by Cate Andrews
‘Darling Stephen, how marvellous!’ she gushed, air kissing frantically. ‘One more handsome, we’re going continental, ce soir,’
‘Everything looks splendid,’ he purred, admiring a pretty brunette bottling up behind the bar.
‘No thanks to these imbeciles,’ confided Emelda, clicking her fingers impatiently at a passing blonde. ‘Get over here, you silly girl, and offer Mr De Vries a drink.’
Stephen leered at the waitress. ‘Thanks gorgeous.’
Emelda watched him place a hand up the blonde’s bottom and shooed her away. The silly girl could shack up with the stars after the canapés had been consumed but not before.
‘Tell me what doing here so early, you wicked man,’ she said, batting her tinted eyelashes at him. ‘You know you’re not due for another hour.’
‘To reserve a seat at the bar, of course.’
‘No need darling. The best places are always reserved for my favourites.’
Stephen smirked.
‘It’s simply divine news about Letters,’ went on Emelda, ‘word is you’re a dead cert for the Palme D’Or.’
Surprisingly, Stephen’s smirk began to slip. Palme D’Or’s were pretty but they weren’t Oscars, and he needed Academy Award glory fast. A win next February would restore his credibility to all those who had ripped apart A Desert Affair and cement his place in filmmaking history.
‘Dearest Emelda,’ he said, clasping her hand. ‘I must confess that I came here early with somewhat of an ulterior motive. Could I possibly trouble you with a modest favour?’
Emelda looked positively delighted at the prospect. ‘Of course darling, anything.’
Stephen gave her the benefit of his thirty thousand pound veneers.
‘Now listen up, Walt Wilson is scheduled to attend the party later and I would rather he didn’t have his ear bent all night by some peeved ex-employee of mine. Steer him clear of the haters and ply him with hooters, comprende? It shouldn’t be too hard. He’s reputed to be more of a womaniser than yours truly.’
‘Consider it done,’ she winked, reading between the lines. GBA’s exclusive first look deal with Global was up for renewal soon, and after all the bad headlines, Stephen’s new motto was ‘Strictly No Scandal’ until the ink on a new contract was dry.
‘Although you may want to have a word with your ex-wife when she arrives,’ she added, spying a motorboat approaching on the horizon. ‘Christine will be only too happy to relinquish that key to your heaving skeleton closet, given half the chance. Oh thank god, the DJs arrived!’ she cried as Stephen choked on his champagne. ‘Marie! Marie!’ she trilled, as a moody-looking youth with purple hair clambered aboard with six bulging record bags dangling off his neck. ‘Marie, for god’s sake help the poor man! I don’t care if he stabs, shoots or asphyxiates himself after his set, but he’s not garroting himself before. Excuse me Stephen, I must go.’
Christine’s coming here?’ he growled, grabbing her arm. ‘Tonight?’
Emelda shrugged. ‘She called earlier for a couple of invites. Now that your divorce is finalised and the restraining order lifted, I didn’t think it would be a problem.’
Stephen’s murderous expression belied such breezy optimism.
‘Oh don’t look at me like that,’ sighed Emelda. Why were celebs such prima donnas when it came to socialising with their exes? She knew agents more dedicated to keeping their charges from bumping into former flames than setting their careers alight. ‘I felt sorry for the old thing. She’s just thrown away the last rotting crumb of her career on some travesty that will never see the light of day. Word is they can’t even get a Sales Agent to take a look! It was the very least I could do to stop her plummeting into complete obscurity.’
‘What a terrible shame that would be,’ muttered Stephen. ‘Fine. Just keep that Botoxed Bitch away from Wilson.’
Several hours later, the very man in question was proffering his arm to his sexy companion as she hopped aboard the Mega Hit as gracefully as a Bolshoi ballerina.
Striding on after her, such chivalry switched to all-out chauvinism as his eyes feasted on the curves inside her micro mini dress. Pausing to let Tom Cruise pass, he placed a firm hand on his date’s bottom. The young girl wriggled in ecstasy.
‘Easy, honey,’ he murmured, delighted by her response. ‘I don’t pay you $5000 an hour to fake it that easily.’ But his budding erection deflated faster than a punctured soufflé when he realised that the source of his date’s pleasure wasn’t him at all, but rather some petulant-looking punk with purple hair lounging against a speaker.
