by Cate Andrews
‘What the bloody hell’s going on?’ he demanded.
At first, Joe was so angry he couldn’t speak
‘How dare you Stephen, how fucking dare you!’
Several drunken stragglers, including two member of the props department heavy petting underneath the giant pink Begonia bush, looked over with interest. At the same time, Stephen felt the sibling balance of power tilt alarmingly in Joe’s favour.
‘I suggest you wind it in and have another drink, preferably orange juice,’ he snapped, turning to leave, but a heavy hand clamped down on his shoulder.
‘You couldn’t help yourself, could you?’ growled Joe, spinning him back round. ‘You ruined my marriage you bastard, you fucking destroyed us!’
A shocked silence descended over the patio and one-hit wonders Survivor were magnanimously silenced on the hi-fi. What a shame, thought Joe idly. It would have been rather fitting to punch his brother’s lights out to the theme from Rocky 4.
Meanwhile, Stephen was gaping at him in astonishment.
‘What the fuck are you on about?’ he spluttered, then flinched as Joe hurled a piece of paper in his face. It landed on the waterlogged patio slab between them.
‘Cut the crap, Stephen.’ Joe’s voice was like battery acid to a paint job. ‘This is her suicide note! Not even your crooked PR team can wriggle you out of this one.’
By now, the costume department could have dropped a pincushion and the hotel staff would have cited noise pollution. Something major was going down and Gemma wasn’t the only crewmember slyly filming the whole thing on her iPhone.
‘Pick the letter up, Stephen.’
In a daze, the director bent down and turned it over in his hand. His face paled. It couldn’t be, he thought, panic rising up from the pit of his stomach and scorching his insides. Oh god, it was, it was…
He glanced up then as Joe’s right fist smashed into his face, obliterating his cheekbone and putting paid to any thoughts of an appearance at his premiere. Next, his brother’s fist connected with his nose, breaking it in two places and causing untold, mind-jolting agony. Reeling backwards, Stephen staggered into the nearest sun-lounger and collapsed onto his knees.
‘After all I’ve done for you,’ screamed Joe, towering over him. ‘After. Every. Single. Fucking. Thing.’
‘Wait Joe, I can explain…’ He cringed as he heard himself; weedy, needling and pathetic. Names he regularly used to describe his brother.
‘Save it for your fans, Stephen. Save it for fooling them into thinking you’re a decent guy. I, for one, have had enough of the lie.’
And with his third punch, he knocked his brother out cold.
Not one for recriminations, no matter how justified, Joe bolted from the scene immediately. He left behind nothing more than a few lackadaisical calls for help. With crew handsets already occupied with calls of a more salacious intent, it fell upon Polly’s friend, Lucy, the only true journalist among them, to come to Stephen’s aid. She was just confirming with Khalil which prefix to use to dial the local doctor when she spotted Polly over by the BBQ.
‘Polly!’ she cried, rushing over to her. ‘Are you ok, you look like death?’
‘Not really,’ she said, glassy-eyed and trembling, ‘everything was going great until the letter turned up, then it all fell apart like over-cooked ham. I must go after him…’
‘Polly, love, you’re in bits. Come and sit down.’
‘I think it’s to do with Cassie,’ she whispered, ‘but how would Stephen’s wife know anything? And why would it come out now?’
‘You’re not making any sense. No stay here,’ commanded Lucy, plonking her down on a spare sun lounger. ‘You’re not going anywhere until I’ve pumped you full of brandy.’
Back upstairs, Joe was flipping drawers like they were pancakes and hurling belongings into his suitcase. He was in such a state he didn’t even notice Lily slipping into his room.
‘Joe, stop,’ she pleaded softly.
He whirled round in a rage. ‘What the hell are doing here? Get out!’
Despite his Dr Hyde transformation, she stood her ground.
‘I’m not here to pass judgment,’ she stammered, ‘I only came to see if you were ok.’
Joe turned back to his suitcase and started balling up pairs of socks and stuffing them into his spare Converse.
She tried again. ‘Talk to me Joe, I might be able to help.’
He gave a bark of twisted laughter. ‘I truly doubt it Lily. Not unless you have the ability to turn back the clock, deter my brother from having an affair with my wife and then talk her out of slitting her wrists after he dumps her.’
