by Cate Andrews
‘Who?’
‘Lily’
‘Oh. She’s worked for GBA long enough. Ear bashings come with the territory. Is there any chance of Global taking on distribution rights now that you and your pa are back on speaking terms?’ he added, hopefully.
Michael shook his head. ‘Our fragile truce is dependent on me digging my own grave. He’s so certain we’re gonna to fail he’s already a booked a table at Spagos for the told-you-so pep talk.’
‘Onto Plan B then, folks,’ chirped Polly. ‘I think I spotted Harvey Weinstein over by the mixing desk. I might try and snag an introduction by pretending I’m Pouty Paltrow’s long lost cousin.’
‘I’ve gotta ditch too,’ said Michael. ‘I really need to find Lily.’
For the next hour, Michael tore through the decks, disturbing canoodling celebrities all over the yacht. There were the lesbian actresses doing unmentionables behind the grand piano in the lounge, and the movie co-stars entwined in the master suite, all four of them. His personal favourite was walking in on the leading politician and the pop star. They were writhing around on top of the pool table and her screeches of pleasure were far more bearable than her latest hit single.
Alas, Lily was nowhere to be found. He was about to give up hope when he came across Janie admiring the rose petal floating candles in the Jacuzzi.
‘Seen Lily anywhere?’ he asked her.
‘Nope, but do you think these would suit my garden pond?’ said Janie, pointing to the candles.
‘I doubt it. They’d probably ignite protests from the local toad community. You don’t remember which hotel Vincent and Stephen like to stay at, do you?’
‘The Mandrake, over on The Croisette. Stephen likes a bit of art deco. Says it helps awakens the ‘artiste’ in him. Twat. Why are you asking? Are you planning on creeping into his room and swapping his shampoo for Immac?’
‘No. That’s not a bad idea though. Thanks honey!’
Hopping onto the first speedboat back to shore, Michael went clattering down the jetty, just as Christine emerged from one of the moored yachts like a beautiful butterfly emerging from a million dollar chrysalis. She had a very suave, much older European-looking gentleman in tow.
‘Michael!’ she cried, her face lighting up when she saw him. ‘I have some wonderful, wonderful news! Come and meet Flavio. We used to make deliciously wicked movies together back in the day.’
Flavio Sinclair! Of course! Michael recognised the famed Producer instantly. The guy was a legend and he told him as much as he pumped his hand.
‘You’re too kind, sir,’ said Flavio in a silky smooth Italian accent that conjured up images of steaming bowls of taglatelli and auburn Tuscan sunsets. ‘But I couldn’t ‘ave done it without Christine. It was ‘er exquisiteness alone that enthralled many a young critic.’
‘Oh shush, you old devil,’ chuckled Christine, batting him playfully in the stomach with her Gucci clutch. ‘Flavio gave up producing yonks ago and now runs a wildly successful film sales agency. After bumping into him at the party I couldn’t wait to show him Memoir.
I bet that’s not all you showed him, thought Michael, noting the gaping zip on the side of her dress.
‘It iz a work of genius, my friend,’ said Flavio generously. ‘Christine iz back to ‘er best. I would be ‘onoured to ‘ave it on ze books. I guarantee to have ze distributors eating out of our hands come Friday!’
‘But that’s fantastic!’ he gasped.
‘This calls for a little celebration, don’t you think?’ beamed Christine, turning towards the waiting speedboat. ‘Flavio, you must come and meet the rest of our wonderful team. Are you coming Michael?’
‘Give me twenty,’ he said backing away.
Christine looked stunned. ‘But Michael…’
‘Go!’ he bellowed, sprinting off down the quay. ‘I’ll be back on that yacht before you make the second toast, I promise!’
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Lily made it halfway to The Mandrake before she collapsed sobbing under a wispy palm tree. She knew Michael could never fancy a Plain Jane like her but Walt’s cruel taunts about her weight had snuffed out that fleeting fantasy in a heartbeat.
Catching sight of herself in the blacked-out window of a passing SUV, her sobs increased tenfold. Pasty white flesh oozed out from under her armpits like tubes of squeezed toothpaste and her ankles were the size of palm tree trunks. So much for this dress complimenting my apple shape, thought Lily despairingly. She looked more like a rotten granny smith.
