Dirty Movies (19 page)

Joe glanced at the call sheet
just long enough to get the gist of today’s schedule. In doing so, he deliberately blanked the date in the middle of page and completely ignored the cheeky birthday wishes written next to his name. Since Cassie’s death, this day was a non-event to him, twenty-four hours of oblivion - a gaping black hole in his universe.

Cassie had
always gone nuts for a celebration. Birthdays with her meant sensational presents and riotously inappropriate parties, like the time she hired a boat down the Thames and burst out of the cake in a red negligee, then got her foot caught climbing out and sprawled headfirst into the buffet table. He missed her so much today he could barely breathe. But now Danny had gone and shouted his mouth off about it and bullied him into celebratory drinks in the bar tonight, when all he wanted to do was slink off to his room, consume a litre of Bacardi and count down the minutes to midnight. 

Thirty-three.

Jeez, it sounded so old. He could imagine Cassie teasing him, asking if he’d noticed any grey pubes this morning.

‘Hey Birthday Boy, can you give me a hand with ze boxes?’
called a voice, suddenly.

Joe stuffed the call sheet back in his p
ocket and nodded at Khalil. He had wallowed in more than enough misery this morning.

‘Sure thing, where do you want them?’

‘Let’s put zem on zat golf buggy and I’ll whiz ‘em up to Studio Three.’

That
week, the unit had switched from their desert location to the studios. This meant that the piping hot sand dunes had been replaced by a laborious twenty-minute trek between each gigantic sound stage. Fortunately, in a rare fit of generosity, Vincent had just splurged on a whole fleet of golf buggies to ease their weary, sunburnt shoulders.

‘Are you ‘aving a good birthday?’ panted Khalil
, as he wrestled with a large silver peli-case. The temperature gage outside the production office was nudging fifty and the Location Manager’s chest was already soaked in sweat. 

‘Trying not to think about it
, mate,’ answered Joe truthfully, cursing as his own box slipped through his sweaty fingers and hit the ground with a thud. ‘I might feel more cheerful once we get today in the can though.’

Khalil grunted in agreement. The next scene reeked of bedlam
, as did any that comprised of a huge man-made sandstorm, twenty horses and a very highly-strung leading actress. Joe had been dreading it for days.  The SFX Team had already created havoc during rehearsals with their jet-propelled wind-machines and the Unit Nurse was fed-up of all the scratched retinas and bloodshot eyes on set. Joe had just dispatched Rashid to snap up three hundred pairs of goggles from the local hardware store.

Cadging a lift up to set
, he spotted Polly and Rachel nattering anyway behind two camels and a chain-smoking ‘Bedouin’ from Birmingham.

‘For god’s sake, don’t take it personally
,’ he heard Rachel say, as he jumped out and made his way over. ‘The woman makes Cruella De Ville seem tamer than a pet gerbil.’ 

Joe grinned as he kissed both girls hello. ‘I take it you’re
talking about my dear sister-in-law?’

‘
Yup, and Polly’s got exactly thirty seconds to swot up on my entire arsenal of survival tips,’ said Rachel. ‘Any last pointers you wish to add?’

‘A crate of Bollinger
’s a cert. Makes her crimbo present a cinch every year.’

‘Oh, bugger off
Joe you’re not helping. More booze is the last thing Christine needs.’

‘Says the woman who had a suitcase thrown at her last year when she
misplaced her hip flask.’

Rachel threw up her hands in defeat. ‘I forgot all about that little episode. Sorry Polly
, but you can’t win ether way. Teflon-skin, remember…’

‘Yes good luck, sweetheart, b
est of British.’

Poll
y giggled. ‘Thanks a bunch, Joe.’ She watched him jog over to re-join Khalil. He looked so pale and preoccupied today. She hoped he wasn’t one of those guys who viewed growing old as a kind of terminal cancer; a new organ invaded with each passing year.

‘You’re sure you’re ok with this?’ asked Rachel anxiously.