Lily took a step back in shock. ‘Oh my god, you can’t be serious?’
‘Oh, i’m serious Lily, I’m deadly fucking serious. I’ve spent six years wondering why she never left me a suicide note, six years of picking over every little detail in our marriage, trying to justify her reasons for condemning me to a lifetime of heart-break purgatory. Then, thirty minutes ago, one rocks up courtesy of Christine’s conscience and FedEx. Fuck knows how she got her bloody hands on it…’ All of a sudden three months of no sleep, a bloodstream pumping with beer and the turmoil of tonight hit him like diabetic sugar crash. His legs gave out and he slithered to the floor in a crumpled heap. How could Cassie have done this to him? His beautiful, beautiful Cassie?
‘It was all a lie Lily,’ he gasped, ‘my marriage. It was nothing more than a sham.’ He put his head in his hands. ‘How could I not have known?’
‘Oh Joe…’ Lily reached for him but he shrank away. Crawling blindly towards the bed, he managed to drag himself onto the counterpane. His life was falling apart all over again. Even those wonderful moments with Polly earlier seemed so polluted. How could he profess to love her if his heart was bleeding to death over someone else?
‘Do something for me, Lily,’ he said bleakly, as he stuffed the last of his dirty laundry into the suitcase. ‘Tell Polly i’m sorry…Sorry for not having the guts to say goodbye.’
He sounded so crushed that Lily’s eyes filled with tears.
‘But where will you go?’
‘God knows. I just need to get as far away from here as possible.’
Chapter Twenty-Five
Polly stared blankly at the airport departures board. She was finally on her way home but she had never felt less like celebrating. Even her red party dress looked miserable about it. The fabric was smeared with make-up and tears and, despite a hastily applied safety pin, the zip was busted beyond repair; a consequence of a passionate encounter that now seemed almost unreal.
In the last eight hours she must have gone through every kind of shock, with three words repeating over and over in her head like some perverse Buddha mantra. The more she thought them the more miserable she felt.
Gone. Joe’s gone.
All those months of hoping, wishing, dreaming.
Gone.
A few metres away, Lucy was pretending to read a Hot! Hot! Hot! article about Christine LaVelle’s latest admittance to rehab but she couldn’t stop reliving last night’s events either. Polly had said very little since Lily tapped on her door late last night to finally reveal the contents of that terrible letter. Her face told a different story.
Through the glass into the first class lounge, Lucy could see Maisie fussing over Stephen, demanding cold compresses from the star-struck airport staff. He’s not remorseful in the slightest, she thought angrily, watching as he used his one unbruised eye to wink at a stick thin model when Maisie’s back was turned. Joe had been far too restrained. If it were her brother who had screwed her husband and caused all that mayhem, she’d have snapped his bloody neck.
‘How is she?’ whispered Lily, plonking herself down next to Lucy and pulling a grizzly Lucas onto her knee. ‘Hush darling, we’ll find you some breakfast in a minute. Sorry, he’s not usually like this but my nanny’s vanished. I wouldn’t normally mind but she’s run off with our Coco Pops as well.’
‘What a cow!’ Lucy reached into her bag and pulled out a squishy, half-melted Double Decker. ‘Polly’s not good,’ she added, once Lucas was happily chomping his way through it. ‘I keep trying to get her to open up but it’s like talking to a brick wall.’
Lily wiped a glob of chocolate off her knee. ‘This flight delay isn’t helping. I’ve just checked with the desk and we should be boarding in twenty minutes.’
‘Thank god. The sooner I get Polly home, the better. Did Joe give you any indication where he was going?’
Lily shook her head. ‘I can’t believe he’s gone. First Michael, then Joe. I hate to think what the next shoot will be like.’
‘A fucking disaster, that’s what,’ said a voice.
Lily clapped her hands over Lucas’ ears and frowned at Rachel who immediately apologized as she parked herself in the hard blue plastic seat opposite.
‘Even so,’ conceded Lily, ‘you might have a point.’
‘It’s more than a point; it’s game set and match to our evil bosses. But I, for one, have no intention of heading up the salvage team this time around.’
‘Oh no, no, no,’ gasped Lily, turning white. ‘You can’t quit too!’
‘I can and I will. I almost feel sorry for Gillian. She might actually have to get off her backside and do some work for once.’
