by Cate Andrews
Polly stared at the receiver in surprise. If it wasn’t static, it must be a cross-line. She repeated her polite telephone welcome again.
‘I heard you the first time, you stupid idiot. Goodness knows why my dear husband insists on hiring runners with fewer brains cells than GCSEs.’
Polly went white. This time there was no mistaking the legendary Academy Award winning rasping tones of Christine LaVelle.
‘Well?’ taunted Christine, ‘do you agree with my assessment?’ But before Polly could give a response, she dissolved into hysterical sobs.
Two things were suddenly startling apparent to her. One, the actress was drunker than Lucy at her graduation ball. It was an impressive benchmark. Her best friend had woken up with eight traffic cones and a naked tutor handcuffed to her headboard. And two, only a traumatic death of a close friend or relative could warrant such a deluge of grief. The poor woman needed a stiff brandy and an even stiffer shoulder to weather this amount of sorrow.
‘I’m very sorry for your loss Mrs De Vries,’ she began gently, silently calculating the chances of arranging a simple but expensively sincere floral tribute from the middle of the desert. ‘Were you very close? It’s desperately heartbreaking isn’t it? When my grandfather died, I cried my eyes out for three days straight.’
The wails tapered off into a series of frenzied hiccups.
‘Are you a complete moron?’ hissed Christine. ‘The only deaths occurring today are myself and my marriage!’
‘I’m sorry Mrs De Vries, I’m really not following…’
‘Why doesn’t that surprise me? Stick to blowjobs and answering phones, my darling, and you’ll go far.’
Polly stiffened. That was completely uncalled for. Then she remembered last night and blushed. Oh god, she was the worst kind of industry cliché; a runner who had dropped her knickers in the first week.
‘You can tell the bastard that I’ve gone and done it properly this time,’ screeched Christine. ‘Right now, my secretary is emailing my suicide memorandum to every newspaper editor in England. My public deserves to know what I’ve had to put up with for the last ten years. That should wreck his chances of ever winning his precious Oscar!’ She delivered her last invective with enough venom to stun a horse. Then the line went dead.
Polly stared at the phone in disbelief. Was her sleep-deprived mind playing tricks on her or had Christine LaVelle really just spent the last few minutes rudely lambasting, seriously insulting and then nonchalantly informing her of her suicide plans? She was still trying to process it all when Stephen’s second line started kicking off.
‘Err, hello?’
‘And you can tell that bastard my death will be on his conscious for the rest of his life! You and your obscenely pert eighteen year old breasts are welcome to him!’
Christine made to hang-up again.
‘Mrs De Vries, wait!’ Polly couldn’t let her think she was screwing Stephen. She might be implicated in the suicide note and it wasn’t exactly the claim to fame she was striving for. ‘Mrs De Vries, I promise I’m not having an affair with your husband.’
There was a pause.
‘Well you’d be the only one who wasn’t,’ sniffed the reply, ‘and don’t keep calling me by that ridiculous surname. My name has, and always will be, LaVelle, Christine LaVelle.’
She delivered it in such an absurdly overly elaborate French accent that Polly found the corners of her lips twitching.
‘Look, Ms LaVelle…’
‘It’s written on my Oscar don’t you know,’ she crowed suddenly. ‘I don’t see any of those shiny golden statuettes with my husband’s name on them, do you?’
Oh dear. How was she meant to respond to that? Stephen didn’t deserve her loyalty anymore than he deserved an RSPCA endorsement.
‘Would you like me to call an ambulance for you, Ms LaVelle?’ It would be awful if Christine keeled over on the phone to her.
‘Goodness no, I called one twenty minutes ago. I just hope they don’t go bothering that professional golfing chap next door like they did last time. It’s so tiresome when one’s security team is on hiatus and one’s driveway is a mile and a half long.’
I can’t keep up, thought Polly, shaking her head. It was all a bit too surreal for a film graduate from Surrey. ‘At least let me call your husband,’ she begged, yanking out her phone. ‘I’m sure he’s going to want to fly home and see you immediately.’
This was met with a scornful cackle.
‘Oh dahling. You wouldn’t be new by any chance, would you? I find your chronic naivety far more galling than endearing.’
