Dirty Movies

by Cate Andrews

  In LA, Joe was missing her like crazy and driving Michael around the bend with his constant cooing. He got it, he really did. The guy was head over heels, but it hurt to see someone so crazy happy when you were such a misery-out-of-love-guts yourself.

  Michael was also worrying himself sick over Lily’s disappearance and getting increasingly ratty about all the fictitious press articles linking him with actresses he had barely brushed past. Every interviewer he talked to seemed mildly troubled by his single status as well, as if the thought of a lone, good-looking heterosexual was somehow more alarming to their readership than child poverty or the current crisis in Syria. Truth was, he didn’t have a clue who, or what, he wanted anymore. He just knew that every time he thought about Lily his heart thudded painfully.

  To make matters worse, he and his father had stopped speaking again, though not for lack of trying on his part. Feeling bad about his outburst, Michael had left a string of contrite messages with Serena. The very least he could have done was FedEx his cell back to him, he reflected crossly, three days later, after he rushed out to buy a new one then spent the rest of the afternoon figuring out how to use it. But as another week passed it seemed destined to be lost forever in the vortex of Walt’s office, alongside the snuffed out careers of every headstrong young buck who had dared locked horns with him.

  As it happened, Walt had been far too busy staking out the elegantly decorated, pale peach hallways of The Global Studios Hotel & Spa Complex to take a listen to, let alone return, any of his messages. Ever since he had intercepted the call from the odious Mr Peterson, he was obsessed with revealing the identity of Lily Moore. Alas, she was proving more elusive to him than his son’s Oscar chances on Sunday. As he sat there glowering in the lobby, for the ninth morning in a row, next to a huge vase of red roses and a large black and white photograph of himself snapped by Mario Testino, waiting for a glimpse of the damn woman and her damn son as they snuck into breakfast, he was beginning to understand why it had taken Magnum PI such an age to track her down.

  In frustration, he started fiddling with the strap of his million-dollar Patek Philippe wristwatch. The stupid woman was around here somewhere. The evidence was irrefutable. The bed sheets in her room were crumpled every morning, the complimentary coffee sipped, the minibar’s Pimms plundered. But from 7am until late, each day, Lily Moore simply upped and vanished from shot like some CGI marvel. Of course, he could have requested that hotel security march her downstairs in the middle of the night in her pyjamas, but he had an inkling that such brash, ham-fistedness would only make a bad situation worse, especially after he had convinced himself that this Lily character was the key to making everything ok again with Michael.

  For her part, Lily was taking full advantage of the increased limit on her Barclaycard to stay put in California for as long as possible. Unfortunately, after a three-week all-inclusive stay at the Happiest Place on Earth, she and Lucas had been forced to swap the inner gushy, mushy sanctum of Disneyland for Walt’s Wilson’s far more price-savvy establishment on the outskirts of Hollywood, sandwiched between the industrial sprawl of Cosmos Pictures and the Global Studio’s empire itself.

  Determined to exploit the free Global Studios Adventure World pass that came with every room reservation, Lily and Lucas had been rising early each morning to beat the park’s admission queues, and not returning to the hotel until the very last ride had closed. Lily didn’t mind riding rollercoasters all day but she drew a line at the Global Studio’s Star Tour. The main appeal seemed to be a snail crawl past Vincent’s newly erected cenotaph and his exact point of impact. As much as Lucas detested his father, Lily didn’t want to expose him to all that just yet. At least not until he was old enough to graffiti profanities over it.

  Irrespective of Lucas’s delight at being able to ride the Mutinous Pirates rollercoaster everyday, switching hotels had been a bumpy return to reality for Lily. The thought of being this close to Walt Wilson again, regardless of his ten-foot security fence, filled her with terror. What’s worse, the black and white portrait of him hanging in the hotel lobby was a dead-ringer for the man she was hopelessly in love with.

  Lily could sense Michael everywhere. This was his past, she told herself, as she sat in the armchair by the window that morning, sipping her coffee and waiting for Lucas to stir. It might even be his future if he emerged victorious from The Dolby Theatre this Sunday. Staring down at the tiled roofs of the production company bungalows, she couldn’t help imagining all the important meetings he might one day conduct there. Blinking back the tears, she kicked off her trainers and crawled into bed next to Lucas.