‘It’s DJ Rushes!’ she boomed excitedly. ‘He’s dead sexy! I’ve got all his tunes!’
Walt swiftly helped himself to a couple of passing champagne flutes. He was going to murder Selena. His request for an elegant, sophisticated booking from the Xclusive Escort Agency had resulted in this twenty-one year old dunce with the articulation of a woodlouse.
Leaving his date gawping on the edge of the dance floor, he stormed up to the upper deck, collecting another flute on the way. Easing himself into a jazzy, nautical striped seat, he lit up a Cohiba cigar and stared out at the tranquil sea beyond the harbour. The moon’s face was hidden behind a veil of silvery cloud but he could still make out where the water’s edge sliced the horizon in two.
Michael had been wrong. Walt was in no mood for business tonight. Instead, he was in the market for some quiet reflection, which, in itself, was as rare to him as a happy marriage. Staring at that damn horizon had got him thinking. Why did everything in life come down to two halves? It was the stuff great movies were made of; light versus dark, good versus evil… He had recognised Michael earlier as he exited his Escalade, skulking in the back of that cheap café with that cute girl. Is this what he and his son had become? Two bitter adversaries locked in conflict forevermore?
Walt took an unsteady puff on his cigar. The thought upset him more than a Box Office thrashing. In fact, he was so despondent about it all he didn’t hear the click clacking of approaching stilettos until one had speared right through his left crocodile skin boot.
‘What the hell!’ he yelled, jumping up.
A young woman in an ugly red cocktail dress two sizes too small for her recoiled in horror. ‘Oh my god, i’m so sorry! I didn’t see you there in the dark!’
Fortunately, Walt was a sucker for a breathless British accent.
‘No harm done, honey, but if this croc wasn’t dead before, it sure is now.’
The woman smiled shyly. ‘Do you mind if I call my nanny? This seems to the only place on the boat I can get a signal.’
‘Be my guest.’ He indicated to the spare seat beside him as he sat back down and took another chug on his cigar.
‘Hello? Charlene? Charlene it’s me,’ he heard her whisper. ‘Is Lucas ok? Umm Charlene, you sound a bit merry, have you been drinking? No…No I’m not the fun police. Charlene, wait….Charlene! Hello, hello?’ The phone dropped into her lap and Lily started chewing on her thumbnail.
‘Problems?’
She shook her head brightly but Walt had a nose for bullshit after six acrimonious divorces.
‘Here,’ he said, offering up his untouched champagne flute. The poor kid looked like she needed a shot of something.
Lily accepted it with a tight smile.
‘Hey, you look kinda familiar. Are you that new Exec over at Paramount?’
She blushed and shook her head. ‘I’m GBA’s script supervisor, Lily Moore.’ There was a pause. ‘You’re Mr Wilson, aren’t you? Michael’s father.’
He tensed but only for a second.
‘Good to meet you, Lily. Call me Walt.’
‘Thank you…Walt,’ she gulped nervously. Walt Wilson had a mean streak the length and breadth of The Atlantic and a temper that trumped even Vincent’s.
‘Lucas your son?’ he asked gruffly, as she sat trembling on the edge of the lounger.
‘Yes.’
‘You worked for GBA long?’
She nodded, staring s
traight at her flute. She was making a habit of drinking with the Wilsons. This was her first drop of alcohol since her big confessional with Michael last year.
‘So you weren’t one of the deserters then?’ There was a steely edge to his voice.
Lily shook her head. ‘No, no I wasn’t.’
‘Smart gal. My son’s ruined too many promising careers this year, most of all his own.’
Lily took a slug of champagne and sneezed as the bubbles fizzed up her nose. In truth, she had been desperate to hightail it out of Bucharest on the first available flight, but the comeback for her and Lucas would have been awful. She had spent several nights of late praying for another heart attack to come along and finish Vincent off.
At that moment, Emelda appeared at the top of the stairs clutching a gold-plated clipboard to her bosom.
‘Mr Wilson THERE you are!’ she screeched as Stephen’s head popped up over her left shoulder like a beady-eyed parrot. ‘I’ve three simply gorgeous actresses downstairs who are dying to meet you!’