Polly narrowed her eyes. It was too flaming early to be putting up with insult after insult. Even Stephen kept a respectful lid on it until at least 9am.
‘Well?’ prompted Christine.
‘I started two weeks ago,’ admitted Polly.
‘I see, then i’ll forgive you for your assumption that my husband gives a shit about me.’ Christine paused to take a large slug of something, no doubt liver-pickling alcoholic. ‘Do you have a name, child?’
What a ridiculous question, thought Polly. Then again, perhaps runners were deemed far too unimportant as to be addressed as anything other than tea gofer.
‘Polly. Polly Winters.’
‘Well, you listen to me, Polly Winters.’ Glug, glug, glug. ‘Your boss is a cold-hearted prick who wouldn’t care if I hanged myself from the GBA sign, threw myshhelf off the top of our penthouse apartment or gasshhed myshhelf in one of his Ferraris.’
‘But…’ Polly nearly wept with relief when she heard the peel of an ambulance siren in the background.
‘No butshh. With a bit of luck I’ve sshtaken enough pills this time round to oblishherate the memory of that unfaithful, egoshtistical monster forever! I wish you all the beshht, my darling, you’re going to need it.’
The line went dead again.
‘Christine! Christine!’ Polly had a sudden image of her lying dead in the hallway, tantalising close to the ambulance crew, yet separated by one of those steel barred front doors that she had seen on MTV Cribs once. ‘Christine! Christine, can you hear me?’
‘Gone are the glorious days when our runners were seen and not heard,’ snapped a voice from the doorway.
Polly looked up and saw Gillian glaring at her.
‘Have you seen Rachel?’ she gasped.
‘In town, picking up my coffee. I wouldn’t spit in the crap they serve here.’
Polly watched her trudge over to a desk twice the size of hers and throw herself into the chair. She was still sulking over Vincent’s insistence that she stay here in this poxy, non-air-conditioned office whilst he swanned around set un-chaperoned. She didn’t trust him an inch at the moment, especially after she caught him eyeing up that pretty make-up artist yesterday.
‘Spit it out,’ she barked, irritated by Polly’s air of panic. ‘You’re clearly in a tiz about something.’
Polly opened her mouth then shut it again. Should she address Christine as Stephen’s wife or use her stage name? Oh the minutiae! If she called her ‘Ms LaVelle’, she may need to elaborate, Christine’s last hit had been a good few decades ago... Then she remembered that an Oscar Winning actress’ life might be ebbing away as she dithered so she blurted everything out in a jumble.
‘Christine! Stephen’s Ms LaVelle called. I think she’s trying to kill herself!’
The words were like a naked flame in a male locker room. Gillian exploded from her chair, a limp-haired, scrawny-faced, micro mini-skirted ball of rage.
‘Not this crap AGAIN!’ she shrieked, picking up her desk lamp and pounding it against the wall. This was swiftly followed by her portable printer.
There are some serious anger management issues in this office, thought Polly, watching shards of grey plastic shoot across the floor. The remnants of the desk lamp and printer looked like PC World road kill lying there in the middle of the production office.
‘Has she called an ambulance?’ snarled Gillian, rounding her unblink
ing green lights of fury on her.
Polly gulped. ‘It arrived whilst I was on the phone.’
‘Stupid bloody cow,’ she seethed, spitting and wheezing like a pan of boiling water. ‘She’s so desperate for attention she’d probably cut her own head off if it meant a thirty second slot on the news.’
New day, new revelation, thought Polly idly. Had she really only started this job ten days ago? She could fill an entire edition of Hot! Hot! Hot! with the gossip that she had been privy to since then.
‘Should I phone Stephen and tell him?’ she asked.
‘God knows. Yes, No, Maybe.’ Gillian had given up abusing the office furniture and was now picking away furiously at her cherry pink nail polish. ‘I don’t know how you’ll manage it though. The cameras started rolling five minutes ago. All mobiles will be switched off.’
Polly watched Gillian’s fingers work free another sliver of polish. She had never met anyone as ugly on the inside as she was on the out. All the sugar daddies in the world couldn’t help her. Gillian would always be a bitter, crème de la mer smothered scarecrow.
‘Well, what’s the best way to get the message to him then?’ she asked her patiently.
