Dirty Movies

by Cate Andrews

  ‘Hey there shexy,’ she slurred, ‘why don’t you givus a goodbye ssshnog.’

  He prised her off, finger by finger, like a cartoon character. ‘Sorry Fi. All out of kisses tonight, I’m afraid.’ For you anyway, he thought privately.

  ‘Dossn’t matter. Got enuff for the both of ussh.’

  Christ, thought Joe, eyeing up an escape route, when, all of a sudden, Fifi’s heel connected with a discarded beer bottle and whisked her away like a high-speed conveyor belt. As her ridiculous coiffure dipped, along with the rest of her, he finally caught sight of Polly ten metres away and surrounded by a gaggle of cross-eyed cameramen. He watched her turn to address a passing waiter. As she did, her perfect profile transformed into a devastating over-the-shoulder headshot. Her cheeks were flush with excitement, her lips swollen with promise and her dazzling blue eyes seemed all the more candid framed with smoky black liner.

  In the meantime, having recovered her footing, Fifi was back eyeing him up like a bitch on heat. Feeling her ring snag on his belt buckle, Joe shot backwards and ended up straddling the hotel barbecue. It hadn’t been lit yet but he would rather a ball-roasting than a ball-busting Make-Up Artist any day of the week.

  Back in the lobby, Rachel was just about to rejoin the party herself when the receptionist started flapping at her and pinging his silver desk bell in huge excitement.

  Ping, Ping. ‘Mees Rachel, Mees Rachel! Ping, Ping, Ping. ‘An urgent package arrive for Meester Joe today from London. I forgot to give it to heem!’

  ‘Well, if you promise to incinerate that bloody bell then I’m more than happy to take it,’ said Rachel, making her way over. The receptionist beamed at her in relief. Rachel may look like the back end of his Uncle’s old donkey, but what she lacked in that department was more than compensated for with her admirable work ethic.

  He placed a small FedEx envelope on the counter. Rachel glanced sideways at the Airway Bill. With its graceful loops and perfect punctuation the writing looked remarkably like Christine’s, but what on earth would she be sending Joe? A belated birthday card? Preliminary divorce papers for Stephen? A signed picture of herself in her heyday, worth less these days than a value pack of Sainsbury’s toilet paper? Rachel’s mind boggled as she popped the package under her arm.

  Stepping outside, she fought her way over to Danny who was happily enjoying Joe’s cast-offs in the shadow of a giant pink begonia bush. Fifi’s hand had now advanced from buckle touching to something else altogether. She appeared to be rummaging for her third Oscar Nomination down the front of his trousers.

  ‘Seen Joe anywhere?’ snapped Rachel, raising one eyebrow at Fifi’s quiff. The thing was extraordinary, like Elvis and Tintin had spawned.

  Reluctantly, Danny removed Fifi’s hand. ‘Nah, he stomped off in a huff ages ago.’

  ‘Well if you see him can you give him this?’ Rachel handed him the FedEx package. ‘You’re more likely to run into him than me.’

  ‘Why? Who are you planning on shacking up with?’

  Not who but what, thought Rachel. She had one delicious, illegal gram waiting for her upstairs. A cocaine haze would offer her more comfort tonight than any film crew lover.

  ‘Fine, whatever,’ said Danny, anxious suddenly for Fifi to resume her rummaging. ‘Pass it over and go have your fun. But don’t do anything I wouldn’t do...’ As he said it, Fifi’s hand snaked out and re-attached itself to his dick. ‘On second thoughts,’ he said grinning up at her. ‘I absolutely insist you do.’

  At the other end of the courtyard, Polly was quietly simmering into her glass of vino. She was fed up of having her bottom pinched and her boobs brushed up against. Surely such unashamed sexual harassment qualified for a superhero’s rescue alongside all those burning buildings and collapsing bridges. As if by magic, Joe materialised by her side. Polly felt a fizz of excitement.

  ‘You’re staring very intently into your glass,’ he observed, tapping it lightly. ‘Is white wine the new equivalent of tealeaves? If so, are bits of floating cork a good sign or a bad?’

  ‘Oh, definitely good’ she giggled.

  Except when they get stuck in your teeth. So, what’s Mystic Sauvignon got to say for herself tonight then?’

