by Cate Andrews
With an animalistic roar, he leapt to his feet.‘Bugiardo! You are a liar!’ he cried, banging his fist on the bar counter and sending Chip’s manky peanuts skywards. ‘You told me you no longer work in the industry and now you-a tell me this?? A Film Company? A PRODUCER?? Christine, you ‘ave slain me!’ This revelation had wounded him more deeply than a hundred years of abortive nature filmmaking.
‘Benito darling, stop!’ she pleaded with him, wiping beer off her sleeve.
‘I will never return, NEVER!’ he screamed, his eyes all a-blaze. ‘I swore on my Mama’s life I would never set-a foot on another slime-infested film set again. My talent is too special, too precious to a-waste on the likes of them.’
‘But it’s not what you think…’
‘You ok ma’am?’ butted in Chip, nervously. He was clutching his drinks tray to his chest like a shield.
‘Fine thanks,’ she lied brightly, ever the lady. Benito just glared at him.
Finally, after a great deal of outraged harrumphing he sat back down again.
‘What was all zat you said about you no working and livin’ in ze wildernez then?’ he asked her, grumpily. ‘You made me think you ‘ad quit!’
‘It was more forced than voluntary. Everything was looking rather bleak until the day dear Joe came to visit ….’
‘Who is zis, Joe?’ demanded Benito instantly, looking thunderous again.
Christine smiled. ‘My brother-in-law. Well, technically, soon to be ex brother-in-law. Stephen and I split up. Joe came to me two months ago seeking funding for a script, not a sugar mummy.’
‘iz good, zis script?’
‘Yes it is,’ breathed Christine, eyes sparkling.
‘Then why not take it to your ex ‘usband? He iz the genius, no? If it’s as good as you say, surely ‘e should be directing zis, zis masterpiece?’
Christine’s lips pursed with anger. ‘Because, quite frankly Benito, the bloody bastard doesn’t deserve it! He’s broken every marriage vow going, as well as a few more I’m pretty sure weren’t even included.’
The big Italian regarded her thoughtfully.
‘Amore mio,’ he began gently, ‘I admire your spirit but I’m afraid I cannot ‘elp. I ‘ate ze industry and everyzing it represents; ze idiot directors, ze pompous producers, ze bastard critics…’
‘Won’t you at least read the script? For me?’
‘What is the point?’ he shrugged. ‘It would ‘ave to capture my ‘eart like…like…’ Like you, cara, he finished privately.
Christine looked crestfallen. ‘Right. I see. Well, if you have a change of heart, I’m staying at the Mooseman Lodge until Friday. It’s been lovely seeing you again, Benito. Next time we mustn’t leave it fifteen years between catch-ups.’
Giving him a quick peck on the cheek, she busied herself in the fuss of expensive-smelling hats, gloves and scarves, as the Italian took a meditative swig of his Bud. In truth, Benito was a little fed up of Moose. No matter how many clever tricks and angles he used, he was only ever able to capture one expression on their hairy noble faces; bored indifference.
‘Is zis script really as good as you say it is?’ he asked her suddenly, fixing her with his heavy dark eyes.
Christine smiled behind her pink cashmere scarf and nodded.
Michael stood at the back of the arrivals hall of Heathrow Terminal Three, scanning the streams of exhausted passengers pouring out of the gate like water from a leaky tap faucet.
Christine’s flight had landed two hours ago, yet there was still no sign of her, or her Louis Vuitton luggage. What’s worse, he had a stinking headache, caused in part by the over-excitable airport tanoy, and he was having to fend off the dewy-eyed stares of three teenage schoolgirls opposite. Michael had already explained to them that he was neither a movie star nor rock singer but they clearly didn’t believe him.
Feeling a touch of empathy for Justin Bieber, all the attention his silly hair attracted must drive him nuts, or at the very least straight to the nearest barbers, Michael wondered off to check the arrivals board again but went smack into a heavily laden trolley instead. Ignoring the torrent of abuse raining down on him, Michael rubbed his shin and scowled. Fucking airports. They were nothing but a steaming hub of pent-up hostility, where common courtesy was left behind in the long-stay car parks and replaced with endless delays, shit coffee and interminable family bickering.
