Dirty Movies

by Cate Andrews

  ‘John Hurt…Kate Winslet…Imelda Staunton…Oh My God, is that Daniel Radcliffe?’

  Joe gazed in awe at the cheery, pocket-sized actor. At the same time he felt a sense of pride knock him sideways.

  This was his home turf.

  An Oscar may be the definitive industry accolade, and he might be the low-cal rye bread of Hollywood right now, but he was still a Brit. And here he was, on this chilly, stone grey evening. An honoured film-maker with not one but six BAFTA nominations for Memoir; Best Film, Best British Film, Best Director, nods for Christine and Benito, in addition to his own for Special Achievement in his first feature as a director.

  Scanning the crowds for Michael, who at the last minute had elected to travel alone, his eyes came to rest briefly on Maisie Peach. As usual she was working the carpet like a pro in oyster grey haute couture. Press and publicists swarming around her like flies on a particularly fruity pile of manure. The young actress had proved unstoppable all award season but hopefully tonight would prove the kink in her red carpet walkover.

  Squeezing Polly’s hand, he felt a jolt of exhilaration as she squeezed back. All of a sudden, she snatched it away and veered off to the left like a small child spotting an ice cream van.

  ‘Danny! Danny over here!’ he heard her cry, waving frantically at a group of faceless black tied individuals and very nearly taking out Gary Oldman and his beautiful wife as they were whisked up on the inside by his publicist.

  ‘Polly, wait!’ growled Joe. He was certain she was committing some mistaken identity red carpet clanger. The man she was waving at was too clean-shaven to be Danny and he had frown lines stamped into his face like Amsterdam tram tracks. Joe cringed and waited for the embarrassing encounter to unfold. To his shock, he saw him turn towards his girlfriend in recognition.

  Between Bucharest and Covent Garden, Danny had grown up and kept on going. He looked haggard and demoralized after a year as Stephen’s second in command and all the cheeky bounce of his curls had been shaved off in favour of a military-style crew cut. No doubt to reflect his bloody tour of duty, reflected Joe darkly. Glancing down at Danny’s feet, he realized with a pang that even his cherished trainers were gone.

  To his dismay, Danny suddenly clocked him gawping and stalked off, leaving Polly kissing air rather that air-kissing his left cheek.

  Perhaps tonight wasn’t going to be such a great one after all, reflected Joe moodily.

  Michael was running late. Very late. At the last minute, he had redirected his protesting driver to the outskirts of London to see if, by some miracle, the lights were back on at Lily’s place. Alas, her little house was still as dark and dusky as the double-breasted Tom Ford Tux he was wearing. Motoring back into London at top speed, they were caught short on the Hammersmith Flyover, and by the time he was whisked to his seat by a BAFTA official, the ebullient host was already hovering in the wings for his first cue.

  ‘What the hell happened to you?’ hissed Joe

  ‘Traffic was a bitch.’

  ‘We were taking bets whether Stephen had stuck nails in your tyres.’

  Michael grinned. ‘I don’t mind him sticking it to my ex but he better leave my goddamn car alone.’ He looked round and saw the man himself, glowering at them from the row behind. Beside him, Maisie was blowing discreet kisses in his direction. Fortunately, the host chose to make his entrance then to a courteous ripple of applause.

  Ten minutes later, Michael’s sides were aching with laughter. The BAFTA ceremony may match the rigid politesse of the Academy Awards, but with a script sizzling with the nation’s own idiosyncratic sense of humour, on the whole, it was a much more sprightly affair.

  As the evening unfolded, the statuettes rained down on Harper Films and GBA like a hotly-contested Wimbledon tennis ball, as soon one category fell their way, the following landed right back in GBA’s court.

  It was Benito who took first point, however, with a very well deserved win for Best Cinematographer. Lumbering onto the stage in a suit two sizes too small, and with Christine’s bright red lipstick marks staining his left cheek, he glared at the audience from beneath his bushy brows before directing a string of Italian at the microphone with such gruffness that it sounded like he was insulting everyone in the room. In truth, Benito’s big heart was overwhelmed with gratitude but these days his smiles were reserved for his Christine only, who was beaming proudly up at him from the third row.

