Dirty Movies (12 page)

Danny cursed
again as he answered his phone.

‘Danny
, Oh Danny, thank god you answered. I can’t track down Joe anywhere. Please, please, please, you have to help me!’

‘Rachel
, calm down, you feckin eejit, I can’t understand a word you’re saying. Deep breathes. What’s happened?’

‘Oh Danny, it’s a disaster
,’ cried Rachel, bursting into tears. ‘The principal costumes needed on set tomorrow are still on the runway at Heathrow.’

Danny froze
. This was worse than a crew fatality. The knock-on effects of this had the potential to sabotage Joe’s entire shooting schedule.

‘The shipping company didn’t check with the warehouse
,’ sobbed Rachel. ‘They were meant to arrive this afternoon but they never turned up. Oh Danny, what am I going to do? Vincent’s been itching to fire me for years and Sally’s gone into total meltdown. She’s ransacked the costume trailer, ripped off the washing machine door and burnt holes in the walls with the iron.’

Danny racked his brains for a solution. What the hell would Joe do? Where the hell was he, anyway?

‘Listen, don’t sweat it, we’ll figure this out together,’ he told her, trying not to panic. ‘Call your shipping agent back right away and see if, by some miracle, they’ve given you the wrong information. I’ll get to work on a plan B.’ Hanging up he quickly scrolled through his contacts for Michael’s cell number. The Exec had been the master of solutions at last week’s production meeting. Hopefully, he wasn’t just a one-trick pony with a desirable suntan.  

The phone rang out for a solid minute. Danny could have wept when a sleepy-sounding
Michael eventually picked up.

‘Michael? It’s Danny
.’

There was a pause and then a yawn.

‘Hey Danny, what’s up? You enjoying the sunset?’

‘I was until about five minutes ago. Michael, we have a situation. Stephen requested last minute alterations to the costumes for our first scene tomorrow. The UK team only finished them this morning. They were meant to be on the lunchtime flight out of London but somehow the shipping company screwed up and they’re still stuck on the runway
.’

‘Crap. Is there another flight?’

‘Not until tomorrow’

Raising his eyes to the heavens, believing that the time for divine inspiration was almost certainly now, Danny spied the blinking lights of a passing aircraft overhead.
Suddenly, he had a brain wave.

‘I don’t suppose your father still keeps a private jet on standby at Heathrow, does he?’

There was a pause then Michael laughed. ‘Sure he does.’

R
ecently, his father had developed a fondness for chicks with British accents but, like a veggie home delivery box, he preferred fresh supplies straight from the source. ‘Say, that’s bad luck about the costumes. Let me make a couple of calls and sort it out. I’ll get right back to ya.’

‘Thanks Michael, I’d really appreciate it
.’

With trembling fingers
, Danny hung up the phone. Thank god he’d overheard Stephen’s rant to Vincent about the idle aircraft yesterday. Danny loved his job but right now his nerves were in pieces, his Zen shot to shit and his earlier erection no more substantial than an overcooked cocktail sausage.

True to their handsome Executive Producer’s word, the costumes were hastily located by Heathrow’s ground staff and bundled into his father’s private jet. Six hours later, Joe, Danny and Rachel stood by an empty hanger at Erizo Airport awaiting their arrival. All three were chain-smoking cigarette after cigarette, the mound of butts by their feet looking more and more like bullet shells as the evening wore on. Rachel kept glancing at them nervously and hoping they weren’t an omen.

‘Anyone got the time?’ she asked, teeth chattering.

Joe checked her watch. ‘Coming up to midnight. Our call time’s in less than six hours.’

Danny groaned. ‘Do you think Stephen’ll notice if I pinch some his super-dooper coffee beans tomorrow? I might need something a bit stronger than mint tea to get me through the day
.’

‘If you don’t then I will
.’

‘Thanks guys
,’ said Rachel quietly, ‘I really owe you this time.’

‘Invoice is in the post
,’ grinned Joe, putting his arm round her. ‘Just thank your lucky stars that we have an obliging Executive and a stinking rich Studio Boss with more private jets than sense.’ 

Joe had been horrified
by the news. He, more than anyone, understood the consequences of the missing costumes. The financial repercussions for re-scheduling the entire shoot would have had Walt Wilson himself catching the first plane to Morocco. As Danny wondered off to haggle another cigarette off the ground staff, Rachel moved closer and stuck her hands in her pockets.

‘I shouldn’t have teased you about Polly the other day. Am I forgiven?’

Joe shrugged. ‘Sure. No harm done. It’s not like I’m going to do anything about it anyway.’

‘She’s got her head screwed on right
, you know.’

‘I know
.’

‘I know you know
.’

