Dirty Movies (35 page)

‘Hands up who had the oysters
,’ murmured Joe.

‘I better go and see if he’s ok’ said Polly. ‘Can someone order me an espresso when the waitress comes back?’

Squeezing in between the tiny brown tables and chain-smoking Frenchmen, she found Michael lurking in the cramped corridor by the toilettes and clutching an upside-down menu. His eyes were fixed on the vehicle outside.

‘Michael…’

He held a finger to his lips.

‘But…’

‘Shhhh!’

Polly
turned to see what was so fascinating as the chauffeur stepped out of the car to open the passenger door. A split-second later, a pair of gleaming crocodile skin cowboy boots hit the sidewalk, followed by a razor sharp, impeccably fitted black Tom Ford suit and a rugged, sun-tanned face, every bit as handsome as it was harsh.

Polly looked from the man to Michael in amazement. F
rom the smooth arc of his cheekbones to the square arrogance of his jawline, he was an exact replica of the man standing next to her, albeit an older, more unforgiving, don’t-mess-with-me-or-you’ll-end-up-swimming-with-the-fishes version.

‘Is that you’re father?’ she whispered
in awe to Michael. 

Michael nodded grimly. 

She gazed at Walt Wilson again. Sharp suit aside, his edgy black shades, slicked back grey hair and olive-skinned complexion gave him a much more menacing, mafiaesque presence than
The Godfather
himself. They watched together in silence as Walt swept into the uber expensive restaurant next door.

‘You should go speak to him
,’ she urged.

Michael looked at her as if she was mad. ‘Don’t you think I’ve taken enough humiliation for one year?’

‘I’m sure it wouldn’t be as bad as you think.’

‘Wanna bet?’

Polly shrugged. Michael knew his father better than anyone.

‘Were you expecting to bump into him
here?’

‘I had a hunch. He likes to jet in unannounced to keep his employees on their toes. Jeez
, Polly, just when things couldn’t get any worse.’

‘Come back to the table and have another glass of wine
,’ she begged him. ‘He’ll be the one stalking you through the window of a café when you turn
Memoir
into a Best Picture Oscar.’

Michael gave a flicker a smile. ‘You and Joe are so similar, you know that?’

‘How so?’

‘Nevermind
,’ he said, chucking the menu on top of a pile of soggy Orangina drink mats. ‘You’re right, we better head back. I can see Christine fidgeting from here.’

Returning to their seats, Janie patted Michael’s arm
in sympathy. ‘You poor bugger, seafood poisoning’s the pits.’

‘Come, come, sit down
,’ said Christine bossily, tinkling her water glass with her butter knife. ‘Now that supper’s over, we’ve important things to discuss. I believe it’s high time we switched tactics.’

‘What she going on about?’ murmured Joe but Michael looked blank.

‘Darlings, look around you…Cannes is an indisputable networking haven!’

‘Only if you’re willing to schmooze yourself onto the right guest list
,’ said Janie. ‘Anyone got change for a fifty?’

‘Hang on
,’ said Polly, ‘Christine might be onto something.’

‘You’re only saying that because you want to drink Cosmos with Mr Cruise
.’

‘Tom Cruise is here?’ she squeaked, ‘are you serious?’

‘Come, come, darlings, we’re losing our main objective.’

‘To give Vincent another sixty-eight heart-attacks?’ drawled Michael.

‘No, No, No!’ shrieked Christine, losing her temper. ‘It’s to sell our wonderful little movie to the world!’ All of a sudden her eyes filled with tears. ‘Don’t you see, Michael?
Memoir
is just like the infamous inmate of Isle Sainte-Marguerite across that bay.’

Janie and Joe exchanged looks. Michael looked even blanker. Only Polly cottoned on.

‘You mean
The Man in the Iron Mask
?’ she answered, tentatively.

‘Indeed I do
, young lady,’ beamed Christine. ‘As for the rest of you, your lack of classic literature, not to mention historical knowledge, is shameful’

‘That’s a bit unfair
,’ protested Joe. ‘I can list every movie soundtrack from the 1980s.’

Polly giggled into her espresso. Christine raised her left eyebrow disapprovingly.

‘But what’s the dude DiCaprio played got to do with anything?’ demanded Michael.

‘You mean the character from the classic Alexander Duma novel
,’ replied Christine crushingly. ‘Michael, like our film,
The Man in The Iron Mask
, was a mysterious secret that, if unveiled, had the potential to amaze and astound in equal measure.’

