Dirty Movies

by Cate Andrews

  ‘With the Golden Globes acting as a predictor for Oscar nominations, this could well be an early indication of British dominance come Award season next year. The Golden Globe ceremony will take place at the Beverly Hilton Hotel in January.’ The news then promptly switched to a story about chickens escaping on the M5.

  Polly looked at Lucy and they both started screaming nonsense at each other. The changing room attendant eyed them, suspiciously. The dress wasn’t THAT spectacular.

  ‘I take it all back,’ gasped Polly, wiping her eyes. ‘Not everyone can say they worked on a five times Golden Globe nominated movie!’

  ‘Or are head over heels in love with a Golden Globe nominated Director!’

  Polly stopped bopping about for a moment. ‘That’s a point, I wonder if he knows yet?’ She lunged for her phone but it went straight to voicemail. Before Lucy could stop her, Polly had yanked on her trainers and sprinted out of the changing room.

  ‘Polly, wait, the dress!’ she cried, but her friend had already dived headfirst into the unruly mob of lunchtime Christmas Shoppers barging their way up and down Oxford Street. With the security bell still clanging, Lucy threw a handful of twenties down on the counter and bolted out after her.

  Polly shot up Carnaby Street towards Soho, completely oblivious to all the funny looks she was getting as she zipped past in her dirty white trainers and a party dress with a dark grey safety tag hanging off the hem.

  Bursting into the Harper Films production office, sounding like a steam train on steroids, she found Joe and Michael calmly munching sandwiches on a tatty old sofa in the corner. They both jumped up in alarm when they saw her.

  ‘Jesus Polly, are you ok?’ asked Joe.

  ‘Radio…nominations…you,’ she puffed.

  ‘Calm down, sweetheart, you’re not making any sense.’

  ‘You…Harper…Golden Globes…’

  Michael groaned and threw his egg and cress down in dispair.

  ‘Of course, it’s the fifteenth! Nominations for the Globes would’ve been announced today. Your brother’s most likely leading the pack,’ he added to Joe. ‘I bet you fifty bucks he’s swanning round Hollywood right now with an ego the size of his Ferrari, wining and dining every influential journo in town.

  The Globes are voted for by the Hollywood Foreign Press Association,’ he explained, reaching for his coke. ‘Not a bad gig either. From now, until the ballots close, they’ll be wooed by Studios, including Global, in a bid to secure that all-important vote. GBA have canvassed so hard in the past, they’re already honouree godparents to half these people’s kids.’

  Polly shook her head so hard her silver earrings flew off. ‘You don’t understand,’ she panted, ‘it’s not them, it’s us, well it is them as well, but we, you, Harper, we’re up for five!’

  There was a moment of stunned silence then Michael and Joe collapsed in shock. The American hit bullseye, landing on the relative comfort of the broken sofa springs, but Joe cannoned off the wooden side table and onto Janie’s cherished cactus, Sid.

  ‘Ouch! Fuck!’ he yelled. ‘But that’s impossible! I didn’t even know we were in contention. Why the hell didn’t Cosmos tell us?’ He picked up the nearest phone then looked confused.

  ‘They’re down for maintenance,’ explained Polly. ‘That nice BT man told us last week remember, right after he pinched all our jaffa cakes.’

  ‘But my mobile…’

  ‘Is probably on silent as usual.’

  ‘And I left my Blackberry at home,’ yelped Michael. ‘You sure this isn’t some GBA wind-up, Polly?’

  ‘Check the internet if you don’t believe me!’

  Both men dived for their laptops. Michael reached his first. Clicking on the Globes website, he skim-read the blurb.

  ‘This is incredible,’ said Joe shakily, reading the article over his shoulder. ‘Can I borrow your phone Polly? I must call Sam.’

  ‘Look at this list!’ yelled Michael. ‘Best Motion Picture Drama, Best Director, Best Screenplay, Best Original Score Best, Supporting Actress, Christine’s gonna do her nut …’

  ‘DAHLINGS! The most wonderful, wonderful news!’

  As if by magic, Christine appeared in the doorway with great tears of joy streaming down her face. ‘I was in rehearsal for my new play when I heard the announcement. I must have run all the way from the Haymarket.’

  ‘Congratulations Christine, you must be thrilled,’ said Joe.

