Dirty Movies

by Cate Andrews

  The next thing she did was book a three-week, all-inclusive trip to Disneyland in the hope that a lengthy stopover at the ‘Happiest Place on Earth’ would stop her thinking about Michael. Failing that, she could always get high on all the sugar instead.

  Ten hours later, Michael swept through boarder control and into the arrivals hall, clutching his laptop and passport.

  ‘Hey Michael! Michael, over here!’

  Michael turned instinctively towards the voice then froze. The Bill Chalmers waving at him bore little resemblance to the puffed-up, boisterous character from last year. Like an un-watered Christmas tree, everything about the Texan sagged, from his great hulking shoulders to his bushy moustache. Even his cigar looked in desperate need of a pep talk.

  Michael swallowed uneasily. This was the body language of a man who had been bested, a man who had employed every trick in the book, worked every hour under the sun, and yet, had still fallen short. Bill beckoned him over and stuck out his hand. He made no other concession to expedite the short distance between them, as if he was deliberately putting off bad news.

  They grasped hands briefly.

  ‘Michael.’

  ‘Bill.’

  ‘The others with you?’

  ‘Still waiting for their luggage. They sent me on ahead.’

  ‘Right.’ Bill started fanning his face with his newspaper then made to unravel it, before he changed his mind and tucked it awkwardly under his arm instead.

  ‘Michael, we gotta problem. Seems you’ve got yourself a few enemies, son.’

  ‘Only a few?’ drawled Michael.

  ‘You only need one in this town. The guy who unleashes Garrett.’

  Michael’s face darkened. ‘Let me guess, he’s dodging the Academy’s no-no rule on bad-mouthing rival movies by electing to discredit us as individuals instead?’

  Bill nodded. ‘It’s circumstantial, of course, but the timing stinks. He’s gonna rip you guys apart, one-by-one.’

  ‘I see. Then who’s the first victim? I assume that’s what we’re talking about here.’

  Bill looked shifty.

  ‘Me?? Are you serious?’ Michael started laughing. ‘I bet Garrett had a tough time there. Not much lurking in my past.’

  ‘Except Christine.’

  The smile froze on Michael’s lips. Ah, that.

  The big Texan unfolded his paper, handed it over then glanced away, of which Michael was touchingly grateful for when he looked down and saw a photograph of himself and Christine plastered across the page in a tangle of bed sheets and limbs. Very, very naked limbs…

  As customary with moments of great shock, Michael found his mind shooting off on a tangent. He began to silently berate the idiot tasked with pixelating Christine’s nipples. It was a piss-poor job by anyone’s standards. He could make out every goose-bump on her areola.

  ‘Images like these are always the most damaging,’ he heard Bill say. ‘They have the propensity to offend Middle America’s delicate constitutions, far more than adulterous senators. I hate to say it but Garrett’s pulled off quite a coup. Not only has he made you out to be some kind of irresponsible playboy, he’s managed to paint Stephen as the wronged husband in every shade of bullshit as well.’

  Michael’s hands convulsed into fighting fists. ‘Damn straight it’s bullshit!’ he yelled, making everyone stare. ‘Besides, this crap is nothing new. Everyone knows me and Christine hooked up, Stephen made sure of it last year. What he failed to mention is that he’s the one who’s been screwing Maisie behind my back for years!’

  Bill’s head jerked up. ‘You got proof of that?’

  Michael hesitated. That had been his father’s reaction too. Suddenly a horrible thought struck him. Was it he who had sanctioned the release of those photos?

  ‘So?’ prompted Bill, trying not to sound too eager about it. ‘You got the proof or not?’

  ‘Not.’ he answered flatly.

  The Texan slumped again. ‘Shame. We could have leaked it. Still, those Globes ballots closed a few weeks ago so the votes are already cast. As for the Oscars? We’ll just have to hold our breath and hope the Academy members judge your movie on merit alone.’

  Michael forced himself to look at the revolting photo again. Poor Christine. She didn’t deserve this humiliation any more than he did. And what the hell was Benito going to say? He would need to be at least three continents away to escape the aftershocks once that fiery Italian volcano erupted.