  ‘Something about tall, dark and handsome crew members’ she said, shooting him a suggestive glance then nearly dropping her glass when he fired one back just as quick. Suddenly, Dan lurched into view and clapped him soundly on the back. Polly could have murdered him.

  ‘Good to see you mate, stay and have a drink!’ roared the red-faced Cinematographer, as he bundled Joe into a bear hug.

  ‘I wish I could,’ she heard him gasp, ‘but a pressing production matter’s just cropped up. May I borrow Polly for a sec?’

  There were a few mutters of descent from Dan’s posse.

  ‘What about my pressing matter?’ leered Simon, thrusting his hips in her direction.

  ‘I’m sure Fi will be more than happy to accommodate you out in that department,’ said Joe genially, as Danny stumbled past straightening his fly.

  Simon immediately shot off in search of sloppy seconds, which left Joe just enough time to ensnare Polly with the ghost of a wink. Grabbing her hand, he whisked her out of the courtyard, through the lobby and into the deserted car park. This was the only place that guaranteed them privacy, well that or his room but that just oozed presumption. He still had no idea if she felt the same way.

  Propping himself up against the passenger door of a dirty white jeep, he took her hands and gently tugged her towards him. Polly’s head was suddenly awash with gibberish.

  ‘Thanks for the rescue,’ she wittered brightly, ‘I was going to smack that sleaze-bag round the head with my espadrille.’

  ‘More robust than a flip flop,’ murmured Joe, inclining his head to admire her sky-high footwear.

  ‘Still, it’s a bit like swatting a Hippo with a feather.’ Oh get a grip, Polly, she told herself.

  ‘But nowhere near as lethal as a stiletto,’ countered Joe, playing along.

  ‘I wonder if there’s there a word for that? You know, murdering one’s pervy cinematographer with one’s fancy foot wear?’

  ‘Shoe-icide?’ he guessed. ‘Shall I call up Scotland Yard and find out?’

  ‘It would be a good mystery to sole-ve.’

  ‘Ha! Very good.’ His thumbs started needing her palms and his face went all-serious again. ‘Polly, can I ask you something?’

  She nodded, heart thudding like a juggernaut. Could this be it? The moment that she had been hoping beyond hope for? Yes, yes, yes Joe De Vries, I will go out with you, snog you, shag you, anything, just say the word and i’m yours, utterly and completely!

  ‘Why did you want to work in the industry?’

  She jerked her hands away in surprise.

  ‘Tell me,’ he begged, taking them back immediately. ‘I’m curious…’

  ‘It’s sounds like you’re interviewing me,’ she said, frowning.

  He gave a bark of laughter. ‘You’ve been working with us for three months, sweetheart, I hardly think that’s necessary.’

  I didn’t mean for a job, thought Polly. Wrinkling her nose, she wrenched her mind back fifteen years. ‘I guess it’s all Bambi’s fault,’ she announced with a degree of finality. ‘Yes, definitely Bambi. He started a bit of an obsession, you see. After he gamboled into my life everything got a bit scrambled up with celluloid. Like my eighteenth birthday,’ she said, warming to her subject, ‘the only thing I really remember is a drunken debate on Luke Skywalker’s chances of making it as a guitar hero if he cut his losses as a Jedi and joined an intergalactic rock and roll band instead.’

  Joe burst out laughing again.

  ‘Then there were my disastrous film school attempts at Peter Jackson-style zombie masterpieces. I must have seen every film going. Then I saw Mutinous Pirates and something clicked. All of a sudden spectatorship wasn’t enough. I had to be part of the magic.

  Joe rolled his eyes. ‘Honestly, sweetheart, if
you’d known how fucking awful that shoot was, you’d have switched careers in a heart-beat.’

  ‘Oh I doubt it. I was never solicitor or doctor material anyway.’

  ‘Dr Winters…I agree, it does sound a bit severe. Did you ever consider something creative like a florist instead?’

  ‘Perfect!’ she cried happily. ‘Now why didn’t I think of that? I could have sent Christine anonymous bunches of yellow roses every week. Why the sudden interest anyway?’

  Joe shrugged. ‘Like I said I was curious.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘So you weren’t tempted by Fiona’s chat up line earlier?’ she asked him slyly. She could smell the sweet tang of his sweat along with the faint bleachy aroma of production office cleaning fluid.

  ‘Chat up grope, you mean.’

  ‘Oh I don’t know…She’s not bad-looking without the quiff.’

