by Cate Andrews
Picking up a spare meeting itinerary, Michael tried to focus on the first bullet point. There was no point exchanging pleasantries with Stephen and Vincent. Both men had taken up their positions at the head of an enormous oval table and were refusing to look in his direction. Disinclined to enter into a bitter confrontation this early on a Monday morning, Michael ignored the snub and reached for a bottle of water but the grooved blue plastic cap twisted too easily, surprising him, and the bottle slipped from his fingers. With his reflexes still hovering somewhere above the Atlantic, the bottle hit the table and the contents spilled out all over his neighbour’s notes.
‘Godammit!’ he hissed, jumping up and dabbing at the swollen paper with the tails of his shirt. ‘Sorry honey, hope that wasn’t anything important.’
But the pale blonde looked horrified. ‘Only my script notes,’ she whispered, diving into her bag for her asthma inhaler. This was just the sort of thing that Vincent would punish her for later.
Snatching up the top sheets of paper, Michael began to flap them about wildly.
‘Don’t worry, honey,’ he soothed, ‘in this heat they’ll all dry out in seconds’. Alas, the frantic movement only encouraged the rivulets of water to ping off in all directions, smudging the writing further. He changed tact and began blowing on the paper instead. Pursing his lips together, the first line caught his attention. A moment later, his face caved into a grin.
‘Jack and Jill went up the hill,’ he read quietly. ‘Boy, I didn’t realise Stephen had demanded these kind of re-writes.’
The blonde’s face flushed scarlet. ‘Oh my god, they’re my son’s. I must have scooped them up with my script notes by mistake.’
Michael laughed and flicked through the soggy pages of nursery rhymes. ‘No harm done. Fortunately my sense of humour travelled with me. Michael Wilson,’ he said, leaning over to grasp five trembling fingers.
‘Lily Moore,’ she mumbled, ducking her head shyly at a handshake bursting with confidence. She went back to shuffling the huge stack of paper in front of her.
Michael mopped up the rest of the water and side-eyed her with interest. Tangled hair and a flaky bottom lip couldn’t detract from a cute button nose and a pair of gentle grey eyes. Yawning, he fanned his face with his notebook. Where the hell was the air con in this place? At this rate he’d be fast asleep and dreaming by the time Vincent took to the floor.
Arriving at the hotel late last night, the air had been filled with the snores of crew and the chirps of cicadas, but he had been wide-awake and wired until 4am. Subsequently over-sleeping, he had missed breakfast, and an opportunity to meet his crew before this morning’s meeting. Judging by the number of quizzical looks in his direction (mixed in with some appreciative ones and several downright lascivious ones, that make-up lady looked a right minx), it was suddenly very clear that no one had the slightest idea who he was, or what he was doing here.
Michael scowled. A veteran of GBA’s unscrupulous ways, he quickly chalked it up as an attempt to undermine his new authority. The bastards never did like a fair fight, he thought grimly, digging his nails into the palm on his hand and readying himself for battle. Their clashes over the next few months were shaping up to be dirtier than a mud slide into a strip joint. His suspicions of foul play were further confirmed when costume designer, Sally, waddled over to him wearing a humongous dark purple, tulip-shaped skirt that looked like a decapitated blackberry.
‘Michael!’ she cried, embracing him in delight, ‘how lovely to see you, darling! I had absolutely no idea they sent Development Executives on shoots these days. Surely your expertise is better suited to all that carry-on malarkey before our cameras start rolling.’
‘Hey Sally,’ he said with an easy smile, recognising her from numerous pre-production meetings in LA over the years. ‘I decided to ditch the lunchtime business meetings for a while. Thought my personal trainer might appreciate it. I’ve flown over to Exec. Produce the final stages of pre-production and the shoot.’
‘But that’s wonderful news!’ Sally shot a puzzled look at the head of the table ‘Stephen, you wicked scamp! Why didn’t you tell us this handsome, talented creature was our new mother superior?’
There was an uncomfortable silence.