  ‘As must you, dear boy,’ she cried, throwing her arms around him. ‘And you Michael,’ she said, yanking him into the fold.

  ‘Hi Sam, it’s me!’ Polly heard Joe say. ‘How do you and the kids fancy a trip to Disneyland?’

  Joe discovered Polly on the stairs outside their office a little while later. She had a face like thunder and was hacking away at the dress’s security tag with a pair of blunt scissors and a ruler.

  ‘Want a hand there, Winona?’ he joked, but Polly didn’t flicker.

  He tried again. ‘Is this your dress for tonight?’

  ‘It was.’

  ‘It’s nice.’

  ‘It was,’ she repeated, tonelessly.

  Joe looked puzzled. ‘Are you ok?’

  She bit back the tears and nodded.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Joe!’ shouted Michael from the doorway. ‘I’ve got Cosmos Pictures on the line. They’ve gone and hired us some fancy Awards Consultant. He wants to fly us out first thing to discuss campaign strategies, you in?’

  ‘You should come too,’ said Joe to Polly. ‘You’re as much a part of this as us. You should be there for the victory lap.’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ said Polly, crushingly. ‘I’d only be a distraction, dragging you on endless celeb-stalking trips around Beverley Hills.’

  ‘Sounds fun. We could throw Big Mac wrappers over Stephen’s front gate.’

  ‘C’mon Joe,’ urged Michael. ‘Should I tell them to book the tickets or not?’

  Joe wavered for a moment but Polly had no such prevarication. A spell apart might be exactly what they both needed. She also needed to figure out her next career move. She loved working for Harper but she wanted to produce her own movies one day.

  ‘He says yes,’ she called out to Michael. ‘And if possible, he’d like a window seat next to Nicole Kidman.’

  ‘And if Kidman’s not flying?’ drawled Michael, sounding amused.

  ‘Then Blanchett at a push... Remember, you’re a Golden Globe nominated director now,’ she added to Joe, as he collapsed with laughter. ‘You may as well act the part.’

  On the other side of the Atlantic, Stephen was indeed wining and dining a lucky female that night, but she wasn’t a journalist, she was the hottest new actress in Hollywood, Candy Lee, who, right now, was blowing kisses suggestively across the table at him and doing filthy things with her toes under it. Alas, Stephen’s dick remained as wilted as his spinach. This despite Candy’s divine cleavage pleasantly bloating the front of her sheer black blouse, and the fact that he had just received assurances from Walt Wilson himself that last year’s publicity budget would be trebled for the upcoming award season campaign.

  It was all Joe’s fault, thought Stephen, savagely, as he chased a truffle shaving around his dinner plate with his fork. He had been knocked all kinds of silly by Joe’s success and now jealously was gnawing away at him like a ravenous rat through blood-soaked rope. After pinching one of Maisie’s wigs, he had sneaked into a cinema one night to watch a showing of Memoir. Sat alone in the dark, boarded on all sides by a rapt audience, he had quickly realised that the movie unfolding on screen was a million times better than anything GBA had ever produced.

  To make matters worse, Vincent was acting like a crazed robot two chips shy of a complete short-circuit these days, and it was only a question of time before he was carted off for a lengthy, if not permanent, stay at Serenity Heights. Stephen had always known that his producer’s mental state hovered uneasily between the mildly peculiar and completely loopy, but e
ver since Cannes, Vincent had been unravelling at a disturbing rate.

  What’s worse, his recent behaviour was suggestive of a darker, more disquieting inclination. There was nothing Stephen would like more than Michael’s dead body pushing up daisies, but he was dammed if he was going to be implicated in his murder. This town had too many washed-up celebrity convicts clogging up the penal system. Besides, the orange jump suit would be a big fashion no-no for him and liable to send his long-suffering stylist, Sergio, scampering up Serenity Heights’ driveway after Vincent.

  ‘Excuse me sir would you like another bottle of the Rioja?’

  Stephen nodded vaguely and the waiter delivered it minutes later with a business card discreetly attached.

  Sebastian E. Stewart, Actor.

  Stephen dropped his fork with a clatter. ‘For fuck’s sake, I can’t even have a meal without some desperado pestering me,’ he hissed, chucking the card at Candy. ‘Drink up, we’re leaving.’

  Candy tried to pout about it but she had so many fillers in her face she looked mildly constipated instead.

