Dirty Movies
Authors: Cate Andrews
By Cate Andrews
Copyright 2014 © by Cate Andrews
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except in the case of a reviewer, who may quote brief passages embodied in critical articles or in a review.
Trademarked names appear throughout this book. Rather than use a trademark symbol with every occurrence of a trademarked name, names are used in an editorial fashion, with no intention of infringement of the respective owner’s trademark.
The information in this book is distributed on an “as is” basis, without warranty. Although every precaution has been taken in the preparation of this work, neither the author nor the publisher shall have any liability to any person or entity with respect to any loss or damage caused or alleged to be caused directly or indirectly by the information contained in this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
M
For your endless love & patience.
A, C &
S, M & D
For your belief and encouragement
.
E & J
For everything else.
Stephen De Vries crossed Shaftsbury Avenue and strode purposefully up Wardour Street, past the bleary-eyed street cleaners and the last of the late-night
revelers.
A
pack of drunken students came spilling out of a club ahead, shouting their mouths off and startling a pair of peg-legged pigeons. They congregated by the taxi rank on the corner, bigging up girls’ phone numbers and puke-stained trainers like they were trophies of war.
‘Twits
,’ muttered Stephen, slipping past miraculously undetected, until one spun round to flick ash from the tip of his camel light and caught his eye. A split-second later, he was jabbing his mate in the ribs.
‘Billy, Billeee, ain’t he tha
t director guy?’ he heard him hiss. ‘You know the fella who makes all them action movies?’
Billy grunted. ‘Nah can’t be, he’s too pretty. Must be a movie star or
…Shit it is…it is! Here, Marko, check it out!’
To Stephen’s horror,
Wardour Street seemed to explode with enthusiasm. He quickly found himself accosted on all sides by the stench of stale alcohol and BO, an odour-combo so pungent it almost overpowered the sewery whiff of Soho first thing in the morning. Feeling a tug on his arm, he tried not to think of grubby, nicotine-stained fingers man-handling his Armani.
‘Your new mov
ie’s the bomb!’ squeaked one boy, so overcome at the prospect of not only meeting but
speaking
to his hero, that he was hopping up and down on the spot like a demented kangaroo.
‘When’s the sequel coming out?’ demanded another, determined to play it cooler.
‘Can we get a picture?’ This was relayed by one particularly spoddy-looking individual, whose naff, brown polka-dot shirt straightaway reminded Stephen of the rabbit invasion on his forty-acre Berkshire estate. Making a mental note to buy Percy, his gamekeeper, a new twelve-bore for Christmas, he nodded tersely then braced himself for the militia of out-stretched iPhones: his own personal firing squad. The whole palaver of meeting one’s public was so tiresome and intrusive, especially at six in the morning.
Posing for a micro millisecond, he set off up Wardour Street again with the boys trailing in single file behind him until the greasy stench of fried food lured them
, like pied piper devotees, into a shabby all-night café opposite.
Alone at last, Stephen whipped off his grey felt fedora and ruffled the sweat out of his gleaming dark locks. For the first time in months
, the streets of Soho were flooded with sunshine and the curb crisscrossed with the shadows of shop awnings and lampposts. Indeed, the weather was so splendid, and Stephen’s ego so colossal, he couldn’t help likening this hasty disarmament of winter’s gloom to his legions of conquered film critics in yesterday’s Sunday supplements.
There were very few jobs that held pomp and arrogance in such high esteem, and if Stephen hadn’t been such a fantastically successful film director, he would have felt quite at home fiddling his expenses and lunching over-expansively in neighbouring Whitehall. Today, as fate would have it, these qualities had just been elevated to a whole new vomit-inducing stratum. He had awoken to an iPhone bursting with congratulatory messages from the crème de la crème of Hollywood, testament to the huge critical and commercial success his new film had opened to on both sides of the pond, and a very desirable A-List actress snoring gently besides him. After wheedling his way into her knickers on Friday night, the rest of the weekend had been a complete right off, publicity-wise, with hastily cancelled interviews and press conferences all over London. Fortunately, his sexual shenanigans didn’t seem to have hindered his precious movie’s box office figures.
Ruthless, efficacious and with cheekbones that even Johnny Depp himself coveted, Stephen was a true captain of celebrity, yet his lofty status owed more to
his wily ways than his talent. Few colleagues were surprised when his impending nuptials to the passé but exceptionally well-connected actress, Christine LaVelle, was announced eight years previously, in a soft-focused, twenty-four page
Hot! Hot! Hot!
Magazine extravaganza. One that photo-shopped the bride-to-be’s burgeoning wrinkles and the stench of his desperation just as efficiently. As predicted, Christine had opened all the right doors for him to swindle his way into the wallets of Hollywood and he landed his debut multi million-dollar gig before the year was out.