‘Not tonight,’ snapped Walt. ‘But please ensure that a bottle of something expensive reaches them with my compliments.’
‘Then let me join you,’ said Stephen bossily, sidestepping Emelda. ‘You must be bored rigid sitting up here.’ He looked pointedly at Lily and she blushed. ‘Besides, it’ll give us a good opportunity to sound out our forth-coming contract negotiations. Shan’t be a minute. Emelda, a quick word downstairs first if you will?’
Lily stood up to leave too.
‘Don’t go on his account,’ drawled Walt.
She shook her head, ‘I must. My nanny’s making inroads into the mini bar. It was lovely to meet you, Mr Wilson...Walt.’ Lily turned to leave then hesitated. Biting her bottom lip again she sat back down. It was now or never.
‘Michael was planning to speak to you all along about starting his company.’
The balmy sea breeze whistling through the deck suddenly dropped several degrees.
‘What did you say?’ hissed Walt.
‘Nothing, nothing I didn’t say anything,’ gasped Lily, her flash of courage deserting ship. Making a bolt for it, her heel got wedged in the decking and she sprawled face first into a giant canvas publicity still of Zach Roberts dressed as a half-naked centurion. Walt was upon her in an instant.
‘How dare you talk about Michael to my face!’ he yelled, wrenching her to her feet. ‘My son is dead to me, do you hear?’
‘But he’s a good man’ she sobbed, ‘a good, kind, decent man. Don’t throw him away because of a misunderstanding.’
‘A misunderstanding, a misunderstanding?’ Walt’s eyes were as black and lifeless as coal. ‘Did he set you up to this, honey, or are you just another of his lovesick wannabe groupies? I’m sorry to disappoint you, Miss Moore, but you’re four dress sizes not his type!’
‘No, wait…I…’
‘What the fuck’s going on?’
A white-faced Michael came striding up the yacht towards them.Walt let go of Lily immediately and she tumbled to her knees in an untidy heap of ash-blonde hair, spare tyres and cheap red material.
‘Emelda’s losing her touch,’ he greeted his son coldly. ‘Her guest lists used to be much more exclusive.’
Ignoring him, Michael bent down to help Lily.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she gasped. ‘I should have kept my mouth shut.’
He gazed down at her trembling face and felt a wave of respect. No one had ever stood up to his father like that, least of all him.
‘Hush Lily, please don’t cry.’
‘But…’
‘But nothing,’ he whispered, placing a finger on her lips. ‘Listen, Joe’s downstairs destroying the dance floor with his shocking eighties moves. Can you go tell him to tone it down before some actress loses a silicone tit?’
Lily nodded weakly.
As she wobbled off, Michael turned to face his father. ‘Lily’s right,’ he said quietly. ‘I was going to spill my guts but I bottled it. Then all that crap with Christine went down. By the time I landed back in the States, Stephen was already shouting his mouth off to you.’
‘Horseshit!’ snapped Walt. ‘You accepted my promotion last spring!’
‘I only took the gig to ingratiate myself before the big reveal. It was a stupid mistake. I should have been straight with you from the start.’
There was a stunned pause.
‘And you’re telling me Stephen knew all this beforehand?’ said Walt, doubtfully.
‘Oh c’mon dad, are you really surprised? The man’s got the integrity of a fucking arms dealer. If you knew half the dirt we had on him…’
‘The guy caught you banging his wife,’ said Walt sharply. ‘Surely you were expecting some sort of pay-back.’
Michael looked away. Two women were chatting on the deck below, their diamond rings catching in the light as they defended their billowing hair extensions from the brisk sea air. It was the same old story. Why did his father find it so easy to absolve Stephen and not him?
‘Stephen was screwing Maisie all along,’ he said quietly. ‘I found out last year.’
Walt’s eyes narrowed. ‘You got evidence of that?’
‘Not yet,’
‘Then let it go, she was no good for you anyway.’ Walt pulled out another cigar. ‘Was working at Global really so bad?’ he asked him suddenly.
It wasn’t so much as an olive branch as a gnarly old twig but Michael grabbed hold of it just the same. ‘Only when I was being mauled by Stephen and Vincent,’ he answered, truthfully.
