by Cate Andrews
Serena steered her through a vast set of double-doors then promptly vanished, abandoning Lucy like an inquisitive gazelle that had strayed too far into a lion’s den. Still, it wasn’t a bad place to spend her last minutes. If Walt Wilson’s reception was a North Korea torture chamber, then his office was all the razzle-dazzle of the Ritz.
Easily the size of two baseball courts, and decorated throughout in opulent cream, the room was carpeted in the deepest, richest burgundy, as spongy and spotless as a golf green, with glass chandeliers the size of Minis dangling from the ceiling. Dotted about the place, was an impressive medley of very expensive-looking dark wood furniture. There was the long, low meeting table to her left, underneath not one but four giant plasma screens, and the bulky, rectangular coffee table between the two huge black leather sofas. Most importantly, and situated slightly off centre, yet lining up perfectly with the huge glass doors leading out to an Italian-style belvedere balcony, was the largest desk that Lucy had ever seen, behind which, sat the most frightening-looking man.
Wearing a crisp white shirt, with his left sleeve rolled up just far enough to display the sort of flashy, expensive watch that made grown Rappers weep, the skin underneath was the rich brown hue of roasted horse chestnuts. Thick, salt-and-pepper hair was slicked back off a violently handsome face and, as he rose slowly, reluctantly, to greet her, he stood well over a foot taller.
‘Mr Wilson, thank you for meeting me,’ she squeaked, inching forward.
He assessed her objectively then swiftly sat back down again. ‘Seems I had little choice in the matter,’ he snapped.
‘Right. Yes. Sorry. I didn’t mean to hound your PA.’
Lucy hovered in front of his desk like a naughty schoolchild. There were four separate telephone devices lined up next to his laptop. No one needs four telephones she thought in amazement. Walt Wilson was clearly a man who embraced delegation. Either that, or he was a complete control freak.
‘I’m a busy man, Ms Richards,’ said Walt, motioning to the spare seat. ‘My PA says you have some information on Vincent Edwards you wish to ‘share’.’ The word was delivered in inverted comas.
‘Yes, that’s correct,’ mumbled Lucy, wrenching her mind back to the business in hand, or rather the footage burning a hole in her handbag. ‘Tell me, Mr Wilson, how well did you know the late Mr Edwards?’
Walt’s eyes narrowed momentarily. ‘Is this supposed to be a trick question? He was one of ma top producer’s for close to a decade.’
‘Yes, yes, of course. I actually meant before he started producing films for you.’
‘Before?’
‘Yes, before.’
Walt didn’t answer her immediately. Instead, he smashed his clenched fist down on the intercom on his desk.
‘Serena! Bring me ma whiskey. Ms Richards will have one too.’
Lucy was caught off-guard by this. ‘Oh, no, no thank you,’ she said hastily.
Walt ignored her. ‘Two whiskeys, Serena, and make it quick.’
Lucy watched in awe as he let go of the intercom. Walt Wilson was, hands down, the most sexual man that she had ever encountered. Testosterone oozed from every pore like a tapped barrel of some overtly spicy vintage. Modern women shouldn’t be turned on by such blatant displays of penis power, but the way he had just commanded those drinks made her head spin.
He lent back in his seat and put his arms behind his head, staring her out in silence until Serena bustled in with two glasses.
‘You’re toying with me, Ms Richards,’ he said suddenly, as Serena bustled out again.
‘I don’t know what you m…’
‘Horseshit! Right now you’re like some stripper teasing my dick.’
She flinched at the word as he lent forward to pick up his glass.
‘So c’mon then, give it to me,’ he said, mocking her, daring her above the rim of his whisky glass. ‘I’m looking forward to the big reveal.’ His eyes lingered on her breasts. ‘I know you’ve got something lurking in that cheap-ass bag of yours. You wouldn’t have the balls to dialogue your way into my office if you didn’t.’
You bastard, thought Lucy, furiously. She quickly thrust her hand into her handbag, feeling more than a little indignant on its behalf. It may be a knock-off Prada but it still cost her fifty quid.
‘I hope your dick likes a bit of rough handling,’ she said coldly, pulling out a disc and slamming it down on his desk. ‘I take it you know how to make one of your fancy plasmas work?’
