by Cate Andrews
Walt grunted and bobbed his head at the Head of Disney and the Chief Executive of Warner Brothers as they ambled past. ‘You’re Joe De Vries’ girl, aren’t you?’
Polly nodded.
‘I voted for him by, the way,’ said Walt
‘Hooray! He’ll be delighted when I tell him. Do you think Michael will track down Lily before the ceremony starts?’ she asked him anxiously. With only forty-five minutes to go until kick-off, the red carpet was more crowded than the Bakerloo Line. ‘The Oscars are such a long affair. It’ll be agony sitting through all that knowing your love life is hanging in the balance. Did you see which direction she went?’
Walt was just opening his mouth to reply when a low rumbling sound, rather like a low-flying aeroplane, suddenly swept through the bleachers. Moments later, Stephen De Vries stalked out onto the red carpet to a unified chorus of theatrical boos and hisses.
‘The fucking nerve of the guy!’ she heard Walt snarl. ‘When’s he gonna realise he’s toxic waste?’
It was a sentiment shared by most, thought Polly, as every A Lister within a five-metre radius of Stephen scattered like panicked sheep. The director seemed unfazed by the reaction. Perhaps he thinks cheering’s passé, speculated Polly. There were enough stultified, zombie-like computer nerds about these days. Maybe any reaction should be interpreted as a positive. Stephen was in a terrible state though. His hair was unkempt, his bowtie wonkier than an old lady’s picture frame and he was lurching all over the place like a drunk outside a nightclub.
As she watched, Stephen staggered up to a cringing Zach and a livid-looking Maisie who greeted him with a rock-hard wallop across the face. Reeling backwards, his left hand clutching his cheek, he suddenly spotted his much-despised ex-wife, standing a few meters away and deep in conversation with Michael Douglas and Catherine Zeta Jones.
With an angry roar, he made straight for the group, but with more ‘blind’ in his rage than anything else, he went careering into the elegant string of velvet ropes running down the centre of the red carpet. There was a dull thud followed by a shocked silence as he went head-over-ego and his handsome face connected with the ground. A second later, some insensitive joker high up in the Bleachers started sniggering.
The sound seemed to sober Stephen quicker than a dozen Bloody Marys. Boos he could snub, taunts he could brush-off but being laughed at was a different matter altogether. He instantly regretted not slipping into the venue via the loading dock round the back with all the camera-shy celebs.
Struggling to his feet, by now blocked in on all sides by tittering and finger pointing, he looked about for an escape route, anything to escape the cacophony of contempt. As he did, he locked eyes with his brother. Stephen flinched, expecting to find Joe laughing the loudest. To his surprise, there was neither chuckle nor exultant grin on his face, just an expression of pity, regret and the faintest trace of outrage; sibling loyalty at its most strained and fragile. This was the stuff that had championed and sheltered him for all those years, thought Stephen in anguish, and for the fleetest of fleeting moments he regretted all the terrible things that he had ever done; the disrespect, the cuckolding, the all-out plans to ruin him…Then he spied an exit over by a stack of broadcasting equipment, and as quick as a Paparazzi’s camera flash, his guilt was gone.
Moments later, the world watched in disbelief as, for the second time in as many months, Stephen De Vries, tonight’s Oscar favourite, five-times BAFTA and seven-times Golden Globes Winner, ducked his gleaming head and ran.
Michael was just wrapping up his interview with Fashionista Freddie when Stephen emerged half-cut from the security tent and proceeded to throttle what was left of his career with the red carpet velvet ropes. Like Joe, he didn’t gain a smidgeon of satisfaction from the wretched spectacle, though this had less to do with compassion and more to do with the fact that he was too busy sifting through the sea of shocked faces for a glimpse of Lily.
His head was spinning from his father’s admission but he was all too aware that this tiny glimmer of hope, his monumental shot at happiness was diminishing while he stood here chatting cummerbunds with a peroxided fashion expert. His dad was right, he needed to find Lily straightaway and put her straight about Maisie.