‘Stop fretting! I’ll be fine!’

‘Only if you’re sure…

‘I’m sure!’

‘Then you better be off. Best not to anger it from the get-go
.’

‘Do you need anything from town?’
she asked her, turning to leave.

‘New job wouldn’t go amiss
.’

‘Easy-peasy, so long as they take Visa
,’ quipped Polly, glancing uneasily at her friend. These days, Rachel seemed to lurch from black gloom to even blacker gloom with a rare sprinkling of the old Matthews acrid-dry humour in between. What’s worse, Gillian had just delegated her entire job downwards so that she could spend more time on set, or rather keep her beady eyes on Vincent.

With Rachel
drowning in budgetary issues, Polly had been left to pick up whatever coordinator jobs needed doing, and the two were working their socks off to prevent the production office falling apart. As a result, sleep had become a thing of the past, a leisurely hot shower more than a distant memory and, like a production office mug in the hands of an irate Stephen, the reliably rock-steady Rachel was showing more and more signs of cracking.

Christine LaVelle wasn’t hard to miss as she came charging out of the arrivals gate and knocking her fellow passengers out of the way like they were skittles. Despite the baking hot weather, she was smothered in a revolting full-length fur coat, the kind that empties mink farms in a single hit, and a humongous, over-sized pair of jet-black ‘Jackie O’ sunglasses, which were clearly impairing her vision. Misjudging the distance between the automatic doors and the handrail, she cannoned off a passing trolley and into the waiting crowd.

Polly rushed forward to catch her and was rewarded with the
same eye-watering stench as a spilt liquor cabinet. Trying not to gag, she tugged Christine to her feet and was boorishly shoved away for her pains.

‘Hello Ms LaVelle, I’m Polly Winters
,’ she said pleasantly, rubbing the patch of skin of her forearm where Christine’s talons had drawn blood. ‘We spoke on the phone a few weeks ago.’

Christine removed the ridiculous glasses in one fluid movement and cast swollen, blood-shot eyes over her.

‘Oh do stop dispensing with the big ‘i am’,’ she sniffed. ‘I can’t be expected to remember the names of all the insignificants I encounter in my life. Just see to it that my bags are taken care of.’ She indicated behind her where at least a dozen porters were flailing under the weight of an entire vintage Louis Vuitton luggage set. ‘Now where’s my car?’

‘Right this way, Ms LaVelle
.’

Polly led her outside to the waiting vehicle. Pushing her out of the way, Christine settled across the back seat and pulled out a cigarette holder.
Polly slid into the passenger seat to the terse snap of a Zippo.

‘Why was I booked in Economy?’ demanded Christine suddenly, one mega
lung-busting inhale later. 

Poll
y exhaled just as forcefully. Rachel had warned her Christine might kick off about this, but Stephen had flatly refused to sanction an upgrade. If it were up to him, he would have stuffed her in the hold as excess baggage.

‘Many apologies
, Christine, but I didn’t actually book you ticket,’ she replied meekly. ‘I’ll certainly look into it for you when I get back to the production office though.’

Why were all her sentences starting with apologies these days
, reflected Polly wearily. She was fed up of making excuses for other people’s unpopular decisions.

Christine
glared at her through the cigarette smoke. ‘Well, if you think I’m flying cattle class with the rest of the peasants on the way home then you have a real problem on your hands, darling.’

Polly
watched the sweat beads glistening on the actress’ forehead and nodded. She was mystified why the actress was insisting on wearing that awful coat, but then again, total witches like her must be used to the heat. It wasn’t until she glanced in the side mirror that she realised Christine taking swigs from a vodka bottle hidden beneath the great, furry folds.

Today’s Wrap time had been and gone by the time they arrived back at the hotel. Through the open window, Polly could hear the lively hum of the night’s festivities embracing the early-evening breeze. Maneuvering herself around the gearbox, she gently nudged Christine awake and was awarded a slap for her pains.