  The Awards for Make Up and Costume Design were swiped by Stephen’s team, and the cameras captured him punching the air in delight as each one was announced.

  ‘What a load of crap,’ whispered Polly furiously. ‘Those were Sally’s designs. She only abandoned Love Letters three weeks before wrap. That charlatan up there probably only had to sew a button on.’

  Polly became even more indignant when Joe lost out in the Outstanding Debut category. Even though she couldn’t blame Stephen directly, he didn’t have to plaster that revoltingly smug look all over his face as the exultant victor brandished his gleaming trophy at the audience.

  Still, all that was swept aside when Joe took to the stage, along with Michael and Christine, to claim the prize for Outstanding British Film. It was a hugely popular choice, as testified by the wildly euphoric, never-ending round of applause. Each time Michael bent down to the address the microphone, the decibel level cranked back up again like the compressed accelerator pedal on one of Stephen’s Ferraris.

  Eventually it petered out just long enough for him to unfold a crumpled piece of paper. Beaming up at the cameras, he started by thanking their wonderful cast and crew. As he did, all those who had blagged upper tier seats that night let out an almighty football roar. Acknowledgments for Flavio and Cosmos Pictures swiftly followed, before he turned to address his on-stage colleagues in a voice teeming with emotion.

  ‘And last but by no means least, we would all like to pay a very heartfelt tribute to a wonderful scriptwriter without whom none of this would be possible. Thank you Mr Tommy Harper, for your extraordinary script, and for breathing life back into three down-and-out strangers. May it be only a matter of time before the true extent of your prolific talent is laid bare for the world to see…’ As he said this, he shot Stephen a loaded look. It didn’t matter if Vincent was dead, the GBA name would be forever muddied with his deceit. The truth may not be out there yet, but like a house with termites, the foundations of GBA’s reputation were slowly rotting.

  Michael had never considered what the letters GBA stood for before. But as they, and their ultra-suave presenter, Daniel Craig, were escorted off stage by a woman as equally beautiful as any Bond Girl, he was going to make damn sure that they stood for guilt by association, or rather Stephen’s guilt by association, before the year was out.

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  In the end it was GBA who swiped the headlines, with Stephen storming to victory in the Best Director and Best Film categories. Even the mawkish twenty second long dedication to Vincent in the In Memoriam segment, that had prompted more sniggers than sobs, failed to dent, let alone scratch the glossy paintjob of his jubilation. He had ridden out the headlines and come up trumps. He was a shoe-in for the Oscars now.

  As the curtain fell on a night of mixed fortunes for Joe, Michael and Christine, they exited the Opera House to a chorus of ‘better luck next times’, and made their way to Sunset House.

  Snail-crawling across Soho, bumper to bumper through the narrow one-way system, Christine was surprisingly upbeat about losing out to Maisie again.

  ‘The way I look at it, I’ve already won two,’ she said to Michael, as she snapped open her compact, ‘another would have made my shelf lopsided. What I really need is a second Oscar to even things up.’

  ‘Let’s hope you’re successful in a fortnight then,’ he responded, dryly. ‘It’ll be a wonderful relief to get the aesthetics of your study sorted.’ He felt a vibration in his pocket as another congratulatory text came through.

  Good job, Son. Walt.

  Mic
hael frowned. His father never acknowledged his successes; not the Producer’s Guild Award, nor the five Oscar Nominations, not even his Straight ‘A’ Report Cards from High School or the Star Quarterback appellation. He didn’t have much time to dwell on it though as their car pulled up to the smart brick frontage of Sunset House.

  It wasn’t the official BAFTA after-show party venue, but with every single British film industry patron out on the town tonight, many of whom were members, it was guaranteed to be an after-dinner, après-schmooze fallback option for most. In light of this, the club’s management had gone completely OTT with the décor. Swathes of gold silk had been draped across the ceilings of every room, like multi-millionaire circus tents, and enormous, gilded BAFTA award moulds hung from the walls, unsettling even the drunkest of partygoers with their cold, expressionless faces.

