Dirty Movies (5 page)

Suspicious of tall men ever since Jeff Goldblum had trodden on his foot at
the Emmys, Stephen had loathed Michael on sight, all lofty six foot two of him. He was also broad-shouldered, exceptionally handsome and possessed the kind of deep Californian sun tan that Stephen could never achieve no matter how many weeks he spent sunning himself by a pool in St Barts. To top it off, Michael had an irrefutable, untouchable standing in Hollywood, thanks in part to father who was more feared and revered than the Godfather himself.

Stephen’s tongue was just edging downwards when the rhythmic howls o
f his bedside alarm clock signaled an incoming call. With only a select few aware of his number, his stupid office manager excluded, he deduced that it must be his gutless sap of a brother calling.

Groaning in
dis
pleasure, he slid back up the bed, rolled over and pulled Maisie on top of him. At the same time he reached for his phone.

‘Stephen, it’s Joe
.’

Instinctively, Stephen’s upper lip curled in distaste.

‘Janie’s trying to reach you. She wants to know why you weren’t on the plane.’

Maisie
chose that moment to skewer herself onto his cock. Stephen let out a strangled groan.

‘Hello,
hello? Stephen, are you still there?’ Joe focused hard on a patch of speckled grey black mould on the wall above his desk and tried not to picture what, and whom, his brother was most likely doing.

Stephen fingered Maisie’s nipple with his free hand as she rocked faster and faster. He was dimly aware
, as his brain started clouding in ecstasy, that his brother had never once had the balls to remonstrate with him over his bad behavior. Still, deciding to play nice where the Studio was concerned, he puffed out a terse directive that he better be booked on the early morning flight out of Heathrow tomorrow. ‘And it better be First fucking Class!’ he finished with a howl as Maisie collapsed on top of him, exhausted.  

Back in Morocco, Joe replaced the receiver and felt his very own rush of fatigue. Clucking at the little white mongrel under his desk, he stood up and started rooting around the desk for his car keys.

‘Hey, where are you off to?’ asked Danny in surprise, as Joe spied them lurking under his Rolodex. ‘It’s beers o’clock in ten.’

‘Shan’t be long’ said Joe, heading for the door. ‘I’ve just got to go
and pick up our new runner.’

Danny gave a cackle of amusement.

‘I do hope that’s not a euphemism, Joseph,’ he said slyly, ‘I thought that was more your brother’s thing.’

The plane banked sharply then righted itself with a series of bone-crunching judders. Polly’s eyelids fluttered open and
, for the briefest of moments, she imagined that she was still tucked up under her duvet back home. Then her knee connected with the in-flight tray and the remains of her half-eaten beef casserole and cheesecake went shooting off across the aisle. Polly gazed down at her neighbour’s trousers in fascinated horror. Brown raspberry mush was creating an extraordinary tie-dye effect on pristine white linen.

‘Well don’t just sit there
, do something!’ screamed her neighbor. ‘They’re FCUK and new on today!’

Ghastly dry-cleaning bills
flashed before Polly’s eyes. Meanwhile, aware of some spillage crisis unfolding in seats 23A and 23B, two air stewardesses bustled onto the scene with armfuls of damp cloths.

Polly
waved them away, stuffed her soggy cardigan into the front pocket of her laptop bag and wrenched apart the sticky pages of the in-flight brochure. Her ears were beginning to pop and the only thing she detested more than gravy-soaked jeans was an aircraft’s descent, ascent or any type of movement for that matter. Fortunately, she was soon engrossed in an article by the Moroccan Tourist board, inviting her to explore the mystical delights of a country only one hour behind GMT at this time of the year. Not much danger of jet lag tonight then, she thought, cheering up immediately.

Polly had been staving off the early warning signs of a nasty hangover when
Indiana Jones
started whooping away at 6am again. Gulping down the waves of nausea, she silently cursed the three main perpetrators; Lucy, Lucy’s little brother Tom, and the extended happy hour at the pub down the road.

‘Morning Janie
,’ she croaked, as her left hand rummaged around in the bedside drawer for her stash of emergency painkillers. ‘Everything ok?’

‘No
, it isn’t!’

Polly
groaned inwardly. She was getting used to the office manager’s penchant for dispensing with chitchat and going straight for the jugular, but could have done with a bit of sugarcoating this morning.

‘There’s been a
catastrophe,
’ continued Janie, ominously.

These
words felt like a brutal hammer blow to Polly’s poor mangled head. Scenarios started flashing in her brain like the bulbs of a paparazzo. Travel agency in meltdown, itineraries up in flames, Vincent in mistaken economy seat-booking shocker. Vincent…

Amidst the dirty fug of dehydration and sleep deprivation
, Polly felt the first pangs of uneasiness. Could this have anything to do with twenty crew contact lists she had forgotten to print out for him yesterday? He was always losing the stupid things and kicked up such a fuss when he didn’t have oodles of spares stuffed into the lining of his enormous jackets.