  ‘She’s not you.’

  His directness knocked the breath clean out of her. Suddenly, she couldn’t look at him and she started counting the spokes in the jeep’s hubcab instead.

  ‘Polly.’ His voice was soft and urgent.

  ‘Just a second,’ she mumbled. Shit. Was it ten or eleven?

  ‘Polly, please, I can hear your brain ticking. Just switch it off for a second and look at me.’

  Reluctantly, she dragged her eyes upwards then found she couldn’t tear them away. His eyes were all rippling Caribbean-blue oceans. She felt an uncontrollable urge to babble again.

  ‘My boyfriend doesn’t exist. I made him up when Sally told me about your…oh…’

  He silenced her then with a kiss. After a minute, he pulled away and wrapped his arms around her shoulders, imprisoning her.

  ‘Do that again,’ she dared him, emboldened by the warmth of his body.

  ‘Fine by me.’

  His mouth was upon hers in an instant, hot, wet and burning, shooting electric sparks through her body. As if tweaked by some unidentified string, she found her arms creeping up and around his neck as her fingers burrowing greedily into his thick, dark curls.

  They broke away again and he rested his forehead against hers. She ran her hand lightly up his back and he shuddered. He moved quickly then, manipulating her body like a rag doll until it was she who was pinned against the jeep.

  Polly didn’t register the sting of his stubble or the metal car door handle jabbing into her spine, she was too hooked on his fingers as they lightly grazed her thigh, teasing her hemline. His fingers continued moving upwards until she was practically screaming for him to rip the dress off right there in the car park. To hell with it, she’d buy Lucy another.

  How they reached his room was a blur, but soon they were crashing through the door, tearing off espadrilles, Casio watches and silver hoop earrings and tumbling backwards onto his bed. Polly caught a glimpse of him in the soft light as he paused to yank off his t-shirt. His body was flawless, exactly how she had imagined it would be. Broad shoulders, tapered waist, more of that dark wiry fuzz that she had glimpsed in the office that first day in Morocco. He tried to say something as he leaned over her but the words caught in his throat. After that he stuck to communicating with his mouth and hands only.

  They didn’t hear the knock at first, then all of a sudden a voice started up like a noisy lawn mower at 6am on a Sunday morning, loud and familiar enough to strip the varnish from the door and intimacy from their evening.

  ‘Joe, open up!’ bellowed Danny again, banging on the door. ‘Stay mad at me all you want but some package just arrived from London. It might be more rushes. I think you should take a look.’

  ‘Fucckkkk!’ Groaning, Joe rolled over and reached for his t-shirt. Dressing quickly, he bent down and kissed Polly lightly on the nose.

  ‘Can you make yourself scarce whilst I deal with this, sweetheart? It’ll only take a minute, I swear.’

  Polly nodded. Slithering off the bed, she wrapped herself in the loose white sheet. He caught her arm as she passed and pulled her in for another kiss. She tripped over the trailing ends, giggled softly and flashed him a heart-breaking smile as she crash-landed onto his knee. It was this smile that he would play over and over in his head in the bleak months to come.

  Seeing Polly into the bathroom, Joe threw the counterpane across the bed and kicked her shoes under his desk.

  Danny was lolling against the doorframe outside looking sheepish.

  ‘Joe.’

  ‘Danny.’

  ‘Look mate, about earlier…’

  ‘Forget it,’ said Joe quickly. ‘Where’s this package then?’

  The Irishman’s face fell as he handed him the Fed-Ex envelope. He hadn’t meant to act like such a pig but his ego had been decimated by Polly’s rebuttals. Glancing past Joe, his expression suddenly darkened when he spotted a familiar black espadrille peeking out under his desk. At the same time, Joe glanced down at the package and recognised the writing.

  ‘Ok thanks Danny. See you later,’ he muttered distractedly, slamming the door on him.

  Ripping off the serrated tab, he peered inside and pulled out a small, beige envelope and an accompanying letter embossed with expensive watermarks.

  ‘What is it?’ whispered Polly, emerging from the bathroom and hovering at the foot of the bed.

  ‘No idea,’ he said, sounding very edgy and unJoe-like as he opened the letter. Moments later, it slipped from his fingers as he tore open the accompanying envelope.

  ‘Joe?’ she prompted hesitantly.