  Anticipating a GBA walkover, Christine had insisted they lament their losses here, in the company of good friends and not self-satisfied wolves. The plan had worked brilliantly until just before midnight when, in the aftermath of another public bust-up with Maisie after she caught him with his hand down the knickers of an attractive young BBC Films Producer, Stephen had fled to Sunset House and strolled in with his new business partner, the aptly-titled Toad Norris, as squat and slimy as his name suggested, and a very tense-looking Danny. This was just as Michael was delivering a touching, heartfelt thanks to his team.

  With his back to the door, the American couldn’t figure out why the mood in the bar had suddenly switched direction faster than a soap character’s love life. Then came the familiar snort of disdain. Whipping round, he saw Stephen clicking his fingers at the bar staff and pointing to a Magnum of Bollinger.

  ‘Oh, don’t stop on my account,’ mocked the director, propping himself up on the bar with his elbow. ‘I do realise that total losers like yourselves need to keep your spirits pepped. Almost as much as we winners like downing them.’ As if to prove the point, a waitress handed him a chilled glass of bubbly and he sank it in one.

  ‘Ignore him,’ hissed Joe, as Michael took a threatening step forward.

  ‘I’d much rather you congratulated me,’ called out Stephen, emboldened by the presence of his new business partner, Toad Norris, who was a champion cage-fighter in his spare time.

  ‘I’d much rather stick that magnum bottle up your ass,’ roared Michael.

  Meanwhile, Polly was staring at Danny who was staring at the floor. Stephen clocked her hovering between Joe and Michael.

  ‘Polly Winters,’ he said, distastefully, as if he’d spotted dog shit besmirching the heel of his Versace loafer. ‘What a dubious pleasure it is to see you again. I’ve never known a runner make such an awful cup of coffee. I only kept you around for a glimpse of your tits when you bent down to lick my shoes. Rather like a peekaboo game for non-consenting adults.’

  Now it was Michael’s turn to grab Joe. He shunted Christine into a nearby yukka in his haste to wrap his hands around his brother’s neck. Stephen looked mildly intrigued by his volcanic reaction, shifting his gaze from Polly to Joe and back again like a ponderous pendulum. Throwing his head back, he chuckled nastily.

  ‘Oh how adorable, isn’t this turn-up for the books? Two losers don’t make a winner, you know. Do give me a call if you ever get engaged, Polly. I do so enjoy fucking a newlywed sister-in-law,’

  ‘What a ghastly thought,’ spoke up Rachel, who was stood behind her. ‘Despite the obvious turn-offs Stephen, you’re such a narcissistic arsehole, going to bed with you would be duller than Newsnight.’

  Stephen tutted. ‘Oh dear, what do we have here? Another useless ex-employee? You must excuse me, Rachel darling, but I didn’t recognise you with only one chin. Still, I guess it’s true what the fashionistas say; you really can be skinny and ugly at the same time.’

  ‘Where the fuck do you get off being so rude to people?’ howled Michael.

  ‘The perks of fame I guess,’ shrugged Stephen, picking up his refilled champagne glass and steering his odd assortment of minions towards the door. ‘Not that you lot will ever know. Your nominations are a farce. With any luck you’ll be sinking back into obscurity, whilst i’m still cresting on the wave of my Oscar success.’

  Just then, Benito, who had disappeared minutes earlier in search of the gents, strode into the room, took one look at Stephen - the source of years of untold misery for his beloved Christine - and decided to be anything other than gentlemanly.

  Hearing a great bear-like roar, and spying a clenched fist the size of a jack hammer heading straight for his face, the director squealed and shot out of the bar with Toad Norris hot on his heels. Neither man’s Harley Street dental surgeons did out-of-hours emergencies. Stephen would rather take on Maisie’s tantrums than Benito’s bristling six foot seven inches any day of the week.

  Whilst Christine did her best to soothe and restrain her lover from following her ex and smashing his face in as easily as one of Sunset House’s fake BAFTA moulds, Joe and Janie took turns to comfort a livid Rachel. With everyone else preoccupied dissecting the incident over hasty refills, Polly quietly slipped out of the room.

