by Cate Andrews
Fed-up with having a camera shoved in her face every time she stepped outside the production office door, Polly was just devising ways of escaping undetected when Rachel appeared in the doorway brandishing two mugs.
‘You lifesaver,’ sighed Polly, taking one and slurping noisily. There was something illogically refreshing about drinking piping hot mint tea when it was fifty degrees outside. ‘I’ve just had a thought. Shall I bung the hair department a few quid for that Pamela Anderson wig? She’s so passé these days the press wouldn’t flutter an eyelid.’
‘I think Gemma’s beaten you to it.’
‘Non-gentlemen prefer blondes,’ muttered Polly, under her breath. They weren’t the only ones who had caught the voluptuous Hair Stylist humping away behind the generator this week but only Polly had recognised the pale fuzzy bottom grinding into her.
‘By the way,’ said Rachel, as she stuffed paper into the printer tray, ‘another of Janice’s journalists just arrived. She needs taking down to set.’
Polly groaned. The last time she ventured outside she had been the unwilling beneficiary of two squished toes and a sharp jab in the kidneys. ‘And to think I gave you my last custard cream!’
‘I’ll do it if you want but she says she’s friend of yours.’
‘But I don’t know any journalists…’ Polly’s voice trailed off when she spotted a familiar blonde with pixie-like features grinning at her from the doorway. The blonde tutted at her indignantly.
‘Thanks a bunch Pollyanna. Remind me to disown you next time we’re in the desert!’
‘LUCY!’
Polly jumped up and threw her arms around her friend in delight.
‘What are you doing here? Why didn’t you tell me you were coming? Don’t tell me your parents actually advanced you a decade worth of birthday money? ’
Lucy started giggling. ‘Calm down, you daft woman. I didn’t say anything because I wanted to surprise you.’ She took a step back and her laughter faded. ‘But where’s your tan, Pollyanna? You’re as white as a snowflake!’
Three months in a gloomy Production Office was no better than a spell down the mines. Only a sprinkling of freckles betrayed the fact that Polly had been toiling away in Africa all summer and not the crap end of Slough. It also appeared some wicked crew member had put her best friend in a hot wash on repeat. Her shorts were hanging off her tiny frame.
‘Come on, Lucy, out with it. What’s the story? What are you really doing here?’
‘Like you’re colleague said, I’m ‘another journalist’.’
‘Oh?’ Polly turned to Rachel then realised her faux pas. ‘Sorry guys, Rachel, this is Lucy, Lucy, Rachel.’
‘Nice to meet you,’ said Rachel, leaning over to shake her hand.
‘Umm likewise.’ Lucy regarded her thoughtfully.
‘Lucy works for our home town newspaper,’ explained Polly. ‘But I thought you were stuck on village events and things?’
‘I was, but my Editor Phil was so impressed with my embellishment skills on my May Day piece that I got promoted. One of your actors, Charlie Cassidy, also happens to have a fourth home in our part of the world so I persuaded Phil to fiddle the books and fly me out for an interview. Phil’s a closet gay with a mega crush on Zach so I promised I’d put in a good word.’
‘That’s amazing! How long are you out here for?’
‘Only a day or two but I can probably string it out for a bit longer if Phil thinks he’s in with a chance.’
‘But that means you might be here for the wrap party on Saturday!’ Polly was puce with excitement.
‘I will if you don’t spontaneously combust on me. Seriously Pol, you look like my Nan every time Bruce Forsythe appears on the TV.’
‘Why don’t you take Lucy down to set?’ suggested Rachel gently. ‘It sounds like you two have a lot of catching up to do.’
‘Your mum’s on the war path,’ warned Lucy, as they sped off in a hail of camera clicks. ‘She hasn’t heard from you in six weeks. Oh, and the flat’s got a new leak, and my car’s finally choked. Wow, that’s impressive,’ she added, gazing up at a fortress spanning the length and breadth of the back lot. ‘I bet that doesn’t require a load of saucepans when the heaven’s open.’
‘I beg to differ, it doesn’t actually have a roof.’
‘Ah. Best stick to our leaky flat then. So what’s been going on out here?’ she asked, removing her Gucci knock-offs and peering at Polly beadily.