‘What do you mean by that?’ he
asked, as a low hum sounded overhead. Saved by the jet engine, he reflected dryly, as a plane baring the Global Studios logo slowly glided into view. ‘C’mon, let’s get these costumes over to the Wardrobe Trailer,’ he said, striding towards the hanger. Rachel bounded after him and put her hand on his arm.

‘Do you like her?’ 

‘Of course I like her.’

‘No, I mean do you like,
like
her?’

The question made him pause. The warmth of her fingertips felt like truth serum but Rachel was not the girl to spill your
guts to. She was guaranteed to have them pinned to the production office pin board before breakfast.

‘I hardly know her
,’ he answered, shrugging her off gently. ‘Besides, aren’t I a little too old? It would be another degenerate rock star, Russian waitress situation.’

‘Bullshit. Ten years is a much sm
aller age gap than eighty-eight.’

Joe noticed Danny looking over at them with interest.

‘If you were Stephen, you would’ve seduced, screwed and discarded her by now,’ went on Rachel. ‘How come you inherited all the principals?’

‘She has a boyfriend Rachel.’ Was he mistaken or did Danny just flinch? ‘Besides, Polly woul
dn’t cheat. She’s not like that.’

Danny definitely flinched that time
, decided Joe. And were his weary eyes playing tricks on him or was a wry smile playing at the corner of the Irishman’s mouth.

‘Bollocks
,’ said Rachel, refusing to be deterred. ‘Monogamists don’t exist on location neither do tee-totalers. Still, if you can name three, I’ll pick up your drinks tab for a week.’

‘The way I’m carrying on
, you’ll be bankrupt by Tuesday. Oh ok then, you, me…’

‘We don’t count. We’re confirmed celibate-ies. Besides, I’ll bet you
anything the boyfriend is a lie.’

‘Sorry, you’ve lost me’

‘Polly’s boyfriend. I’m positive she made him up.’

‘And why would she bother doing a thing like that?’

‘Security blanket. Maybe she’s buying herself some time to figure who, and what, she wants? Our little Polly may not be as naïve as we all think she is.’

‘Perhaps…’ But Joe wasn’t convinced. Either way it didn’t matter. Eve
r since Cassie, his heart was like granite. Until a woman came along with a pointy pickaxe and an even sharper persistence, that was exactly how it was staying.

Polly rolled over and blinked at her alarm clock. The minute hand hadn’t budged. Clearly a horological anomaly
, she decided. It was far too unbearable to think that it might still be 3am.

Kicking off the bed sheet, she flipped her pillow over in a fit of irritation. The humidity in the room was so thick and overpowering
, it was like being locked in a gym sauna overnight. As a result, her face was all prickly with sweat and her hair a frizz-tastrophe. To make matters worse, the creaky old air-conditioning unit above the bathroom door was threatening to pack up any minute. There was a telltale drip, drip, ping as the condensation leaked out of the crack in the plastic cover and torpedoed the cockroaches scuttling around on the tiled floor below.

Tick-tock…PING

The droplets were getting bigger.
Symphony a la insomnia
, thought Polly with a sigh. Still, it wasn’t nearly as revolting as Vincent and Gillian’s usual up-tempo orgasmic opus. Come to think of it, next-door’s shenanigans had been a little more subdued this evening. Polly was thankful for small mercies.  It was a relief not to have to listen to the producer’s grunts competing with the chirps of the cicadas underneath her window all night.

Just then
, a car rumbled past outside. She watched the strips of headlight slither across the ceiling like angular orange snakes as she willed her brain to switch off. Unfortunately, yesterday’s events kept playing on a loop, inviting in wakefulness with open arms.

It seemed so unreal
, thought Polly, retrieving her sheet again. Like some wild nympho’s crazy exploits laid bare in the advice page of
The Sun
. The reek of his aftershave, the rough hands groping at her breasts, the sand creeping in between her bum cheeks…Every little detail was as agonizing as a cigarette burn.

She checked the clock again. 3:03 am. How had the heady mix of hot, available, Irishman bewitched her so easily?

3:04am. Those bloody cicadas were driving her potty.  And why on earth had she screwed him if she liked Joe as much as she thought she did?

Polly punched her pillow in frustration. Enough was eno
ugh. She had a grueling day ahead of her. Clambering out of bed, she tiptoed around the cockroaches and hit the power button on her TV. It was time to put her faith in a blast of late night Moroccan television tedium. Five minutes later the gamble paid off and she was snoring softly.

She woke
, thirty minutes later, to a lady nattering away in Arabic. Polly didn’t need to look at the images to identify the programme. The same brusque, flat tone seemed to be a requisite for newscasters worldwide, no matter what language. Untangling the remote control from her bed sheet she slapped the volume button.