For the next twenty minutes, he marched up and down the red carpet, ducking in and out of groups of celebs like a dog competing for the agility title at Crufts. His heart leapt every time he spotted a willowy, pale-skinned beauty. Alas, with tans as popular as smiles amongst the European set, and slinky silver dresses in vogue this season, his blood pressure was off the chart. Feeling dizzy and disillusioned, he was just about to sack the whole thing off, catch a taxi out to Bel Air and wait for her to show up at his father’s mansion when Joe appeared out of nowhere and grabbed his arm.
‘Mate, I’ve been looking all over for you. It’s show time!’
‘Not now,’ muttered Michael irritably.
‘But the ceremony starts in a few minutes. Can’t you hear the loudspeaker?’
‘You go. I’ll catch up in a bit. I need to find Lily.’
Joe gazed at his friend comprehendingly. If the situation were reversed, he too would be tearing the place apart looking for Polly.
‘Fine, we’ll meet you inside.’ As he said it Michael froze. Inside! Of course! He had been so busy motoring up and down the red carpet like a hyperactive Lewis Hamilton that he hadn’t even considered looking there.
He immediately shot off in the direction of the auditorium, following a glitzy trail of gowns and tuxes as they curved round to the right, past the last of the media outlets before sweeping under an enormous gilt-coloured curtain. It was here that the two lanes of red carpet traffic merged, and where he came across Polly, Benito and Christine deep in conversation at the base of a giant staircase. Polly broke away when she saw him.
‘Have you found her?’ she cried, examining his face for clues. ‘Is she ok? Did you put her straight?’
Michael shook his head, sick with frustration.
‘Don’t worry, there’s still time,’ she said gently, giving him a quick hug, ‘and we’re not without manpower either. Your father’s security are on the case, Lucy’s probing the press touch lines as we speak and…’ But before she could finish, Michael had bolted up the steps behind her, three, at a time and vanished inside.
Joe caught up with Polly soon after and they mounted the auditorium’s steps together. The butterflies in his stomach were like mini torpedoes now, bouncing off his insides, and he was dying for a drink, but with less than fifteen minutes to go, all the venue’s bars had been temporarily closed down.
As they took their seats, barely a syllable quivered between them. Polly couldn’t even bring herself to ogle Matt Damon, sat in the row behind them like the charming, cinematic prince that he was. Years of grueling early starts, dogged belief and heated headlines would end here tonight in one of two ways - champagne-swilling success or vodka-downing disappointment.
Just then, Polly felt Joe’s shoulders relax. Moments later, Michael slid into the empty seat next to him. She glanced over and cringed at the tortured expression on his face. That poor man, she thought, clutching her official programme in anguish. Michael was going to have to suffer the entire ceremony on that agonising, knife-edge of uncertainty after all.
Chapter Sixty-Six
Michael scarcely noticed when this year’s host, a high-spirited legend of stage and screen bounced onto the stage to the ripples of charitable applause. Nor did his lips twitch once when the guy’s opening monologue descended into a Stephen–lambasting farce, prompting great howls of mirth from all levels of the mighty auditorium. Right now, Lily and Lucas could be stepping on a plane to London and jetting out of his life forever and he had never felt less like laughing.
He kept glancing at his father sat five rows behind. Lily’s empty seat had been occupied by one of the Academy’s official seat fillers, a dazzling brunette in a sapphire-blue ball gown with the jewels to match, who judging from the
expression on her face couldn’t believe her luck. His father didn’t seem too upset about it either but to Michael there wasn’t a filler in the world who could take Lily’s place.
This is ridiculous, he told himself sternly, as the nominations for the first award of the night were announced. There was nothing he could do now. If Lily decided to vanish again he would hire a hundred PIs to track her down. Nevertheless, as the ceremony rumbled on, he found himself ducking out of the auditorium at every opportunity to leave another message on her phone. In the end, even his own seat filler was giving him filthy looks from all the frantic toing and froing.
Shifting restlessly, fingering the cell phone in his pocket, he couldn’t help thinking back to the super yacht party in Cannes and of all the naughty celebrities he had disturbed in his quest to find her, many of whom were presenting awards so ultra-decorously tonight. Had he fallen for Lily then after she stood up to his father so courageously, or had a few stray seeds of adoration began to bloom in his heart as far back in Morocco? Either way, life without Lily would mean an existence as bleak and barren as the desert itself.