  ‘Come on lazy bones,’ she whispered, snuggling up to his little warm body. ‘At this rate those pirates will be setting sail without you.’

  ‘Silly pirates,’ murmured Lucas with a yawn but he was soon up and dressed and swinging off the door handle in excitement.

  ‘I don’t see why we have to eat breakfast,’ he grumbled, as they stood waiting for their lift to arrive.

  ‘We better stay here then,’ said Lily, blithely. ‘Those pirates want able-bodied seamen ride their rollercoasters, not poor famished weaklings.’

  ‘Hadn’t thought of that,’ said Lucas, frowning. ‘It’s definitely second helpings for you then.’

  Laughing, they stepped out of the lift together and made their way across the lobby, past the concierge desk and out towards the restaurant. Lily was surprised at how crowded the hotel was. Then she remembered that they were running an hour later than usual. Trading smiles with the pretty receptionist, Lily watched her eyes hover past her left shoulder before widening in shock

  ‘Lily? Lily Moore?’ roared a voice, suddenly.

  Lily froze. She would recognise that sharp, bullish drawl anywhere. In a panic, she glanced pleadingly at the receptionist, as if she might somehow rise from her desk and whisk them to safety, the service here was spectacular after all. Instead, the girl seemed far too busy pretending to be busy, as her big boss strode their way, parting the lobby like Moses.

  ‘I said, are you Lily Moore?’ growled Walt again, placing a leaden hand on her shoulder. Lily watched his eyes flicker over her face. ‘Wait…don’t I know you from someplace?’

  ‘Get your hands off my mummy, you big bully,’ piped up Lucas, glaring up at him with all the fearlessness of youth.

  Walt let go of her immediately.

  ‘My apologies,’ he said, lips twitching. ‘I didn’t mean to frighten you. Either of you.’

  ‘She needs to eat her breakfast so that she can become a pirate,’ explained Lucas, slightly mollified.

  ‘I see. Then, perhaps I can suggest somewhere a little more private?’ he said, directing this at Lily.

  ‘Have I done something wrong?’ she asked, faintly.

  ‘I hope not,’ murmured Walt. ‘Please,’ he insisted, herding them towards the front of the lobby. ‘I’d prefer to do this in my office and my car’s waiting outside.’

  Chapter Sixty

  Once Serena had arranged a guided tour for Lucas of the entire Global Studio’s Mutinous Pirates storage collection, which included a life-size, frighteningly realistic, sixty foot long Pirate ship, and no less than eighty-one stuffed green parrots, Walt directed Lily into his office, attempted to fortify her with a pint of freshly squeezed Californian oranges and insisted she take a seat on one of his sofas. Lily meekly did as she was told. She clutched her glass like it was a poisoned chalice and waited for the axe to fall.

  Walt sat down in the leather sofa opposite, crossed his legs and undid his jacket button in one single motion.

  ‘How do you know my son, Miss Moore?’ he asked her calmly.

  Lily stared at him in shock. He didn’t remember her!

  ‘We worked together,’ she answered, quietly, glancing at his balcony. ‘I was a GBA employee for seven years.’

  His eyes narrowed again.

  ‘You look so familiar…Are you sure we haven’t met before?’

  Lily stared do
wn at her orange juice, got a waft of its juicy sweetness and felt sick. Her reprieve had been fleeting.

  ‘We met in Cannes, Mr Wilson.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘At the Spartan’s Fury after-show party.’

  There was a pause as Walt frantically tried to remember if Lily was one of girls he had partied with that night. She didn’t look like one. She was too guarded, too delicate. Her trembling fingers were too pale and her wispy ash-blonde hair was almost certainly natural. Most of those gold-digging broads had steel plates welded to their St Tropez tans.

  He shook his head. ‘Sorry, honey, but I don’t recall….’ Suddenly he stopped. ‘Wait a minute,’ he said, rising to his feet. ‘I know you! You’re the chick who confronted me about Michael.’ As he said it, he stabbed an accusing finger at her. ‘You’re the one who told me not to cut my losses.’

  Lily cringed against the black leather. ‘I’m so sorry Mr Wilson,’ she gasped, too terrified even to cry. ‘You were right. It was none of my business. I never should have said anything.’

