by Cate Andrews
‘You sound like a real, modern-day Midas, Mr Charmers,’ smiled Michael, stepping forward to shake his hand.
Bill chuckled. ‘That I am Mr Wilson, and if you guys win me number forty-four, I may just be keeping that sobriquet for mahself. Please, make yourselves at home.’ He guided the men up the stairs and into a large square meeting room.
‘This is very good of you, Mr Charmers, but I must confess we’re a little surprised,’ said Joe, taking a seat. ‘Our press conference in November was such a wash-out, we didn’t think we had a hope.’
‘But didn’t you get our memos?’ All of a sudden, his super smooth southern charm didn’t sound quite so languid.
‘No, we…’
Before he could finish, Bill was up and out of his seat, cornering Sandy in the hallway and bawling her out for sloppy oversights.
‘Stupid airhead,’ he muttered, storming back into the room, ‘I can assure you slip-ups like that won’t be happening now I’m in charge. You know about Cosmos submitting Memoir for BAFTA and Academy Award consideration though, right?’
Joe and Michael both choked on their champagne.
Bill looked furious. ‘Well that explains why y’all never showed up for the Q&A session at our BAFTA screening then!’
Joe’s brain was spinning like a super-charged Ferris wheel. An Oscar was the ultimate movie-making achievement, a guarantee to instant greatness. Even in his wildest dreams he had never dared consider it.
‘Do you really think we have a shot?’ he heard Michael gasp.
Bill thawed out instantly, with a grin that seemed to encompass the length and breadth of his beard. ‘Guys listen, every winter some ‘lil movie miracle pops out of nowhere and throws a curveball right at those nomination ballots. This year, it doesn’t take a genius to figure out its Memoir. But we’ve got our work cut out for us,’ he warned them, pulling out a cigar and neatly castrating the end of it. ‘Other Studios have been formulating their campaign strategies from as far back as May.’
‘Studios like my father’s,’ said Michael with a slight edge. ‘So what do you need from us?’
‘Exposure!’ roared the big Texan excitedly. ‘And I’m gonna pull in four of mah best publicists to get it! First off, we need to schedule in some major appearances and raise your profile. Then, we’re gonna throw some parties, charm some journalists and get that movie of yours seen. I want Memoir at the top of every publication’s ‘Movies of the Year List’ by Friday, and a wedge of Guild nominations for good measure. We’ll also place ads in the industry papers round town…’
‘You mean the ones with For Your Consideration written all over them?’ interrupted Joe.
‘Yes Sir.’
‘It all sounds pretty expensive. Our movie did ok but it’s no Titanic. Who picks up the bill for this stuff?’
‘Cosmos. Believe me, it’s in their interests. Awards to these guys mean great DVD revenue, a packed theatre to your re-released movie. A Best Picture win can earn some serious bucks.’
‘Re-released?’ asked Joe, looking puzzled.
Bill nodded. ‘If I do my job right then Memoir will be heading right back to movie screens after a full house of Oscar nominations.’
‘I see, so that’s why Cosmo stalled the DVD release.’
‘How significant are the Globes when it comes to the rest of the awards season?’ asked Michael suddenly.
The Texan lent back in his chair and stared at him, meditatively.
‘Put it this way, Mr Wilson, you’ll be needing an extended hire on that tux.’
Joe’s headache seemed to miraculously disappear after his glass of fizz, which was just as well as campaign discussions lasted long into the evening. At some point, Sandy must have crept in with take-out but they were all far too excited at the thought of securing a spot on Saturday Night Live to notice. It was gone two am by the time the Junior Publicist drove them back to Michael’s jeep.
The conversation home was dominated by how best the publicity team should package their movie.
‘A smart narrative performs miracles, I say we push us as the underdog,’ said Michael, taking a detour down Hollywood Boulevard. ‘The money-spinners pitched against the quirky independent. David versus five Goliaths, or however many films the Academy decide should be in contention for Best Picture next year.’
‘So long as it doesn’t turn into a public slanging match with me and Stephen, the press are already picking up on the Gallagher Brothers vibes,’ said Joe, gazing out at the stars. Not the ones twinkling above, but rather those cemented to the sidewalks either side of the jeep.
