Dirty Movies (51 page)

A few miles away, in another vertices of the ‘Platinum Triangle’, the three super-affluent LA neighbourhoods comprising of Bel Air, Beverly Hills and Holmby Hills, Stephen sat slumped against a wall in the dressing room of his $10 million glass-fronted mansion. He was surrounded by two empty bottles of Courvoisier and the jagged fragments of his Academy Award Nomination certificate picture frames, smashed to smithereens that morning in a fit of drunken rage.

Just like my fucking career
, he thought dully, gazing at the debris and purposely ducking eye contact with the glossy black Tux hanging opposite. It had been carefully selected by his ex-stylist, Sergio, six months previously for tonight’s ceremony but after this morning’s revelations in
Hollywood Film
it seemed destined to stay unworn and unappreciated by Joan Rivers and her team of hawk-eyed, Oscar red carpet fashion police. To forever taunt him like a jilted bride’s wedding gown.

Ex-stylist

Ex-girlfriend

Ex-contract with Global Studios

Stephen slammed his fist into the wall. The list was so crushingly relentless.

Once
Hollywood Film
had hit the stands a few hours ago, he had been inundated with resignations and rebuttals. The most stinging was an email from his so-called new Business Partner, Toad Norris, who had been the first to tell him in no uncertain terms to get stuffed.

Maisie
, on the other hand, had been only too happy to pick up a phone and tell him, or rather
screech
at him, what a bloody fiasco he was. As the actress let rip, he could make out snippets of her PR team chatting away furiously in the background. They were hitting up every media contact they knew with strenuous denials to the allegations. If only he still had Garrett, thought Stephen wistfully, yearning for a PR damage limitation plan. Alas, the ace publicist, along with the forked snake himself, Walt Wilson, was refusing to take his calls. Even Bunny Hopkins was proving more elusive to pin down than an agitated flea.

It was Vincent whom he resented most that morning
, however. This was his stinking mess, but the selfish bastard had gone and carked it, leaving him up to his wrinkle-free neck in shit. Thanks to his two-faced, fat-fuck of an ex producer, he had a paparazzi circus staking out his driveway and a Least Wanted poster of himself plastered up all over Hollywood. Stephen shuddered and clutched at his chest. Christ, just thinking about it made him feel as if Sergio was forcing him into an XS dress shirt.

As
he sat there in a broken heap, cramp gnawing at his left thigh, contemplating suicide, a pee and his third bottle of Courvoisier, not necessarily in that order, he heard his phone beeping again. Steeling himself for more misery, he opened the text and frowned. It was an image of a bright yellow rose. His eyes flickered over the accompanying text and his face twisted in fury.

To paraphrase that
delightful and
far
more capable, Mr Hitchcock, Stephen: ‘Revenge really IS sweet and (thankfully for my Oscar gown’s sake) not in the least bit fattening…’

Christine

You evil bitch, he raged, staggering to his feet and lurching towards his Tux, indignation bolstering his booze-soaked limbs like a supersonic Zimmer frame. Fuck Christine and her varicose veins. Fuck Walt Wilson and his stroppy article. Fuck all those who had written him off. His car was still booked and his Oscar still awaiting him. The GBA jet might be tail-spinning wildly but if this was it, if tonight was his last gasp of the big time, then Stephen De Vries was going down in a blaze of golden glory.

‘Have you texted him?’

‘Yes, twice.’

‘Left a voicemail message?’

Joe stared at Polly
, comprehendingly. ‘My god,’ he drawled, rolling his eyes, ‘now why didn’t I think of that?’

‘Oh
for goodness sake,’ snapped Polly, snatching his phone, ‘this is no time to play silly buggers.’

‘I should think not
,’ trilled Christine, shifting anxiously from one peep-holed Louboutin to the other. ‘We’re due on that red carpet in forty minutes and our producer’s done a bunk. I thought this was more your sort of behaviour,’ she said to Joe.

Joe scowled and snatched his phone back from Polly. ‘Fine. I’ll try him again
.’

‘Did Mr
Peterson give any indication why he might have bolted?’

‘No none, although he did leave a lasting impression on why you shouldn’t accessorise black polo shirts with appalling brown leather briefcases…wait it’s ringing. Shit!’ he swore
, seconds later, when it went straight to voicemail again.