‘I wrote a memo three days ago specifically detailing this,’ snarled Stephen, glaring at a pretty dark-haired girl sat next to him. ‘Polly, I’d appreciate a little more dedication in ensuring such important announcements reach their intended recipients!’
One look at the girl’s stunned reaction and Michael was under no illusions of the memo’s existence, or rather lack of it.
‘Well never mind, you’re here now to help preside over all our important decisions,’ chirped Sally happily, unaware of the filthy look from Vincent. Meanwhile, Michael had locked eyes with the young girl next to Stephen and was grinning at her in sympathy. She promptly dropped her notebook in surprise. Diving down to retrieve it, she narrowly missed a digit amputation as Stephen deliberately flung his chair sideways into her.
Enraged, Michael leapt to feet but found his path blocked by a tall, scruffy, familiar-looking man.
‘You must be Michael,’ greeted Joe reaching out to shake his hand, oblivious to the furor going on behind him. ‘I’m Joe De Vries, 1st AD. We’ve spoken a few times on the phone. How was your flight?’
‘It could’ve been worse,’ drawled Michael, eyeing him warily. In his experience, a gracious De Vries greeting was usually followed by a smack over the head with a rusty club. He relaxed a little when he saw the pretty girl dust herself off and roll her eyes at a girl in pig-tails sat opposite.
‘Well hopefully the jet-lag hasn’t screwed you up too much,’ said Joe cheerfully, ‘we need to get a few decisions made today.’
‘Some fucking hope with that American idiot in the room,’ snapped Vincent, turning to whisper something inaudible but no doubt equally as unpleasant in the ear of the cranky-looking woman sat next to him.
Joe caught Michael’s eye. ‘I take it you two need no introductions?’
‘Once is more than enough with Vincent.’
Joe grinned and a spark of camaraderie flashed between them.
‘Come and meet the rest of the gang’ said Joe, steering him towards the opposite end of the table where the two eccentric-looking costumes ladies were nattering away to the girl in pigtails.
‘I gather you already know Sally and Nancy,’ said Joe, nodding at them. ‘And this is Rachel, our coordinator.’
The girl beamed up at him and thrust a newly revised set of storyboards into his hands. ‘Nice to finally meet you, Mr Wilson. Do let me know if you’re missing any vital paperwork and I’ll whip up a copy straight away.’
‘Gee thanks,’ said Michael. At least this end of the table didn’t seem quite so free and easy with the insults.
‘Art Department Heads,’ continued Joe, lobbing a spare unit list at a scruffy-looking couple pouring over a stack of set drawings. ‘Roger is our Production Designer and Karen our Art Director.’
Roger glanced up as they approached. With his grizzled grey hair, thick black glasses perched on the bridge of his nose and several chewed pencils sticking out of his shirt pocket, he reminded Michael of his old High School Science teacher.
Roger gave a terse nod in their direction before returning to his drawings. The Casablanca set designs were causing him major headaches and he was anxious to get them sorted before Stephen caught a whiff of it. Pre-production meetings were always a form of torture for Roger. With so little time before filming commenced, five minutes, let alone five hours away from his precious plans could mean the difference between a finished set and a collapsing catastrophe. Beside him, his much younger wife, Karen, was on the phone busily organising a timber shipment from England.
All of a sudden, Stephen’s fist crashed down onto the table and echoed like a thunderbolt throughout the room. Karen hung up hastily. The director meant business. In truth, Stephen was desperate to get the meeting wrapp
ed up quickly so that he could schedule in a quick fuck with Maisie before Michael found out she had arrived.
‘Welcome to Morocco everyone,’ he began smoothly, sweeping a manicured hand through his hair; the diamonds in his wristwatch glinting like miniature blades in the sunlight. Polly gulped nervously. Perhaps a swift beheading was the punishment for anyone foolish enough to fall asleep in his meetings?
As if on cue, Michael stifled another yawn and stared coldly at Stephen. The director was pointedly ignoring all the unattractive women in the room, including Freda Jacobs, the stunt artist. Though god knows how she’s gonna double for Maisie, thought Michael in alarm. With her bulging biceps and moustache, she looked more like a man than he did.
