Dirty Movies

by Cate Andrews

  ‘I couldn’t agree more,’ said Michael, refusing to look at Joe again. Those two tormented, young lovebirds would just have to figure out a way to work together. ‘To be honest most of the GBA crew are great, I wouldn’t mind enticing the whole damn lot.’

  ‘Except Fi. And Dan,’ added Joe, ‘the guy gives me the creeps. Whatever happened to that amazing Cinematographer you used to work with over in Europe, Christine?’

  ‘Who Benito? Golly, he disappeared off into the US wilderness fifteen years ago to film wild moose for the Beeb. Word is, he’s still out there waiting for the perfect shot. ‘Eighty Take Benito’ we used to call him.’

  Joe grinned. ‘Let’s hope he never works with Maisie then. A month long shoot would turn into a three year budget-bloodbath. Do you think there’s any chance of luring him back to civilisation?’

  ‘It’s worth a shot. The fellow’s a genius. I’d never have won my Oscar without him. I seem to remember he used to have a bit of a crush on me back in the day so give me a few weeks to titivate myself, then I’ll fly out and find him for you.’

  Chapter Thirty

  A film set is often beset with all manner of spats and squabbles, but nothing unites a production more than the quest for good coffee. So far, all the GBA crew agreed that the best in Bucharest was served at the Roma Cafe, a surprisingly cosmopolitan affair set a hundred metres off the main square. It may have been a tourist trap for parched punters after a hard day’s sight-seeing around the impressive Athenaeum and nearby museums, but that afternoon, Polly was only too happy to pay their extortionate prices for the chance to curl up on one of their spongy brown leather sofas and watch the world go by. It was her first free day in two months and she was planning to savour every second of it with a huge frothy latte in one hand and a stack of film magazines in the other. Alas, her afternoon delights were soon rudely bazookered by the arrival of office archenemy, Gabrielle, and her new fuck-buddy, Garry the Grip.

  ‘Oh Polleee!’ screeched Gabriella in her irritating high-pitched voice, one that Polly likened to trimming pubic hair with a blow torch, as she brushed past the tables clutching drippy Garry’s paw like a Birkin handbag. ‘You’ve got to call Janie aSAP. She needs someone to swing by the office this afternoon. I’m on my way to lunch so can’t possibly go. Thanks Doll’. Not bothering to wait for a reply, Gabriella flounced out of the café dragging the hapless Garry behind her, as Polly flicked her a V-sign through the window.

  You evil cow, she fumed. Not only was the office miles away, it required the use of a unit driver to get there. The man who organised such things, Dracul, the unit transport coordinator, was a nice enough fellow but he spent half the time pretending he didn’t understand English so that he could play space invaders on his laptop. Grabbing her phone, she punched in Janie’s number like she was punching in Gabriella’s stupid face.

  ‘Janie it’s me.’

  ‘Hello Polly, thanks for calling back. Vincent’s left his, umm, Blackberry charger in the office. Would you mind pootling over to the Studio to collect it?’

  ‘But it’s my one afternoon off,’ wailed Polly, ‘can’t someone else do it?’ Was it just her imagination or did the perpetually pooped Janie sound unusually skittish today?

  ‘Not really, darling, Gabi’s busy.’

  ‘Busy getting jiggy more like. What about Danny?’

  ‘Danny just hung up on me.

  Why doesn’t that surprise me, thought Polly sourly. Ever since Morocco, the 2nd AD had been in an inexplicably foul mood with everyone, most of all her.

  ‘Oh alright,’ she sighed, closing her magazine with a resigned pfut. She was on so many minus points with Vincent, she may as well try and claw herself back to zero.

  ‘Good girl, I believe it’s behind the desk in his office. Must dash. I’ll see you next week.’

  ‘Only if you’re planning on flying me home a month early,’ said Polly in surprise but Janie had gone.

  It took two whole hours to lure Dracul away from his space invaders, and then another two to find a unit driver willing to work on his day off. As a result, dusk was already settling in and the mozzies were hovering above the untidy trees outside the production office by the time Polly pulled up.

  Flinging open the door to Vincent’s office, she set about upending his fetid, junk food wrapper infested desk as fast as she could. If she found the charger quickly, she might just catch the tail end of dinner.