‘How are you finding it on your own?’
‘Tough,’ admitted Michael. ‘But you gotta take a look at this movie we made, dad…’
Walt shook his head. ‘Global can’t help you here.’
‘That’s not what I …’
‘Buzz me when you get back to LA. We’ll do lunch. Strictly no business. I’ll tell Serena to stop screening my calls.’
‘I’m not sure I’m ever coming back to…’
Just then, Stephen reappeared at the top of the stairs. He had a giggling model tucked under each arm like a couple of lanky-legged, St-Tropez-ed poodles. The director froze when he saw Michael but only for a millisecond.
‘Oh dear, oh dear, I hope you haven’t ruined your father’s evening, Michael,’ he taunted. ‘Now, go easy on the younger of the two ladies,’ he added to the girls. ‘He’s a little inexperienced, and I’m not just talking about his producing skills, if you know what I mean.’
Michael clenched his fists as his father barked in amusement.
‘I’m so glad we’ve run into each other,’ said Stephen in a low voice, as Walt yanked the nearest blonde onto his knee and started up a meaningful conversation with her left nipple. ‘I meant to pick up the phone last year but time simply ran away from me.’
‘Rather like your crew,’ said Michael.
‘As I was saying…’ countered Stephen, coldly. ‘Thank you for all those obliging little development notes on Love Letters. What startling character nuances you created for me. Remind me not to mention you in my Oscar speech next year.’
Michael fought the urge to punch him in the face.
‘I see you and your father have commenced peace treaty negotiations.’
‘That’s not of your goddamn business!’
‘Maybe not, but it’s good to see that your little movie might get a release date after all. Daddy dearest to the rescue.’
‘Do us all a favour, Stephen, take that bottle and shove it where the…’
‘Michael, we’re done here!’ snapped Walt. ‘Stephen and I have some issues to iron out with GBA’s new deal. I suggest you take these lovely ladies downstairs and expel some of that frustration.’
The girls tittered delightedly at this plan. Michael was nothing like the dirty old rich men they were used to entertaining.
Michael could feel Stephen’s smirk burning a hole in his face.
‘No thanks,’ he said tersely, ‘I have a movie to sell.’
‘Yes, good luck with that,’ grinned Stephen.
‘I’d make sure that new Global contract is airtight, if I were you,’ hissed Michael finally snapping. ‘I’d hate for something to come along and derail it. Something unpleasant from Vincent’s past, perhaps.’
The look of panic that crossed Stephen’s face was priceless.
‘You’re bluffing,’ he said, recovering quickly.
‘Am I?’ Michael shrugged. ‘Either way, you’ll find out soon enough.’
‘You look pleased with yourself,’ commented Joe, as Michael joined him on the dance floor later. ‘You’re not pissed are you? You Americans are such awful lightweights.’
Michael grinned. ‘I just took a cheap shot at Stephen and hit him right where it hurts.’
‘His wallet or his Ferrari?’
‘His chronic insecurity.’
Joe chuckled. ‘Good for you. Where is the bastard anyway?’
‘Upstairs kissing my father’s ass.’
‘Let’s hope your father’s been chowing down baked beans for breakfast then.’
‘Michael! Where have you been?’ cried Polly, rushing over.
‘Sorting shit out with my dad. Didn’t Lily tell you?’
‘Lily? Is she here?’ Polly looked confused.
‘Didn’t she come find you?’
Polly shook her head, ‘I haven’t seen her since Bucharest. How strange. We’ve just bumped into Vincent, though. He was so anxious to get away, he completely flattened Zach Robert’s new husband. That’s him over there nursing his broken foot,’ she added, pointing to a skinny pale boy convalescing on a red chaise longue. His injured appendage was resting delicately on two plumped up velvet cushions and Zach’s publicist and assorted hangers-on were flapping around him in a terrible tizz. The star himself was inconsolable.
‘I want him airlifted to Cedars tonight!’ they heard him scream. ‘I can’t have him hobbling next to me at next week’s premiere. I don’t DO cripples!’
‘Bang goes his endorsement for that landmine charity then,’ muttered Joe but Michael wasn’t listening.
‘I need to see if she’s ok’ he said fretfully, ‘she got a right earful from my father earlier.’