Polly shook her head. ‘Where do I start?’
‘You can start by telling me how you managed to lose half your body weight.’
‘Have I? How wonderful!’
‘Not wonderful at all, you’re too skinny, and I nearly died when I got your ONE email. You sounded more miserable than Morrissey.’
‘I’ve made a few silly mistakes,’ admitted Polly, ‘and not all of them are work-related…’
‘Oh?’
‘Hey gorgeous, what cha doing all the way out here?’ called out a voice suddenly. Polly slammed on the brakes and the golf buggy pirouetted gracefully across the loose gravel. Whipping off her sunglasses again, Lucy watched, open-mouthed, as a gorgeous man with a head of dusky brown curls came striding up to them. He was wearing low-slung blue combat shorts, an enormous black headset, and a white t-shirt which had ridden up to display that fantastically sexy spot that lay just a few inches beneath a man’s waist. Lucy gulped. He had to be an actor. He was too fantastic looking to be anything else.
‘My, my, my, who’s that?’ she breathed. But before Polly could answer, the man was kissing her cheek, and then delving in greedily for a second.
‘This is a nice surprise,’ said Joe beaming at Polly. ‘Vincent doesn’t normally let his minions out before nightfall. Have you locked him in the toilet?’
The idea of Vincent being imprisoned in their fetid production office toilet was a wonderful, yet implausible scenario. The walls were so flimsy you could fart your way to freedom in a matter of seconds.
‘It was the only way,’ said Polly seriously. ‘Do you think anyone will notice?’
‘Only the caterers when they have ten potions of lunch left over. The studio strays will be in doggie-heaven.’ They grinned at each other and Lucy felt the air thick and charged with something indefinable.
‘But now I’m at the mercy of those charming paparazzi instead,’ sighed Polly lightly.
‘The lesser of two evils in my opinion.’
‘Even so,’ she said, looking around. ‘They seem to be conspicuously low in numbers this afternoon.’
‘Zach’s suffering from heat stroke so we’re wrapping him early. We’re just in the middle of re-shuffling the schedule now. Hi, I’m Joe,’ he added, nodding at Lucy.
‘This is Lucy Richards,’ explained Polly quickly. ‘She’s flown out for the cast interviews.’
‘Another journo, huh? So which paper are you from?’
‘Lightbridge Informer,’ announced Lucy proudly, as if any weekend paper enthusiast wouldn’t be seen dead in their local Starbucks without a copy.
‘I see.’ But he didn’t see at all. In fact he’d never even heard of it. He realised both girls were grinning at him.
‘Don’t worry Joe, we don’t expect you to know it,’ teased Polly. ‘Lucy’s a reporter for our local paper.’
‘Local paper, huh?’ Joe reached into his back pocket and pulled out his call sheet. ‘That’s odd…i’m sure I didn’t see any charity walks or cake fares scheduled for today.’
‘Oh, we’re branching out,’ said Lucy airily. ‘They’re strictly page four fodder these days. We hold our front pages for our celebs.’
‘Lightbridge an alias for Belsize Park, then?’
‘Nope, it really is our hometown. Polly’s my flat mate. I also happen to have a closet homosexual editor with a major crush on Zach.’
Joe glanced from girl to girl. Their closeness was unmistakable. ‘So how long have you known each other?’
‘Oh decades,’ said Lucy. ‘
Polly stole my lunchbox on the first day of primary school and we’ve been best mates ever since.’
‘So you’d be the best person to shed some light on her mysterious boyfriend then?’ he asked slyly, ‘the one she never mentions. Tom, isn’t it?’
The question took both girls by surprise.
‘Tom err…?’ Lucy looked confused. ‘Oh yes, sorry Tom, yes umm lovely, handsome Tom. Yeah, they’ve been together for how many years now, Polly?’ Lucy glared at her friend.
‘Three.’
‘Yes three.’
There was an awkward silence.
‘Is everyone so secretive in Lightbridge?’ asked Joe, sounding amused.
Fortunately, the girls were rescued by the sweaty arrival of the Unit Publicist Janice.