For a brief moment, Lucy thought he was going to chuck one of his phones at her. Instead, he tipped his head back and roared with laughter.
‘Ah honey, forget my dick, you’re the one with the balls round here,’ he barked, wiping a tear from his eye. ‘Have dinner with me,’ he said suddenly, more as an order than a request. ‘Tonight. You. Me. Nobu.’
Lucy shook her head reluctantly, and tapped the footage with a finger. ‘Believe me, Mr Wilson, after seeing this you won’t have much of an appetite left.’
‘Oh I doubt that.’
But Lucy was right, ten minutes later and a slap-up sashimi and a quick grope were the last thing on Walt’s mind. After re-playing the footage, no less than three times, he turned to Lucy with a face like stone.
‘Who else knows about this?’
Lucy studied his face carefully. Shock and anger were articulated in every feature, from the deep fold in his thick eyebrows to the tight white line of his mouth. The world was going to have to wait a little longer for the movie industry scoop of the century. There was no cover-up here.
‘I’m guessing your son, if the name of his company is anything to go by.’
There was an awful pause then he leapt to his feet.
‘Why are you really here?’ he roared, striding around the enormous meeting table to where she was sitting. ‘You got your evidence! You don’t need me to validate it!’ He came to a stop behind her and clenched the back of her chair, his fingers grazing the nape of her neck. ‘Unless…. Oh, I get it now,’ he said, leaning in and whispering into her ear, as if some big secret had just revealed itself to him. ‘This is a money thing.’
Lucy gasped as her chair groaned uncomfortably under his weight. He sounded angry too, as if she had somehow disappointed him.
‘I’m not after your money, Mr Wilson. Neither am I interested in getting banged up for extortion,’ she added, turning to face him. ‘I came here because I was curious.’
‘Curious?’ His lower lip curled as he spoke. Her eyes flickered towards it fleetingly.
‘Yes, curious. I wanted to see if you were going to dismiss this particular GBA abuse of power like every other. And, that contrary to reports, you weren’t going to be the First Class amoral bastard that everyone makes you out to be.’
He smirked then. ‘And what are your conclusions, Ms Richards?’ he asked, rendering her immovable with an extreme close-up of his thick black eyelashes and knockout Italian cheekbones.
Lucy gulped. ‘What I think, Mr Wilson, is that deep within that flinty business heart of yours, you bitterly regret that you never listened to Michael. He tried to warn you there was something fishy about GBA, but you chose to favour the success of your studios, even to the detriment and disgrace of your only son.’ She took a deep breath then. ‘I also think, Mr Wilson, that despite your questionable judgment, you are without doubt the sexiest man I have ever met.’
His eyes narrowed for a millisecond and then he kissed her, a great, brutal smacker that lifted her out of her seat, sent her legs shooting in opposite directions and propelled her backwards onto the meeting table.
‘How do you know so much about my son?’ he demanded roughly, breaking away.
Lucy’s head was spinning. The white-hot heat radiating from his groin was burning her like a furnace.
‘Quite a lot as it turns out,’ she panted, as his right hand slid up her thigh and kept on going. ‘My best friend happens to be an employee of Harper Films, or rather ex-employee. And a very good friend of
Michael’s.’
‘How good?’ he murmured, as he yanked her towards the edge of the desk and removed her underwear effortlessly.
‘Not that good,’ she gasped, as his fingers resumed their exploration. ‘She’s hopelessly in love with his director.’
‘I see.’
He kissed her again and she ground into his hand, desperately.
‘Now, Ms Richards, tell me that part about getting rough again?’ he said, brown eyes glinting as he reached for his belt.
Lucy’s elfin features contorted into a grin. ‘Are you sure about that? There’s quite an age gap, I wouldn’t want you to do your back in…’
‘You goddamn bitch!’ he hissed, driving into her then with all the pounding precision of a pneumatic drill. Soon her whole body was in free-fall.
Afterwards, once he had lifted her up as easily as one of the mannequins from his costume department and laid her back down on one of his leather sofas, he asked her why she hadn’t released the story yet.
‘I will when I finish my piece on stalkers, oh and something else on Stephen.’
‘Sourced from the same footage?’ Walt strode over to his drinks cabinet.
‘I could land every front page from here to next year with the bloopers in those tapes.’
