by Cate Andrews
‘Fine, be like that!’ screeched Maisie, whipping out the pale lilac bolster from beneath her head and launching it across the room. ‘And why the hell do the French insist on using these things?’ she added, as it went smack into the arty-farty pre-revolution aristocrat in the painting opposite. ‘If that guy’s head felt anything like mine does right now he was probably begging to have it chopped off!’
‘How on earth do you know about the French Revolution?’ said Stephen rudely. ‘You couldn’t even remember the name of your president last week.’
‘New movie script,’ she replied tartly. ‘My agent FedEx-ed it over yesterday. It’s like Les Mis but way more designer.’
‘A revolution in Calvin Klein? More like Les Mis with the mime,’ he mocked, climbing out of bed. ‘Has the director even heard you sing? You sound like the strangled cat brigade.’
‘Why should I care about a stupid thing like that? Not when Randy Lomax is signing on,’ she taunted, name-dropping the extremely humpable up-and-coming heartthrob. ‘Besides, I can always get my voice dubbed.’
Stephen raised one eyebrow. ‘Well, I wouldn’t go booking that Hollywood wax just yet. Whilst his hubby recovers from foot surgery, Zach Roberts has been papped swapping cock and cocktails with Mr Lomax.’
‘Liar!’ screamed Maisie
‘It’s all over Hot! Hot! Hot! if you don’t believe me.’
Howling in frustration, why did EVERY hot, young male actor have to be gay, Maisie stormed off into the bathroom and started hurling the contents of her vanity case at the delicate white tiles.
In the next room, Stephen barely flickered. Truth was, he had gone right off Maisie since he spotted a patch of cellulite on her thigh last month. The way it quivered with every thrust had very nearly put him off sex altogether. He’d had to pounce on her dim-witted PA, Bitsy, right away to regain some semblance of an appetite.
Picking away at a sliver of last night’s scrumptious closing night dinner lodged in his left molar, he considered passing Maisie down to Vincent like a pair of unwanted Christmas socks. His Producer needed a bit of cheering up after their monumental bust-up last week.
After flying back to Soho for 24 hours of crisis talks, the truth about Tommy Harper had come vomiting out of Vincent like regurgitated tofu, but once Stephen had calmed down, he had realised that the likelihood of Samantha Harper’s claim ever coming to light was slimmer than Lindsey Lohan’s chances of resuming a credible career. Still, his producer seemed a bit unhinged by the whole thing so a few turns on Maisie might cheer him up. He had been dying to get his mucky mitts on her for years.
Slipping into one of the hotel’s deluxe white robes, he wondered into the dining area of his suite and picked up today’s paper. It had been neatly folded and placed on the gleaming mahogany sideboard by the VIP concierge service at 5:45am that morning.
Expecting to find a delightfully photogenic picture of himself dominating the Cannes Round-Up section, he was shocked to find the handsome face of his younger brother beaming up at him instead. With knuckles the colour of his 320 count Egyptian sheets, he devoured the first few paragraphs.
HARPER HOOPLAH!
Fierce bidding war ensues as Harper Films unveil stunning debut.
Stephen De Vries may have scooped last night’s Palme’ D’Or but his younger brother is turning out to be the true superstar of this year’s festival. On Saturday night, Joe De Vries and former GBA Pictures Development Executive, Michael Wilson, son of Global Studios Head, Walt Wilson, along with former 70s pin-up and Oscar alumni Christine Lavelle, launched the first screening of their film ‘Memoir’ - the debut production from the newly formed, Harper Films Ltd.
Engineered by the wily silver fox himself, Sales Agent Svengali Flavio Sinclair, the screening had become the buzzword in the days leading up to Saturday’s début, and with good reason if emerging reports are to be believed. In a frenzied bidding war that has seen top acquisitions executives staking out the team’s hotel, the industry waits to learn which studio will land the distribution rights. As we went to press, Cosmos Pictures was leading the charge with a seven-figure deal on the table.
Stephen didn’t bother reading the rest. He was too busy launching his own assault on the snooty French aristocrat with a cut-glass fruit bowl from the sideboard. Maisie shot out of the bathroom just as twenty pounds of gilded picture frame went crashing to the floor.