Blinded by tears she stepped out into the road and encountered some furious tooting.
‘Get out ze way fatty!’ shouted one unkind local, as he swerved to avoid her. Mortified, she shot out into the road further and narrowly missed being mowed down by a convoy of limousines belting up the other way.
By some miracle she reached the other side then rather wished she hadn’t. The thought of sacrificing herself to the silver jaws of a passing Rolls Royce seemed almost blissful. Though, she doubted anyone would bother cleaning up the body of a flattened frump, not in this town anyway. She would probably still be clogging up the gutter when the film festival rolled around again next year.
‘Lily! Hey Lily, wait up!’
Turning in disbelief, she saw Michael belting up the Croisette towards her. Tall and lean, with his hair trailing behind him like a golden slipstream. Two passing fashion models were gawping so hard they walked straight into a lamppost.
‘What are you doing here?’ she gasped, as he jogged right up to her, all white teeth and easy smiles.
‘I couldn’t find you on the boat. I figured you’d gone back to your hotel.’
Lily gulped. ‘But how did you know where I was staying?’
‘Janie. Fortunately she hasn’t erased everything GBA-related from her brain.’
‘Oh right.’ She looked away.
Misreading her aloofness, Michael presumed she was still sore at him over the whole Christine thing.
‘Listen honey, I owe you an apology.’
Lily turned back to him in amazement. ‘But i’m the one who’s gone and made things a billion times worse between you and your father!’
‘On the contrary, you gifted me the perfect opening. Thanks to you, I was able to put him straight about my company. It’ll take him a while to get his head around it, but at least he’s putting the nipple clamps on ice.’
‘But he was so awful to me,’ she whispered. ‘I was sure I’d ruined everything.’
‘My father’s bite is worse than his bark,’ admitted Michael. ‘The trick is not to take it personally. You’re gorgeous, just the way you…but that’s not why I came to find you,’ he added hurriedly. ‘I wanted to apologise for skipping out on you in Morocco. I’ve spent the last year justifying my shocking behaviour to everyone apart from the one person who deserved to hear it the most, you. Especially since I tricked you into thinking I was one of the good guys.’
But you are one, thought Lily in anguish.
‘All that stuff with Christine…’ Michael shifted, uncomfortably. ‘Was that the reason you didn’t bail in Bucharest with everyone else?’
‘You know why I couldn’t leave.’
‘It’s not too late. Joe and I are already hunting for a new script. Come and work for us, Lily.’
She could have wept at the hopefulness in his voice.
‘Just think about it, that’s all I’m asking.’ Michael toyed with the idea of telling her the truth about Tommy Harper.
‘Look Lily, there’s something in Vincent’s past you outta know, something so awful that if exposed may give you enough leverage to get him off your back. I wish I could say more but I’ve gotta get my ass back on that boat. Christine snagged us a sales agent tonight and I need to go seal the deal.’ He kissed her lightly on the cheek. ‘Meet me by the steel camera statue outside the Palais at 10am tomorrow. I’ll explain everything then.’
‘Ok,’ she whispered before she could stop herself.
; He smiled at her and then he was off speeding down the Croisette again.
Lily watched him go until her vision was fuzzy and her lungs aching from lack of oxygen. With a pounding heart, she dared to imagine a life without Vincent. As if to prove her otherwise, the producer’s head suddenly popped up over the top of the nearby undergrowth like some jack-in-the-box nightmare. She screamed as his hand shot out clamped around her throat.
‘You’ll never escape me, you bitch,’ he snarled, dragging her towards him. ‘Pretty boy Wilson doesn’t have jack shit on me.’
‘Vincent stop, I can’t breathe,’ she squeaked, helplessly. He must have heard everything.
The grip slackened but only slightly.
‘If you even think about meeting him tomorrow, I’ll break your legs.’
‘Please, Vincent. Please.’
‘Promise me.’
‘I promise, I promise,’ she screamed. Wrenching herself free, she ran sobbing all the way back to the hotel.