  This was just a taster, the inauguration of a long, dirty, drawn-out campaign slog. No wonder Bill was looking so deflated. If what he said about Garrett was true, then there would be a whole paperboy bagful of incriminatory headlines to fire-fight between now and late February. Not content with dreaming up bullshit charities and farcing up funerals, Garrett and Stephen were clearly gunning for a full set of Harper scalps.

  Michael scowled. Suddenly it wasn’t about red carpets, campaign screenings and toe-curling speeches anymore.

  This was personal.

  They drove straight from the airport to West Hollywood, making one quick detour on the way to pick up a tux for Joe to wear to the Globes.

  Lou Lou’s Rent-A-Tux was cut-price and it showed, from the cheap neon sign flashing in the front window to the sorry-looking suits hanging on the rails inside, but Joe was adamant that there was no point dressing up a disaster. When Michael showed him the newspaper, he had known that Memoir’s chances this awards season were cooked. He knew it, Michael who was slumped dejectedly beside him on the shop’s shabby brown sofa knew it and Christine, who was still bawling her eyes out in the car outside, sure as hell knew it.

  He scanned the rails of suits again but saw nothing but disappointment dressed-up in faded lapels and bad stitching.

  ‘So, gentleman,’ chirped the shop assistant, clapping his hands together and beaming at his two glum-faced but exceptionally good-looking customers. ‘Let me show you our range.’

  ‘Hang on a sec,’ said Michael, leaning over to Joe. ‘Are you sure you want to rent from here?’ he whispered as the shop assistant fussed about removing imaginary hairs from lapels. ‘Everything reeks of fried chicken. Can’t we at least get someone from Bill’s office to call up Tom Ford…Gucci…Prada?’ he said throwing up designer names in desperation. ‘It won’t be bespoke but…’

  ‘Why waste the money,’ snapped Joe. ‘I’ll take this,’ he said, plucking out a tux randomly and thrusting it at the shop assistant.

  ‘But Sir, don’t you want to try it on first?’

  ‘No point. I’ll take a shirt and bow tie too thanks.’

  ‘Ah hell,’ moaned Michael. ‘At least make them designer!’ But Joe was already reaching for his wallet.

  ‘I can’t believe you’re letting Stephen get to you like this,’ he snarled as they tore out of the parking lot five minute later.

  ‘Stop having a go, just because I didn’t want a fancy suit.’

  ‘It’s not about the goddamn suit,’ cried Michael, losing his temper. ‘It’s like you’ve given up already!’

  Joe stayed silent, refusing to be drawn into the argument. Michael was wrong. For once this wasn’t about Stephen. Ever since his fall out with Polly, he was finding it difficult to give a damn about anything.

  ‘Polly hun, it’s on E!’

  ‘What is?’ snapped the smelly, unwashed lump from the sofa.

  ‘The Golden Globes,’ said Lucy patiently. ‘I looked it up in the TV Guide. Coverage starts at 1am tonight. Or rather tomorrow morning.’

  ‘What makes you think I’m going to stay up all hours watching that crap!’

  Lucy held her tongue. Truth was, her friend had done very little but gaze unseeingly at rubbish TV for the past three weeks. At least it would make a change from countless programmes fronted by luminous orange antique dealers.

  ‘Oh come on spoilsport, it’ll be fun,’ she said brightly. ‘We can take the piss out of all the celebs who turn up wearing naff outfits, then bitch about the ones with the equival
ent of some small African country’s GNP jammed in their earlobes. I might even make you a bacon sarnie at half time.’

  ‘It’s not a football match,’ said Polly sulkily.

  ‘Ok, in one of the ad breaks then. It’s a cable channel so they’re bound to have hundreds.’

  Polly scowled and muttered something disparaging about misogynistic red carpet cameramen but deep down she knew that a glimpse of Joe, no matter how fleeting before it cut to a shot of Scarlett Johansson’s perfect derriere, was still a million times better than no glimpse at all.

  ‘Oh ok but Stephen better go home empty handed,’ she snapped, glaring at Lucy as if she had some sort of sway over the matter. ‘If he gets any smugger, his ego might spontaneously combust. Though, on reflection, that might not be such a bad thing after all.’