He scanned the board again. No mistake. The flight had landed, so what the hell was Christine playing at? She had known he was up to the proverbial with casting stuff today.
All would be forgiven though if she walked through the doors with Benito De Luca in tow. Michael had spent the last three nights working through the guy’s entire back catalogue and aside from a few too many lingering close-ups of a very young, pre-Botoxed Christine, he had been genuinely blown away. Benito’s endlessly long steadicam shots were even more awe-inspiring than Scorsese’s.
Feeling a tug on his trouser leg, he glanced down at a little girl beaming up at him. She had cute blond pigtails and was trailing a very fetching hot pink Barbie backpack, but her happy, gappy grin was all too reminiscent of Lucas. Any attempt to contact Lily since Morocco had been thwarted by some pretty intense embarrassment on his part. Having been so quick to damn Vincent’s dirty deeds, there was little hope in Lily seeing him as anything other than a hypocrite and sleazebag after his own indefensible behaviour.
‘Yoo-hoo! Michael darling!’ cried Christine, as she materialised in a puff of grey chiffon. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting. It’s awfully good of you to come and meet me.’
‘Did you have a good flight?’ he asked her, dutifully kissing her cheek.
‘Nothing too horrendous. Mind you, the food in first class wasn’t quite up to its usual standards. There wasn’t a trace of lobster in my seafood surprise.’
Michael threw his hands up in mock despair. ‘It’s a goddamn conspiracy! How on earth did you cope?’
‘With surprising difficulty,’ she responded, narrowing her eyes playfully. ‘Now you mustn’t tease, I’ve had just about enough of all that with those awful paper-pushers in customs. They didn’t take too kindly to me bringing in thirty flight cases without some silly little document called an ABC cargo.’
‘ATA carnet,’ corrected Michael. ‘I’m impressed Christine, that sounds like one helluva shopping trip even for you.’
‘Oh they aren’t mine. Blame our new Cinematographer. It’s his super-dooper technological wizardry that’s causing all the fuss.’ She reached out then to touch the arm of the man behind her. ‘Benito, sweetest, come and meet our fabulous producer, Michael Wilson.’
Michael did a double take. He had been in such a fug that he hadn’t even noticed the great hulk of a man hovering behind her.
‘Benito,’ the man grunted, thrusting a large, hairy, paw-like hand in his face.
‘Hi! Shit! Pleasure to meet ya!’ blustered Michael, more star-struck than his teenage girls. ‘Your films are amazing, sir! It’s a real honour to have you on board!’
‘Are you sure ‘e’s a Producer?’ murmured Benito to Christine. ‘Usually I can smell zair bullsheet all ze way from Passport Control.’
‘Can’t take credit for that I’m afraid,’ said Michael, dryly. ‘I’ve just spent the last two hours standing next to the Gucci counter in duty free.’
Benito stared at him for a moment before his great bearded face exploded in amusement.
‘Belissimo! At last! A Producer with a sense of humour!’ he guffawed in delight.
‘How perceptive you are Benito, dear,’ murmured Christine. ‘Still, it’s better than being wrestled to the ground in a headlock,’ she said in an undertone to Michael. ‘He’s just spent the last two days telling me what vile creatures all film producers are. I knew he’d adore you so that’s why I insisted on dragging you to meet us. Talking of beautiful new business relationships, is there any news from Romania?’
‘The doctor oked Polly this morning. She and Joe are catching a
flight home this afternoon.’
‘Is the little darling alright?’
‘Shaky but relieved to be leaving Bucharest. Stephen totally lost it. I’m glad he’s pissed but gutted Polly took the brunt of it.’
‘If she’s still refusing to press charges then we’ve all the more reason to make Memoir a success,’ said Christine briskly. ‘We need the best celluloid ammunition possible to blast my ex-husband right off his perch and send him squawking from that gilded cage.’
Chapter Thirty-Three
Christine’s call to arms proved not to be exclusive to them, however. Stephen and Vincent flew home the very next week, equipped themselves with a great big sledgehammer and set about banging nails into their coffins all over town. Janie discovered just how many they had managed to hammer home one miserable afternoon, the following month. A day when the glum grey rainclouds outside blended flawlessly with the drab London skyline and the dirty pigeons down in Trafalgar Square.