  ‘Well I’m fucking glad you did,’ said Walt, his thunderous expression breaking into a smile. ‘You look real different though,’ he added, sitting back down. ‘I don’t remember you being so…’ he stared down at her newly slender thighs in their black skinny jeans, ‘…so cute.’

  Lily gaped at him.

  ‘How d’ya know he was planning to leave Global?’ he asked her suddenly.

  ‘Michael confided in me about it in Morocco.’

  ‘You two must be pretty close.’

  She shook her head. ‘Not really, but your son was very kind to me and Lucas.’

  Walt looked puzzled. ‘If you weren’t close then how come he’s had the most expensive PI in London trailing you for the past two months?’

  Lily dropped her glass of orange juice. It caught the edge of the expensive coffee table, flipped 180 and deposited its contents all over Walt’s even more expensive-looking burgundy carpet.

  ‘Oh my god!’ she cried, leaping up in horror. ‘I’m so sorry, Mr Wilson!’

  Walt shrugged it off as he reached for his intercom. Lily Moore sure did a lot of apologising.

  ‘Serena, put a call through to house cleaning, would ya?’

  ‘Certainly, Mr Wilson.’

  He let go of the button again.

  ‘How do you know?’ she said him, trembling like a blade of grass caught in a thunderstorm. ‘How do you know about the PI?’

  ‘Never mind that’ he said hastily. ‘To be honest, honey, I’m more interested in why he had a PI on you.’

  He watched Lily’s face crumple then, as swiftly and silently as a house of cards. Ah crap, thought Walt, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. Bolshie young A Listers he could handle but tearful young women were a different matter altogether. Even Serena was a dud with this one. She was about as comforting as a rusty nail.

  ‘Miss Moore?’ he said gruffly, as she sat there with her face buried in her hands. When she didn’t respond, he navigated his way around his enormous coffee table and sat down next to her. There was something else going on here. He just hadn’t figured it out yet.

  ‘I’m so sorry again, Mr Wilson,’ hiccupped Lily, mopping up a puddle of tears that had pooled into a crease in the leather. ‘I don’t mean to ruin your sofa. Or your lovely carpet,’ she wailed, spying the damp patch spreading beneath her feet.

  ‘Fuck the carpet,’ said Walt blandly, ‘and fuck the sofa for that matter. What’s the deal here, darlin’?’

  ‘No deal,’ she sobbed, shaking her head. ‘It’s just that… Oh Mr Wilson’ she wailed suddenly, unable to hold back any longer. ‘I think I’m in love with your son.’

  As she dissolved into tears again, Walt sat there in stunned silence before allowing himself a small smile. Aha, he thought, his mind racing wildly.

  Bingo.

  Chapter Sixty-One

  For Michael and Joe, the week leading up to the Academy Awards was consumed in a pantomime’s smoky puff of last-minute suit fittings, pricey haircuts, excruciating ‘face-lift facials’, as recommended by Christine, and an equally painful four hour round trip to the airport to collect Polly in peak rush hour LA traffic.

  At the same time, magazines and online bloggers all over the world were frantically swapping their predictions for the big night. Even Hollywood itself seemed determined to get into the party spirit. There were champagne corks popping all over town at the hundreds of pre-Oscar luncheons, dinners and fundraisers, all contributing to making this the biggest week in the movie-making calendar. Behind the scenes, the vast sets inside The Dolby Theatre were undergoing their final tweaks, the three hundred-odd production crew were toiling away like honey bees and long stretches of Hollywood Boulevard were being cordoned off in advance.

  With the fluff of a thousand red carpets still caught between the treads of their shoes, the Harper gang were more than happy to forgo the parties for a beer and a laugh by Michael’s pool. Across town, Stephen was showing no such restraint. Innocent until proven guilty, in Hollywood you were a winner until it was proven what a complete and utter arsehole you were. After storming through Awards Season, and picking up statuettes like sellotape did dog hair, Stephen was already being slapped on the back and congratulated at every party he attended. As a result, he tried to show up to at least three every day with an option for a fourth if the celeb count was guaranteed triple A.