  ‘What about the wine?’ she wailed.

  ‘I’ll send for another back at the Wiltshire.’

  Satisfied, Candy removed her foot from his dick. Picking up her clutch, she was just rising from her seat when a tidal wave of crimson hit her square in the face. As she stood there screaming, and dripping in rich red claret, every male diner swivelled for a peek. Her blouse, by now completely transparent, had moulded to her nipples, which in turn, were looking almost as indignant about the whole episode as her expression.

  ‘You goddamn bastard!’ hissed Maisie, slamming the empty glass back down on the table and rounding on Stephen. ‘You said you were dining with Walt Wilson, so why the hell are you hooking up with that tramp?’ She spat the word with such malice that a nearby couple was forced to seek shelter underneath their cocktail umbrellas.

  ‘Go home you stupid bitch,’ snarled Stephen, pushing her away. ‘This is a business meeting, nothing more.’

  ‘A business meeting, huh?’ Maisie turned to face the dripping actress. ‘I didn’t realise you were in that sort of business, Candy? It can’t be any other sort, you don’t have the talent!’

  ‘That’s rich coming from a washed-up old whore like yourself!’ screamed Candy.

  ‘Not that washed-up after my Golden Globe nomination today! I don’t remember seeing your name on the list? Then again, I don’t believe the Globes have categories for Worst Performance by a Tarty Try-Hard!’

  With a squeal, Candy launched herself at Maisie and the two went careering backwards into the laden dessert trolley, catapulting a table of nearby diners with six variations of mouth-wateringly-subtle Michelin star puddings. By the time the pair had been separated by a very harassed Maître D, the very architect of their spat had slipped out under the cover of airborne dark chocolate torte and was already halfway back to the Wiltshire.

  Chapter Forty-One

  LA’s 101 freeway wasn’t a patch on The Croisette, decided Joe, gazing out at a sea of dusty concrete peppered with potholes and skid-marks. It was more like the chavvy relation who never got invited at Christmas for fear of showing up drunk and insulting granny. Tatty green signs for Hollywood and Santa Monica had replaced the lush white buildings of Cannes, and rusty old Chevy’s, not shiny black limos, kept cutting up their taxi on the inside. Even the occasional palm tree dotted along the roadside was surprisingly sparse and grubby-looking.

  ‘Now this is more like it,’ he murmured, as they turned onto Highland Avenue and dropped down into Hollywood. Studying the tourist map taped to the taxi driver’s partition, he couldn’t help but smile. Those nine, glossy white, forty-five foot high letters, the eighth wonder of any filmmaker’s world, were only just around the corner.

  ‘Before I flew out to see you last year, I spent my whole life wanting to visit this place,’ he confided to Michael who was sat beside him and texting furiously.

  Michael grunted. ‘Somewhat ironic, considering i’ve spent all mine trying to escape it. Especially the goddamn traffic,’ he howled as their taxi ground to a halt outside the Hollywood Bowl. All of a sudden, there were lanes and lanes of tightly packed, steaming hot vehicles stretching out as far as the eye could see. ‘We’re running outta time,’ he said quickly, consulting his watch. ‘I suggest we skip lunch, go straight to mine, have a quick shower then head over to Cosmos.’

  ‘When are the publicity team expecting us?’

  ‘4pm.’

  ‘Is it going to be some twelve hour bum-blistering session? My head’s pounding after that flight.’ Wincing, Joe pulled out a crumpled box of painkillers and knocked back two with a slug of Michael’s Evian. ‘What time is it back in the UK?’

  ‘5:30am. Maybe it’s your regular Saturday morning hangover kicking in?’

  ‘I hope not after one small, revolting chardonnay at 33,000 feet. My god, would you look at that!’ he exclaimed, as a panting, white poodle stuck its head out of the next door Lexus with fancy-pants diamante collar around its neck. ‘That thing alone could finance our next movie.’

  Bumper-to-Bumper through the Hollywood Boulevard intersection, their taxi was soon turning right. Ten minutes later, they were pulling up to a delightful little house with a sweeping front lawn and an aromatic honeysuckle darkening the front porch.

  ‘I still can’t believe you don’t own some Beverly Hills mansion,’ said Joe, pulling out a wad of dollars.

