and general hangers-on to Set Security duties, but they were soon outfoxed and outnumbered by the wily paparazzi. In an appalling twist of fate, their Unit Publicist Janice had also selected that week to host her VIP press interviews in the build-up to the film’s marketing campaign. The poor woman was now having her work cut out steering questions away from the touchy subject of their lead actor’s sexual persuasion.