‘I appreciate that most of you have already had the distinct pleasure of working with Vincent and I,’ went on Stephen, without a trace of irony, ‘but for all those who have recently, and may I say, wisely, ditched our lesser talented rivals, on behalf of GBA Pictures, I would like to applaud your good judgment and wish you the very best of luck. Here’s to a successful shoot.’
Once the obligatory half-hearted round of applause petered out, he sat back down again and nodded at Vincent to take charge. The producer heaved himself to his feet, mopping his shiny forehead with a dirty white hanky as Polly’s pencil quivered expectantly. Her task today was to jot down all the minutes, and after ‘telephone-gate’ she was going all out to do an exemplary job.
Rachel had already explained to her the vital importance of this production meeting in ensuring that all the Heads of Departments were in sync now that the script was finalised and the cast confirmed. With only a week to go until shooting commenced, it was also a perfect opportunity to raise any major problems before the cameras started rolling. Unfortunately this meant that every issue in the script had to be poured over, which often led to a ridiculously overlong meeting and a very stroppy, overtired crew.
Two hours later, and Polly wasn’t being nearly as thorough with her minute taking. The tensions in the room were proving far more compelling than noting down a solution for the clunky dialogue in scene eighteen. This was the first time that she had witnessed the De Vries’ sibling anomaly in action, and it was making her dislike Stephen more and more. Dismissive, patronising and unspeakably rude, the director was going all out to piss his younger brother off at every opportunity.
‘Of course, there are far more unsettling rudiments to this scene than the dialogue,’ she heard Stephen say, after he had chewed Joe out for another infinitesimal spelling error in his schedule. ‘The props, for one, are entirely unsatisfactory…’
Polly watched the whole prop department cringe as the angry red spotlight was turned on them.
‘I want far more pillows and drapes for this love scene,’ he went on, ‘I don’t want Maisie catching a cold!’
Michael wiped the sweat off his forehead. ‘Not likely in this weather’ he murmured to Joe who was sitting next to him.
‘Speaking of Maisie,’ went on Stephen furiously, ‘which twit made the decision to park the cast trailers so far away from my trailer?’
‘That was me,’ said Joe wearily, sticking up his hand again. ‘I thought it might save a bit of time parking them closer to costume and make-up.’
‘Well it’s a bloody stupid idea. What if I need to pass last minute notes to my actors? This is just another example of your shoddy, over-zealous planning Joe. If I were you, I’d keep your silly ideas to yourself and stop wasting our time.’
Michael murmured his commiserations but Joe just shrugged.
The De Vries brothers had a very odd relationship he decided, doodling on the corner of his script. Stephen clearly detested Joe, but the bitching and snide remarks seemed to keep bouncing off a Teflon-plated exterior. He watched as the 1st AD turned to give the dark-haired girl a wink.
In the meantime, Vincent was cruelly twisting the knife that Stephen had just stuck into the beleaguered prop department by systematically tearing apart the entire prop list. By now bored out of his mind, Michael bent down to pick up his pencil, looked across and saw that Vincent’s right hand was knuckle-deep inside the knickers of the woman next to him. He righted himself immediately.
Another agonising hour passed. By now, Vincent had developed a nasty habit of firing off tricky questions at various departments and throwing a hissy fit when he didn’t find the answers satisfactory enough. He had already canned the costume supervisor and two Prop Masters and his mean little eyes were looking around for a few more scalps to add to his XXXL belt. As terms such as daily shooting ratios and coloured script page orders spewed forth across the table, Polly noticed that Stephen was glancing down at his watch more and more.
Losing interest in a boring discussion on reputable crowd casting companies, Polly chewed her pencil and glanced over at Michael. He looked like one of those sun-tanned gods from those travel adverts plastered all over the London Underground, she decided. The ones with every intention of making you feel particularly rubbish first thing on a Monday morning. He was also far too young and trendy looking to be an Exec. Polly had a mental image of sadistic, mean-eyed, ex-accountants covering this role and Michael was anything but.
