Dirty Movies (28 page)

Michael raised a
skeptical eyebrow. ‘How not to keep to a budget,’ he listed dryly, ‘how to treat a crew with the utmost disrespect…’

‘
…How to bang every woman with the word,
assistant,
in her job title,’ added Joe, laughing. ‘Don’t worry i’m not going to model myself on the guy. I’ve always had a longing for that director’s chair. It was my dream too, before Stephen came along and whisked it away like a musical chair cheat.’

Michael seemed satisfied by this. ‘Then who am I to stand in the way of ambition? Still, I would’ve taken the project even if it
were a revenge thing. We could’ve moved our release date to coincide with whatever crap GBA chose to release next. Pitch the De Vries siblings head to head. Puerile, but great for publicity! And with a script this good, we’d have wiped the floor...’

‘Stephen’s
gonna flip out enough when he hears about this. Fuck, I hope he doesn’t take it out on his crew.’ Joe had an awful image of Polly in floods of tears after another of his brother’s sadistic rants.

‘Let’s not give him the chance
,’ said Michael with a gleam in his eye. ‘I bet if we got our asses in gear and sort our finances, we could lure his crew away like a bear and a bucket of honey.’

Joe shook his head
, doubtfully. ‘They’d never ditch GBA. What we could offer would look pretty wretched compared to what they usually invoice for.’

‘Money doesn’t always make the world go round, nor does it secure an unhappy crew
,’ argued Michael. ‘Those guys worship you, Joe, they’d follow you to the ends of the earth if their contracts would allow it. Just so happens I know an entertainment lawyer who’ll happily find us a loophole. Having said that, there’s no point luring them away under false pretenses. We need to raise the dough first.’

Whilst
he listed out the various lengthy and increasingly complicated finance options open to them, Joe rose from the sofa and padded over to the window. Buoyed up by two bottles of champagne, a crazy idea was starting to take hold, in amongst the fuzziness and the hiccups. Meanwhile, Michael had pulled out a notepad and was copying down numbers from a website.

‘First thing tomorrow
, I’ll get on the phone to the UK Film Council. With our combined charm, it might be enough to sway something in our favour…Joe, pal, are you listening to me?’

‘Yes...no
, not really. Sorry.’

Michael looked
amused. ‘I’ll forgive ya if you’ve just remembered some long lost inheritance gathering dust in a Swiss vault.’

Joe shook his head.

‘Secret bank account in the Caymans?’

‘I wish, but still, you might want to hold off on
that phone call for a day or so.’

Michael closed his laptop with a bang
. Joe smiled at him grimly.

‘You might not like this but I think I’ve just come up with
another way to raise the dough.’

The explosion of 90s Britpop cokehead decadence had done more to glorify rehab than Spielberg had sexing-up archaeology, and none had benefited more so than Berkshire’s very own,
Serenity Heights
. In the last two decades, the establishment had been a beacon of respite for every superstar and Z list reality desperado burnt out by the relentless celebrity party circuit.

Originally built as a mental asylum in 1872, Head Therapist
, Frances Sharpe, often wondered what the founding predecessor, the somewhat unfortunately titled Lord Alfred Batty, would have thought of his once stalwart institution becoming such a chic destination for actors, rock stars and disgraced politicians alike. Indeed, one was only considered a true celebrity these days
after
a lengthy stint behind the building’s immaculate whitewashed brickwork.

Beak-nosed, thin-lipped and notoriously mean with the beans, fifty-eight year old Frances secretly despised the never-ending procession of wealthy wastrels that wafted through her study,
whining about their problems and stealing her shortbread. Much of her contempt, however was directed at one such individual who, felt Frances, truly embodied the revolting self-indulgence of today’s celebrity culture: Christine LaVelle.

In all her
professional years, she had never come across a more stubborn, unpleasant and profligate character. Sadly for Frances and the rest of the staff at Serenity Heights, Christine was a repeat offender and even now, after several lengthy spells, was still being re-admitted with depressing regularity.

Frances had been gazing out of her study window
, admiring the turning leaves of the old oak opposite, and imagining a Mills and Boon scenario with old Roger the gardener under it, when Christine’s silver Rolls had appeared on the horizon for the second time that summer.

Shrieking
loudly enough to rouse old Batty himself, she lunged for her much maligned shortbread tin and started ramming fistfuls of that buttery comfort into her mouth. A good ten biscuits down, she finally felt strong enough to face her nemesis. Ten minutes later, she was standing in reception, watching Christine’s driver stagger over the threshold with the familiar, overabundance of designer luggage, and waiting for the actress to stride in after him, smacking her Chanel leather gloves against her thigh and snarling like her horrid Chihuahua. But when Christine did eventually shuffle into view, her head was hanging lower than her neckline and there wasn’t a single lip-curl in sight.