  ‘Where are you, you little bugger…oh yuck, that’s foul!’ she yelped, as her fingers encountered ten discarded BigMac gurkins lurking under his Filofax. She was just flicking the whole rubbery mass in the bin when there was a loud bang downstairs.

  Polly froze. With its hospital strip lighting and mouldy aertex ceiling tiles, the production office block was a scary enough place without potential axe-murders stalking the hallways.

  Hearing footsteps on the stairs, she quickly wedged herself between filing cabinets, happy with her choice of hiding place until her arm caught Vincent’s obligatory overflowing office bin of crushed diet coke cans. The ensuing crash was thunderous, and she had just enough time to scoot under the desk before footsteps came striding up the corridor. Through a crack in the foot well, she watched as a pair of dirty black converse paused in the doorway. There was an unbearable moment of tension then Mr-Converse-potential-axe-murderer started laughing.

  ‘I do hope you’re planting an explosive under there, Polly. It would make my week, no my decade to hear that Vincent had been vaporised during his daily Global debrief.’

  No voice could have shifted Polly faster. She bolted from her hiding place so quickly that her knees buckled under her.

  ‘Joe? Is it really you? I thought you were in…’ Polly gulped. ‘Actually I had no idea where you were.’

  ‘Africa, America, here and there,’ he listed with a sigh. ‘Why on earth have you got a gurkin stuck to your hand?’

  Polly blushed. ‘It’s all Vincent’s fault. He’s such a slob.’

  ‘You got that right, sweetheart.’

  Suddenly, this simple endearment, so yearned for in the last few difficult months, was too much for Polly and her face crumpled. Joe crossed the room in a flash and scooped her up in his arms.

  ‘Shhhh, don’t cry,’ he begged, resting her head against his chest.

  ‘I can’t believe you’re here,’ she sobbed. clinging to the front of his puffa jacket, ‘are you real?’

  ‘I think I am. As least I was before the taxi ride over here. My life flashed before my eyes so many times I should’ve worn sunglasses.’

  He smiled down at her then and she smiled back through her tears. Encouraged, she reached up to kiss him but he pulled away.

  ‘We can’t, sweetheart.’

  Polly gasped. She never thought three words could be quite so painful.

  ‘It’s too complicated. My head’s all over the place. It wouldn’t be fair,’ he babbled. ‘I’m not a safe bet these days.’

  ‘But no bets are safe,’ she argued.

  ‘I’m sorry, Polly, you’re a great girl, and in another time or place…’ He let this redundant promise of possibility linger for a second before it was sucked up by the air conditioning unit above their heads.

  Shock quickly turned to anger for Polly. He had kept her hanging on for five long months. Surely there were phones in Africa? They certainly had them in America. She had seen them on those televised celebrity telethons that George Clooney was always organising.

  ‘Is this why you’re here?’ she asked, blinking back fresh tears, ‘to ditch me face to face?’

  Joe looked distraught. ‘Please don’t put it like that. It makes it sound so awful.’

  ‘You mean it makes you sound so awful.’

  ‘Please, Polly…’

  ‘Well, is it?’

  ‘Yes and no. I have a proposal,’ he said quickly, trying to soften the blow.

  Polly looked away. The only proposal she wanted came with diamonds and right now that looked about as like
ly as Lucy’s nuptials to Keanu. Still, the thought of Joe not in her life at all made her feel sick so she quickly packed away the pieces of her broken heart for painful dissection later.

  ‘Ok Joe. I’m listening,’ she began wearily.

  ‘Ditch GBA and come and work for me.’

  ‘Doing what exactly? Cleaning carpets?’

  ‘Very funny. I’ve set up a production company.’

  She looked at him in amazement then shook her head reluctantly. ‘I wish I could. But if I chucked Stephen he’d make me about as hireable as a runner with a teabag phobia. He’ll screw my career like he has Rachel’s, and yours.’

  ‘Not me, not with Michael as my new business partner.’

  ‘Michael? You’ve gone into business with Michael?’ Polly was overjoyed. ‘Is he ok? The headlines have been horrible. Maisie’s been giving the most bullshit interviews. How dare she accuse him of trashing her trailer!’

  ‘He’s fine, Polly, but I don’t want to talk about him. I’d much rather discuss a vacant Production Manager’s position back in Soho.’

