Dirty Movies (13 page)

This was met with a scornful cackle.

‘Oh
dahling
. You wouldn’t be new by any chance, would you? I find your chronic naivety far more galling than endearing.’  

Polly
narrowed her eyes. It was too flaming early to be putting up with insult after insult. Even Stephen kept a respectful lid on it until at least 9am.

‘Well?’
prompted Christine.

‘I started two weeks ago
,’ admitted Polly.

‘I see, then i’ll forgive you for your assumption that my husband gives a
shit about me.’ Christine paused to take a large slug of something, no doubt liver-pickling alcoholic. ‘Do you have a name, child?’

What a ridiculous question
, thought Polly. Then again, perhaps runners were deemed far too unimportant as to be addressed as anything other than tea gofer.

‘Polly. Polly
Winters.’

‘Well
, you listen to me, Polly Winters.’ Glug, glug, glug. ‘Your boss is a cold-hearted prick who wouldn’t care if I hanged myself from the GBA sign, threw myshhelf off the top of our penthouse apartment or gasshhed myshhelf in one of his Ferraris.’

‘But…’ Polly nearly wept with relief when she heard the peel of an ambulance siren in the background.

‘No butshh. With a bit of luck I’ve sshtaken enough pills this time round to oblishherate the memory of that unfaithful, egoshtistical monster forever!  I wish you all the beshht, my darling, you’re going to need it.’

The line went dead again.

‘Christine! Christine!’ Polly had a sudden image of her lying dead in the hallway, tantalising close to the ambulance crew, yet separated by one of those steel barred front doors that she had seen on
MTV Cribs
once. ‘Christine! Christine, can you hear me?’

‘Gone
are the glorious days when our runners were seen and not heard,’ snapped a voice from the doorway.

Polly looked up
and saw Gillian glaring at her.

‘Have you seen Rachel?’ she gasped.

‘In town, picking up my coffee. I wouldn’t spit in the crap they serve here.’

Polly watched her
trudge over to a desk twice the size of hers and throw herself into the chair. She was still sulking over Vincent’s insistence that she stay here in this poxy, non-air-conditioned office whilst he swanned around set un-chaperoned. She didn’t trust him an inch at the moment, especially after she caught him eyeing up that pretty make-up artist yesterday.

‘Spit it out
,’ she barked, irritated by Polly’s air of panic. ‘You’re clearly in a tiz about something.’

Polly opened her mouth then shut it again. Should she address Christine as Stephen’s wife or use her stage name? Oh the minutiae! If she called her ‘Ms LaVelle’
, she may need to elaborate, Christine’s last hit had been a good few decades ago... Then she remembered that an Oscar Winning actress’ life might be ebbing away as she dithered so she blurted everything out in a jumble.

‘Christine! Stephen’s Ms LaVelle called. I think she’s trying to kill herself!’

The words were like a naked flame in a male locker room. Gillian exploded from her chair, a limp-haired, scrawny-faced, micro mini-skirted ball of rage.

‘Not this crap AGAIN!’ she shrieked, picking up her desk lamp and pounding it against the wall
. This was swiftly followed by her portable printer.

There are some serious anger management issues in this office
, thought Polly, watching shards of grey plastic shoot across the floor. The remnants of the desk lamp and printer looked like PC World road kill lying there in the middle of the production office.

‘Has she called an ambulance?’ snarled Gillian, rounding her unblinking green lights of fury on her.

Polly gulped. ‘It arrived whilst I was on the phone.’

‘Stupid bloody cow
,’ she seethed, spitting and wheezing like a pan of boiling water. ‘She’s so desperate for attention she’d probably cut her own head off if it meant a thirty second slot on the news.’

New day, new revelation
, thought Polly idly. Had she really only started this job ten days ago? She could fill an entire edition of
Hot! Hot! Hot
! with the gossip that she had been privy to since then.

‘Should I phone Stephen and tell him?’
she asked.

‘God knows. Yes
, No, Maybe.’ Gillian had given up abusing the office furniture and was now picking away furiously at her cherry pink nail polish. ‘I don’t know how you’ll manage it though. The cameras started rolling five minutes ago. All mobiles will be switched off.’

Polly watched Gillian
’s fingers work free another sliver of polish. She had never met anyone as ugly on the inside as she was on the out.  All the sugar daddies in the world couldn’t help her. Gillian would always be a bitter, crème de la mer smothered scarecrow.

‘Well, what’s the best way to get the message to him then?’ she asked her patiently. 