‘Darling listen
,’ began Janie urgently. ‘Bella’s bailed and I don’t have time to hire someone new. We need you to fly out to Morocco as Stephen’s location runner for the next few months….Polly? Polly? Did you hear what I said?’

There was a strangled squawk.

‘Good girl,’ said Janie interpreting the squawk as a positive. ‘Now i’ve pencilled you on the 5:15 flight this afternoon. Are you ok to get to Heathrow yourself or do you need a taxi?’

‘This afternoon??’ gasped Polly, crashing back down to earth. ‘Are you serious?’

‘Of course I’m serious,’ snapped Janie. ‘You must be there for when Stephen arrives.’

Polly surveyed her bedroom in a panic. Where was her suitcase? Where the HELL was her suitcase? Hang
on, did she even own a suitcase?

‘So, shall I book you a taxi or not? I’m sorry to rush you
, Polly, but I’ve eighteen cast medicals to book, the main budget to revise and a hysterical actress who’s convinced she’s going to catch Malaria from the hotel catering.’

‘I’ll make my own way
,’ mumbled Polly. Hopefully, Lucy’s Vauxhall would make it down the M25 without blowing up on the hard shoulder. 

‘Good. That’s one less thing I have to worry about. I’ll give Joe a call and let him know what flight you’re arriving on. He’s holding the fort until Rachel and Gillian arrive later on today. He’ll
send someone out to pick you up.’

‘Thanks Janie
, but how will I know who to look for? Will the driver have a name board or…?’

‘I’ll confirm the tickets and text you the E-Ticket reference
,’ interrupted Janie. ‘You’ll be connecting with a flight down to a place called Erizo when you reach Casablanca. It’s a small town on the edge of the Sahara. Have a safe trip and good luck.’

There was a click and she was gone. 

Once
on the ground, Polly and her gravy-soaked jeans had to endure an undignified scrum at Erizo Airport’s doll-sized, creaky and overladen luggage carousel.

Nursing a bruised shoulder and a throbbing toe where some merciless git had rammed her with his trolley, she hauled Lucy’s suitcase into the arrivals hall and scanned the crowds for someone, anyone, who might resemble a production driver. Like a magnet, her eyes kept returning to a faintly familiar-looking man with scruffy brow
n curls lounging next to a taxicab booth. He was wearing dark blue combat shorts and an off white T-shirt, a uniform more suited to the parks of England than the heart of North Africa, and his pale pallor was a marked contrast to the rest of the crowd. He also happened to be the most attractive man she had ever seen.

To her horror he suddenly looked over and started waving in her direction. Without thinking
, Polly dived down behind a passing baggage trolley. She was just plucking up the courage to peer over a mountain of blue tartan shoppers, when a warm hand touched her shoulder. Spinning round she found herself gazing up at the very same man she had been admiring.

‘
Hi. Are you Polly Winters?’ he said, smiling down at her.

‘Who’s asking?’ she mumbled, looking faintly bewildered and hugely embarrassed
all at the same time.

‘Joe De Vries
,’ he said, hauling her to her feet. ‘As the rest of the gang are busy drinking themselves stupid in the hotel bar, I thought I’d swing by and pick you up myself. Can’t leave our precious runners stranded in airports now, can we?’

‘But I was told to expect a production driver
,’ countered Polly, feebly.

‘Then you’re in for a disappointing evening. Of course if you’d rather stay here
…?’

As if, tho
ught Polly. Joe was even better looking close-up.

‘C’mon
, sweetheart,’ he laughed, bending down to retrieve her case. ‘My jeep’s parked out front. If we get a move on, we’ll be back at the hotel sipping a beer within the hour.’ 

With Joe leading the way, they exited the icy-cool, air-conditioned terminal and went slap bang into a wall of fierce humidity. Feeling tiny
beads of sweat form unattractively on her upper lip, Polly hastily wiped them away before jumping in the passenger seat.

‘Sorry for the lack of air-con
, it blew up on the way here,’ apologised Joe, leaning across to wind down the window for her. ‘We’ll have the put the blasted thing up again when we hit the desert though, unless you fancy a face full of locusts.’

Polly heard the words
desert
and
locusts,
but she was having terrible trouble concentrating on anything else with his cheek hovering six inches from hers.

‘Is everything ok?’ he asked, looking at her oddly
, sitting back in his seat.

‘Mmmm
.’ Polly didn’t trust herself to speak.

Frowning, Joe turned the ignition key and the jeep’s engine spluttered into life, accompanied by a blast of vintage Huey Lewis.

‘Oops,’ he grinned sheepishly, taking a well-aimed swipe at the volume button. ‘Tell me quickly, is bribery still an option or will my guilty secret be hot gossip by last orders?’