B
linded by love and flattered by Stephen’s carefully orchestrated devotion, Christine was quick to dismiss rumours of her much younger husband’s Machiavellian intent. That was, until the fateful day, she interrupted a Disney starlet sandwich, spread-eagled across the marital bed.
Devastated
, humiliated and unable to face the shame of yet another failed marriage splashed across the headlines, Christine sought consolation in expensive bottles of champagne and prescription meds and watched in horror as her husband continued his very public pursuit of pleasure in the arms of his leading ladies, with a more private proclivity for the pay-per-shag variety. To add insult to injury, Christine had seen her once sparkling career all but dwindle in the wake of her husband’s rising star.
Bypassing the dirty old tramp rummaging through the bins outside his favourite Italian,
Giuseppe’s
, Stephen bounded up the concrete steps of the adjacent building. Above him hung a simple bronze placard, yet it was one that instantly elevated the building’s crumbling brick paltriness to one of movie industry mecca.
GBA Pictures Ltd.
My
GBA Pictures, thought Stephen smugly, admiring the placard for the millionth time as he rummaged in his jacket pocket for his keys. It hung menacingly over Wardour Street, like GBA’s current hold over every Box Office in the Western Hemisphere, and right now his rivals were no closer to usurping his crown than the dirty chewing gum and dog shit lining the pavements below.
Thrusting the key into the lock, Stephen
briefly indulged in the memory of Bunny Hopkin’s wanton, sun-tanned flesh doing extraordinarily wicked things to him last night. Alas, sexual excitement tended to make him flush, and his built-in press radar was picking up a smelly old Pap lurking behind a delivery van.
Erupting
into GBA’s over-styled, futuristic-inspired lobby, he hit the lights and scowled. The decor was far too melodramatic for his tastes, with metallic beams and light fittings shooting off across the walls like drunken comets, but it served a purpose in wrong-footing the bolshiest of visiting Hollywood dignitaries, before he and his producer milked them for additional budgetary spends.
Slamming the door
behind him, Stephen looked about for the flashing Christmas tree-LEDs of GBA’s hi-tech alarm system but, for once, they were conspicuously absent. The place had been ransacked! Either that, or he wasn’t the first employee through the door that morning. Fortunately, a quick sweep of the lobby soon put his fears to rest. The post, which included a number of bulky but ultimately useless office supplies manuals, was strewn across the silvery tiles in a muddy foot-printed mess. More tellingly, a crumpled heap of familiar tweed lay discarded at the bottom of the stairs.
Booting it out of
his way, Stephen removed his own jacket and lent against the metal banister to admire it. It really was a fabulous find, he marveled, flicking an imaginary speck of dust from the collar, and he was just reflecting on how his much-maligned and prematurely greying stylist, Sergio, had truly gone and excelled himself this time when a blood-curdling shriek erupted from upstairs. It was accompanied by a cacophony of staccato, animal-like grunts.
Stephen scowled as a piece of plaster fell off the ceiling, missing his new jacket by a whisker. Glancing
down at his diamond-encrusted wristwatch, another newly acquired possession bought to emulate his current illustrious status, he marched up the stairs and flung open the production office door. What followed was an undignified squawk and the briefest glimpse of a woman’s naked thighs before her denim skirt was hastily rearranged.
‘A little early for you isn’t it, Vincent?’ he drawled
in amusement. ‘I never knew you were into ‘hot-desking’
.
’
‘
I am when I’m having a new chandelier fitted in my Belsize penthouse!’ snapped a nasal voice as the balding head and flushed face of his superstar producer, Vincent Edwards, emerged from behind the desk. ‘What the hell are you doing here anyway? I thought you were screwing Bunny in the Ritz.’
‘
Too many Paps milling about. I was forced to make a rather undignified exit via the hotel’s fire escape.’ Stephen turned away then to flick through the enormous pile of unopened fan mail spilling out of the post tray and onto his PA’s desk.
Still
glaring at him, Vincent began to fiddle with the front of his trousers but a hit of Viagra in his morning espresso meant his cock was refusing to die quietly. Losing his temper completely, he rounded on his brittle-looking, redheaded co-hort and demanded she stick the kettle on pronto.
‘You can take that kettle
, Vincent, and shove it up your great, fat arse!’ retorted GBA’s Production Manager, Gillian Reed, as she slid off the desk and shot him the kind of look she usually reserved for the most revoltingly precocious of child actors, before storming out of the office, slamming the door behind her and dislodging several of Stephen’s prized BAFTAs from the bookcase opposite.