Gillian stopped picking and considered this for a moment. All of a sudden a horrid little smile crossed her face.
‘You should tell him in person. He needs to be made aware of this situation, even if it’s to warn his PR team that a storm’s gathering over Westminster General. I’ll come too. We’ll leave as soon as you’ve cleared up this mess.’
Twenty minutes later, they were tearing out of the studios again. Polly cringed as they swerved to avoid the mangled body of another dead dog in the road. Blessed with the ability to forgive and forget at the click of a film clapperboard, she was already starting to feel a teensy bit sorry for Christine. It must be terribly humiliating to be so publicly cheated on when you had been such a sought-after beauty yourself. But Christine’s movies hadn’t fared well and appeared more on television graveyard shifts and obscure cable channels these days. To Polly, a secret devotee of European cinematic chefs-d'oeuvres, it seemed almost incongruous. This was a back catalogue that had caused such a rumpus in the 70s, when Christine had teased her audiences with a series of risqué performances for the legendary Italian film producer, Flavio Sinclair.
Eventually, Christine had fallen foul of the old adage, of an industry that is notoriously cruel and intolerant to the older actress, and when her looks had crumpled, so had the interest. Now resigned to bit parts in long-running British drama serials, she plugged the inadequacy of her roles by drinking and dreaming of the halcyon days when every heterosexual male had waxed lyrical, then privately masturbated, over her waiflike, oft-naked beauty.
Chapter Thirteen
The jeep screeched to a halt and Gillian was out and sprinting towards one of the gleaming white trailers before Polly could unclip her seatbelt. Watching her fly up the steps, it dawned on her that she’d never had any intention of helping her find Stephen.
Bloody typical, thought Polly crossly, ungluing her thighs from the leather car seat and clambering out through the open door. You would be hard pressed to find a more objectionable, selfishly motivated person than Gillian, besides Vincent of course. God forbid they should ever procreate. Polly had a vision of some horrendously obese, bald-headed crosspatch with skinny witch-like fingers.
‘Hey there! Are you Sally’s fifth Bedouin Wife?’ boomed a voice suddenly, and a large costume lady strode towards her with a heaving bumbag of tape measures and other sewing gizmos and gadgetries strapped to her waist. ‘Kinda late aren’t you? You’re meant to be in make-up.’
‘Umm no, sorry, Think you might have me confused.’
The woman did an abrupt U-turn, stomping back to her trailer and muttering under her breath about unreliable cast members and ridiculous schedule demands. Meanwhile, Polly was surveying the unit base in amazement. Yesterday evening it had resembled a Tesco car park at midnight, eerily deserted save the odd tire track, Winnebago and trailing cable. Now it was utter bedlam, with grey camera trucks, humming generators and billowing canvas tents quadrupling its size to epic Wembley Stadium-sized proportions.
An automotive oasis of jeeps and golf buggies had sprung up overnight too, matched in number by the frenzied-looking crew darting in between them. They looked like a swarm of angry, overheated ants, decided Polly, eavesdropping as they bellowed out hysterical directives at each other.
‘Stephen’s changed the goal-posts again,’ she heard the grumpy costume lady huff to a colleague. ‘He wants the extras on set but we’re still missing Bedouin Chief’s fifth wife. Sally hasn’t even dressed the first one yet.’
‘Props for Scene eight, we need props for scene eight, people,’ yelled a small, bald-headed man to her right. Beside him, a very sunburnt colleague was shouting into his walkie-talkie headset. From the gist of things it appeared that the principal stunt horse had gone missing. If he’s any sense, he’ll be in the catering tent, thought Polly with a giggle. The wafts of lemon and cumin coming from the portable kitchens were divine.
Scanning the crowds for a familiar face, she’d even take Danny’s right now if it shuffled bashfully into view, her eyes rested on a tall, slim man shading himself in the shadow of a giant grey camera truck.
‘Rashid, Rashid, over here!’ she shrieked.
Rashid looked up and gave a quick wave of recognition. Tossing aside his half-smoked cigarette, he strode over to her and kissed her cheek.
‘’ello Polly. What are you doing ‘ere?’
‘I’ve got an urgent message for Stephen. Any ideas where I can find him?’