‘Hopefully the ‘if’ will be a ‘when’ for us
,’ muttered Janie.

‘Now drink up!’ urged Christine, ignoring her. ‘It’s already half past ten and the parties tend to start once the evening screenings are over
.’

‘Shame we’re not in
vited to any then.’

‘Well, it just so happens that i’ve managed to land us guest list slots for Zach Ro
berts’ after show party tonight. That gives us just enough time to pootle back to the hotel and put on our glad rags.’

‘How the hell did you swing that?’ demanded Joe. ‘
It’s the hottest ticket in town.’

‘Oh
, the publicist’s an old acquaintance of mine. Dreadful woman but she does have a little black networking book the size of
Crime and Punishment
, so, with a bit of luck, we may just discover ourselves a Sales Agent tonight after all.’

They exited the café and strolled through the narrow pedestrian streets of Le Suquet towards their hotel. Christine had booked them into a charming little boutique hot spot on the outskirts of the Old Town, where the bright red bougainvillea and pallid pink climbing rose had exploded over the doorway in an epic battle for colour ascendancy.

‘
Rather like the De Vries brothers and their battle for cinematic superiority,’ said Michael, when Christine had first drawn his attention to it. 

Half-listening to Janie and Polly as they compared outfits for this evening, Michael
’s stomach lurched uneasily. His father would be there tonight. There was nothing his Pa loved more than pilfering a thrilling new movie discovery from some drunken executive whose tongue had been loosened by too many cocktails.

Michael swallowed another uneasy burp. All of a sudden, the thought of coming face to face with his father after all this time was a far more punishing prospect than a dozen ba
skets of dodgy fruit de mer.

Anchored off Cannes and
vajazalling the Med like an Essex girl’s nether regions bobbed a surfeit of celebrity super-yachts, of which the resplendent
Mega Hit
was a worthy addition.

Eighty-two metres long and oozing a magnificence matched only by some obscenely rich rap star’s floating paradise nearby, the yacht was the perfect venue to host the party for Zach Robert’s new film, or so thought top publicist, Emelda Rooster, as she cast a beady eye over the final preparations.

Delicate strings of Chinese lanterns hung from the polished railings and beautiful, hand-picked waiters and waitresses stood poised to tempt A-list arrivals with glasses of chilled champers and caviar. To add an extra frisson to the proceedings, Zach Robert’s new husband was rumoured to be accompanying the star tonight in their first public ‘outing’ since their lavish Mexican wedding. This had sent the press into a feeding frenzy, and Emelda had already spotted the snorkels of several well-known Paps circling the yacht’s hull below.

‘Marie!’ she screamed, as a young girl shot into view wearing a set of headphones so large they
could pick up signals from outer space. ‘Where the hell is our DJ? I told him 9pm sharp, and look!’ Roberta tapped her watch, impatiently. ‘I don’t care if he IS number one in eighteen countries right now. I want him here and setting up in the next five minutes!’ 

‘Yes Ms Rooster
,’ cowered poor Marie, whipping out her mobile faster than a cowboy in a gunfight. ‘I’ll see to it right away.’

Gearing up to give her beleaguered assistant another earful, Emelda spotted Stephen De Vries slithering across the deck towards her.

‘Captain Emelda!’ he called out heartedly, ‘what a spectacular vessel! Do let my office know the charter details when you have a chance. I’m so bored of desperado D-listers invading my hotel breakfast table every morning. It puts one right off one’s croissant.’

‘Darling Stephen, how marvellous!’ she gushed, air kissing frantically. ‘One more handsome, we’re going continental
, ce soir,’

‘Everything looks splendid
,’ he purred, admiring a pretty brunette bottling up behind the bar. 

‘No thanks to these imbeciles
,’ confided Emelda, clicking her fingers impatiently at a passing blonde. ‘Get over here, you silly girl, and offer Mr De Vries a drink.’

Stephen leered at the waitress. ‘Thanks gorgeous
.’

Emelda watched him place a hand up the blonde’s
bottom and shooed her away. The silly girl could shack up with the stars
after
the canapés had been consumed but not before.

‘T
ell me what doing here so early, you wicked man,’ she said, batting her tinted eyelashes at him. ‘You know you’re not due for another hour.’

‘To reserve a seat at the bar
, of course.’

‘No need darling.
The best places are always reserved for my favourites.’

Stephen smirked.

‘It’s simply divine news about
Letters,
’ went on Emelda, ‘word is you’re a dead cert for the Palme D’Or.’