‘But you can’t leave!’ hissed Lucy. ‘What about Polly? She can’t carry that crazy office on her own!’
‘I’m sorry, I really am, I like Polly but I’ve been putting this decision off for far too long. I know its crap timing but, if I stay here, I run the risk of making even more of a mess out of my life than I already have. I’ve spent years looking after cast and crew. I think it’s high time, no pun intended, that I spend the next year looking after me.’
‘Perhaps the extra workload will take Polly’s mind off things,’ said Lily doubtfully, searching for the good in the situation. ‘What will you do, Rachel? Find work with another production company?’
‘Oh I doubt it, not after word gets out about my forthcoming stint as Christine LaVelle’s neighbor,’ she said dryly, pointing to Lucy’s magazine article. ‘Besides, Vincent and Stephen will see to it that I don’t work in this industry again. The only option is a complete career change.’
Dispatching Maisie to find him another ice pack, Stephen was back eyeing up his model again. This time she was returning his advances with a suggestive lick of her lippy and a hasty ascension of her hemline. Somewhat of lingerie connoisseur, Stephen instantly recognised the brand of skimpy black underwear. He blew her a kiss and she flicked her hair at him provocatively. Even a black eye and a broken nose didn’t detract from Stephen De Vries’ celebrity status, or rather the opportunity for some red carpet exposure, at least until he got bored with her. The model wasn’t that stupid, she knew the rules.
Stephen was about to offer her some champagne when the arrival of Vincent effectively put the kibosh on any potential pre-takeoff nookie.
‘Found another ice pack for you,’ announced the producer, chucking a bag of mini frozen airline puddings on Stephen’s erection. ‘Probably too late to do any good but at least those shiners will match your tux this week. Who knew your loser brother had it in him, eh?’ Sniggering to himself, Vincent bent over to grab something from his laptop bag.
You fat fucker, thought Stephen furiously. He was about to move seats to resume flirtations when Vincent tossed a script on top of the eighteen mini gateaux.
‘For god’s sake, watch where you throw that thing!’ screeched Stephen. ‘What the hell is it anyway?
‘What does it look like?’
‘I dunno. ‘Noddy does Big Ears’?’
Vincent smirked. ‘Let’s just call it a get well present from Walt Wilson.’
‘Another First Look Picture Deal? You do realise our contract expires soon?’
‘No, but I guarantee it’ll still make you smile, despite your broken nose.’
‘Oh get on it with Jack-a-Snory! I need a piss.’
‘Shut up and listen then. After Wilson was officially tossed forthwith from the family business, he was ordered to hand over every Global script in development and this,’ he said, waving a podgy finger at the script in Stephen’s lap, ‘happened to be his numero uno favourito, so much so that he’d already written pages and pages of extensive notes on it.’
‘What’s it got to do with us?’
‘Walt’s decided to pass it on to us as a gesture of goodwill. An apology for catching his son shafting your wife up the jacksie, if you like.’
Stephen grinned. Their plan had worked to perfection.
‘Is it any good?’ he asked, suddenly curious.
Vincent nodded, for once dispensing with the bullshit. ‘Michael’s a wretched little wanker but he couldn’t half spot a decent script. There is one drawback however, but hear me out before you go turning it into a raging bonfire. It’s a bit of a thinking man’s wank and the budget won’t be nearly as big as we’re…’ But that was as far as Vincent got before the pages went sailing over his shoulder and struck an elderly gentleman sitting behind, right between his Romanian Times headlines.
‘I told you to hear me out!’ roared Vincent, waddling off to retrieve the script. ‘This might just be the film that earns us a spot on that Oscar podium, and your fourth nomination for Best Director. Everyone knows all the greats win fourth time around anyway. ‘Spielberg, David Lean…’
Stephen snatched the script back immediately.
‘What’s this crap called then?’
‘Love letters from Timbuktu, or something. Don’t ask me stupid questions. I couldn’t give a fuck as long as it makes me money.’
‘So, what’s so Oscar-worthy about it then?’ Stephen prodded the tatty script suspiciously. It didn’t even have a front cover.
‘It’s got more drama than a sixth form common room. Better still, there’s a filthy sex scene on page 45 that’ll require lots of imaginative camera shots. So, now are you interested?’ he asked Stephen, slyly.