By the time she had lurched through the lobby, ricocheted off several very disapproving megastars and collapsed into the waiting elevator, any hope of ever escaping Vincent, no matter how fleeting, was gone.
Michael climbed back aboard the Mega Hit to raucous heckling from the upper decks. With a top sales agent secured and a distribution deal imminent, Joe and the rest of the gang had pinched a case of champagne from the bar and were already four bottles down, much to the sniffy disdain of a gaggle of nearby supermodels.
‘I take it you’ve heard the news?’ crowed Joe, as Michael scooted up the yacht’s ladder wells to join them.
‘GBA’s gone belly up and Vincent will be stacking shelves come Monday?’ he drawled, hopefully.
‘Won’t be long, mate, won’t be long!’
Behind him, Janie was taunting the models by shovelling fistfuls of caviar canapés into her mouth. It was 50/50 if the wet patch beneath their Jimmy Choos was spilt champagne or a big puddle of drool.
‘So what happens now?’
Joe grinned. ‘You mean after our Sales Agent stops sucking the face off our lead actress?’ He directed Michael to a couple of amorous limpets in the corner. ‘Oh that’s nothing’ he laughed, seeing his look of horror. ‘They’ve been dry humping on the dance floor for the past hour. If Flavio’s hand disappears any further up her skirt, he’ll poke himself in the eye.’
‘You sure those two hooking up is such a great idea?’
Joe shrugged. ‘It’s just as well Benito’s moose are on the loose again.’
The Cinematographer’s crush had been the worst kept secret on set. He rarely let Christine out of his sight and was often seen hovering outside her trailer. Nevertheless, in his enduring quest for the perfect moose shot, he had forgone Cannes for a quick trip back to the US. The big man would be shattered to hear that Christine was busy getting stuck into something other than a platter of fruit de mer.
‘Seen your brother yet?’ asked Michael, picking up a bottle and unwrapping the foil.
‘I walked in on him in the bog. Who says men can’t multi-task? He had his dick in one hand and a phone in the other, into which he was screaming the most eye-watering abuse at Vincent. I take it that was your doing? He scarpered as soon as he saw me.’
‘What about my father?’
‘He left a while back with a waitress on each arm and another three trailing behind.’
Michael rolled his eyes. ‘That figures.’
‘Listen, Flavio’s proposing to set up a number of screenings to entice key buyers. He’s certain he can generate a big enough draw to secure a worldwide deal with one or two of the major studios. That should avoid all the hoopla of divvying up the various distribution territories. It gets a bit complicated then, apparently. This guy moves fast!’ added Joe, eagerly. ‘He’s already set up a meeting with his local press agent, plus he’s got a small preview theatre block-booked which we can use. With a bit of luck, he might even have a deal in the bag for us by the close of festival.’
Michael shook his head in amazement. ‘This time yesterday we were cooling our heels in No Hope Saloon.’
‘It’s not a done deal yet,’ warned Joe. ‘We need to sit tight, promote like mad and see how the next few days pan out. In the meantime, I suggest we share another bottle of this very nice champagne which is made all the more palatable by its non-existent price tag.’
True to his word, Flavio Sinclair took a break from rummaging around in Christine’s underwear to devise a brilliant strategy that boosted their profile and sent Memoir rocketing to the forefront of every distributor’s ‘must-see’ agenda.
Low budget, Out of Competition movies usually had their work cutout to muster a bi-line or three at Cannes, but Flavio wasn’t known as the ‘silver fox’ for his sleek grey coiffure alone. Cunning and shrewd, he soon had their movie on the lips of every journalist.
At the same time, he kept their film tightly under wraps, teasing the secret like a pro stripper until he had shameless advances from every media outlet in town. Before long, the demand for the first screening was so great that a larger cinema had to be hastily located and booked.
Meanwhile, on the hallowed golden beaches of Cannes, a long-forgotten star was being dusted off, polished up and rebooted. In an industry where everyone roots for the underdog, Christine was charming her way into the broadcast schedule of even the most embittered BBC crew.