  On the Friday before the ceremony, Stephen swung by The Dolby Theatre to rehearse his lines, included as he was in the very exclusive, extremely elite, forty-odd list of tremendously famous and talented individuals due to present awards on the night. Quite by chance, he had been allotted the ‘Best Supporting Actress’ category. He found this hilarious considering he had supported at least three of them stark naked up against his bedroom wall at one time or another.

  Reeling off his auto-cue word-perfectly, he allowed himself a moment to bask in the certain glory that awaited him here in less than forty-eight hours. The next time he stood before this magnificent auditorium, the covers would be off the huge Oscar statues lining the Boulevard outside, the three thousand-strong audience would be cheering his name and he would be walking off stage with thirteen and a half inches of the oldest, most prestigious film prize in history.

  The following day, having spent a lazy, delightfully exhausting afternoon screwing his old paramour, Bunny Hopkins, Stephen made his way over to the annual pre-Oscar night Global Studios party on Sunset Boulevard. Stepping out of his car, he was immediately pounced on by a tense-looking Garrett who had been lying in wait for him in the hotel’s foyer.

  ‘Why the hell won’t Wilson pay my last invoice?’ he demanded, as Stephen emerged from his limo.

  ‘Do I look like bloody payroll?’ snapped Stephen, pushing past. ‘I suggest you talk to him about it.’ As tall and rangy as his new business partner was short and fat, Stephen had never been a fan of Garrett’s. Now, with the Oscar in the bag, he could distance himself once and for all.

  But Garrett wasn’t giving up easily. ‘I would if I could but my security pass has been revoked. Word is he’s a no show tonight too.’

  ‘Nonsense!’ spluttered Stephen. ‘His movie is in line for five Oscars this Sunday. Walt Wilson wouldn’t miss this chance to gloat for all the cocktail waitresses in West Hollywood.’

  ‘That’s not what I’ve heard.’

  ‘From who? Some Cosmos Pictures Junior Exec hell-bent on stirring it up? Have a cocktail and stop fretting. You’ll get your sodding money.’

  He managed to shake Garrett off then but his words lingered with him like a bad fart. Walt hadn’t been returning any of his calls this week either. What’s more, the completion of the new GBA/Global Studios contract was still dragging on. If Walt didn’t ink it now, then sod him, thought Stephen. Come Sunday night, he would have every other studio in Hollywood offering him bigger and better deals anyway.

  Barging his way through a horde of slick-haired, smooth-talking Acquisition
Execs, he spotted Maisie over by the bar. She was sucking suggestively on a cherry and had a hand clamped, like a human jock strap, to Zach Roberts’ groin. Unsurprisingly, Zach’s oft-cuckolded hubby was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘What the fuck are you playing at,’ he demanded, wrenching Maisie away.

  ‘Tit for tat,’ she said sulkily, flicking her cherry stone at him. He batted it away angrily and it landed in a nearby partygoer’s Raspberry Cosmo with a plop. ‘I know for a fact you spent all afternoon with Bunny Hopkins, so I’m gonna spend all night screwing Zach Roberts.’

  ‘Like hell you are. I know you’re dim, Maisie, but surely cracking onto an openly gay man is a ding dong clanger, even for you.’

  ‘Zach’s Bi, actually’ she retorted, ‘and WAY more than curious.’

  ‘You cheating whore!’

  ‘Oh go away Stephen, you’re boring me.’

  ‘Go fuck yourself, you mouthy bitch!’ How dare she disrespect him like this in public!

  ‘Joyfully’ she said nastily, grabbing Zach’s arm. ‘It’s way more satisfying than screwing you. Oh, and find yourself another date for the Oscars. I’m going with Zach.’

  Stephen may have had a shot of Botox in both armpits that morning but he was still sweating with rage. In a trice, he rounded up no less than three giggling beanpole Brazilian supermodels, settled them into a corner booth, charged a bottle of Cristal to Walt’s account and then sat back to drink in their adulation. Still, his mood didn’t improve. The party was, by all accounts, a dud. Walt was indeed a no-show, the celeb count was zilch, the cocktails were poor and, by late evening, most of the partygoers had scooted up the road to the Miramax bash at Soho House. Even a quick shag in the toilets with one of his eager beanpoles was a non-event. She had got her De Vries brothers mixed up and panted out Joe’s name by mistake. Consequently his cock had ended up fizzling more than firing and she had tottered off sniggering into her Blackberry.