‘Perhaps we can arrange a third car for ‘eem
?’ suggested Benito, ‘zat way, when ‘e turns up, it can whisk ‘eem straight down to ze ‘ollywood Boulevard.’

‘Marvellous suggestion, darling
,’ cried Christine, stroking his hairy face fondly. ‘I’ll ask Bill’s team to organise another straight away’

‘Maybe it’s to do with his father?’ speculated Polly, wincing and clutching at her rib cage.

Joe frowned. ‘God knows…Hey are you ok? You look a bit odd.’

‘I’m fine
,’ she squeaked, struggling to breath with three pairs of Spanx on. At least the gorgeous silver Prada gown that Lucy had lent her looked fabulous. Rather like Chelsea Football Club, her best friend’s stock, or more precisely her wardrobe stock, was definitely in the ascendance now that a stinking rich benefactor had strolled into her life.

‘Hang on, now you mention it,
Michael only bolted when he found out that Lily had shacked up with his father,’ said Joe suddenly.

‘But that’s not right
,’ said Polly with a frown.

Joe gave her a funny look. ‘Why
’s that? What the hell’s going on around here?’’

Polly caught Christine’s eye and exchanged indulgently frustrated glances.

‘Joe De Vries’ she scolded him softly. ‘You may be a wonderful Oscar-nominated director but you have the perceptive skills of a wet sponge.’

‘What’s that supposed to me
an?’

‘Michael’s been in love with Lily for months
. He just hasn’t realized it yet.’

‘Has he??’ Joe was stunned. ‘Well I guess that explains why he hired the PI. And why he was so upset when he found out about his father…Come to think of it, I bet that’s where he’s gone! Do we still have time to detour the car to Bel Air?’

‘No need,’ said a voice, as Michael walked through the door. He looked more crushed than Vincent’s bunged funeral mourners. ‘Sorry for the hold-up. I’ll just grab my jacket and we’ll go.’

Polly seized his arm as he passed. ‘Michael
, there’s something you need to know.’

‘Save it
,’ he said sharply, shrugging her off. ‘I’m not in the best mood to talk with anyone right now.’

‘Not the best attitude to have before facing an Oscar red carpet press,’ murmured Christine to Benito.

‘But, Michael…’

‘Polly, please
,’ he begged her, picking up his jacket and ushering her out of the door. ‘From here on in, I don’t wanna talk about anything other than Oscar. By the way,’ he added, forcing a smile, ‘you look incredible. You both do,’ he said, nodding at Christine, head to toe in sumptuous dusky black Atelier Versace.

‘You and Joe take the first car. I’ll follow with Chr
istine and Benito in the second.’ Slamming the door on a protesting Polly, he gave a quick cursory glance to the heavens.  Please god, he prayed, don’t let dad and Lily be there tonight. Without actual visual confirmation, there was a small chance he might be able go on pretending it wasn’t true. 

‘What was all that about?’ demanded Joe as he climbed in next to Polly, catching the hem of her dress with his heel.

‘Oh Joe, it’s a disaster!’ she wailed, barely noticing. ‘Don’t you see? Now Michael thinks Lily and his father are together
.’

‘But aren’t they?’ Joe was patently aware that he was starting to sound more
and more like the village idiot as the afternoon went on.

‘No! No! Not at all!’ cried Polly
, passionately. ‘Walt was feeling bad for always taking Stephen’s side, hence the article, then somehow he found out that Lily was in love with Michael. For the past few days he and Lucy have been hatching some grand plan to get them together!’

‘
Lucy?
’ Joe pounced on the name with a frown. ‘You mean your journo friend? How does she fit into all this?’

Polly hesitated. This was no time for confidences. ‘Lucy’s been having an affair with Walt
.’

‘Holy shit! Since when?’

‘Since we got together. The same day. She flew out to LA to try and blag a meeting with him and ended up blagging him instead.’

‘Shagging him, more like.
Gee, she certainly plays to type, doesn’t she?’