  It took a moment for his words to register. Production Manager? Suddenly, what seemed like such a tough decision was as easy as choosing chocolate over sprouts. Besides, James Cameron hadn’t got to where he was today without taking huge, career-defining chances.

  ‘We’ve started pre-production on our first feature, him producing and me directing,’ went on Joe.

  ‘Director? That’s amazing! But is Michael ok about hiring me?’

  Joe felt a flash of irritation. Why did Polly care what Michael thought so much?

  ‘He’s the one who told me to get my arse, sorry ‘ass’ on a plane and come get you. He thinks you’re an incredible talent. He’s right, of course, but don’t tell him I said so. He’s far too handsome to merit another ego-boost.’

  So are you, thought Polly. ‘I don’t suppose this has anything to do with why Janie sounded so happy on the phone earlier?’ she asked suddenly.

  Joe grinned. ‘We offered her the role of Line Producer this morning and she bit our hands off accepting it.’

  ‘So Vincent never really lost his charger?’

  ‘I had to get you on your own somehow. The hotel’s crawling with crew and me turning up there would have really set the cat amongst the pigeons.’

  ‘Or rather the Joe amongst the De Vries.’ I take it Stephen doesn’t know about your film yet?’

  ‘No, but it’s only a matter of time. Hold onto your laptop Polly, we may encounter turbulence.’

  She smiled at him weakly. ‘Better whack a spare on expenses then. Janie can sign it off right before she signs her resignation letter.’

  They stared at each other for a moment.

  ‘I really am sorry things didn’t work out between us,’ said Joe, meaning every word.

  Polly looked up at his face and felt her heart shatter all over again. She just hoped their working relationship was a little more durable.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  The following morning, Stephen sat glowering at the storyboard sequence pinned to his office wall. A storyboard is intended to provide inspiration and a vision for the forthcoming day’s shots, but Stephen was in such a foul mood that they were providing as much incentive as a limp cock.

  Stephen was on the expense fiddle, but he was having terrible luck sneaking it through the books as his downtrodden office manager appeared to have gone AWOL. After leaving another deeply unpleasant voicemail for Janie, he bellowed out to Polly in the adjacent office.

  ‘Polly! Get in here!’

  Silence.

  ‘I said get in here, you idiot girl, or I’ll boot you back to the UK so fast the imprint of my loafer will be on your backside forevermore.’

  As he said it, a beautiful, bare, wafer-thin leg, and one that in no way resembled Polly’s, appeared suspended in the doorway. He leered at it hungrily as the owner’s naked-self sidled sexily into view in the most provocative act since Sharon Stone bared her Brazilian.

  ‘You’re a little over-dressed, pumpkin,’ he chided Maisie, huskily, ‘shouldn’t you be in make-up for the next three hours?’

  ‘I know, baby, but I couldn’t resist.’

  Stephen smirked and reached for his flies. ‘Then who am I to deny?’

  Maisie slammed the door, licked her lips and slid to the floor. He closed his eyes in ecstasy as she gobbled him whole.

  ‘Sorry I’m late,’ cried Polly, beetling into the production office a few minutes later. ‘There was a humdinger of a queue at the railway crossing and I swear the train was eighty carriages long.’ She braced herself for the abuse but his door remained shut. With a bit of luck he was on set already. Then she heard the groaning and spotted Maisie’s discarded fur coat on the floor. Bloody hell, she wasn’t lucky in the slightest.

  Ramming her iPod into the portable speakers, she hit shuffle. Stephen was a man who prided himself on making every orgasm count and Polly was sick to death of keeping score. Since Morocco, she had encountered her boss indulging in his penchant for risqué sex on numerous occasions, each discovery being as equally unpleasant as the last.

  Tuning out to the cock-rock wail of AC/DC, she didn’t notice Vincent striding into the office until his fat belly loomed menacingly over her desk like an inflated Nazi zeppelin. She eyed him warily from behind her iPod speakers. Stephen’s outrageous sexcapades were matched only by his Producer’s alarming unpredictability. Vincent was a few bangers short of a firework display, not helped these days by a massive drug dependency, a raging paranoia and a thirty-a-day diet coke habit.

  ‘Can I help you, Vincent?’

  The Producer said nothing but continued to leer at her with his nasty piggy eyes. Polly felt uneasiness wash over her. He looked like a big fat tabby Tom readying for the killer pounce. This sent her imagination into overdrive.