Michael flinched as his Line Producer slammed her phone down. Phone abuse was nothing new here. Indeed, with principal photography less than a few weeks away, their office was more hyperactive than a supermarket’s booze aisle at Christmas, yet something about Janie’s face made him instantly wary.
‘What’s up, honey?’ he called out.
‘That’s the third camera company to hang up on me this morning,’ huffed Janie, pale cheeks puce with the injustice of it all. ‘Anyone would think we were cursed.’
‘Smells more like a GBA anti-Harper intervention to me. Don’t sweat it; I have an old buddy back in LA who can swing us the gear. Chuck me a copy of Benito’s camera wish list and I’ll see what I can do.’
‘But that’ll mean humungous shipping costs,’ wailed Janie. ‘There must be someone in London who can hire us a camera.’
‘And find us a decent cast,’ added Joe bleakly, chucking his mobile away. ‘That was Marlene from Casting Film Solutions. The old bag’s just given us the business equivalent of the finger.’
‘But she can’t do that! What did she say?’
‘Some piss-poor excuse about over-extending her workload and not being able to give us the proper due care and attention.’
‘Utter tosh!’ interjected Christine from the next desk. ‘When I saw her back in September she was falling over herself to sign us up. Well, it’s her loss. We just won’t bother employing her services next time round.’
‘Assuming there is a next time.’
‘Ah hell. Brace yourselves, people,’ exclaimed Michael, skim-reading the contents of his inbox. ‘Looks like every crew member worth his per diems will be giving us a wider berth than Vincent’s waistband. He and Stephen have sent round an email inferring that anyone caught trading with us will be dealt a red card from GBA.’
‘That’s bang out of order,’ stormed Janie. ‘I’m calling The Sun. I’ll happily go on record and tell them exactly what working for Vincent entails; nerves of concrete and a fast-track to the nearest A & E.’
‘I get your anger, honey, but that’s not something I’m ok with,’ said Michael quickly. If journo hounds came sniffing for stories, there might be a reveal about Lucas. A weeklong exposure as prime paparazzi fodder would finish Lily off.
‘I agree,’ said Joe. ‘GBA will only counter-spin it and make us look stupid. Vincent’s got a pile of dirt on every redtop editor in town.’
Janie tried a new tact. ‘Well, just because that email’s doing the rounds doesn’t mean people will automatically obey it. I bet if I called Sally and Roger right now they’d be on the first flight over.’ She picked up her phone again to show she meant business, but Joe just shook his head.
‘It’ll only inflame the situation. Michael and I discussed this months ago.’
‘Yes, but you’ll also recall that my views are the same as Janie’s,’ argued Michael. ‘That crew are far more loyal to you than they’ll ever be to Stephen. Make the call,’ he added to Janie. ‘We’ll never convince him until we have the evidence on our payroll.’
‘But it feels like we’re invading Poland,’ said Joe, sulkily.
Janie gritted her teeth. Sometimes Joe was far too decent for his own good. It was a sentiment shared by every other person in the room.
‘Dearest Joe,’ began Christine gently. ‘Don’t you think that the first declarations of war were deployed six years ago when Stephen slept with your wife?’
‘I know, I know, but can’t I be pacifist-neutralist-Switzerland-ish anyway?’
‘Oh for god’s sake, Joe, grow a pair!’ stormed Janie.
Michael threw his head back and laughed. He loved English chicks - they could be so direct.
‘So, am I dialling or what?’ asked Janie.
‘Do it.’ ordered Michael.
‘I need caffeine,’ mumbled Joe, diving for the door.
When he didn’t return by 4pm, Michael wondered out to find him under the pretense of a chocolate-chip muffin run. He soon spotted Joe in the window of the nearby Café, picking listlessly at a meatball Panini and gazing into space.
‘Earth to De Vries,’ he hollered, thumping on the glass. Joe jumped a mile high and so did his Panini, depositing a stray meatball in his neighbour’s Cappuccino.
‘It’s no good hiding away in here, buddy,’ he chided, gliding through the door.