Walt poured himself another whiskey. ‘Next, you’ll be telling me Love Letters was stolen from some gypsy beggar.’
‘Not unless he wears expensive wrist watches and owns a studio empire,’ she said slyly. ‘Shame on you for gifting Michael’s baby straight into the greasy, out-stretched palms of the enemy.’
Walt frowned at her. ‘You know if anyone else spoke to me like that they’d be exiting that balcony the same way Vincent Edwards did.’
‘Time to put the loose jowls and horses’ heads away, Mr Wilson, you’re not fooling anyone. Underneath all that Marlon Brando swagger, you’re just as charming as your son.’
That’s what you think, thought Walt.
‘Who by the way is indirectly involved in my new story.’
‘Oh?’ Walt looked up sharply.
‘Oh indeed.’ Lucy rolled on her back and started wriggling her skirt down over her hips. ‘Seems that Stephen and Maisie have been screwing each other brains out for ages.’
Walt paused, glass to mouth. ‘How long?’
‘Six years.’
His eyes narrowed considerably. ‘You sure about that?’’
Lucy nodded. ‘I’ll be only too happy to show you that footage. Such a shame Joe only chucked his wine over him at the Globes,’ she added, looking around for her underwear. ‘If it was up to me, I’d have cracked a magnum over that disgusting little fucker’s head.’
Chapter Fifty-Two
When Lucy didn’t return that afternoon, Polly flew into a panic, and by 8pm had worn sizeable holes in the hotel’s pea green polyester carpet. Walt Wilson was a sadist. Everyone knew it. This was the man who had blackballed his only son on hearsay alone. God knows what he’d do to a feisty young journalist when backed into a corner.
In the end, she called Michael, more for reassurance that his father wasn’t a complete psycho than anything else. After getting no joy from his cell, she tried his home number. It was picked up immediately.
‘Michael, its Polly! I know he’s Italian but your pa doesn’t go in for all that sleeping with the fishes stuff, does he?’
‘Polly?’ The voice on the other end was tentative and much too British sounding to be Michael.
There was a pause.
‘I see you turned up then,’
‘What can I say? Bad pennies and all that.’
Typical, thought Polly, irritably. She could almost picture Joe’s hapless shrug.
‘Is Michael there?’ she snapped.
‘Why?’
‘Oh for crying out loud, we’re not going through all that again are we?’
‘That’s not what I meant! It’s just that you sound…Is everything ok?’
She felt the tears start to well then. His concern, coupled with her fraught afternoon, made her want to bawl. Then she remembered all the shitty things he had said to her and felt the urge to kick him in the metaphorical balls instead.
‘You bastard! How could you go off like that again?’ she screamed, letting rip. ‘If I were Michael, I’d disown you completely. Or, better still, invoice you time and a half for all the additional Q & A sessions he’s had to endure promoting your movie. You don’t deserve a single nomination this season, unless it’s for Gutless Wimp of the Year or Most Predictable Duck-out When the Going Gets Tough.’
‘Are you done?’ asked Joe quietly.
‘Not by a longshot…’
Just then, there was a scuffling in the corridor outside. A handbag was dropped followed by a dull clonk as the owner bent down to retrieve it and collided with the doorframe. Two seconds later, a familiar giggle rang out.
Hanging up, Polly reached the door just as Lucy collapsed into the room. She was reeking of a booze far more exclusive than Frascati and beaming from pixie ear to pixie ear.
‘What the hell happened to you?’ she demanded.
‘I had a meeting with Walt. Then another, then another.’ giggled Lucy.
Polly looked puzzled. ‘Why are you flinging innuendos at me? Oh my god, you didn’t…?’
Lucy started giggling again.
‘Are you completely insane? He’s a tyrant and you’re eight years younger than his son! When I suggested using journalistic cunning, I didn’t mean that!’
‘Oh I’m not sleeping my way to a story, if that’s what you’re inferring,’ said Lucy. ‘Turns out it’s got nothing to with him anyway.’
‘What happened to your over-60s rule?’
‘Walt doesn’t count. He’s only 57.’
‘Mere spring-chicken,’ scoffed Polly. ‘But you’re not even a cocktail waitress!’
‘True,’ conceded Lucy, collapsing onto the bed. ‘But, what I am, Pollyanna,’ she said, grinning impishly at her friend, ‘is exceedingly shaken and enormously stirred.’