  Plunging down the narrow, stripped pine staircase two steps at a time, she caught up with Stephen in the entrance hall, just as the coat attendant, who had been bunged a hasty fiver, was handing him and Danny their coats.

  ‘Why do you hate him so much?’ she cried out to him, storming up the corridor.

  Stephen jerked his head up in surprise. ‘You’ll have to be more specific,’ he snapped, winding his ivory silk dress scarf around his neck. In the low light of the hallway it looked like an anaconda’s kiss of death. ‘There are a more than a few people in there that I’d happily chuck under a double-decker then drive over, repeatedly.’

  ‘You know who I mean,’ trembled Polly, blocking out a flashback of Bucharest. Thank god her phone was upstairs. He couldn’t do quite so much damage with a coathanger. ‘I want to know. What did he ever do to you that was so awful? Steal your Lego? Break your Millennium Falcon? Why do you treat your brother so badly?’

  ‘Just leave it Polly,’ hissed Danny. ‘C’mon Stephen, let’s get out of here.’

  ‘No,’ said Stephen sharply. ‘Go and wait in the car.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘Did you hear what I said? Wait in the car with Toad and Garrett,’ he snapped. ‘And tell the driver to keep the engine running in case that mad Italian bastard turns up again.’

  Reluctantly, Danny turned to leave, shooting Polly a beseeching look. She returned it, just as quick, with an equal ‘fuck off’ intensity. She wasn’t leaving without an answer.

  ‘I used to be so in awe of you,’ she said, shaking her head incredulously. ‘But you’re no better than one of your over-hyped, overpaid actors; much smaller in real life and extraordinarily obnoxious. I wouldn’t sleep with you if you were the last man in Soho!’

  Stephen smirked. ‘I seem to recall the last one saying that, right before I ripped off her white dress and fucked her in the honeymoon suite.’

  ‘That would never happen with me. You repulse me.’

  ‘Good,’ said Stephen, taking a step towards her. ‘In my experience, lustful hateful sex is always the most enjoyable.’

  ‘Are you even listening to me?’ stuttered Polly, feeling a pang of uneasiness.

  ‘Not really,’ he murmured, inching closer. ‘I’m far too distracted by the dimples in your cheek. I’ve never noticed them before. They’re rather appealing. It’s almost making me feel sorry for beating you up in Romania. Perhaps I can overlook your crap coffee-making skills after all.’

  ‘But you said you liked them,’ countered Polly, weakly.

  Stephen smirked again. ‘Silly me. I was most likely blind-sighted by the novelty of having something new to play with.’

  Polly took a step back. Stephen was the sort of man who took what he wanted when he wanted. A quick glance to her left confirmed that the cloakroom attendant had all but disappeared. He must be the only man in Soho i
n hot pink trousers who had willingly retreated back into his closet.

  Meanwhile, Stephen was growing bored with the all talk, no action direction that their conversation was taking. He glanced at his watch. If he made it back to the after-show party now, he could kiss and make up with Maisie and have her sucking his cock by sunrise. He’d put Polly on ice for another time. Perhaps as a congratulatory gift to himself after his inevitable Oscar coup? Giving her one last appreciative look, he turned to leave.

  ‘Sy Jacob was spot on, wasn’t he?’ said Polly suddenly. ‘That was the real reason you stormed off his chat show. He didn’t just hit the nail on the head, he mangled the wall plug!’

  Stephen froze. Through the open doorway he could see Danny dawdling by the black SUV, chain-smoking like a covert KGB operative.

  ‘You’re insanely jealous of Joe,’ she crowed, pouncing on his hesitancy. ‘That’s why you put him down all the time, take and take without a single speck of gratitude, humiliate him by sleeping with his wife.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ he snarled. ‘The truth is, Miss Winters, he’s as inconsequential to me as you are. To be perfectly honest, I can’t see the point of either of you.’

  ‘But he’s your brother!’ gasped Polly, ‘and a great one at that! He’s kind and selfless, and he manages to coax the best out of crew instead of threatening them daily with a rolled up P45.’