  ‘I’d rather live amongst the empty diet cokes in Vincent’s trashcan. You been up there yet? Rows and rows of picture-perfect properties, each one with as much charm as the charmless dick that owns it. At least this place has personality,’ he said, ushering Joe up the driveway. ‘That honeysuckle can be a real bitch if you don’t give her a restyle, once in a while. If we leave soon we can dodge the traffic.’

  Taking Highland Avenue onto the 101 again, they followed signs for Cosmos Studios, turning onto the next exit ramp and heading north. Almost immediately, the foliage was greener and lusher, as if a team of Stand-By Art Directors had gone around injecting buckets of dye into everything. Even the palm trees looked more like the postcard variety, rather than their shabby brown cardboard cutout counterparts down the road.

  Cruising up the Studio’s barrier, Michael wound down the window and called out their names to security.

  ‘Parking Bay twelve please, Sir’ they responded brusquely. ‘A rep will be down to meet you and your team straightaway.’

  They parked up next to a smart blue Convertible and the biggest pick-up truck Joe had ever seen.

  ‘Those wheels alone are bigger than my flat!’

  ‘Probably cost more as well.’

  ‘Yoo-hoo Mr Wilson! Mr De Vries!’

  A beautiful brunette rolled up alongside them in a golf buggy. Her legs were so skinny and endless they looked like a grasshopper’s squished in behind the wheel.

  ‘Sandy Yale, Junior Publicist,’ she beamed at them, reaching out to shake their hands. ‘Delighted to meet the talent behind Memoir. Gee, what a wonderful little movie that is. Now hop on in, guys, and I’ll scoot you up to meet Bill.’

  They were soon whizzing up the drive, past the giant red X of the studio’s heli-pad and into the main complex.

  ‘Have you visited Cosmos before?’ she asked Michael.

  ‘I came here for a meeting with my Pa a few years back.’

  ‘I take it he’s in ‘the biz’ too then?’

  ‘You could say that…’

  ‘His father’s Walt Wilson,’ added Joe, grinning as she swerved sharply and clipped the side of a parked up camera truck.

  ‘Oh my gawd! You’re that Michael Wilson…I didn’t realize.’ There was an embarrassed pause. ‘Would you guys like a quick tour of the studios before the meeting?’

  ‘Sounds good,’ said Michael, catching Joe’s eye. Sandy was a beautiful woman but she clearly kept her brains in the buggy’s footwell.

  They immediately hung a left and found thems
elves on an Exterior London street set, complete with red phone booths lining the pavement and calling cards for Naughty Nina and Busty Bella taped to the windows.

  ‘Cosmos Studios was formed during the great studio era of the 1920s. Since then, we have continually ranked as one of the leading studios in the world for both excellence and achievement,’ announced Sandy, programmed to perfection.

  Joe stifled a smile. Wasn’t this the studio that had released the biggest flop of all time, sank two production companies, and had the whole of Hollywood screaming for the VP’s head on a stick?

  ‘Coming up on our right, you’ll see the first of our magnificent sound stages,’ she trilled, as they entered a different section of the studio. ‘We have twenty-five in total, ranging from twenty-eight thousand to eight thousand square feet…’

  From the outset, they looked like bleak, grey, industrial-sized packing warehouses, not unlike the ones lining the railway track between Clapham and Vauxhall, thought Joe idly, as Sandy slammed on the brakes to avoid a head-on collision with a FedEx truck.

  ‘Ahead, you’ll see our on-site production offices,’ she added, pushing her shiny brown hair out of her eyes. ‘We moved here to set up Harper’s award campaign HQ. And here is where our short tour ends.’

  In the vast shadow of the sound stages, the little squat bungalows looked a bit like wooden scout huts. Joe half-expected to find a powwow of Baden Powell’s finest sitting crossed legged on the grass out front singing kumbaya.

  As they exited the buggy, there was a loud bang and a big burly American with an enormous brown birds-nest beard appeared in the doorway. He was waving a smoking champagne bottle in their direction.

  ‘Congratulations!’ he roared. ‘Five nominations for your first movie! I gotta say, you’ve impressed the hell outta me! Bill Charmers, Freelance Awards Consultant,’ he announced. ‘I’m the guy Cosmos call when they think they’ve gotta shot at the big stuff. In the last ten years, me and mah team have been responsible for forty-three top industry awards for this studio.’ He beamed proudly at them. ‘Quite a gold rush, don’t ya think?’