Surprisingly, Stephen’s smirk began to slip. Palme D’Or’s were pretty but they weren’t Oscars
, and he needed Academy Award glory fast. A win next February would restore his credibility to all those who had ripped apart
A Desert Affair
and cement his place in filmmaking history.  

‘Dearest Emelda
,’ he said, clasping her hand. ‘I must confess that I came here early with somewhat of an ulterior motive. Could I possibly trouble you with a
modest
favour?’

Emelda looked positively delighted at the prospect. ‘Of course darling, anything
.’

Stephen gave her the benefit of his thirty thousand pound veneers.

‘Now listen up, Walt Wilson is scheduled to attend the party later and I would rather he didn’t have his ear bent all night by some peeved ex-employee of mine. Steer him clear of the haters and ply him with hooters, comprende? It shouldn’t be too hard. He’s reputed to be more of a womaniser than yours truly.’

‘Consider it done
,’ she winked, reading between the lines. GBA’s exclusive first look deal with Global was up for renewal soon, and after all the bad headlines, Stephen’s new motto was ‘Strictly No Scandal’ until the ink on a new contract was dry.

‘Although you may want to have a word wit
h your ex-wife when she arrives,’ she added, spying a motorboat approaching on the horizon. ‘Christine will be only too happy to relinquish that key to your heaving skeleton closet, given half the chance. Oh thank god, the DJs arrived!’ she cried as Stephen choked on his champagne. ‘Marie! Marie!’ she trilled, as a moody-looking youth with purple hair clambered aboard with six bulging record bags dangling off his neck. ‘Marie, for god’s sake help the poor man! I don’t care if he stabs, shoots or asphyxiates himself after his set, but he’s not garroting himself before. Excuse me Stephen, I must go.’

Christine’s coming here?’ he
growled, grabbing her arm. ‘Tonight?’

Emelda shrugged. ‘She called earlier for a couple of invites. Now that your divorce is finalised and the restraining order lifted
, I didn’t think it would be a problem.’

Stephen’s murderous expression belied such breezy optimism.

‘Oh don’t look at me like that,’ sighed Emelda. Why were celebs such prima donnas when it came to socialising with their exes?  She knew agents more dedicated to keeping their charges from bumping into former flames than setting their careers alight. ‘I felt sorry for the old thing. She’s just thrown away the last rotting crumb of her career on some travesty that will never see the light of day. Word is they can’t even get a Sales Agent to take a look! It was the very least I could do to stop her plummeting into complete obscurity.’ 

‘What a terrible shame
that
would be,’ muttered Stephen. ‘Fine. Just keep that Botoxed Bitch away from Wilson.’

Several hours later, the very man in question was proffering his arm to his sexy companion as she hopped aboard the
Mega Hit
as gracefully as a Bolshoi ballerina.

Striding on after her, such chivalry switched to
all-out chauvinism as his eyes feasted on the curves inside her micro mini dress. Pausing to let Tom Cruise pass, he placed a firm hand on his date’s bottom. The young girl wriggled in ecstasy. 

‘Easy, honey
,’ he murmured, delighted by her response. ‘I don’t pay you $5000 an hour to fake it that easily.’ But his budding erection deflated faster than a punctured soufflé when he realised that the source of his date’s pleasure wasn’t him at all, but rather some petulant-looking punk with purple hair lounging against a speaker.

‘
It’s DJ Rushes!’ she boomed excitedly. ‘He’s dead sexy! I’ve got all his tunes!’

Walt swiftly helped himself to a couple of passing champagne flutes.
He was going to murder Selena. His request for an elegant, sophisticated booking from the
Xclusive Escort Agency
had resulted in this twenty-one year old dunce with the articulation of a woodlouse.

Leaving his date gawping on the edge of the dance floor, he stormed up to the upper deck, collecting another flute on the way. Easing himself into a jazzy, nautical striped seat, he lit up a Cohiba cigar and stared out at the tranquil sea beyond the harbour. The moon’s face was hidden
behind a veil of silvery cloud but he could still make out where the water’s edge sliced the horizon in two.

Michael
had been wrong. Walt was in no mood for business tonight. Instead, he was in the market for some quiet reflection, which, in itself, was as rare to him as a happy marriage. Staring at that damn horizon had got him thinking. Why did everything in life come down to two halves? It was the stuff great movies were made of; light versus dark, good versus evil… He had recognised Michael earlier as he exited his Escalade, skulking in the back of that cheap café with that cute girl. Is this what he and his son had become? Two bitter adversaries locked in conflict forevermore?