How could such a shining British talent have ended up in dud sitcoms and playing corpses in daytime murder mysteries, they asked themselves. This, in turn, spawned a flurry of articles deploring the blatant ageism in Hollywood, which then caused a furious panic as studio publicists scrambled to justify their bosses’ casting decisions. With this emerging as the hot topic of the festival, and a number of TV Producers still harboring long-standing crushes, Christine soon found herself as short on interview slots as she was on admirers.
Michael and Joe had their fair share of interest too, especially once word got out that Walt was back on speaking terms with his son. Joe snatched at every opportunity to endorse their movie, even pasting Memoir flyers all over the festival lavatories, yet Michael was struggling more and more to keep focused. He couldn’t stop dwelling on Lily’s no-show the morning after the yacht party. He had waited hours, texted repeatedly and even marched straight up to The Mandrake’s front desk demanding to speak to her, only to learn that she and Lucas had checked out that very morning.
GBA’s Love Letters rivaling them for press attention at every turn didn’t help. They were repeatedly bumping into, and very much cold-shouldering Stephen and Vincent. There seemed to be an escalating hype around Letters, more frenzied and feverish than a bus-load of schoolgirls at a Twilight convention, particularly after GBA had transformed the Grand Theatre Luminere red carpet into a Romanian countryside setting for their World Premiere, complete with a procession of authentic Romany caravans and dozens of stray dogs pooping everywhere. The film had gone on to receive deafening applause, and Maisie had bewitched the media in an audacious delicate dark green haute couture frock that had sent the style gurus into orgasmic orbit.
Watching the highlights alone in his hotel room that night, Michael thought she looked like a cucumber that had spent too long in the fridge.
Minutes before the first screening of Memoir, and with less than forty-eight hours to go until the Cannes closing ceremony and the unveiling of this year’s prestigious Palme D’Or, Joe hovered nervously in the wings as acquisition executives and financial advisors from some of the world’s finest film distribution companies poured into the theatre. For some unfathomable reason he couldn’t stop thinking about Stephen’s disastrous first movie screening fifteen years ago. Forbidden Habits had been an achingly pompous, avant-garde Indie bore-fest about naughty homosexual Monks, and the appalled silence that had filled the cinema afterwards had been so drawn-out and ghastly that Joe had stood up and cheered as loudly as possible to compensate. Fat chance of Stephen reciprocating tonight, he reflected broodingly. His br
other would rather stick a firework up his arse and set fire to his highlights.
‘I think we’re on,’ muttered Michael, brushing past him as he glided onto the floor.
‘Good evening ladies and gentlemen,’ he began smoothly. ‘Firstly, i’d like to take this opportunity to thank you for your attendance, and to introduce, myself, and our director, Joe De Vries.’
As Michael went on to give a brief outline of the initial concept behind their movie, Joe watched him in admiration. He had been right to bring the script to Michael. Even the skeptical film industry crowd was warming to him. Well the female contingent certainly were, judging by the telltale click of compact mirrors being surreptitiously opened all over the place.
Once everyone’s interest had been properly piqued, the lights dimmed and a hundred bottoms shuffled expectantly. The first screening for Harper Film’s Memoir had begun.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
‘Whoever said a hangover’s potency decreased with age should be castrated!’ moaned Stephen, rolling over and clutching his head. ‘Or better still, forced to sit in a darkened room with my dullard brother’s movie on repeat.’
Lying next to him beneath a layer of starched white cotton, Maisie whimpered in agreement. The calibre of champagne at last night’s closing ceremony had more than befitted the occasion. Quite right too, thought Stephen. A sterling achievement, such as winning this year’s Palme D’Or, was worthy of nothing but the finest vintage.
Groping under the sheet for a boob, (a quickie tended to work wonders for his hangovers), he encountered something sharp and alien. Pulling out his new trophy, he sighed contentedly. What a beauty she was he marveled, turning it over in his hands.
Meanwhile, sensing his attention shift away from her, Maisie clawed at his chest hair and mewed for some Aspirin, but was batted off irritably. Stephen was terrified of any harm befalling his prized Palme D’Or. It may not be an Oscar but he was surprisingly protective of it all the same.