‘Excuse me, are you Lucy Richards?’ she panted, fanning her face with her clipboard.
‘I am. I think.’ she said, glaring at Polly again.
‘Great. Welcome to Morocco!’ Janice thrust a press pack into her hands. ‘I gather you’re here for an interview with…?’
‘Charlie Cassidy.’
‘Yes of course.’ Janice perked up considerably when she realised Lucy wasn’t another Zach Roberts interrogator. ‘If you’d like to follow me, I’ll see what we can get organised.’
‘Lovely stuff.’ Lucy climbed out of the buggy and brushed the creases out of her khaki shorts. ‘Give me a call when you’re finished,’ she added to Polly. ‘I think you and I need to have a little chat.’
Polly nodded sheepishly and mouthed a silent thank you.
‘Joe, this is Danny, over.’ The crackle from Joe’s walkie-talkie made them all jump.
‘Danny, this is Joe, go ahead, over.’
‘Zach’s wrapped and is on his way back to unit base and wardrobe, over.’
Janice let out a wail. ‘But he can’t leave yet!’ she cried. ‘Ellis Merton from Hollywood Film has been waiting to see him for hours!’
Joe radioed Danny back immediately. ‘Danny, Joe again, over. Can you nip over to wardrobe and tell Sally to stall Zach? We have a journalist coming over to interview him there, over.’
‘Let’s hope Mr Merton likes wet pants hanging above his head,’ whispered Polly, as Janice belted off with Lucy in tow.
Joe grinned. ‘He used to report serious stuff from Afghanistan so I reckon he’ll take dripping underwear over raining gunfire any day of the week. Listen, I better scoot and sort this schedule out. I’ll see you later, sweetheart.’
‘Ok, see you.’
Polly watched him disappear into his trailer. She couldn’t wait to fly home next Sunday but as soon as they landed at Heathrow the GBA crew would scatter to the wind like dandelion seeds. She wouldn’t see Joe again until the next shoot was up and running which, according to Rachel, would be six months at least.
She knew the odds were stacked against her. She had agonised every night in her bed until sunrise, but even so, she couldn’t help clinging to the possibility that there might be a little love left in his heart that was hers for the taking.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The razor blade made a stinging indentation and the first red droplets rose, like molten lava, to the surface. They clung together to form a single rivulet before slithering off Christine’s wrist and dissolving into the piping hot water below. She lost her nerve then, the razor slipping from her fingers, slicing through the pink-stained bubbles and landing at the bottom of the ceramic tub with a sharp, metallic ping. At the same time her eyes filled with tears. She may as well list ‘suicide’ as another failure in her life, right next to Actress, Wife and All-Round Decent Human Being.
Anxious to retrieve the blade before it slid under her bush and severed parts that didn’t bare thinking about, Christine had a sudden image of her sister-in-law’s funeral. It was a bit of a cheek to call her that. The pair had only met once, under exceptionally strained circumstances, and the almighty mess that she had left behind was, in Christine’s mind, instant grounds for renunciation. Still, if adjectives were pictures then Joe had laid claim to Grief that day, with a full-page spread and a fancy border. She doubted that her own dear, darling husband would feel an infinitesimal fraction of that sorrow if she bled to death in this bathroom. He’d probably dance a jig on my grave and the fucker’s not even Irish, thought Christine fiercely. With her doggie sense of intuition her Chiwowa, Coco, looked up from her basket and gave a yap of agreement.
‘And he’d probably pack you off to the sausage factory,’ she cooed at her. Coco whined and put her head between her paws.
Christine was convinced, right down to the two gastric bands in her stomach, that she and Michael had been the unwitting dupes in some wicked scheme of his. It didn’t make sense. She couldn’t even remember meeting that hot American, let alone screwing him. Unfortunately, right now, her proof was as thin on the ground as Maisie Peach’s talent.
‘Then why are you letting him get away with it?’
Christine looked at Coco in surprise. Was she that loopy these days that even her pets were talking to her?
‘Twenty years ago you would have chopped his bollocks off for treating you like this.’
With a start, she realised that it was her own voice of reason speaking. No wonder she hadn’t recognised it. Decades had passed since their last chinwag.