Walt took an
unsteady puff on his cigar. The thought upset him more than a Box Office thrashing. In fact, he was so despondent about it all he didn’t hear the click clacking of approaching stilettos until one had speared right through his left crocodile skin boot.

‘What the hell!’ he yelled
, jumping up.

A
young woman in an ugly red cocktail dress two sizes too small for her recoiled in horror. ‘Oh my god, i’m so sorry! I didn’t see you there in the dark!’ 

Fortunately
, Walt was a sucker for a breathless British accent.

‘No harm done, honey, but i
f this croc wasn’t dead before, it sure is now.’

The woman
smiled shyly. ‘Do you mind if I call my nanny? This seems to the only place on the boat I can get a signal.’

‘
Be my guest.’ He indicated to the spare seat beside him as he sat back down and took another chug on his cigar.

‘Hello?
Charlene? Charlene it’s me,’ he heard her whisper. ‘Is Lucas ok? Umm Charlene, you sound a bit merry, have you been drinking? No…No I’m not the fun police. Charlene, wait….Charlene! Hello, hello?’ The phone dropped into her lap and Lily started chewing on her thumbnail.

‘Problems?’

She shook her head brightly but Walt had a nose for bullshit after six acrimonious divorces. 

‘Here
,’ he said, offering up his untouched champagne flute. The poor kid looked like she needed a shot of something.

Lily accepted it with a tight smile.

‘Hey, you look kinda familiar. Are you that new Exec over at Paramount?’

She blushed and shook her head. ‘I’m GBA’
s script supervisor, Lily Moore.’ There was a pause. ‘You’re Mr Wilson, aren’t you? Michael’s father.’

He tensed but only for a second.

‘Good to meet you, Lily. Call me Walt.’

‘Thank you…Walt,’ she gulped nervously.
Walt Wilson had a mean streak the length and breadth of The Atlantic and a temper that trumped even Vincent’s.

‘Lucas your son?’ he asked gruffly
, as she sat trembling on the edge of the lounger.

‘Yes
.’

‘You worked for GBA long?’

She nodded, staring straight at her flute. She was making a habit of drinking with the Wilsons. This was her first drop of alcohol since her big confessional with Michael last year.

‘So you weren’t one of the deserters then?’
There was a steely edge to his voice.

Lily
shook her head. ‘No, no I wasn’t.’

‘Smart gal. My son’s ruined too many promising careers this year, most of all his own.’

Lily took a slug of champagne and sneezed as the bubbles fizzed up her nose. In truth, she had been desperate to hightail it out of Bucharest on the first available flight, but the comeback for her and Lucas would have been awful. She had spent several nights of late praying for another heart attack to come along and finish Vincent off.

At that moment,
Emelda appeared at the top of the stairs clutching a gold-plated clipboard to her bosom.

‘Mr Wilson THERE you are!’ she screeched as Stephen’s head popped up over her left shoulder like a beady-eyed parrot. ‘I’ve three simply
gorgeous
actresses downstairs who are dying to meet you!’

‘Not
tonight,’ snapped Walt. ‘But please ensure that a bottle of something expensive reaches them with my compliments.’

‘Then let me join you
,’ said Stephen bossily, sidestepping Emelda. ‘You must be bored rigid sitting up here.’ He looked pointedly at Lily and she blushed. ‘Besides, it’ll give us a good opportunity to sound out our forth-coming contract negotiations. Shan’t be a minute. Emelda, a quick word downstairs first if you will?’

Lily stood up to leave too.  

‘Don’t go on his account,’ drawled Walt.

She shook her head, ‘I must. My nanny’s making inroads into the mini bar. It was love
ly to meet you, Mr Wilson...Walt.’ Lily turned to leave then hesitated. Biting her bottom lip again she sat back down. It was now or never.

‘Michael was planning to speak to you all along about starting his company
.’

The balmy sea breeze whistling through the deck
suddenly dropped several degrees.

‘What did you say?’
hissed Walt. 

‘Nothing, nothing I didn’t say anything
,’ gasped Lily, her flash of courage deserting ship. Making a bolt for it, her heel got wedged in the decking and she sprawled face first into a giant canvas publicity still of Zach Roberts dressed as a half-naked centurion. Walt was upon her in an instant. 

‘How dare you
talk about Michael to my face!’ he yelled, wrenching her to her feet. ‘My son is dead to me, do you hear?’