Glancing along the row, he saw Polly give a subtle thumbs-up in Benito’s direction. Christ, was it time for Best Cinematography already? Eight awards had been bestowed in a blur of his bum shuffling and Lily-lamenting, but this time he stilled as a montage of the nominees’ spectacular achievements was unveiled on the huge screen above the stage.
As the clip of Memoir played out, Michael couldn’t help smiling as a huge cheer greeted their film. This turned into a rapturous, standing ovation when Benito’s name was eventually read out. Somehow, the great Italian managed to wriggle out of Christine’s jubilant embrace and reach the stage, but on seeing his darling’s face so tearful and crumpled with joy he dived back up the aisle for another congratulatory smooch.
‘Mio Amo, I am so sorry,’ he trembled at the microphone, after some frantic intervention from Joe and Michael. Benito was so overcome with emotion that he had traded his usual gruffness for tearful, stunned incredulity. ‘Zis is all too much. I have loved zis women for three decades now but thanks to zis wonderful, wonderful film and her ‘orrible, ‘orrible ex-‘usband,’ there was much cheering at this, ‘we are finally united…’
He then when on to deliver an incredibly moving speech, in which he thanked Joe, Michael and all the splendid Cinematographers who had ever inspired him, before finishing with a special tribute to the second most beloved thing in his life; his moose.
‘You know he’s actually finished his documentary,’ murmured Christine to Joe. ‘Fifteen years in the making! Can you imagine?’
Joe grinned. He could almost hear the relieved sighs from the BBC Natural History Unit Executives. Fifteen years of living and breathing those lumbering, lanky beasts! He hoped for Christine’s sake that Benito’s next infatuation was a little less smelly and a little more suburbanite.
Next up were the awards for Live Action Short Feature and Best Supporting Actor. Taking advantage of another short lull, Michael slipped out of the auditorium with his cell in his hand. Once again, he was swiftly substituted by his scowling, perspiring, puce-faced seat filler. That guy’s night is almost as enjoyable as my brother’s, thought Joe. Every Academy Awards produced a light-hearted narrative, something for celebrities and the press to poke fun at, from Angelina’s inquisitive right leg to Bjork’s eyebrow rocketing swan dress. But he didn’t feel much like joining in with it all tonight. Not when the target was Stephen. Not after he had witnessed that spit-second of regret on his brother’s face earlier.
‘Won’t be long now,’ whispered Polly. With a painful jolt, he realised that the category for Best Director was nearly upon them. His torpedoing butterflies returned with a vengeance.
‘If I’m still celebrating backstage with my Oscar then congrats in advance,’ he joked nervously to Christine, whose own category was directly after his.
‘Just as long as we’re all present to collect our Best Picture gong together,’ came the reply.
‘Which mean’s I’ll have to gaffer-tape our producer to his seat,’ muttered Polly. Joe squeezed her hand then and kept on squeezing as the presenter for Best Director Award took to the stage. As if on cue, Michael re-appeared and slithered into his seat, just as the nominations were announced.
‘Good luck buddy,’ he whispered.
‘Thanks,’ mumbled Joe through rattling teeth.
With the montage of clips over and the applause temporarily muted, the presenter seemed to be taking forever to open his envelope.
‘Oh get a move on,’ hissed Polly desperately, ‘has anyone got a pen-knife?’
All of a sudden, Joe couldn’t see the camera that had materialised in front of him, the one to capture his every facial tic of disappointment, nor the rows of expensive toupees and coiffures lining the route to the stage like the lights of an airport landing strip. Convinced that his brother had nabbed it, he was just wondering who the hell was going to collect the award in Stephen’s absence when he saw Polly clutch her face in ecstasy.
‘Oh Joe, you’ve won, you’ve won!’ he heard her gasp. Seconds later, he felt a rough hand on his shoulder as Michael dragged him to his feet, yanked him into a brief, ecstatic embrace then shoved him towards the stage.