‘Don’t touch me, stupid girl!’

‘We’ve just arrived, Ms LaVelle. I’ve been asked to accompany you to Stephen’s suite.’

Muttering darkly about disrespectful nobodies
, Christine reached into her holdall and drew out a gargantuan make-up bag. Polly then watched, fascinated, as she teased layer upon layer of thick brown foundation into the gaping crevasses around her eyes and mouth. Tipping an entire bottle of perfume over her monstrously large, abnormally perky breasts she declared herself ‘ready’ and staggered out of the car.

Leaving the mountain of luggage to an apathetic-looking porter, Polly whisked Christine through the
lobby, past an inebriated crewmember vomiting into the fountain and out towards the lifts. As the doors pinged open on Stephen’s floor, Christine finally shrugged off her coat and thrust it, along with the now empty vodka bottle, into Polly’s hands.

‘Which number?’ she barked.

‘Suite on the right,’ wheezed Polly, through a mountain of grey fluff.

Christine stepped out of the carriage and wrinkled her nose. ‘Good heavens, what’s that smell?’ she demanded whipping back round to take a whiff of her. ‘Oh it’s you. Do
go away, it’s deeply offensive.’

Gladly, thought Polly
. The pong was actually the sodden, Vodka-soaked lining of her mink coat but she couldn’t be bothered to argue. She’d had more than enough LaVelle lunacy tonight. But as she was reaching for the lift button, she heard a scream. Probably realised i’m wearing Primark, thought Polly flippantly, sticking her head out of the lift. The actress was now waving a huge, diamond-encrusted crucifix at a vase of yellow roses.

‘You! Persephone
, or whatever your name is, get those monstrosities out of my sight!’

Trying not to giggle, Polly dutifully stepped out of
the lift and whisked them away. Alas, no sooner had she left the carriage, the doors sprang shut sending her escape route hurtling back down to reception. Even the hotel machinery was hell-bent on escaping this woman’s craziness.

With arms
wilting under the weight of four-dozen roses, Polly waited impatiently for the carriage to return. She was even pondering the intricacies of the narrow outside staircase when she was distracted by the sight of Christine hoiking up her fake balloon breasts inside her skin-tight Herve Leger bandage dress. As she watched, the actress gave them one final tweak before sidling up to Stephen’s suite with all the swagger of a geriatric Jessica Rabbit on heat.

‘Darling it’s me
.’ Polly heard her simper, out-huskying Katharine Hepburn. Even her knock was obscenely seductive.

Two seconds later
, the door swung open and Stephen appeared in a cloud of bathroom steam. Oh my god, it’s Close Encounters of the Cuckolding Kind, thought Polly.

‘Christine
,’ said Stephen, staring dispassionately at his wife.

‘Darling’ The husk was back
. She lent in to kiss him but Stephen ducked away and her nose collided with his neck.

‘Petunia!
I want my luggage!’ shrieked Christine suddenly, turning to vent her humiliation on her. 

‘I’m on it!’ yelped Polly, spying the returning lift.

Spilling out into the lobby, she went smack into Rachel.

‘Save yourself!’
she shrieked, clutching the front of the coordinator’s t-shirt.

Rachel made a face.
‘Christine living up to expectation then?’

‘
Oh my god, she’s a horror! Hey, why aren’t you in the bar?’

‘I’m waiting for a package to arrive. Vincent’s breathing down my neck about it so I’m stuck out here unt
il the courier turns up. You go, I’ll catch up in a bit.’

Polly noted the heavy dark circles under Rachel’s eyes. ‘Why don’t I go grab us a couple of drinks and wait with you?
’

Rachel smiled at her gratefully. ‘
Sounds good. I could murder a beer.’

Returning with
two chilled Casablanca’s, Polly perched on the marble lip of the fountain beside her.

‘So what’s in Vincent’s package then?’

‘No idea.’

‘What time did you get back
from the studios?’

‘Bout ten
.’

‘Did I miss anything?’