As if drawn by her scrutiny, he looked over and caught her staring at him. He grinned again and this time was rewarded with a shy smile. Joe’s a lucky guy, he thought idly, assuming the two were together, before his thoughts strayed, as always, right back to Maisie. Thirty-seven attempts later and he had finally managed to get through to her last night.
All of a sudden, Vincent whipped his hand out from under the table and sparked up a cigarette. Next up for deliberation was the big Bedouin battle scene, and with camels and horses galore, it was an act of carnage waiting to happen. The crew shifted miserably in their chairs fearing another eight hours of needling and pontificating. Meanwhile, fed-up of his producer’s over-bearing behaviour, Michael decided it was high time he had some serious input into this meeting.
‘Excuse me Vincent,’ he said politely, raising his hand, ‘I gotta say I have an issue with the timescale of this scene.’ Next to him, Joe murmured in agreement. ‘We gotta build in more contingency, especially with so many animals on set. How many camels are we proposing to use anyway?’
The producer took a long, deep drag that seemed to incinerate the entire length of his cigarette.
‘If you’d bothered to read any of my emails, Mr Wilson,’ he began bitchily, ‘then you’d already know that we were intending to use forty.’
‘Too bad I never received them. They must be off shooting pool with Stephen’s memo,’ shot back Michael, eliciting titters from all around. ‘So, forty camels…And how many horses?’
This time there was a sharp, collective intake of breath as the crew readied themselves for a Vincent-sized explosion. Michael has a death wish, thought Polly anxiously. She could feel the red-hot heat of Vincent’s bristling hostility from five metres away.
‘Oh for fuck’s sake, we don’t have time for this,’ roared the Producer. ‘About a hundred and fifty I should think. Why the hell does it matter anyway?’
‘Just voicing my concerns about the scheduling,’ said Michael evenly. ‘I stand by what I said. We need to build in more time for potential animal behavioural problems if nothing else’.
‘And why the bloody hell should we do a thing like that?’ screamed Vincent, losing his rag completely. ‘Besides being a total fuck-tard, are you some sort of authority on camels now?’
‘No,’ reasoned Michael quietly. ‘But I did read someplace that horses and camels have a dog and cat-like antagonism thing going on. Now, I could be wrong. Hell, they might even turn out to be as ‘buddy buddy’ as you and me, Vincent,’ he added slyly, ‘but if there’s any chance that our animals might turn unpredictable, we need to factor it in. I think even you would agree that bolting horses and broken limbs are hardly contusive to our rigid scene set-up timings.’
As he said it, the pretty brunette nodded in agreement. Michael stifled a
smile. She had obviously read the same article from the in-flight magazine as him.
‘Well, they all seemed pretty fucking cosy in Lawrence of Arabia,’ muttered Stephen, as Vincent erupted from his chair. Polly watched in amazement as his big fat face and baldhead turned an ugly magenta. He looked like Humpty-Dumpty with bad sunburn.
‘And why the fuck didn’t you warn us about this?’ he screamed, rounding on the poor animal trainer, ‘you’ve fucked our entire shooting schedule now!’
‘Sort it out, Joe,’ hissed Stephen, preventing Vincent from smashing a bottle of water over the animal trainer’s head. ‘Do it now. And as for you, get out of my sight!’ he snarled at the quaking trainer.
He immediately called a coffee break and stomped out of the room, closely followed by Vincent and Gillian. They returned, ten minutes later, looking a lot less agitated after demolishing an entire packet of chocolate bourbons.
As the crew settled down for another hellish session, Polly was soon losing the will to live again. Having dissected all the script issues, Vincent had now turned his attentions to the tedium of Health and Safety and risk assessments, but just as her eyelids were feeling the weight of eighteen camels, the producer promptly declared the meeting over. Right away, there was an unseemly stampede for the door with Stephen leading the charge. Through the window she caught a glimpse of him leaping into the back of his jeep and driving off in an enormous cloud of dust.
‘Off to smarm the pants off his latest costume assistant,’ murmured Rachel, appearing behind her.
‘Oh well, she can always sew herself a new pair.’
‘What are you two curtain-twitchers whispering about?’ asked Joe, wondering back into the room.