Joe’s vision was a haze of smiling shapes and colours. How he succeeded in putting one foot in front of another was a miracle, but somehow he scrambled onto the podium and accepted the Oscar. As he turned to face the auditorium, another undulation of applause swept through the elated audience. Meanwhile, Polly was on her feet and quivering with pride. Someday it would be her up there staking her claim amongst the great female directors but today it was Joe’s turn to shine, and rightly so. Memoir was a triumph.
‘Thank you,’ croaked Joe eventually, his dazed brown eyes glistening with tears of gratitude, ‘thank you all so much…’ He petered off then to gaze at his Oscar in wonder. At the same time, he cursed himself for resisting all of Polly’s gentle urges to jot down an acceptance speech in the unlikely event that the unthinkable might happen.
Jerking his head up, aware that the world was waiting, he quickly located Michael in amongst a sea of beaming well-wishers. His producer had one arm around Polly and the other around Christine and was concealing his heartache behind a grinning facade. Acknowledging his Producer would be a good a place to start. Followed by Christine. Then Tommy. Jesus, he mustn’t forget to thank him. And Cosmos….And Sam…. And Polly of course...
He stared down at his Oscar again and smiled. The years of experience that had led to this very moment deserved credit too. With that in mind, there was someone else he needed to mention.
Danny was determined not to watch the Oscars. He had even gone to bed early to avoid the customary build-up bulletins on the ten o‘clock news. Despite working his arse off to make Love Letters a success, he didn’t give a crap about the movie’s chances, and even less about the director’s. Stephen De Vries was a nasty, devious cunt, a fact that he had emailed straight to him this morning, along with his resignation letter. Walt’s article had been a revelation to him, a flicked switch in a darkened room. He didn’t care about the money anymore. He would rather pick up dog shit for a living than work for GBA. He should have jumped ship when he had the chance but pride had held him back.
Stuffing his head under his pillow, he was awoken a few hours later by his phone. Spying the amber glow of the streetlight still peeking under his curtains, he did his best to ignore it but the stupid thing kept ringing and ringing like some greedy trick-or-treater leaning on the doorbell. He answered it eventually with an angry grunt.
‘Danny, its Rachel.’
‘Fuck off. What time is it?’
‘Just gone four…’
There was a pause. In Danny’s experience, people only called at this hour if their world had turned as black as the sky outside.
‘You ok, Rach?’ he asked, tentatively.
‘I’m fine, I’m fine, but I take it you’re not
watching the Oscars?’
Danny scowled. ‘Not interested, ta very much.’
‘You should be. Joe’s just won Best Director.’
‘So?’ Danny got the distinct impression that Rachel was itching to tell him something. ‘What is it, Rach?’ he sighed.
There was a pause and then a giggle. ‘You know you said you didn’t hate Joe anymore?’
‘Yeah.’
‘And you know I begged you to pick up the phone and fix it?’
‘Did you?’ he said, blithely.
‘You know I did! The thing is, I think he’s just beaten you to it.’
Danny hesitated. ‘What do you mean? What’s he done?’
‘Turn on your telly and see for yourself.’
‘Why should I? Oh for god’s sake, Rachel, just tell me!’
Rachel tutted in exasperation. ‘Because you stupid, stubborn Irish moron…your ex-best mate, Joe De Vries, had just dedicated his first bloody Oscar to you!’
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Back in Los Angeles, Harper Films had just ratcheted up another glorious upset. Against all expectation, estimation and extrapolation Christine had been crowned Best Actress. Indeed, so certain that the title was hers, Maisie had already risen to her feet with a beatific smile on her face as her rival’s name was announced. In the end, a grim-faced Zach Roberts was forced to yank her back down again, but not before the cameras caught the entire humiliating spectacle.
Scooped clean off her feet by Benito, an openly weeping Christine finally managed to burst free of his gorilla’s embrace to deliver the most gracious speech of the evening, timed to perfection so that the swell of orchestral music used to curtail unbearably teary, tedious, overlong monologues accompanied her exit from the stage flawlessly.
‘Poor Christine,’ teased Michael, as they watched her depart the stage, wiping her eyes and giggling conspiratorially with the impish Kevin Spacey. ‘Benito’s just informed me that they’re moving in together next month. With three Oscars in the family now, that shelf of hers is gonna look even more lopsided.’