‘Why ‘oney, our director iz where he usually iz between set-ups, safely tucked away in iz Winnebago.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Sure I’m sure. Iz zat one over there behind ze cluster of palm trees,’ he said pointing to the plushest trailer in the row. ‘As you can see it iz right next to ze cast trailers…’ He winked at Polly. Stephen’s tantrum in the production meeting had been the source of much ridicule this week. ‘Wait stop, we cannot go in there!’ he added, grabbing her arm as she made a beeline straight for it.
‘Why not?’ Polly stared down at his hand in surprise.
‘No one, except Joe, iz allowed near. Very important instructions,’ he said, waggling a suntanned finger in her face.
Oh great, thought Polly. Not only did she face the delights of delivering Christine’s gloomy news, she would have to endure the ramifications of some highly illegal intrusion into his sacred private sanctum as well. Best proffer up a game of Russian roulette straightaway and be done with it. The odds of escaping this one alive were minimal.
‘But it’s an emergency,’ she countered half-heartedly. ‘I’m sure he won’t mind me disturbing just this once.’ Who was she fooling? ‘It’s a delicate matter, Rashid,’ she added, lowering her voice. ‘One that concerns his wife.’
Rashid let go of her immediately. ‘Ah I see. Well if you’re sure?’
It took Polly ages to reach the trailer. She kept being trampled underfoot by prancing horses and sweaty faced extras in long flowing robes. As she climbed the narrow steps, she could have sworn she heard the soft tinkle of a woman’s laughter. She listened again but nothing. Must be the wind picking up around the Unit Base, she decided, either that or the jangle of the passing horses’ bridles. Suddenly anxious to dump the dirty payload and scoot back to the relative safety of the production office, she tapped on the door.
‘Bugger off!’ yelped Stephen. ‘I’m still reading my…err…script notes.’
Polly hesitated. He sounded awfully muffled and breathless. Perhaps he liked slotting in intense yoga workouts before difficult scenes. She tapped again. ‘Stephen, its Polly.’
Silence.
‘Stephen, can I come in?’
‘I said, fuck off, you stupid cow! I’ll be back on set in a minute.’
‘But I’ve just had a call from your wife…’ Oh screw t
his, thought Polly. The news was far too important to deliver through a wall of dirty white plastic. Yanking at the handle, she barged on in regardless.
The air in the trailer was thick, thicker than her hotel room last night, and unpleasantly claustrophobic.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing, you fucking imbecile?’ screamed Stephen’s voice from the deepest darkest depths. ‘Piss off, piss off, PISS OFF!’
Peering into the gloomy trailer, Polly gasped then backed away in horror. Tripping over his $800 designer walking boots, she crashed into the door as her right elbow caught the light switch. A second later she cringed as the overhead florescent strip light flickered into action. The spectacle in the corner of the trailer needed no such illumination.
Stephen was bent double over his desk, starkers from the waist down, displaying a pale, robust bum in all its back, sack and crack fuzz-free glory. With his crumpled shirt and tousled hair, he looked so much like Joe that for a brief, terrible moment she actually thought it was. Then she clocked the expensive chinos on the floor and breathed a sigh of relief, Joe wouldn’t be caught dead in anything that required ironing.
Distracted by a flash of hot pink, she suddenly realized, with mounting horror, that a woman was lying spread-eagled underneath him. Numbly, Polly traced the material until it merged with incredibly slender thighs, which in turn flowed into red-soled Louboutins dangling from beautifully pedicured feet that were clamped around his waist.
No one moved until Little Miss Hot Pink glanced over Stephen’s shoulder and let rip a blood-curdling shriek.
‘Oh my gawd Stevie, please tell me there isn’t a person standing there,’ she squealed, her accent more piercing than a roomful of activated smoke alarms. An accent that Polly immediately associated with countless movie theatres and nights on the sofa with a bowl of homemade popcorn.
Maisie Peach.
At first, Polly wasn’t sure what shocked her most; catching them together or seeing Maisie in something that wasn’t predominantly flesh-coloured - there were certainly no nudity clauses in her movie contracts. Still, there wasn’t much of her dress on display today either, what with most of it pushed up under her perfectly dimpled chin.