Polly stifled a smile. ‘Are you referring to your questionable taste in m
usic?’

‘That wasn’t just any music
, Miss Winters,’ he replied seriously, ‘that was proper, bona-fide eighties movie soundtrack stuff.’

‘
Back to the Future
,’ countered Polly smugly. ‘I’ve seen it seventy-three times myself.’

‘Have you really?’ Joe looked impressed. ‘But surely you’re too young to remember the eighties?’

Polly felt her face flush with indignation. How old did he think she was, ten?

‘I’m surprised you remember them
yourself,’ she retorted quickly. ‘Weren’t you too busy applying for the OAP winter fuel allowance?’

Joe stared at her and Polly blushed.

‘Sorry, that was rude.’

‘Nah, don’t be, I can take the banter
,’ he said, his grin slowly returning. ‘It’s always nice to meet a fellow 80s fanatic. By the way, I’m not that much older than you.’

‘Thank goodness
,’ said Polly in mock relief. ‘I didn’t fancy the thought of hanging out with a bunch of geriatrics for the next few months. You weren’t being serious about the locusts earlier were you?’

Joe dropped the clutch and coaxed the jeep into gear. ‘Not such a fan of bugs, eh? That doesn’t bode well for our night shoots. The last film we shot out here was a Sound Mixer’s worst nightmare. We were
frequently interrupted by the sound of frazzling insects on the exterior lights.’

Polly wrinkled her nose in dismay.

‘I seem to recall a few unwanted ‘extras’ slithering into scene as well.’

‘You mean snakes???’ She looked at him in horror and Joe burst out laughing.

‘Don’t worry, Polly, I’ve been here a week and I’ve yet to see either!’

The teasing continued until they were pulling up to a row of rickety, rust-coloured buildings on the edge of Erizo. Joe parked up underneath a dusty, old street light that kept flickering on and off like a scene from a horror movie. Cutting the engine, he indicated to the building on the end.

‘That’s our hotel over there.
’

Polly follow
ed his gaze and her face fell. On the flight over, she’d been having fantasies of a five-star Moroccan Palace.

‘Appearances can be deceiving, sweetheart
,’ he murmured, watching her carefully.

Polly jumped.
‘Am I that easy to read?’

He shrugged and opened his d
oor. ‘You’re not the first crewmember to arrive. I guess I’m getting used to the reaction. Don’t write it off just yet though. This place is like an aging actress with a high IQ; the sharp interior far outweighs the crumbling exterior.’ Grabbing her case, he led her up the dusty stone steps and through an archway flanked by two carved wooden doors.

Stepping inside,
Polly gave a gasp of surprise. The walls and the ceilings were draped in a sumptuous cream fabric that conjured up visions of lavish Bedouin tents. This unexpected lightness lent an exotic charm to the glorious dark wood reception desk and the brightly coloured mosaic floor. In the centre of the room stood a large marble fountain. Soft candlelight from the dozens of tiny lanterns suspended from the rafters reflected in the steady trickles of water below like miniature diamonds.

This
really is a desert oasis, she marveled, as the pungent aroma of delicious-smelling spices drifted past on the late evening breeze.

‘I take it all back, this place is amazing
,’ she whispered to Joe as a hotel porter emerged from the gloom to take her bag and lead her over to the reception desk.

For some reason her re
action filled him with relief. ‘Make sure you come and find me once you’re done,’ he said quickly. ‘I’ll introduce the gang.’

‘I will. And thanks
again for coming to pick me up.’

‘My pleasure, I think. Despite the dig
s about my age I rather enjoyed the 80s film revival. If you can keep the insults in check, I might even let you borrow my Top Gun CD sometime.’

Polly
laughed. ‘How can I resist such a treat? Fine, from now on no more insults.’

‘Good
,’ smiled Joe. ‘Me and my fragile ego will be very relieved to hear it.’

Flustered by the unfamiliar currency, which gifted her porter a tip as large as her suitcase, Polly splashed water across her face and beetled back downstairs, hoping she didn’t reek too much of dried yoghurt and gravy.

Low
ly lit and dominated by a vast wide-screen, fixed on MTV Morocco, the bar was heaving with endless groups of hot, sweaty, self-confident bodies. Brash Brit and American accents and the fug of cigarette smoke hung thickly above each table, and Kenny Loggins was turned up so loudly, he might have been Footloosing right out of the stereo.

I wonder if that’s Joe’s CD
, thought Polly idly, peering through the gloom for a glimpse of the 1st AD. Intrigued by the splashes and squeals that kept puncturing the conversations around her, she glanced through a set of open patio doors as a bikini-clad babe dived headfirst into a gleaming blue swimming pool. A huge cheer erupted as a pink top floated to the surface, sans babe.