Silence.

Two hours later her alarm went off.

Polly sat up and whimpered. Her whole body ached and her eyeballs felt gritty and sore
, as if she’d had her face pressed up against a computer screen all night.

Tossing aside the thin cotton sheet
, she wondered into the bathroom and stopped short at her reflection. It looked like someone had attacked the inside of each thigh with a red marker. Polly frowned; she couldn’t remember riding any camels yesterday…

Oh god.   

Everything came flooding back. Danny’s belt must have chafed her mid-bonk. Not much time to remove clothing when you were busy screwing a hot man
and
your new career in the middle of the desert.

Dressing at top speed
, she waited until the very last possible minute to slink down to the lobby. Every time she spotted a dark haired man her heart went berserk. Hearing footsteps, she dived behind an enormous plant pot as Rachel emerged from the dining room with her eyes fixed on her phone and a rectangle of toast balancing between her lips like a well-buttered wholegrain cigar. As she approached, Polly lent out and hissed her name. The toast was airborne for a millisecond before it plummeted towards the dusty mosaics.

‘
Jesus Polly, what the hell are you playing at?’ cried Rachel, scraping her breakfast off the floor. ‘I haven’t had such a scare since Maisie walked in on me scrolling through her Blackberry…’ She trailed off when she caught sight of her friend’s face. Jamming the toast back into her mouth, she marched Polly outside, bundled them both into the back of their jeep, slammed the door and ripped it from her teeth.

‘What
happened? You look like shit.’

Polly hesitated. Danny was purportedly a worse gossip than Rachel. Yesterday’s desert dalliance was probably headline news
already.

‘Oh Rachel
,’ she sighed, shoulders slumping. ‘I’ve done something really, really stupid.’

‘I’m sure it’s not as bad as you think
.’

Just then
, Gillian stuck her head through the open front passenger window. With her long gaunt face she looked like a bad-tempered old nag leaning over its stable door.

‘Seen Vincent?’ she snapped
at them.

Rachel pointed to
a car rumbling past. Gillian’s face twisted in fury. Screeching out a string of obscenities at the departing vehicle, she was rewarded with a face full of dirt as Vincent’s driver, no doubt hastily instructed by him, hit the gas hard and tore out of the car park.

‘Brutus and beast in rare-up shocker
,’ murmured Rachel. ‘Looks like she’ll be travelling with us now so best keep a lid on your predicament until later.’

Gillian’s temper didn’t improve
as they set off and soon her grumblings were as endless as the sunburnt landscape stretching out behind them. First, their charming hotel was a bug-infested hellhole, and then the catering wasn’t fit for a school canteen.

Closing her eyes, Polly d
id her best to ignore her. She had grown quite attached to her little roach friends and the food was a lot more varied than her usual diet of baked beans and chocolate muffins. Before long, Gillian was berating their gentle driver, Assim, for slowing down to let a couple of bedraggled mongrels zig-zag across the road ahead.

‘Bloody pests
,’ she spat, puffing away on her cigarette. ‘You should squish ‘em when you get the chance. These streets are over-run with the disease-ridden blighters.’ She eyed the accelerator pedal with a nasty look on her face.   

Polly scowled and resisted the urge to bash her over the head with a stack of call sheets. Heartless bitch. Still, as much as she adored this country
, it was shocking to see the number of starving waifs cowering in doorways or begging for scraps outside the open door of a local bar. Her eyes filled with tears when she noticed a little black mongrel hobbling along at the rear. He was limping badly from a twisted hind leg but trying desperately to keep up with his pack. 

‘Fucking hell, look at that runt
,’ cackled Gillian, flicking her butt straight at him. ‘He’ll end up in some roadside stew by the end of the day.’

Polly closed her eyes to block out the heart-wrenching image of the dog
.

‘You ok to get cracking with that list Stephen gave you?’ whispered Rachel. ‘I need to shoot back into town
once Assim’s dropped you off.’

Polly nodded
and cheerfully waved the eight-page list of chores that the director had plonked down on her dinner table last night. At least he wouldn’t be hanging around demanding updates every five minutes. Vincent had insisted that all the production team stay put at the studios as there weren’t enough trailers on location. Despite Rachel’s assurances that film sets were duller than a Customs and Excise Christmas party, Polly was disappointed.  She was itching to get out there and judge for herself.

Sweeping a thin film of dust off her laptop screen, Polly sat down at her desk to tackle the first item on the list but she was soon scratching her head in frustration. How on earth was she meant to track down an emergency plumber for Stephen’s Berkshire mansion with a dodgy phone line, terrible mobile reception and an Internet connection as capricious as the man himself?