Even at this hour, the Boulevard was jammed with tourists and street performers decked out in their faded Batman costumes. All being well, come February, he might be back here rubbing shoulders with the real thing; Clooney, Bale. Even the funny looking one he could never remember the name of.
Michael lay awake that night listening to his stomach rumble. It was a timely reminder that normally, about now, he would be enjoying his late afternoon slice of triple-layer chocolate cake.
He tossed and turned but the minutes dragged on and on. Too wired to sleep, too jet-lagged to do much else, in the end he grabbed his cell and started fiddling with the apps before scrolling through his list of contacts. Pausing on Maisie’s number, he wondered why he hadn’t deleted it yet.
Next, he came across the details of some private investigator Christine had recommended a while back to help with the Tommy Harper situation. She had hired the guy three years ago to compile a dossier of Stephen’s extra-marital affairs, but such was the director’s unquenchable appetite, she had let the PI go after a week for fear of bankruptcy.
Michael studied the number for a minute and as his did his stomach quieted. Suddenly, things were very clear. If he wanted Lily and Lucas on his side, he needed to find a way to ejector seat Vincent right out of their lives.
Chapter Forty-Two
High up in the stone grey, mock Italian belvedere of his enormous office penthouse, Walt Wilson stood gazing down at his sprawling empire. He had a copy of the summer’s blockbuster figures in one hand and a large, self-congratulatory whiskey in the other. As predicted, Global’s June and July releases had sucker-punched this year’s box office, annihilating the competition and making him richer than a Russian Oligarch. Even the latest Harry Potter had failed to topple Mutinous Pirates 4.
Taking a contemplative swig of his whiskey, he watched as one of his showy blue tour-buses, packed to the rafters with excited tourists, wove its way through the industrial maze of his thirty-five state-of-the-art sound stages. Too bad his studios didn’t elicit the same passion from his son, he reflected darkly. With this year’s box office well and truly conquered, he only had one more battle on his hands; that of luring Michael back to Global. Memoir’s success was nothing but a fluke, a classic case of beginner’s luck.
But enough was enough.
Global was where his son belonged and Walt needed a plan fast. Something to remind Michael of what he was chucking away. Lifting his glass for another swig of his whiskey, he paused as an idea popped into his head. What better than an awesome display of Global’s dominance over Hollywood this Awards Season?
Striding back inside, he pressed the intercom button on his desk.
‘Selena, dig out Garratt’s number and patch him through immediately.’
‘Certainly, Mr Wilson.’
He let the intercom button go with a satisfied grunt. Patrick Garratt was a ruthless Independent Awards Publicist who lived up to his namesake by wearing tall hats, riding in a Mustang convertible and shooting his rivals in the back when they least expected it, figuratively speaking of course. He was most infamous for his character assassination of German actress, Lizzie Brauer, a few years ago. Lizzie had been a sure cert for Oscar glory, but she and her team hadn’t counted on Patrick’s fearsome nine-day smear campaign just before the ballots closed. Calling into question her tenuous ties to Nazism, her devotion to her marriage and a non-existent c
loseness to her female co-star, by the time she was shipped back to Europe, career in tatters and divorce pending, the Oscar had been duly awarded to one of her lesser-talented colleagues. Persuading Garratt to sign-up to Love Letters would spell certain curtains for Harper, and it would be the first rung on the ladder to getting his son back.
Salmon was definitely one thing OFF the menu this holiday season, reflected Polly, feeling like one of the beleaguered fishes as she battled upstream against the unyielding current of last minute Oxford Street Christmas shoppers. And there was nothing ‘holy’ about this night either, she thought savagely, glaring at the beaming, woolly-hatted carol singers gathered en masse around the tube station entrance. Except for this shopping experience being ‘wholly’ rubbish, that is. God, she was grumpy but ever since Joe had jetted off to LA she felt all displaced and gritty, like an unwashed supermarket salad. The distance hadn’t helped at all, and now that he was back it was even worse. They hardly spoke. He was too busy being whisked here, there and everywhere on an endless rotation of screenings, interviews and talk show appearances.