Gillian stopped picking and considered this for a moment. All of a sudden a horrid little smile crossed her face.

‘You should tell him in person. He needs to be made aware of this situation
, even if it’s to warn his PR team that a storm’s gathering over Westminster General. I’ll come too. We’ll leave as soon as you’ve cleared up this mess.’

Twenty minutes later, they were tearing out of the studios again. Polly cringed as they swerved to avoid the mangled body of another dead dog in the road. Blessed with the ability to forgive and forget at the click of a film clapperboard, she was already starting to feel a teensy bit sorry for Christine. It must be terribly humiliating to be so publicly cheated on when you had been such a sought-after beauty yourself. But Christine’s movies hadn’t fared well and appeared more on television graveyard shifts and obscure cable channels these days. To Polly, a secret devotee of European cinematic chefs-d'oeuvres, it seemed almost incongruous. This was a back catalogue that had caused such a rumpus in the 70s, when Christine had teased her audiences with a series of risqué performances for the legendary Italian film producer, Flavio Sinclair.

Eventually
, Christine had fallen foul of the old adage, of an industry that is notoriously cruel and intolerant to the older actress, and when her looks had crumpled, so had the interest. Now resigned to bit parts in long-running British drama serials, she plugged the inadequacy of her roles by drinking and dreaming of the halcyon days when every heterosexual male had waxed lyrical, then privately masturbated, over her waiflike, oft-naked beauty.

The jeep screeched to a halt and Gillian was out and sprinting towards one of the gleaming white trailers before Polly could unclip her seatbelt. Watching her fly up the steps
, it dawned on her that she’d never had any intention of helping her find Stephen.

Bloody typical
, thought Polly crossly, ungluing her thighs from the leather car seat and clambering out through the open door. You would be hard pressed to find a more objectionable, selfishly motivated person than Gillian, besides Vincent of course. God forbid they should ever procreate. Polly had a vision of some horrendously obese, bald-headed crosspatch with skinny witch-like fingers.

‘Hey there! Are you Sally’s
fifth Bedouin Wife
?’ boomed a voice suddenly, and a large costume lady strode towards her with a heaving bumbag of tape measures and other sewing gizmos and gadgetries strapped to her waist. ‘Kinda late aren’t you? You’re meant to be in make-up.’

‘Umm no, sorry, T
hink you might have me confused.’

The woman did an abrupt U-turn, stomping back to her trailer and muttering
under her breath about unreliable cast members and ridiculous schedule demands. Meanwhile, Polly was surveying the unit base in amazement. Yesterday evening it had resembled a Tesco car park at midnight, eerily deserted save the odd tire track, Winnebago and trailing cable. Now it was utter bedlam, with grey camera trucks, humming generators and billowing canvas tents quadrupling its size to epic Wembley Stadium-sized proportions.

An automotive oasis of jeeps and golf buggies had sprung up overnight
too, matched in number by the frenzied-looking crew darting in between them. They looked like a swarm of angry, overheated ants, decided Polly, eavesdropping as they bellowed out hysterical directives at each other.

‘Stephen’s changed the goal-posts
again
,’ she heard the grumpy costume lady huff to a colleague. ‘He wants the extras on set but we’re still missing
Bedouin Chief’s fifth wife
. Sally hasn’t even dressed the first one yet.’

‘Props for Scene eight, we need props for scene eight, people
,’ yelled a small, bald-headed man to her right. Beside him, a very sunburnt colleague was shouting into his walkie-talkie headset. From the gist of things it appeared that the principal stunt horse had gone missing. If he’s any sense, he’ll be in the catering tent, thought Polly with a giggle. The wafts of lemon and cumin coming from the portable kitchens were divine.

Scanning the crowds for a familiar face, she’d even take Danny’s
right now if it shuffled bashfully into view, her eyes rested on a tall, slim man shading himself in the shadow of a giant grey camera truck.

‘Rashid, R
ashid, over here!’ she shrieked.

Rashid looked up and gave a quick wave of recognition. Tossing aside his half-smoked cigarette
, he strode over to her and kissed her cheek.

‘’ello
Polly. What are you doing ‘ere?’

‘I’ve got an urgent message for Stephen. Any ideas where I can find him?’