Swatting the flies off her face, she tucked her fringe behind her ears and wiped the sweat off her forehead. The office was already boiling but her desk fan seemed more intent on creating snowstorm swirls of loose papers than cooling her over-heated body. She was just reaching for another bottle of water when her phone started ringing.  

‘Stephen De Vries’s office, can I help you?’ Polly was surprised how sprightly she sounded at this time in the morning. Perhaps she was still tipsy? A fresh wave of shame was hastily curtailed by a two-word assault on her left eardrum.

‘You
BITCH!’

Polly stared at the receiver in surprise. If it wasn’t static
, it must be a cross-line. She repeated her polite telephone welcome again.

‘I heard you the first time
, you stupid idiot. Goodness knows why my dear husband insists on hiring runners with fewer brains cells than GCSEs.’

Polly went white. This time there was no mistaking the legendary Academy Award winning rasping tones of Christine LaVelle.

‘Well?’ taunted Christine, ‘do you agree with my assessment?’ But before Polly could give a response, she dissolved into hysterical sobs.

Two things were suddenly
startling apparent to her. One, the actress was drunker than Lucy at her graduation ball. It was an impressive benchmark. Her best friend had woken up with eight traffic cones and a naked tutor handcuffed to her headboard. And two, only a traumatic death of a close friend or relative could warrant such a deluge of grief. The poor woman needed a stiff brandy and an even stiffer shoulder to weather this amount of sorrow.

‘I’m very sorry for your loss Mrs De Vries
,’ she began gently, silently calculating the chances of arranging a simple but expensively sincere floral tribute from the middle of the desert. ‘Were you very close? It’s desperately heartbreaking isn’t it? When my grandfather died, I cried my eyes out for three days straight.’

The wails tapered off into a series of frenzied hiccups.

‘Are you a complete moron?’ hissed Christine. ‘The only deaths occurring today are myself and my marriage!’

‘I’m sorry Mrs De Vries
, I’m really not following…’

‘Why doesn’t that surprise me? Stick to blowjobs and answering phones
, my darling, and you’ll go far.’

Polly stiffened. That was completely uncalled for. Then she remembered last night and blushed. Oh god, she was th
e worst kind of industry cliché; a runner who had dropped her knickers in the first week.

‘
You can tell the bastard that I’ve gone and done it properly this time,’ screeched Christine. ‘Right now, my secretary is emailing my suicide memorandum to every newspaper editor in England. My public deserves to know what I’ve had to put up with for the last ten years. That should wreck his chances of ever winning his precious Oscar!’ She delivered her last invective with enough venom to stun a horse. Then the line went dead.

Polly stared at the phone in disbelief. Was her sleep-deprived mind playing tricks on her or had Christine LaVelle really just spent the last few minutes rudely lambasting, seriously insulting and then nonchalantly informing her of her suicide plans? She was s
till trying to process it all when Stephen’s second line started kicking off.  

‘Err
, hello?’

‘And you can tell that bastard my death will be on his conscious for the rest of his life! You and your obscenely pert eighteen year old breasts are welcome to him!’

Christine made to hang-up again. 

‘Mrs De Vries, wait!’ Polly couldn’t let her
think she was screwing Stephen. She might be implicated in the suicide note and it wasn’t exactly the claim to fame she was striving for. ‘Mrs De Vries, I
promise
I’m not having an affair with your husband.’

There was a pause.

‘Well you’d be the only one who wasn’t,’ sniffed the reply, ‘and don’t keep calling me by that ridiculous surname. My name has, and always will be, LaVelle, Christine
LaVelle
.’

She delivered it in such an absurdly overly elaborate French accent that Polly found the corners of her lips twitching.

‘Look, Ms LaVelle…’

‘It’s written on my Oscar don’t you know
,’ she crowed suddenly. ‘I don’t see any of those shiny golden statuettes with my husband’s name on them, do you?’

Oh dear. How was she meant to respond to that? Stephen didn’t deserve her loyalty
anymore than he deserved an RSPCA endorsement.

‘Would you like me to call an ambulance for you
, Ms LaVelle?’ It would be awful if Christine keeled over on the phone to her.

‘Goodness no, I called one twenty minutes ago. I just hope they don’t go bothering that professional golfing chap next door like they did last time. It’s so tiresome when one’s security team is on hiatus and one’s driveway is a mile and a half long
.’

I can’t keep up
, thought Polly, shaking her head.  It was all a bit too surreal for a film graduate from Surrey. ‘At least let me call your husband,’ she begged, yanking out her phone. ‘I’m sure he’s going to want to fly home and see you immediately.’