‘I’m not hiding anywhere,’ said Joe, crossly, watching every woman pivot towards Michael like iron filings to a super-strength magnet.
‘Bullshit. You’ve more coffee pumping through your veins than O Negative.’
Joe shrugged. ‘I was trying to figure out a solution to the crew crisis. And the camera crisis. And the casting crisis…’
‘Well you can cross the first item off your doom and gloom inventory. Sally accepted on the spot. What’s more, she’s planning on holding a covert meeting in the hotel bar later to see who else is up for it. She’s pretty upbeat. There have been more than a few murmurs of dissent since the Polly incident. Oh don’t look so surprised,’ he tutted, as a look of delight swept across Joe’s face. ‘I told you months ago this would happen.’
‘So what now?’
‘We hold tight and see how tonight pans out. Sally didn’t go into any more details. She had to ring off. Maisie caught a pube in a zip.’ Michael tried folding his paper napkin into a swan but his origami skills were on par with his love life. ‘Just another heart-broken sucker.’ he murmured to himself, scrunching the napkin into a ball.
‘Huh?’ said Joe.
‘I said, how great is it gonna be having the whole gang back together again,’ he lied.
Joe nodded, thinking of Danny. So far, none of his apologetic voicemail messages had been returned.
‘So then Mr Fixit,’ he said, taking a bite of his cold Panini. ‘What about our casting impasse, any thoughts?’
‘Right now, i’ve got Christine flogging the crap outta her little black ‘great actors i’ve worked with’ book.’
‘Sounds promising. And the camera?’
Michael straightened out the napkin again. ‘Despite Janie’s inevitable meltdown, the Global Studios equipment store may just be missing a few key items come January.’
But they didn’t hear back from Sally that night, or the next night, or the following, and as the week rumbled on, Joe and Michael became increasingly snippy with one another. A film without a crew was no better than a kitchen without chefs, and with Vincent’s email infecting the industry like a nasty computer virus, it was looking increasingly likely that snaffling Sally and the rest of the GBA gang was now their only hope of getting Memoir made.
With this unhappy certainty looming over them like a dangling piano, there weren’t many smiles to be had in the Harper production office that week. After another sleepless night, tossing and turning and pacing the hallway of his two-bed in Clapham, Joe was bug-eyed, dog-tired and running later than British Rail when Michael called him at 8am on Friday morning.
Having stormed off in a huff last night, after Joe had pinched the last
of his chocolate Hob Nobs, he was anticipating a grump the size of Sainsbury’s biscuit aisle. To his surprise, the American sounded amazingly chipper for a man deprived of sugar.
‘Joe! Buddy!’ he yelped. ‘Get your butt over to Soho. Something incredible just happened!’
‘Christine’s booked herself in for a facial,’ teased Joe, switching on the TV and thinking how much the presenter looked like an older version of Polly.
‘This is serious!’
‘So is Christine’s beauty regime.’
‘Well she couldn’t give a fuck about it now. She’s beaming so hard, those wrinkles are busting right outta her face.’
Joe was so startled by this that he switched the TV off immediately. Christine shot Botox like a junkie shot heroin.
‘Ok, ok I’m coming,’ he said, climbing out of bed. ‘You in the office already?’
Michael confirmed this with a yawn. After pulling another ninety-hour week, he was seriously considering turning his desk into a futon. At least then he’d be within fingertip distance of the coffee machine 24/7.
‘Ok, silly question,’ said Joe, who wasn’t averse to smashing a few working hour guidelines himself. ‘Did you try Sally again?’
‘Not telling’ said the American coyly. ‘It’s punishment for stealing my last Hob Nob.’
‘Oh for the love of…. you hold more grudges than my brother. Alright I’m on my way.’
Thirty minutes later, Joe was belting up the steps of Piccadilly Circus tube station. His brief stint underground had traded a cold, overcast Clapham Common for a crisp, bright Theatre District. Feeling the sunshine tickle his stubble, Joe’s fug melted into the gridlocked traffic, as his heart soared higher than the neon billboards above. The day was simply too glorious for another plummeting, corkscrew twist in their pre-production rollercoaster ride. He picked up the pace and reached the corner of Lexington Street in no time.