  He knew.

  It was obvious.

  The intensity of the feeling made it all the more plausible. Oh why hadn’t she quit last night when she had accepted Joe’s job offer? Because she was a stickler for etiquette, that’s what. Resignation letters had to be written, budgets tided up. Fuckity Fuck. She didn’t want to lose a limb because the calculations in her excel spread sheet might be a bit wonky.

  In the background, Stephen was reaching a guttural climax that seemed to give Vincent some thrust of his own. Turning on his heel, he barged into the director’s office, impervious to Stephen’s howl of rage and Maisie’s muffled shriek.

  Polly began scooping up her belongings immediately. In went the pictures of her and Joe, her Studio pass, her rapidly blossoming book of industry contacts. She had no idea how much Vincent knew, or even HOW he knew, but she had to assume the worst. She needed to get the hell out of here fast whilst her head was still attached to her body.

  In the meantime, in the next office, all hell had broken loose.

  ‘Have you two quite finished?’ she heard Vincent roar. ‘I don’t think the crew on Stage Seven heard. Why don’t you two have another go and really put them off their bacon sandwiches.’

  ‘Oh go ta hell, Vincent!’ screeched Maisie.

  ‘At least she shuts up and concentrates on the job in hand,’ snarled Stephen, leaping to his feet and snatching at his jeans as gravity took hold. ‘I’m sick to death of hearing Gillian’s distasteful little whimpers every time you drop your trousers.’

  ‘Well I hope you’re feeling suitably relaxed, because in about sixty seconds I guarantee your blood pressure will be even higher than mine.’

  They stood glaring at each other.

  ‘Shouldn’t you be in make-up?’ snapped Stephen, turning on Maisie, who immediately flounced out in a huff. ‘This better be worth it!’ he added to Vincent.

  The Producer’s top lip curled into a sneer. ‘Oh it is, it is. Tell me, have you spoken to your brother lately?’

  Stephen snorted. ‘No, why? I was rather hoping he’d drowned himself in the Thames.’

  ‘On the contrary, he’s formed his o
wn company and secured the funds to launch the first film. It went into pre-production on Monday.’

  There was a thump in the next-door office as Polly dropped her bag.

  Expecting bloodletting, or at the very least a bit of laptop bashing, Stephen disarmed them both by laughing. ‘And you chose to blight a perfectly good orgasm over that?! Pah! He’ll be bankrupt within the month!’

  ‘Not with Michael Wilson at the helm.’

  ‘That industry leper!’ Stephen was enjoying himself now. ‘You give them far too much credit, Vincent. That movie will sink into obscurity with or without a little help from us. For starters, the distribution deal’ll be a dud. They’ll never get North America rights. Walt will see to that. Who the hell’s financing this calamity anyway?’

  ‘Your ex-wife.’

  That wiped the smirk off his face. Stephen was out of his seat in an instant, pacing around his office like a supercharged donkey wheel and spewing invectives and vengeance in all directions.

  ‘That bitter little bitch!’ he howled, ‘which overpaid, under-qualified idiotic moron let her out of rehab? Who the hell told you all this anyway?’

  ‘A buddy of mine over at Screen Buzz. He received their press release yesterday and faxed it over late last night.’ Vincent calmly reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. ‘There’s a photo to accompany the blurb. I must say your ex-wife is looking rather less ‘pickled’ these days.’

  Stephen snatched the paper out of his hand. Vincent was right. Christine did appear to have recovered an infinitesimal flicker of her former glory, but she still looked like a haggard old trout compared to Maisie. Immersing himself in the editorial, his eyes hardened to demon-like slits. One sentence in particular seemed to enrage him most of all.

  ‘Joe….a director?’ he screeched. ‘He couldn’t direct an infomercial for a fucking moron’s convention. Vincent, I want them out of business by the weekend. It says here they’re planning to shoot in London so get Gillian on the phone to all the camera houses. If they so much as lend ‘em a cable, we’ll never touch them again. Same with the studios, and the catering teams. That’ll hit ‘em where it hurts. If they’re on location, they’ll need filming permits so get Polly to find out which boroughs they’re shooting in. We can bung the appropriate councils to veto their applications. Anything else?’