Zipping past the window of a department store, she spied a nodding dog in the window dressed up in a scarlet Santa suit. That’ll do for Stephen, thought Polly. The director adored ‘yes’ people, especially women. Of course I’ll get that 32FF boob job for you Stephen. Nod. Nod. Of course I’ll stop eating, just so that you have the kudos of boasting to all your cronies that you’re screwing a size 0 model...
She immediately fished out her phone.
‘Luce, it’s me. I’ve just seen the funniest thing in the window of C….’
‘Sorry Polly, can’t talk,’ gasped her friend. ‘My celebrity stalker piece just went nuclear. The police arrested some nut-job last night after a tip-off from Stephen.’
‘Stephen? You mean our Stephen?’ Saying that made Polly feel slightly nauseous.
‘Yup. Apparently this guy’s been spying on him for months. He even bugged the GBA offices. Stephen found one of his devices when he was re-arranging his BAFTAs to make room for a new addition. He’ll be waiting a long time. Everyone knows Memoir’s hot favourite.’
‘Nominations aren’t even out til Jan! What happened to the footage?’
‘That’s what I’m trying to get my hands on now.’
‘Yikes. What d’you think’s on there?’
‘Lots of sex, swearing and misuse of junior staff, I can imagine. Listen Polly, it looks like I’m in for an all-nighter but I can meet you for a pint tomorrow, if you like?’
‘Lime and soda for me. I’ve been misery munching again so I’ve slapped myself on a diet.’
‘But its Christmas! Diets are officially suspended until 2nd January. Sorry hun, gotta go. My contact’s calling me back on the other line…’
Polly could hear her own phone ringing as she arrived back at the flat. Weighed down by shopping bags and cartons of mince pies, it took ages to bungle her way through the door. Her handbag strap kept catching on the door handle and yanking her backwards like a dog owner and an exuberant puppy.
‘Polly, it’s Michael. Turn on the Beeb!’ he yelped.
‘Ok, ok, hold your horses,’ she muttered, reaching for the remote. ‘Are you insane?’ she screeched, moments later, when Stephen De Vries face in all its leering repugnance beamed forth into her living room.
‘It’ll be worth it, I promise. Turn up the volume.’
Polly did as she was told. From the looks of it, Joe wasn’t the only De Vries brother sofa-hopping late night chat shows. A suited and very expensively-booted Stephen was sat opposite a white-haired gentleman who seemed to clear his throat a lot and delight in exclaiming, ‘wonderful, wonderful, Stephen,’ almost as much.
‘So let me understand this better,’ said the interviewer slowly. Cough. Cough. ‘You’re donating £1 million out of your own pocket to help alleviate the suffering of Romania’s waifs and strays?’
‘That’s correct, Richard,’ said Stephen, indulging the enchanted gasps from the audience with a small smile. The idea had been a stroke of genius from Garratt. ‘I feel it’s only fair that the poor neglected animals of that magnificent country benefit from our astonishing success.’
Polly was speechless. This was the man who had gone out of his way to squish a fresh victim on his way to work every morning.
‘Wonderful, wonderful, Stephen!’ Cough. Cough. ‘But what would you say to the people who argue that this money would be better spent easing the suffering of the orphans?’ countered his host gently. ‘I have an article here that suggests very little has changed since the fall of communism.’
‘Richard, Richard, Richard,’ scolded Stephen, lightly. ‘How could anyone think we’d ignore the predicament of those delightful little faces? That is why I, and the Head of Global Studios himself, Mr Walt Wilson, will be flying out to Bucharest right after this interview to establish a brand new charity for said unfortunates.’
Richard looked rather relieved at this. Polly got the feeling that vigorous cross-examination a la Paxman wasn’t his strong point.
‘The thing is Richard,’ went on Stephen, determined to turn in a schmaltzier performance than any of his bimbo actresses. ‘I look at how warm and loving the hospitality was during our time in Bucharest and I say to myself, now is the time to give something back. Now is the time for the good people of Romania to…’
And NOW is the time to switch you off, thought Polly, picking up the remote again.
Meanwhile, Michael was in hysterics.