‘What the hell’s the matter now?’ she demanded, standing in the doorway, tantalisingly naked apart from a fluffy white towel wrapped around her head. With her deep gingerbread suntan she looked like a Mr Whippy ice cream cone but Stephen was in no mood for a lick. Still in his robe, he stormed out of the suite in search of Vincent.
Spotting the discarded newspaper in amongst the remains of the fruit bowl, Maisie cocked her head and scanned the headline. Her green eyes widened. Scooping it up, she collapsed backwards into one of the rich cream and turquoise silk-covered dining chairs. No wonder Stephen was mad, she reflected, a minute later. Poisoned by the director’s one-man, hate campaign against his brother, she had always seen Joe as the weaker, weedy sibling, this despite him going all Jean Claude Van Damme in Morocco. If this report was anything to go by, Joe might actually have some balls hidden away beneath his navy blue combats.
Bending down to salvage a strawberry from the floor, the last squished remnant of the decimated fruit bowl, she turned the page and came face to face with a picture of Michael. Maisie paused. Truth be told, she rather missed his puppy-like devotion. Stephen hadn’t bought her a present for at least a week and even then it had been some marked down perfume from duty free. Perhaps a few turns on the sex-with-her-ex merry-go-round would serve Stephen right.
All of a sudden, the thought of playing the two men off against each other seemed rather fun, particularly if Memoir turned out to be as successful as the paper predicted. Maisie popped the strawberry into her mouth and smiled. What a turn-on it would be to have two lovers competing both in and out of the bedroom.
Across town, Joe had just awoken with a thumping headache of his own, but it had more to do with chronic sleep deprivation than all-out hedonism. For the past twenty-four hours, his phone had been ringing off the hook with tantalisingly lucrative distribution offers, until finally, a deal had been struck with Cosmos Pictures at 3am this morning. His head was still buzzing from the thrill of it all but he was in dire need of rest before the bags under his eyes staked a permanent claim.
Just as he was drifting off, his mobile started ringing again.
‘Joe! You sound like shit!’ greeted Flavio.
‘The voice matches the appearance. Why the hell aren’t you in bed?’
‘Oh I never sleep,’ dismissed the Italian, ‘not when there is coffee in my espresso machine and euros to be made.’
Bollocks, thought Joe. He and Michael had quickly worked out that Flavio’s main motivation in life was an insatiable sex drive. When he wasn’t busy selling movies, he and Christine had been humping their way round the hotspots of Cannes, not to mention touching each other up inappropriately on the Hotel du Cap terrace.
‘Cosmos want to push ahead with ze commercial release in ze late autumn,’ announced Flavio. ‘Now tell me, do you get ze Engleesh broadsheets over at that little ‘hotel’?
Joe yawned again. ‘Why?’
‘I suggest you go read ze Cannes Round Up in ze entertainment sections.’
Joe groaned, anticipating some fawning interview with Stephen. It was bad enough he had scooped the Palme D’Or.
‘Don’t worry iz all good,’ soothed Flavio. ‘I ‘ave to go now, so I will see you in London. ‘Ave a safe trip back. It az been good doing business with you, my friend.’
Chapter Thirty-Nine
The statue of Charlie Chaplin in the heart of Leicester Square had presided over his fair share of movie premieres, but there was something very special about this evening’s extravaganza.
Building on the hearsay from Cannes, the Cosmo Pictures marketing
team had craftily gone and mooted Memoir as this year’s ‘Must See’ movie. This was evident tonight in the packed out media pen, the chock-a-block pavements and the intrusive paparazzi lenses flashing at every passing celeb like a herd of dirty old men in raincoats. With his rumoured proclivity for the younger ladies, old Charlie would have been delighted to see Harry Potter’s Emma Watson strutting her stuff down there, along with Keira Knightly and pop tartlet Miley Cyrus, not to mention the usual hodgepodge of barely-legal, practically naked Z list TV reality morons.
A ripple of excitement swept through the crowd as the arriving limousine deposited the movie’s director, producer and acclaimed leading actress at the mouth of the dazzlingly red carpet. Even the turning, autumnal leaves lining the square seemed to catch on to the buzz, swishing and swaying in time to the autograph calls.