‘Don’t be so horrible!’
said Polly, crossly. ‘She was the one who linked Vincent to Tommy Harper. Lucy managed to get her hands on this amazing footage. It captures the exact moment Vincent spilled his guts to Stephen about it. That’s why she was so desperate to meet with Walt, to show him the evidence and confront him about it. I was trying to tell you all this earlier today but my phone, actually Lucy, interrupted us. By the time I’d hung up, Michael had already jumped in his car…’

‘…And jumped to all the wrong conclusions by the sounds of it
,’ finished Joe, looking shocked. ‘So if Lily’s in love with Michael…

‘…
and Michael’s clearly in love with Lily…’             

‘Then what’s stopping them being together?
This is like an Oscar Wilde play,’ he grumbled.

Polly sighed in agreement and flopped her head on his shoulder. ‘We just have to hope that Michael doesn’t do anything stupid before he learns the truth
.’

‘And in the meantime
, wade through five hundred feet of press-infested red carpet and win us a couple of Oscars. Jesus,’ he muttered, suddenly exhausted by it all, ‘this night’s turning out to be an actioner already.’

There was definitely a red carpet etiquette to these things
, thought Michael, as their limo pulled up to the Academy Award guest drop off point at the corner of Hollywood and Highland, right before he, Christine and Benito were whisked into a posh security tent with all the other ceremony attendees to pass through various metal detectors and show their tickets and driving licences. Arrive with a smile and you were hailed a movie icon. Arrive with a pout and you were a churlish, ungrateful nobody. With that in mind, he emerged from the security tent, saw that the red carpet was divided into two lanes, and immediately chose the one closest to the cameras with a sprightly spring in his step and a grin on his face. His heart may be haemorrhaging before a reputed global viewership of millions, but he was still going to champion his fantastic, multi Oscar-nominated movie to every single one of them. 

Pretty s
oon, he was under siege by a battalion of photographers all bellowing,
‘Michael, Michael, MICHAEL this way please’
, reeling off interview after interview to a press as stylishly turned out as him, whizzing off endless autographs until his hand was crippled with cramp, and waving to all the lucky fans sat up in the bleachers over to his right.

R
iding the carpet as a first-time nominee was exhilarating. It was hard not to be consumed by the feverish excitement and giddy at the thought of all that Hollywood status and power coming together for one night only. This is the biggest awards show in the world, he thought to himself numbly, as his publicist guided him towards Ryan Seacrest who was waiting to greet him on the E! Channel’s telecast platform. Winning an Oscar tonight would be an instant seal of cinematic superiority, and here he was, at just thirty-three of age, within finger-tipping reach of it.

Lily sat beside Walt in his stretched Lincoln Town Car shaking like a leaf. A very well styled one, by all accounts, reflected the handsome Studio Boss, brooding on the $10000 hole in his Amex card. He stared out at the hungry, expectant faces pressed up to the security fences lining the Boulevard. Walt had strutted his stuff on this carpet countless times over the years but this was the first time he had felt anything close to nervous about it. 

Lily followed his gaze and baulked at the scene outside. They’re all waiting to see a superstar
, she thought fretfully, as an old couple pointed to the limo behind them and shrieked that they’d just caught a glimpse of Colin Firth. The only person Lily wanted to catch a glimpse of was Michael. Oh, and then gloss over his inevitable rebuke with three enormous In-and-Out burgers and a big soppy cuddle with Lucas.

‘We’re up, honey
,’ she heard Walt murmur, as their limo glided to a halt. Grabbing her hand, they swept into the security tent and were met on the other side by his publicist who, at his bequest, steered them straight past a rabid press frothing at the mouth to speak to him.

Pausing briefly to exchange words with the Chief Executive of Cosmos Pictures
, who was plainly delighted at Walt’s public admonishment of Stephen, particularly as he had caught the director in bed with no less than two ex-wives and seven ex-mistresses over the years, Lily hung back like the frailest of shadows, trembling violently and looking as if one more vigorous scream from a Brad or Johnny fan might fell her at any moment. 

All of a sudden a flash of blonde hair caught her eye. With a thudding heart
, Lily glanced over to the press pen. Seconds later, the trembling intensified for standing right in front of her, sandwiched between Kenneth Branagh and a resplendent Christine, and charming the socks off a skinny journalist wearing more trinkets than dress, was Michael.

Michael was trying very hard to focus on a question as a great roar erupted to his left. Brad and Angelina had arrived.