Frances blinked
, and then blinked again when her solicitous greeting was returned with less venom than the bite of a pestered rattlesnake.

‘I’ll give it ‘til dinner time
,’ she muttered to the receptionist, sweeping Christine over to the celebrity wing. Knowing the actress as she did, it was only a matter of time before her true colours were splashed up the wall, along with her bolognaise.

But who could have predicted that this
preconception would hit so wide of the mark? Christine’s transformation was the talk of
Heights
. For the first time in history, nurses stopped cowering into their medicine cabinets when she past. Even Roger’s rummages in the bushes under her window every morning revealed a surprising lack of empty bottle.

It wasn’t just her attitude that had changed either. A spell without the hard stuff had vanquished the whispery thread veins in her cheeks, the booze bloat was gone and her skin glowed brighter and clearer than a
woman’s half her age.

It was this very skin that Frances was secretly coveting
as they sat down together for an early morning counseling session, four months later. A brisk scrub with a discounted supermarket soap every morning did nothing for the therapist’s wrinkles.

Just then, a
young nurse appeared in the open doorway, jumping up and down in extreme agitation and waving today’s paper at her.

‘Yes Nancy, what it is?’ barked Frances, adjusting her spectacles in displeasure.

‘A word, Dr Sharpe, if you will,’ whispered the girl. Frances was a notorious matriarch who liked to bully and patronise her underlings. Needless to say, she was the least popular draw when the staff’s secret Santas were allotted each December.

After a great hoo-ha about the need for privacy during her sessions, Frances grudgingly complied
. Christine watched with interest as they conversed in hushed, urgent tones in the doorway. Suddenly, Frances snatched the newspaper away from the girl and peered at the headline above the rim of her glasses. Shooing her from the room, she returned to her desk, slipped the paper under a revolting tartan-knitting bag and sat back down again.

Christine glanced from the paper to her therapist.

‘Is there something you wish to share?’

This time it was Christine’s turn to face the demi-circled glare of the spectacles.

‘I don’t think it would be prudent at this time,’ replied Frances snootily.

Oh shut it
, you self-important old bag, fumed Christine. She had often fantasised about throttling Frances with her mauve chiffon scarves or plucking her moustache hair one wiry strand at a time.

‘Right then, moving on
,’ began Frances bossily. ‘Recently we’ve been exploring your family history and potential links with addiction. In our last session, we touched briefly on your daddy’s penchant for quadruple G & Ts before his morning kedgeree…’

As she droned on and on about her profligate father, Christine
felt her resolve crumble like over-buttered flour.  Suddenly, she just
had
to know what was splashed across the front page of that newspaper. 

‘Excuse me
, Frances…?’

‘Is there a problem?’

‘Well, yes. I’m finding the lure of today’s headline somewhat of a distraction. Would you mind awfully if I took a look?’

Frances flushed. ‘I really don’t think that’s appropriate…’

But Christine was already lunging for paper, upending the knitting bag and sending tightly woven orbs of grey wool vomiting across the room like oversize fur balls.

Glancing down
, she wished she had followed her advice, for spread across the entire page was a carefully PR orchestrated picture of a gooey-eyed Maisie and Stephen posing demurely for the camera as his star was unveiled on Hollywood Boulevard. Christine’s eyes narrowed to slits when she saw that Stephen was kneeling slightly to the right to make his penis look larger against the strained material of his designer suit.

You egotistical little fucker!
I hope they stuck you down by some tacky souvenir shop
,
she thought savagely, casting her eyes over the headline.

‘A real-life Desert Affair: De Vries in love!’

Stephen’s final kick in the teeth more like, she reflected sourly.

Kissing his new love tenderly on the cheek, the superstar director des
cribes his relationship with 25 year old Maisie as a
‘powerful spiritual connection, impossible to deny…’

Oh shut it you pompous
plonker, it’s still bazookering your marriage vows no matter how arty-farty you make it sound. Incensed, she skim-read the rest of the article.

Three-times Oscar nominee De Vries goes on to say how he and the sexy Miss Peach, three-times ‘Hot! Hot! Hot! Hottest Ever Bikini Hottie’, only recently acted on their
true feelings, despite a successful working partnership on the Pirates franchise and the soon to be released A Desert Affair…

Christine snorted. True bullshit
, more like. They had clearly been screwing for years. Hadn’t Joe insinuated as much in Morocco?

‘I’m so sorry Christine
, this must be a terrible shock, but you must not allow it to set you back.’ She felt Frances’ hand rest on hers and she shook it off, repulsed. Her touch was even less sincere than her words.