The director shrugged. ‘Perhaps. I suppose I better read it first and then decide.’
Vincent fought the urge to punch him in the face. Stephen liked to keep up the pretense that he arrived at his own conclusions, but they both knew he was more turned on by this project than the skinny model opposite flashing her knickers.
Stephen yanked his producer to one side as they exited Heathrow’s arrivals’ hall later that day.
‘Do you speak Romanian, Vincent?’ he enquired lightly.
‘No point. I find ‘Fuck Off’ is universal in any language.’
‘Then may I suggest you think about expanding your repertoire?’
Vincent opened his mouth then shut it again. ‘Are you saying what I think you’re saying?’
Stephen nodded and grinned roguishly beneath the cruel, fluorescent airport lights. ‘You were right, it really is quite the page-turner. In fact, as soon as Desert is edited and this turgid crap’s green lit, then you and I, my friend, are first-class bound for Eastern Europe.’
Chapter Twenty-Six
Dmitri Popescu gave a shudder and clasped his miserably inadequate head doorman uniform tighter to his chest. A bitter autumnal wind was howling across the main square in Bucharest and mauling everything in its path, from half-frozen doormen to the immaculate window boxes and streak-free windows of the Five Star Irina Hotel behind him.
Clamping a cigarette between his teeth, he was just sparking up when a group of noisy foreigners exited the establishment, blasting out more hot air from their mouths than the gaps in the swivel door. Like a sagging sunflower, Dmitri radiated towards the warmth. To hell with his stuffy supervisor’s insistence that all doormen should position themselves precisely equidistant from the taxi stand and the hotel, he wasn’t the poor bastard stood outside with hypothermia nibbling at his toes.
From her bedroom window fifteen floors above, Polly watched the Camera Department slink off into the night like a pack of hungry wolves. As they r
ounded the corner by the Tabac that served her a piping hot coffee at 5am every morning, her eyes fell upon the frozen doorman again. Unaware of her scrutiny, he continued to stamp the arctic out of his feet and snarl abuse at a couple of child beggars loitering close-by.
Continuing her casual surveillance, more out of boredom than a hankering to be some Hitchcock movie character, Polly watched as a yellow taxicab pulled up to the hotel. The doorman shot forward and a tall girl with long, platinum blonde hair emerged wearing five-inch stilettos and a very short, silver-grey trench coat buckled tightly at the waist. It was the sort of garment that made you question the decency of the clothes underneath, or rather lack of them. The girl was a walking advertisement for hired sex, from her steel-tipped stiletto heels glinting in the streetlight, right the way up to the dull sheen of her heavyweight make-up. She must be Stephen’s entertainment arriving for the evening. Ever since Maisie had jetted back to the states for an Oprah Exclusive last week, he had been testing out his hotel mattress springs with a string of similar dyed-haired, red light companions.
As Polly watched, the prostitute rudely pushed past the doorman without so much as a ‘multumesc’. Polly immediately found herself hoping that she and Stephen gave each other crabs. Her contempt was then re-directed at the room service menu. She was sick to death of burgers and fries, or ham and egg and fries or the yucky, desiccated club sandwich with the ever-present side order of fries. For some reason a simple green salad, or any kind of salad, didn’t appear to exist this side of Europe. Polly daren’t look in the mirror. Long shooting hours, coupled with a bad diet, had given her a paunch like Santa Claus and more spots than a Dalmatian’s pelt.
Placing an order with the kitchen staff (sausage, bacon and fries) she lay down on the bed and closed her eyes. There was no point sugarcoating, or rather potato-coating it. The last few months had been hell. There was the agonising loss of Joe, then Rachel, then the fallout of the disastrous pre-release reviews of A Desert Affair that had turned Stephen and Vincent into complete despots. For the first time in GBA’s history, they were facing a very real downward turn in their box office fortunes, and industry journalists smelling a bloody, Gigli-style mega flop were already beginning to circle. Only this morning, Stephen had stormed off set after a naughty crewmember had left a very uncomplimentary article about him on his director’s chair. It had included a number of damning quotes from several disgruntled ex-employees, only too happy to add their two-penny’s worth now that his stranglehold over the industry was showing every sign of loosening.