‘
Could you repeat that please?’ he asked the reporter politely, but she was far too absorbed in catching Brad’s publicist’s eye to notice. When it became apparent that Brangelina were strictly ‘pose-only’ today, the young girl scowled her disappointment. 

‘So yeah, umm congrats again on your nomination
,’ she said, fixing Michael with a smile less genuine than her breasts. He accepted it graciously, none-the-less.

‘Have you had time to check out the competition?’ she asked, fiddling with her diamante dress strap.

‘One or two…’

‘They’re all pretty rad…’

Yikes, thought Michael. Was her brain made of silicone too? She must be the only person on the red carpet who hadn’t read
Hollywood Film
this morning. When she was distracted again, this time by a passing Leonardo, he caught his own publicist’s eye. He needed an ‘out’ from this interview before she asked him what colour socks he was wearing. Suddenly, he noticed a very pale but extraordinarily beautiful woman staring straight at him over his publicist’s shoulder. He smiled back automatically then froze when he noticed whom she was standing with.

Lily?

Like a Rubber-Necker at the scene of a car crash, he couldn’t tear his eyes away. This waiflike vision of exquisiteness can’t be Lily, thought Michael wildly. She was at least thirty pounds heavier and bathed her body in shapeless t-shirts the same way Christine bathed in Clarins. As he continued to gaze at her, the woman smiled, timidly, fearfully even. It was a real Lily smile and Michael felt his heart stop.

Whatever inches Lucas had acquired since Morocco had
clearly been pinched from Lily’s hips and thighs. She was a stunning, slender silhouette in silver-grey. For once, her soft ash-blonde hair wasn’t flopping untidily over her face or scraped into a ponytail. Instead, it was gathered into a loose bun at the nape of a neck, far more regal and graceful than any British princess. She looked so fragile in her newfound slimness though, as if her pale, exposed collarbone might at any moment cave in under the weight of his father’s diamonds. But gorgeous with it, thought Michael helplessly.  Oh, so, so gorgeous. Suddenly it wouldn’t matter how many Oscars he won tonight. Without Lily by his side, he would always be going home empty-handed.

In the meantime, Walt had finished gassing with his crony, clocked Lily and Michael’s impassioned eye-meet and was just congratulating himself on his tremendous intuition when there was another roar from the crowd as Maisie stepped onto the red carpet. As quick as a flash, she strolled straight up to Michael, yanked his face in her direction and planted a hard, possessive kiss on his lips.

‘What the fuck are you doing?’ he hissed, pulling away furiously. 

‘Making up for lost time, Loser,’ she replied sweetly, a saintly smile on her hooker-red lips and mindful that this little performance would capture the attention of every camera on the carpet. Since Walt’s article had hit the newsstands, making-up with Michael had become something of a necessity rather than a sport. It was the only way she could rescue the remnants of her tattered reputation from the snapping, snarling jaws of his father.

Far
too decent to humiliate her in front of millions, no matter how badly he wanted it, Michael played along with her charade but his voice was as cold as her kiss. He quickly led her away from the press pen.

‘How many times must we do this, Maisie?’ he whispered
harshly, letting go of her arm. ‘I’m not interested in you and me anymore.’

‘That’s not the impression you gave me last month
,’ she said coyly, beaming up at him, her eyes like slits. ‘Your cock was so hard it was giving me jaw-ache just thinking about it. You wanted me Michael…Even you can’t deny that.’

Michael was repulsed. All of a sudden
, he couldn’t give a fuck about the cameras. Not when three metres away, Lily and his father were hanging off their every word.

‘It was a temporary lapse of
judgment, Maisie, nothing more,’ he snarled, not bothering to lower his voice. ‘Fortunately for my sanity AND my sexual health, I recalled what a dirty, scheming little bitch you were. Go back to Stephen. You two deserve each other. You can keep each other company in your empty mansions with your empty lives, which I guarantee will be all the more vacant come Monday once the aftershocks of my father’s article are felt!’

There were audible gasps
at this from a group of passing Hollywood bigwigs, as well as an energetic round of applause from Maisie’s old nemesis, Candy Lee. Michael was far too preoccupied seeking out Lily again to notice, however. Only her soft, grey eyes could calm him now. Yet, as he scanned the red carpet, the only face he saw was his father’s, whose eyes were significantly more scorching than soothing.