Wasn’t Michael Wilson handsome? The crowds whispered. Wasn’t Joe’s hair so much more chic than his brother’s? And who was the pretty brunette in the ivory Marchesa walking besides them, the one who kept diving out of shot when the lenses took aim? Surely any up-and-coming actress should be coveting the attention. She was certainly attractive enough to be one. And who was the woman with straggly blonde hair that had belted up the carpet to tearfully embrace Joe De Vries? Everyone then watched, spellbound, as all five were shepherded into the cinema by a militia of black-clad PR officials.
Soon after, the crowds began to curdle and separate like a badly made mayonnaise. But Charlie waited. Until finally, with the base from the nearby nightclubs rattling him senseless, the side doors opened once more. As celebs and journalists exited the cinema, some into waiting cars, others bound for the tube, a good few beetling over to the Burger King across the square, Charlie quietly eavesdropped in on their summarisations, and if his stony face could have smiled then it would have. For the word on everyone’s lips was an old acquaintance of his. Someone he had met on three separate occasions, in fact. A rather bald chap, if truth be known, yet extremely regal in stature, and one with a permanent Hollywood golden suntan.
Oh. And he went by the name of Oscar.
Chapter Forty
Sadly, whatever hunger drove the Cosmos publicity team to have Memoir in contention for the forthcoming award season seemed to lose its appetite as winter took hold. This was all the more apparent at a very low-key Golden Globe pre-nomination, publicity boosting press conference at the Four Seasons in LA after Thanksgiving.
Michael and Joe brushed aside their disappointment. They were still riding high on their box office success. Besides, all their efforts were now focused on developing two new scripts, as well as ensuring that this year’s Harper Films Christmas Party was a champagne-soaked celebratory extravaganza.
On the day of the party, Polly ducked out of the office to track down a show-stopping, or rather Joe-stopping dress that would superglue the director’s eyes to her all night long. To help with such a task, she had enlisted Lucy, but only on her friend’s proviso that there would be no dithering and strictly no idle chitchat. Two rules that Polly had managed to break almost immediately.
‘Try the red,’ instructed Lucy, selecting a slinky satin number from the rail and thrusting it against Polly. Her friend scowled and pushed it away.
‘Are you mad? I’ve scoffed so many mince pies this week I’ll look more Santa than sex goddess.’
‘Then what about the silver?’
‘Much too ‘fairy at the top of tree’.’ Polly ruffled the delicate lace collar in disgust.
‘Well, is there anything here that won’t make you look like a Christmas character?’ said Lucy losing her patience. ‘Just choose something, you idiot, my lunch break ends in twenty minutes.’
‘But you can’t go! It’s a Christmas party emergency!’ wailed Polly. ‘This is my last chance to find something that screams, “Look here Joe, I still exist, even though the most you’ve said to me in the last two months is can you pass the stapler”... Please Lucy, I’m begging you. He’s slipping away from me like…like...water through my fingers!’ she finished dramatically.
‘All the better for extinguishing that torch you’re carrying.’
‘I’m serious!’
‘So am I! You guys went kaput a year and a half ago after the briefest of fumbles. You didn’t even get to third base!’
Polly shot her a dirty look she she turned away to inspect a midnight blue sequined number.
‘C’mon, Polly. My crabby boss is demanding an update on my celebrity stalker piece by 3pm.’
‘Oh right. So, umm, how is the piece going?’ asked Polly sheepishly. Lucy had just started a fabulous new job as an investigative journalist for a leading British tabloid.
‘Amazing. My police contact is throwing up some riveting stuff. Maisie Peach’s last stalker was utterly convinced she was a Pharaoh’s wife in a former life. Can you imagine Maisie in a Cleopatra bob? Poor love. It would have emphasized her beaky little nose.’
‘Joe’s so preoccupied these days he wouldn’t care I had a stalker,’ said Polly glumly. ‘He dumped the office electricity bill on my desk today and asked me to post a signed photo. I said I didn’t think EDF Energy accepted autographs instead of payment.’
‘I’m sure he doesn’t mean it,’ said Lucy gently.
‘Ever since Sam Harper turned up at the UK premiere he’s been acting all weird and distant.’ Polly stifled a yawn. ‘And I’m knackered. One drink tonight and I’ll be snoozing, not snogging, underneath that mistletoe. No one ever tells you how exhausting unrequited love is.’