‘Why ‘oney, our director iz where he usually iz between set-ups, safely tucked away in iz Winnebago.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Sure I’m sure. Iz zat one over there behind ze cluster of palm trees,’ he said pointing to the plushest trailer in the row. ‘As you can see it iz right next to ze cast trailers…’ He winked at Polly. Stephen’s tantrum in the production meeting had been the source of much ridicule this week. ‘Wait stop, we cannot go in there!’ he added, grabbing her arm as she made a beeline straight for it.

‘Why not?’ Polly stared down at his hand in surprise.

‘No one, except Joe, iz allowed near. Very important instructions,’ he said, waggling a suntanned finger in her face.

Oh great
, thought Polly. Not only did she face the delights of delivering Christine’s gloomy news, she would have to endure the ramifications of some highly illegal intrusion into his sacred private sanctum as well. Best proffer up a game of Russian roulette straightaway and be done with it. The odds of escaping this one alive were minimal. 

‘But it’s an emergency
,’ she countered half-heartedly. ‘I’m sure he won’t mind me disturbing just this once.’ Who was she fooling? ‘It’s a delicate matter, Rashid,’ she added, lowering her voice. ‘One that concerns his wife.’

Rashid let go of her immediately.
‘Ah I see. Well if you’re sure?’

It
took Polly ages to reach the trailer. She kept being trampled underfoot by prancing horses and sweaty faced extras in long flowing robes. As she climbed the narrow steps, she could have sworn she heard the soft tinkle of a woman’s laughter. She listened again but nothing. Must be the wind picking up around the Unit Base, she decided, either that or the jangle of the passing horses’ bridles. Suddenly anxious to dump the dirty payload and scoot back to the relative safety of the production office, she tapped on the door.

‘
Bugger off!’ yelped Stephen. ‘I’m still reading my…err…script notes.’

Polly hesitated. He sounded awfully muffled and breathless. Perhaps he liked slotting in intense yoga workouts before difficult scenes. She tapped again. ‘Stephen
, its Polly.’

Silence.

‘Stephen, can I come in?’

‘I said
, fuck off
,
you stupid cow! I’ll be back on set in a minute.’

‘But I’ve just had a call from your wife…’ Oh
screw this, thought Polly. The news was far too important to deliver through a wall of dirty white plastic. Yanking at the handle, she barged on in regardless.

The air in the trailer was thick, thicker than her hotel room last night, and unpleasantly claustrophobic.

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing, you fucking imbecile?’ screamed Stephen’s voice from the deepest darkest depths. ‘Piss off, piss off, PISS OFF!’

Peering into the gloomy trailer, Polly gasped then backed away in horror. Tripping over his $800 designer walking boots, she crashed into the door as her right elbow caught the light switch. A second later she cringed as the overhead florescent strip light flickered into action. The spectacle in the corner of the trailer needed no such illumination.

Stephen was bent double over his desk, starkers from the waist down, displaying a pale, robust bum in all its back, sack and crack fuzz-free glory. With his crumpled shirt and tousled hair, he looked so much like Joe that for a brief, terrible moment she actually thought it was. Then she clocked the expensive chinos on the floor and breathed a sigh of relief, Joe wouldn’t be caught dead in anything that required ironing.  

Distracted by a flash of hot pink, she suddenly
realized, with mounting horror, that a woman was lying spread-eagled underneath him. Numbly, Polly traced the material until it merged with incredibly slender thighs, which in turn flowed into red-soled Louboutins dangling from beautifully pedicured feet that were clamped around his waist.

No one moved until Little Miss Hot Pink glanced over Stephen’s shoulder and let rip a blood-curdling shriek.

‘Oh my gawd Stevie, please tell me there isn’t a person standing there,’ she squealed, her accent more piercing than a roomful of activated smoke alarms. An accent that Polly immediately associated with countless movie theatres and nights on the sofa with a bowl of homemade popcorn.

Maisie Peach.

At first, Polly wasn’t sure what shocked her most; catching them together or seeing Maisie in something that wasn’t predominantly flesh-coloured - there were certainly no nudity clauses in
her
movie contracts. Still, there wasn’t much of her dress on display today either, what with most of it pushed up under her perfectly dimpled chin.

‘Get out of here
, Polly,’ hissed Stephen, unhooking one of Maisie’s Louboutins and hurling it straight at her head. Fortunately, his aim was off and it smashed into the expensive laptop behind her. Damn, thought Polly. She’d have to track down another one now. This realisation seemed to jolt her into action and she bolted from the trailer. Missing the top step, she would have fallen flat on her face if a hand hadn’t shot out at the last minute and grabbed her.

‘Steady now
,’ murmured Joe.