‘The guy’s a complete fantasist’ he gasped. ‘And what the fuck’s my father playing at? There’s no way in hell he’ll be getting on that plane. God knows what other stunts they’re going to pull between now and January.’
‘Speaking of publicity, how did that thing with the Guardian go?’ asked Polly.
‘Fine. Better than Joe’s interview by the sounds of it.’
‘Oh god. What happened?’
‘Too many tricky questions about Stephen. Bill’s PR lady had to step in so many times, she’s a stone lighter from all the exercise.’
‘Poor Joe. Where is he now?’
‘On his way to meet Sam, I think.’
‘Oh. Oh I see.’
Sensing he’d put his foot in it, Michael hastily asked what she was up to for the rest of the evening.
‘Sacking off the diet and pigging out on pizza,’ sighed Polly, ‘enough to fill the gaping hole of my non-existent love life anyway. That’s what stuffed crusts are for, you know, calorific buffers for the bleeding-hearted.’
Michael started laughing again. ‘Sounds right up my street. Make it a XL Pepperoni and I’ll see in thirty.’
‘Done.’
He arrived at the same time as a pizza delivery boy with plastic reindeer antlers gaffer-taped to his helmet. Judging from the wretched look on his face, it wasn’t by choice, and Michael slipped him an extra fiver to compensate.
‘How’s the big move going?’ yelled Polly, as she divvied up the pizza in the kitchen. Determined to stay in London, Michael was finally moving out of Christine’s place.
‘Hideous. Packing boxes are like rabbits, leave them alone and they only fucking multiply.’
‘Do you want two slices or three...Michael?’
Picking up the plates, she wondered into the room and found him crouched over her laptop on the coffee table.
‘Are you writing a script?’ he demanded, jerking his head up.
Polly turned grey. ‘Oh god you weren’t meant to see that. Please don’t read it!’ she begged, belting over to him and slamming the lid down with a bang. ‘No…yes…maybe. Look, I had an idea and I jotted some stuff down, that’s all,’ she said, plonking a plate of pizza in front of him.
‘I never knew you were a budding screenwriter?’
‘Neither did I until two weeks ago. The thing is, I want to make my own movies someday. Anyway, I’d hardly call myself a ‘scriptwriter’. I’ve only hashed out twenty pages.’
‘Let me read it.
’
She shook her head. ‘No way.’
‘Please!’
‘Michael. You’re ex-Development Exec for one of the biggest studios in the world. You’re used to reading half a dozen potential Oscar-winning scripts before lunch.’
He rolled his eyes. ‘Don’t remind me. All that wordy intensity used to put me off ma sushi. Why d’ya think I was so slim when I arrived in Africa?’
‘Very funny…and no, you’re still not reading it.’
But in the end Polly relented. It was difficult to say no to Michael. A resolution, no matter how firm, tended to crumble as soon as he fixed you with his piercing blue eyes.
‘Oh go on then, if you must,’ she sighed, ‘but I can’t be around whilst you do.’
‘Good. I prefer to critique in peace. Just don’t eat all the pizza.’
He found her half an hour later scrubbing out the inside of the fridge. She sensed him hovering in the doorway.
‘Ok let’s have it,’ she mumbled into Lucy’s half-eaten vindaloo. ‘But don’t feel you have to be honest, just because you’re my friend.’
‘Are you sure?’ She could tell from his voice that he was smiling.
‘Very sure. In fact my delicate creative ego would appreciate a little dishonesty.’
‘Ok, fine. It’s mawkish and predictable. Best Fed-Ex it to GBA right away, they like that sort of thing.’
Polly whipped round in horror. ‘Oh god, are you serious?’
Michael laughed. ‘Nope, but you told me to lie. If I were being honest, however, i’d tell you that it was great. Very original and very funny. You have a real talent. You should finish it.’
Polly frowned. ‘Now I can’t tell if you’re being truthful or not.’
Michael threw his hands up in exasperation. ‘I love it! I do! Now stop fishing and pass me my pepperoni’
She grinned and slid the pizza box his way. ‘So you really think I should finish it?’
‘Yup. And then I’m first in the queue for an option.’