  Chapter Forty-Five

  The night belonged to Stephen from the moment his limo pulled up to the Beverly Hilton Hotel. Gliding along the Red Carpet, stopping every so often to cavort with reporters and slap the backs of George and Brad, all eyes were upon him, toasting and admiring. In comparison, Joe, Michael and Christine found themselves stuck at the back of a queue of arriving limos and the resultant backlog of jostling VIPs meant that circumnavigating their way down the red carpet was a very stop-start, unsatisfactory affair.

  Once inside, things didn’t improve. With the Globes’ purported tendency for mischief, some joker had stuck Joe and Michael on a table adjoining Stephen’s who was secretly delighted. Now he would be able to publically shove tonight’s almost-certain triumphs in their faces.

  ‘For god’s sake, don’t let me drink too much,’ snarled Michael, as he watched Stephen plonk a proprietorial hand on Maisie’s thigh then turn and smirk at him. The actress had decided to suspend hostilities with the director tonight, simply for the kudos of being one half of the ceremony’s most celebrated couple. ‘If I get wasted then so will he. With my fist!’

  Christine patted his arm gently. The last few days had been unspeakably awful but she was determined to enjoy what would, hopefully, be the culmination of her extraordinary comeback this evening. On the other side of her, Joe was quietly seething into his pink ravioli and thinking much the same as Michael.

  As the ceremony got under way, they were given even more reasons to despise him. Precisely five, in fact, as Globe after Globe was awarded GBA’s way. In the end, it was such a white-wash that Michael considered calling it a night before the ceremony was through, particularly after Stephen, more drunk on his success than the zesty vino, decided to gate-crash the stage with his famous pals in an attempt to recreate the notorious take-over by the Rat Pack in the 50s. With the audience rapt with indulgent amusement, it was noted that only the Harper table was sat in dour-faced silence, with barely a flicker of a reaction between them.

  Just when things couldn’t get any grimmer, Julia Roberts appeared like a toothy vision to announce the Winner of Best Motion Picture, Drama. At the same time, a scuffle broke out from the sidelines, and a great bear-like figure was spotted pummeling a path through the A-listers and Studio Execs towards their table. Millions of viewers then watched Julia’s perfect mouth contort in shock as the intruder launched himself like a heat-seeking missile straight at Michael Wilson’s head.

  Back in the UK, Polly shrieked in horror as the cameras panned in on Joe and a very debonair Bruce Willis struggling to contain a raging Benito, whilst in the background Stephen was cackling his wicked head off. Not long after, the picture cut to commercials.

  In the end, it was Walt Wilson who dragged Benito off his son, with a little help from Serena who, when not attending her Jane Austen book club meetings, spent her time Tai quo do-ing down the gym.

  ‘Bugiardo! You liar!’ the audience heard Benito bellow, as he twisted and bucked like a wild mustang in Serena’s steely grip. ‘You tell me you are one of ze good guys, but you were humping my Christine all along!’

  ‘Nonsense Benito, that’s enough!’ shrieked Christine. ‘I insist you apologise to Michael at once!’

  But with two bruised ribs and a shattered ego, Michael wasn’t sticking around to hear it. Scooping up the remains of his dignity, he limped out through the lobby and up to the hotel suite that Bill’s team had booked for last minute outfit and make-up tweaks.

  A minute later, there was a knock at the door.

  ‘Fuck off, Joe! I’m not in the mood.’

  ‘Lucky I’m not him then,’ came a voice as Maisie slithered into the room.

  Michael glared at her. She was glowing from head to foot in exquisite gold satin, the exact same hue as the award that she had just trumped Christine for, and her face was flushed with malice. It suited her. She looked staggering.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I came to sympathise.’

  ‘Like hell you did. Get the fuck out!’

  Maisie pouted at him and took a step closer. ‘Don’t be such a crosspatch.’

  ‘A crosspatch? Are you fucking kidding me??’ yelled Michael. ‘I’ve just been humiliated in front of millions, our movie lost out to your insipid shit and some Italian maniac just obliterated my rib cage!’

  ‘Shouldn’t go round seducing married women then.’ she taunted.

  ‘But it’s okay for you to sleep with married men?’