Polly took one look at his strong, handsome, frowning face and felt her lower lip start to wobble. It was a sentiment apparently shared by Maisie who wasn’t quite so stoical about it. As the sound of the actress’ howling filled the air, Joe let go of her and banged on the door.

‘Stephen, it’s me.’

‘Is that stupid bitch still out there?’

Joe glanced at a white-faced Polly.

‘No
,’ he lied.

‘Then g
et in here. We have a situation.’

‘Polly
, love, go straight to the trailer next to the catering tent and wait from me there,’ whispered Joe. ‘I’ll be right along in a bit.’

She nodded at him, eyes glassy with shock.

‘Oh and Polly? Don’t tell anyone what you just saw, ok?’

Steeling himself, Joe opened the
trailer door and unleashed a Pandora’s Box of guilt and reprisal. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, a wall of utter despair hit him squarely in the chest.

‘Oh Jo-
ey
, you have to get rid of her,’ cried Maisie, her finger nails raking at his neck, her beautiful face smeared with mascara. Her Make-Up Designer was going to have to conjure up all sorts of hocus-pocus to have her fit for filming in thirty minutes. 

‘No need to panic
, sweetheart,’ he said soothingly, stroking her bony shoulder. ‘Polly won’t breathe a word.’

‘But Jo-
ey
you don’t understand,’ she whined, ‘this sort of scandal could ruin my rep in Hollywood. Walt’ll have me back on infomercials by nightfall.’

Maybe you should have thought of that before
, thought Joe.

‘Maisie’s got a point
,’ growled Stephen, emerging from the depths of the trailer in his blue and white striped underpants. ‘I, for one, don’t want to be recasting our female lead this late in the day.’

‘You and your stupid movie
,’ screeched Maisie, turning on him. ‘Is that all you care about?’

Stephen ignored her and reached for his Chinos. ‘Maisie’s right. Get rid of
her. I don’t care how. I want her gone by the time catering brings round the afternoon snacks.’

Joe looked at him
, meditatively. ‘Hang on a minute, what’s to stop her returning home and catching a taxi straight to
The Sun
? Maisie’s the biggest star in the world right now.’

‘Oh gawd noooo
,’ moaned Maisie, picturing her scandalous demise on the front page of the tabloid. ‘Stevie, he’s right.’

‘Well
, stitch her up then, blackmail her into silence,’ said the director, losing his temper. ‘Do I have to think of everything around here? Fix it, Joe. Plant a bag of coke in her suitcase or something then call the fuzz. Better still, throw a couple of grand at them and tell ‘em to arrange a set-up.’

‘You must be jok
ing!’ exploded Joe. ‘You can’t rehash one of your movie plotlines here, Stephen. This is real life. This is someone’s real life you’re talking about smashing up. You can’t just dismiss Polly like some irritating doorstep Jehovah’s Witness. Furthermore, I refuse to run the risk of insulting the entire Moroccan Police force in a bid to cover up another of your bloody indiscretions!’

This was met by stunned silence on all sides.  Joe had never raised his voice, let alone expressed an opinion to Stephen before. In response, the director lunged across the room and grabbed him by the throat.

‘You’ll do what I tell you, Joe,’ he snarled as Maisie squealed in shock. ‘’cos if you don’t, I’ll rip up your contract and make sure you’re about as popular in this industry as George W at an Iraqi peace convention. All it takes is one phone call…’

‘And all it takes is another to put Maisie back in her infomercials
,’ replied Joe, pushing him off, more stunned than anyone by his act of bravado. ‘You never know, I might feel frivolous and put in another to Michael for good measure. I’m sure he’d be delighted to hear all about this little get-up.’

A split-second later,
Stephen took a swing at him. Ducking easily, Joe was struck by something far, far worse: the true extent of his brother’s contempt for him. Storming out of the trailer, he found himself in the middle of the unit base. He was so disorientated with rage that he had absolutely no idea which direction his own trailer was in.  How many crew had he defended his brother to over the years? How many alibis had he provided? And now this…this awful realisation? How
could
his own brother hate him so much? He was so distraught by it all that he didn’t see Danny approaching until he was two foot in front of him.

‘They’ve found the stunt horse
,’ proclaimed Danny, waving a half-eaten mars bar in his face. ‘The silly bugger was over by the craft services tables hoovering up Vincent’s biscuits. He’d have been shipped off to the nearest glue factory in two shakes of Rachel’s Pritt Stick if he wasn’t due on set today.’