  But he never replied. Instead, he rose to his feet and stumbled blindly for the door. Polly then watched in mounting horror as he disappeared bare-foot into the night.

  ‘Joe wait!’ she screamed, throwing off the sheet and wriggling into her dress, but the delicate zip, broken in such haste earlier, stuck halfway and she couldn’t shift the bugger no matter what. Looking about wildly for an alternative, she spotted the discarded letter on the floor. Scooping it up in a trice, her eyes tore across the page.

  Joe,

  I can only offer my humblest apologies for the Pandora’s Box that I am about to open. I only wish I had been strong enough to tell you the truth six years ago.

  Christine

  Polly shivered as the cumbrous boot of blind panic stamped all the pleasure out of her evening. What on earth had happened six years ago? And why did the penitent tone of Christine’s letter frighten her so much? A grotesque, plum-coloured dress floated before her eyes, a dress that only their daft costume designer was bonkers enough to wear. At the same time, a memory came flooding back, a memory of the night she had first learnt of Cassie’s terrible fate, a fate that had happened six years ago.

  Moments later, with a face as pale as her discarded bed sheet, Polly and her busted dress went sprinting out after Joe.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  In a lavish suite across the courtyard, Stephen popped the champagne’s cork and prepared to pour his favourite tipple all over his favourite nipples. In his opinion, the only way to truly appreciate champagne was to consume it from the curves of a woman’s breasts, or in this case an extremely beautiful naked A-list Actress’ breasts after some mind-blowing sex.

  Relishing Maisie’s childish squeals as the golden bubbles skimmed her curves and pooled in her belly button, Stephen was just bowing his head for another slurp when the sound of shouting outside murdered his mojo faster than an image of Ann Widdicombe in Spanx. Deducing that a couple of drunks must be raring up over spilt Casablancas, he bowed his head again. Either that or Vincent was having one of his cocaine-fuelled fist fights… The thought made him pause. GBA were still paying the plastic surgery bills of his last victim.

  He listened again. The noise seemed to be gaining impetus and moving ever closer to his hotel suite. It definitely wasn’t Vincent, he decided. The bastard would have stumbled off to score another line by now. Perhaps some crazed fan was running amok, scoring autographs and playing Tin Pan Alley with the bottles behind the bar? If so, then his entire security team was for the c
hop. Propping himself up on one elbow, he glared at the door. At the same time, Maisie stopped writhing in ecstasy, sat bolt up right and boob-butted him in the face.

  ‘You stupid bitch!’ bellowed Stephen, clutching his nose as a jet of crimson shot southwards. ‘What the fuck did you do that for?’ Stumbling over to the full-length mirror, he gingerly inspected the damage.

  ‘Sorry baby, but I simply must put my special ‘crème de la sea snail’s’ face mask on,’ she whined. ‘My dermatologist insists I get a full ten hours every night.’ As she said it, she cocked her head to one side like a poodle. ‘Say, isn’t that Joe making all that din?’

  ‘Couldn’t give a fuck! The Taliban could be holding a military pow-wow down there for all I care.’ Rooting through her underwear drawer, he pulled out a pair of French knickers and clamped them to his face. He’d kill her if he had a black eye for his Mutinous Pirates 4 premiere next week

  ‘But Stevie...’

  ‘Oh, stop badgering me, you’re worse than some Z-Lister hankering after a part.’

  Even so, the idea of the unflappable Joe in a tizz intrigued him. Since his brother’s unfortunate little hiccup in Maisie’s trailer, he had reverted straight back to his old subservient self. Still, Stephen would have to consider hiring a new whipping boy if Joe’s outbursts became something of a habit.

  Throwing on his Armani Jeans, he sauntered into the corridor outside and peered over the balustrade. Good god, Maisie was right. Three stories below, a head of familiar dark curls was pummeling through the crowds like some unruly football hooligan and heading his way.

  ‘What’s happening, baby?’ asked Maisie, wafting into view clutching the bottle of champers.

  ‘Joe’s having a flip-out, by the looks of it.’

  ‘Are you sure? But that’s so unlike him.’

  Stephen couldn’t agree more. With his interest now properly piqued, he moved towards the outside staircase and began his descent, two then three steps at a time. Sidestepping the permanently waterlogged flowerbed by the swimming pool out-house, he came face to face with his brother on the edge of the patio.