  ‘It is when I want career longevity. I was hardly going to get that with you now, was I? Since you ditched Global, your life has been one long disaster movie.’

  ‘At least i’m not a sadistic little prick.’ The ache from his bruised ribs was becoming unbearable. ‘Christ, Maisie, did it have to be him?’ he yelped, collapsing backwards onto the bed.

  Masie shrugged. ‘Stephen suited my ambition. And I suppose I loved him. Once.’

  ‘But not anymore?’ He hated the faint trace of hope he felt. Maisie wasn’t just bad news, she was a billion naked pictures of him splashed across every media outlet in the western hemisphere.

  ‘It was fun for a while. Now I have my Golden Globe, he’s surplus to requirements. Besides, if I win the Oscar next month, my star quadruples overnight. I’ll be invincible.’

  Michael shook his head, incredulously. ‘It’s all just a game to you people, isn’t it? Have you ever considered conserving your energies for front of camera?’

  Maisie laughed. ‘And you wonder why stuff like tonight happens? You’re such an idealistic dipshit, Michael. But I still care about you, you know.’

  ‘Well don’t.’

  ‘And I know you still care about me,’ she said slyly, perching on the bed next to him.

  ‘Don’t kid yourself.’

  ‘So if I was to reach over and kiss you, you’d push me away?’

  Michael took a deep breath and was consumed by Channel No. 5.

  ‘Absolutely.’ he said weakly.

  ‘Liar.’

  Their mouths collided with a sickening crunch. Feeling the warmth of her slender body twist against him, he groaned and pushed her backwards onto the bed.

  ‘What are you waiting for?’ she urged, grinding against him.

  In the past, this filthy passion would have driven him crazy but, for some reason, tonight it felt staged and awkward and faintly embarrassing. Wrenching himself free, he rolled over and felt her green eyes mocking him.

  ‘This is wrong.’

  ‘Damn straight it’s wrong,’ hissed Maisie, sitting up. ‘Right now you should be inside my pussy, not behaving like one.’

  ‘You always did have a way with words,’ he muttered, disparagingly.

  ‘And with cocks too, but it looks like you’re passing. What are you now, gay?’

  ‘Goddamit Maisie. Why are you really here?’

  ‘I thought you might like a consolation prize.’

  ‘My, my, how selfless of you! Shame I don’t believe a word of it. C’mon, what’s the deal, honey? Has lover-boy got another camera tucked away in here? He’s pretty talented at recording my mistakes for future exploitation. By all accounts, he’s a damn site better at it than
he is at directing.’

  ‘Not according to the Hollywood Foreign Press Association,’ retorted Maisie. Realising that a quick fumble now was as likely as Harper winning an award this season, she got up and walked towards the door.

  ‘So that’s it?’ he said scornfully watching her leave, furious with himself for kissing her. ‘No goodbye smooch? No crushing parting shot? Honey, you’re killing me!’

  ‘Ah go to hell, Michael.’

  ‘Funny,’ he said to himself as she slammed the door behind her. ‘I think I’m here already.’

  Maisie was simmering with frustration as she waited for the lift to arrive. Michael was a stupid stubborn bastard but she’d crack him eventually. And before the BAFTAs too, if the size of his erection was anything to go by.

  Observing her undetected from the shadows, Walt Wilson watched her tug at her thong and re-position her tit tape. The demure, Golden Globe winning actress once more, he thought dryly, as she sauntered into the arriving lift carriage.

  As quick as a flash, he walked back the other way and knocked on Michael’s door. His son opened up immediately looking tense-faced and guilty.

  ‘Ah great,’ he sighed wearily. ‘Another Global rep come to gloat.’

  ‘Not my style,’ snapped Walt. ‘I came here to drag your ass back downstairs.’

  ‘Not before I consume every goddamn bottle of champagne in this room.’

  ‘You will if you want Stephen to drop all charges.’

  ‘What charges? What the hell are you talking about?’

  Suddenly the sound of sirens filled the air.

  Michael took an anxious step towards him. ‘Dad? What’s going on?’

  Walt shook his head at his son, pityingly. His plan to get him back to Global was playing out a little too well for his liking. He had wanted his son humbled, not disgraced. He’d already had sharp words with Garrett over the leaked pictures.