After a very thorough farewell with Lucy on the backseat of his limo, Walt waved her off, zipped his flies and instructed the driver to take him back to his office.
Pouring another whisky, he sat down at his desk and brooded over the day’s events. His eyes kept flickering to his meeting table. He wouldn’t be forgetting that encounter in a hurry. Lucy Richards was a pocket-sized revelation. What she lacked in height was undeniably compensated for in other areas. Her nerve and feistiness had ruined him for wishy-washy cocktail waitresses forevermore.
Opening his laptop, he fired off an email to Serena requesting the purchase of the most expensive Prada bag she could lay her hands on, and a lunch booking at Spagos. One thing was certain. He had absolutely no intention of letting Lucy jet back to England anytime soon.
As for the footage…?
For a long time he sat staring at the disc and thinking hard. Before Garrett had even leaked those snaps of his son, a seed of uneasiness about GBA had begun to sprout like a dirty great weed inside his head.
Lucy was wrong. He wasn’t like Michael. His son was loyal and decent. Everything Walt had hoped he would be. Michael would never dream of humiliating him or belittling his achievements. And to what end had he, the great Walt Wilson, done all these terrible things? To coerce Michael into a lifetime’s servitude at Global, when his hopes and dreams clearly lay elsewhere.
At least he was remorseful. If truth be told, Walt was feeling pretty damn horrified with himself. Fortunately, there was still time to do something about it.
For the rest of the evening, he worked tirelessly, composing his first and only Act of Contrition. After finishing, he proofread and edited it, over and over, until, finally, with tomorrow’s hangover already starting to niggle at his temples, he was satisfied.
Emailing it straight to Serena, he enclosed strict instructions to sit on it until the nod from him. His timing had to be impeccable. His timing had to be inspired. More specifically,
his timing had to be right before those Oscar ballots closed.
Chapter Fifty-Three
Grappling with her own sense of guilt, Polly sat perched by the hotel window sill, thirty-four floors up, gazing out at the flickering lights across the valley. In the bed behind her, Lucy was out for the count and snoring softly, no doubt shattered after her kinky afternoon sex sessions with Wicked Walt.
Of all the crazy scenarios that had flittered through Polly’s brain that day, Lucy getting frisky with the Studio Boss on his twenty foot long dark mahogany wood meeting table had certainly never featured. Lucy hadn’t exactly been scant with the details either. Polly could sort of see the attraction, but she personally preferred men with one foot on the dance floor not one foot in the grave. It was just a pity that the one man she really, really liked was most likely reeling from the flame-thrower of abuse she’d torched him with, precisely two hours ago.
Dressing quietly, she slipped out of the room and made her way down to the lobby. There she exited the hotel and found herself on the crowded sidewalks of Hollywood Boulevard. She wondered along for a while, gulping in the heat and the stench of hot dogs, dodging the Batmen and the Wonder Women, and wincing in dismay at the blob of dirty chewing gum tarnishing Arnold Schwarzenegger’s Hollywood star. Poor Arnie, thought Polly, pityingly. After Kindergarten Cop, he really didn’t need any more indignity in his life.
Pausing at the intersection at Las Palmas, she spied a bright yellow neon sign in the distance for Rollo’s 80s Bar & Grill. Bingo, thought Polly, making a beeline straight for it. She could do with a bloody great drink.
Parking her backside at the bar, next to a life-size ET model, and with Short Circuit playing on a loop on the TV screen above, she smiled at the barman dressed in the hairy TeenWolf wig.
‘What can I get you lady?’
She waved away his drinks menu. ‘Your most calorific cocktail, please.’
He grinned and set to work immediately. It was almost as if lovesick, mildly depressed twenty-something women wondering into his bar at 11pm on a Wednesday night was something of a regular event. First, he unearthed a glass as squat as a fish bowl from the shelf beneath the bar and packed it with crushed ice. Next, he pulled out a giant cocktail shaker and started pumping it with Vodka and a violent turquoise-coloured substance, and then finishing it all off with no less than six whopping great scoops of ice cream. Giving it a good shake, he tipped the ghastly concoction into the fish bowl and served it with five cocktail umbrellas, half a pineapple and an enormous sparkler which he lit in front of her with a twinkle in his eye.