‘Stop cutting your wrists and cut him down to size instead!’
‘I can’t, he’s too powerful, too strong!’ she shrieked at her Laura Ashley Eau De Nile wallpaper. Coco yapped again in agreement.
‘Then make yourself stronger. He’s the product of you. You gave him the connections, you created the monster. It’s high time you culled the beast.’
But how, she thought in anguish. I can’t do it on my own and I’ve terrorised and bitched at everyone for so long now I only have enemies.
‘Joe would never count you as an enemy. Not if he knew the truth.’
Joe.
Christine put her face in her hands. She had said such terrible things to him in Morocco. The poor man deserved to know the appalling extent of Stephen’s betrayal. As the clouds of self-pity began to part for the first time in years, she knew that time was now.
Leaping out of the bath, with Cookie’s rough tongue lapping at her damp skin, she wrapped a hand towel around her wrist and rushed downstairs. Using blind rage as a battering ram, she had smashed the lock to Stephen’s study and overturned the innards of his desk drawer in a matter of minutes.
By some brutal coincidence, the first items she came across were her marriage certificate and a photograph of her and Stephen on their wedding day. Christine stared down at a woman she hardly knew, wearing diamonds as big as opals and a soppy smile twice as wide, a woman whose confidence in her new husband had belied some pretty serious naivety for a forty-five year old on her fourth marriage.
There’s no fool like a middle-aged fool with dependency issues, she thought savagely, hurling the certificate and photograph at the grate and then dumping half a packet of firelighters on top of it. Taking up the search once more, she soon found what she was looking for: A crumpled envelope, tainted with age and no bigger than her fist.
Collapsing backwards into Stephen’s Art Deco leather club chair, Christine made two phone calls in quick succession. The first was to FedEx, and the second was to the celebrity rehab clinic, Serenity Heights. If she was going to exact the sort of revenge that would make Glenn Close weep with jealousy then she needed to ditch the booze and pills right away.
In the hotel bar that night, Lucy sat gawping at Polly with more than a touch of envy herself. In three shorts months, her friend’s love life had switched from the odd drunken snog in the dingy, beer-soaked corridor of a nightclub to an all-out sex, stress-and-intrigue-fest.
‘So let’s get this straight…You screwed some guy in the middle of the Sahara but you’re secretly lusting after some sex-god who’s hung up on his dead wife, and she’s the one who topped herself in unexplained circumstances six years ago.’ Exhausted,
Lucy took a gulp of her wine. ‘Polly Winters, you’re one big, bloody revelation tonight.’
‘Oh Lucy, I think I’m in love!’
‘In love?’ screeched Lucy. ‘You’re not in love with Joe De Vries, you idiot. You’re in lust!’
But Polly disagreed. Watching Joe walk away this afternoon had made everything so clear to her, like a dirty windscreen wiped clean at a set of traffic lights.
‘I tried to fight it. I even told Rachel I had a boyfriend!’
‘So that’s what Joe was banging on about earlier. Now don’t get me wrong, I don’t mind you dating my brother but I didn’t think goth-metal was your thing.’
‘What do I do? Help me, Lucy, I’m way out of my depth here.’
‘Sit tight. Joe’s bound to hold a torch for his ex-wife, that’s understandable, but she’s in his past and, right now, there’s a big fat, or rather far-too-skinny, vacancy in his future. Goddamn it Polly, he’s so hot - if you don’t have a shot at him, then I will.’
Polly grinned. ‘You wouldn’t dare.’
‘Well maybe not,’ she admitted reluctantly, ‘I might be saving myself for your desert hunk instead. It all sounds very sexy being seduced on top of a sand dune. Bet Lawrence never got away with those types of shenanigans.’ As if on cue, Danny stalked into the bar with the camera team.
Polly tensed. ‘Don’t look now but he’s right behind you.’
What a silly thing to say, she reflected, as Lucy whipped round immediately. It was like proffering up a carrot to a starving donkey and then asking him to politely decline it.
Meanwhile, Lucy was coolly appraising the young Irishman, from the roots of his slicked-back hair, right down to the shell-toes on his trendy trainers. She watched as he turned to blow Polly a kiss.