R
ebuked, Frances glanced sideways at the front page. Stephen De Vries really was an extraordinarily handsome devil. ‘Let’s draw on this and turn it to our advantage,’ she said quickly. ‘An unhappy marriage can easily re-ignite and trigger addiction…’

‘…W
hich would explain why my last booze bill invoice was over twenty thousand pounds,’ snarled Christine. Maybe there was something to this cognitive therapy after all.

There was another knock at the door.

‘Oh for goodness sake Nancy, what is it now?’

‘Apologies,
Dr Sharpe,’ stammered the blushing Nancy, ‘but there’s a visitor for Ms LaVelle. He’s waiting in reception. Shall I show him into the day room?’

‘But that’s impossible
,’ gaped Christine, dropping her guard. ‘My husband’s just run off with a floozie. It says so in
The Sun
.’

‘I believe it’s your brother-in-law, not your husband
, Ms LaVelle,’ corrected Nancy, blushing an even deeper shade of red.

‘Oh how
splendid!
’ screeched Frances, clapping her hands in mock delight. ‘Isn’t that wonderful, Christine? Your very first visitor!’

Christine ignored the
patronizing bitch. All of a sudden she felt as naked and vulnerable as a Sycamore in winter. Joe detested her and rightly so.

‘Shall I show Mr De Vries to the day room?’ repeated Nancy, gunning for another chance to talk to Christine’s
hot ex-brother-in-law.

‘No thank you, I’d like to speak with him privately
,’ said Christine quietly. ‘Please show him to the patio.’

‘Certainly
, Ms Lavelle.’ Nancy hurriedly closed the door behind her.

‘Well, well, what a lovely surprise
, my dear,’ crowed Frances. ‘I shall leave you two to chat. Let’s reconvene in an hour.’

Christine rose unsteadily from her chair
, craving twenty Voltorol and a triple vodka chaser. That was the problem with sobriety, she thought, dully. Reality had a habit of smacking you in the face when you least expected it and it stung all the more when you couldn’t have booze and drugs to numb the pain. Stepping outside, she balled her hands into fists when she saw him standing next to a row of clashing red salvias and orange marigolds.

‘Hello Joe
,’ she said, weakly. ‘I’m surprised to see you here. I can’t imagine this little day trip is your idea of fun.’

‘It’s a damn site more enjoyable than receiving your Fed-Ex
’s. Christ, Christine, you don’t believe in the softly, softly approach, do you?’

‘It wasn’t easy for me either
,’ she shot back, defensively. ‘I thought the dirty rat was filming in Mexico, so imagine my surprise when I discovered him pounding away at my sister-in-law instead of a piñata.’

Joe froze.

‘When?’

‘
Three months after your wedding.’

‘I don’t believe you
.’

‘I’ve nothing to gain from lying to you
, Joe. Not anymore.  Look where I am,’ she said, gesturing to the building behind her. ‘I’ve no career, no husband, nothing. I’ve plummeted to rock bottom so fast, i’m sending up sparks.’

But Joe wasn’t interested in self-pity. ‘The note
, Christine. How…why…?’

She looked away. ‘I found it two months after she died. I’ve no idea how it ended up in Stephen’s hands
, and even less of an idea why I never questioned him about it. I just hid it away in the study desk drawer with all the other awful things that happened during our marriage.’

‘You should have left him,’ said Joe, accusingly.

‘And have the paparazzi indecently assault my privet hedge with their foot long lenses again? I couldn’t. It had only just recovered from my last marriage scandal.’ There was a beat. ‘How long have him and Maisie…?’

‘Six
years.’

She stifled a cry. The odd night with a floozie was one thing but a fully-fledged affaire was a nut-cracking offence. ‘Sweet Jesus, I’m going to bury the bastard for this!’

‘I know a man with a shovel.’

Something in his tone made
Christine pause.

‘Why are you really here, Joe?’ she asked him
, curiously.

‘I’m rallying the anti-GBA troops and volunteerin
g you for co-commander-in-chief.’

‘
You’re going up against your brother? You?’ Christine sounded unflatteringly skeptical. ‘I don’t mean to be rude, darling, but you haven’t got it in you.’

Joe scowled. ‘You’ve known me for ten years
, Christine, and been drunk for most of it, so don’t presume you know the first fuck about me.’

‘I know you’re a man who’s buil
t a career out of defending him.’

‘Then i’ll tear it down and happily so.
Stephen’s dead to me. Let me prove it to you.’ He took a step closer. ‘C’mon Christine, what do you say?’

‘You really do sound like a man with a shovel
,’ she said, wavering. ‘Tell me, have you something specific in mind?’