‘It’s all that dancing around your feelings,’ sympathised Lucy. ‘Worse than eight hours of Zumba. What you need is break.’
‘Can’t,’ said Polly moodily. ‘We fly to Germany next week to scout locations for a new movie, then it’s home for Crimbo, and then it’s off to NYC for more of the same in Jan.’ Flicking listlessly through the next rail, she missed Lucy look of amazement.
‘Would you take a listen to yourself?’ she gasped, spinning Polly back round. ‘Most people would be bubbling over with all this international jet setting you’re being forced to do. Well I’ve no sympathy. It’s your fault for being involved with such a brilliant, successful production company. How did one critic describe Joe and Michael again? ‘The birth of the greatest creative, innovative film-making team since Spielberg and Lucas…’
‘Ugh, you sound like my mum.’
‘Stop being such a brat! Look how far you’ve come, in only two years as well! Most people don’t achieve this sort of life in…well…a bloody lifetime!’
‘Maybe that’s the problem,’ said Polly. ‘Maybe I don’t feel like I’ve achieved very much yet. I only landed the Harper job because Joe felt guilty for dumping me.’
‘Now you’re just being silly. And ungrateful, Joe’s not like that.’
‘Not ungrateful just unfulfilled. I haven’t really proved myself yet.’
‘Oh Polly…’ Lucy’s face softened. ‘Look, don’t stress, this time next year you’ll be presiding over Hollywood somehow.’
‘Pollywood,’ said Polly guiltily. ‘Sorry Lucy, I’m being a pain.’
‘No you’re not, you’re infatuated. We both know how long it takes you to get over men. Four words for you: Rollo Marsh, Lower Sixth. You pined a whole eight months after he dumped you for Armanda Green.’
‘I wasn’t in mourning for him, silly, I was lamenting the loss of all the free cinema tickets. His dad worked for Odeon.’ Polly selected a pale, nude bodycon dress and held it up to her slender frame.
‘What do you think?’
‘Perfect! Now go and try it on.’
‘You don’t think it’s a bit naked-looking?’ she said wavering.
‘So what? It’ll jog Joe’s memory, if nothing else.’
‘Well he never actually got to see me completely n….’
‘POLLY! If you don’t get a move on, I’ll start doing my Countdown clock impression really, really loudly.’
Five minutes later, Polly pulled ba
ck the lime green changing room curtain and did a twirl. ‘Tell me truthfully; Maisie Peach or Megan Fox?’
‘Definitely Megan Fox, Maisie’s SO last year. Looks amazing. Can I borrow it for my Christmas work do next week?’
‘Sure.’ Suddenly Polly started frowning. ‘Hey, wasn’t that something about Joe on the radio? I’m sure I heard his name.’
‘I doubt it. Changing room stereos tend to play nothing but a continual loop of bad pop music. It keeps the traffic moving and the front tills ringing.’
‘No wait, it’s a news broadcast. It must be two o’clock.’
‘Shit! I need to get back to work!’
‘Excuse me, would you mind turning it up?’ Polly asked the bored-looking shop assistant. She barely looked up from her nails as she twiddled with the volume knob. Straightaway, the peppy voice of the radio presenter boomed out into the changing room.
‘Just to recap on our breaking entertainment story: Brit Flicks Memoir and Love Letters From Romania have both received five Golden Globe nominations apiece, including Best Motion Picture, Drama and Best Director for Stephen De Vries and his brother, newcomer, Joe De Vries.’ A small cry escaped from Polly’s lips. ‘Our reporter, Jono Gregory, was on hand in LA to hear Stephen De Vries’ reaction.’
On cue, Stephen’s supercilious tones glided into the foreground.
‘Well, it just goes to show what another magnificent year it’s been for the British film industry,’ he began expansively, but Polly could tell it was being spat out between gritted teeth.
‘And how does it feel to be pitched head to head with your brother?’ probed the reporter.
‘I welcome the competition and, like every other movie we’re up against, Mr Gregory, I wish him and his team all the very best.’
There was a scuffling noise in the background.
‘That’ll be him kicking the reporter on the shins,’ hissed Lucy.
It swiftly cut back to the presenter.
