Dirty Movies (11 page)

‘Except Maisie doesn’t have a brain to frazzle
,’ said Rachel pointedly.

Joe grinned. ‘Can’t argue with that. Now stop rooting for scandal and pass me the cigarettes. I’ve already eaten my weight in food this evening so I may as well qua
druple my risk of heart disease.’

Bidding goodnight to the girls in the lobby, Joe made straight for the hotel bar. He was craving an extra strong, after-dinner digestive to hush-hush the rip-roaring rumpus of apprehension building up inside. Catching the bartender’s eye, he ordered an almanac and downed half in one sip. Slamming the glass back down, he had a sudden image of Polly’s face after her first taste of Casablanca two nights ago. 

Joe rubbed his forehead and quickly o
rdered another. He had seen too many GBA runners slip up on Stephen’s oily charms and tumble into bed with him. Was Polly going to play to type? He hoped not. If he was honest, it made him sick just thinking about it. 

Hearing a loud splash
, he swung round to see Dan their Director of Photography, diving fully clothed into the swimming pool outside. As usual, he was surrounded by a throng of adoring near-naked beauties, no doubt paid for by his hideously large per diem allowance, and the usual hodgepodge of camera assistants, clapper loaders and general hangers-on. Camera crews worked hard and played hard and Dan and his crew were no exception. Irrespective of their tight schedule, this lot wouldn’t be seeing their beds much before 4am.

Overcome with fatigue
, Joe drained his drink and slipped out of the bar. Not only did he have to incorporate the changes from this afternoon’s meeting into his schedule, he needed to thrash out a damage limitation strategy for his brother’s twisted little ménage a trois before all hell broke loose on set.

‘Lucy? Lucy it’s me!’ shrieked Polly
, but the telephone static was abysmal. It sounded like a swarm of hornets were on the rampage in there.

She tried agai
n. ‘Lucy? Are you there?’

Miraculously the line seemed to clear then.

‘Polly, is that you? Oh, thank God you’re alive!’ she heard her friend yelp. ‘You haven’t called in ages. I thought you’d been taken hostage by a rogue posse of sexy camera crew!’

Polly could hear the quiver of relief in her friend’s voice. She should have phoned home sooner. Much sooner.

‘Spill your guts, then,’ cried Lucy, ‘I want to hear all the scandal!’

Polly glanced
at the magnolia wall partition separating her and Gillian’s room.

‘To be
honest there’s not much to tell.’

‘Err
, hello?’ scoffed the reply, ‘can you put my friend Polly, notorious gossip hound of Surrey, and dedicated subscriber to
Hot! Hot! Hot!
on please? There seems to be an impostor on the line. What sort of non-committal response was that?’

‘Ok. Hang on a minute
,’ whispered Polly, stretching the dirty yellow phone cord as far as it would go until she was crouching down between the bathroom and the TV table. All of a sudden, she lost her balance and fell backwards into the open wardrobe.

‘Can you still hear me?’ she hissed, dislodging the hotel iron from
under her left bum cheek.

‘Just about.
What’s going on? You’re very faint. Have you gone and locked yourself in the stationary cupboard again?’

‘Ha very funny.
I’m in my hotel room but the walls are as thin as posh spice’s profile and my evil PM’s right next door.’ Knowing her luck, Gillian probably had a glass pressed up against the paint job right now waiting for some bitchy comment about her precious Vincey-poo to slip out.

‘Stop procrastinating
, you dimwit, and give me some gossip.’

‘Oh Lucy, this place is to die for
,’ gushed Polly. ‘Can’t you raid your editor’s expense account and come out for a visit?’

‘No such luck.
The tight bastard probably sleeps with the sort code under his pillow.’ 

‘Any secret savings tucked away?’

‘Only in my dreams. But then again so is that million-dollar Malibu wedding to Keanu Reeves.’ The truth was Lucy had approximately 53p to her name and a very snooty letter from the Inland Revenue hidden behind the photographs on the mantelpiece. ‘Ahem, gossip Polly?’

‘Oh right
.’ But no sooner had she said it when there was a piercing beep on the line and some lady started jabbering away at her in Arabic. ‘Shit! Now I only have three minutes left before my phone card cuts out. I’m sorry I didn’t email you all week but we’re really isolated and the web connection’s slower than a snail.’

‘A
ny Bedouins tried to ride you off into the sunset yet?’

‘No
, but there are some gorgeous men out here,’ said Polly, thinking of Joe.

‘Then you need to get your broadband fixed
! Your IT guy needs to know that it’s a matter of urgency. I need to know everything otherwise I’ll explode. My blood will be on their hands!’

Polly giggled.  ‘Oh wait, you’ll never guess who
I met at cast rehearsals today.’

‘Who…? WHO??’

‘Just some actress called Maisie Peach,’ said Polly, as nonchalantly as possible.

Lucy
shrieked.

‘Is she a total bitch? Is she getting married to that gorgeous man? Please say she’
s got more spots than Mr Blobby!’

‘She’s
ok,’ lied Polly. In truth, Maisie was a nightmare, packaged up in five foot four inches of physical perfection. ‘But Zach Roberts has just signed on, so there’s hope for the on-set, sex-bomb ying and yang.’

This was met with more silence
, peppered with the ever-pervading buzz of static.

‘Lucy? Are you still there?’

There was a strangled squeak. ‘Hang on a minute, I’m just teaching myself how to breathe again.’

Polly smiled
.

‘I’m going to have beg, steal or borrow a plane ticket out there now. There’s no way my best friend’s hanging out with Zach Roberts without me
.’

‘Hallelujah!
I need all the help I can get.’

‘
Ah. Dishy De Vries not quite living up to expectation then?’

‘He’s a bit precious
,’ admitted Polly, ‘and SO scatty. I’ve had to replace his laptop twice this week already. Oh, and he left one hiking boot behind so I had to ship the other out specially. What sort of numpty only packs one hiking boot?’

‘Sounds an idiot
,’ agreed Lucy. ‘Never saw the appeal myself,’ she lied. ‘You hang on in there. This time next year you’ll be a mega-famous producer and he’ll be a washed up out-of-work nobody begging you for work.’

‘Ta for the vote of confidence but I seem to spend most of
my time fielding calls from Hollywood agents begging HIM for work, or rather for their clients.’

Polly had encountered a particularly sticky moment with one such agent yesterday
, who had flatly refused to accept Stephen’s rebukes of his four-time Oscar nominated scriptwriter’s latest masterpiece. In the end, his language was so colourful, she had half-expected to find rainbows spouting out of the mouthpiece.

‘When does the shoot kick off?’
asked Lucy.

‘Tomorrow morning.
My call time’s 5:30am. Awful, awful.’

‘I’d happily trade places to hang out with Zach Roberts
. Good luck with it all and email when you can. I want to hear all about…’

‘Sorry Luce, have to go. Danny’s just arrived
!’ interrupted Polly, suddenly. ‘We’re taking a trip out to the desert this afternoon to check on the first location.’

‘Lucky cow! Who’s Danny anyway
?’

‘2nd AD.
Irish. Cool hair. Normal guy height.’

‘As opposed to a
snazzy, sunglass-wearing rock star Leprechaun? God Polly, if you weren’t my best friend I’d disown you,’ said Lucy grumpily, gazing out of the window. England was so miserable and grey. It felt more like November than June. Damn those BBC weather reporters and their sprightly nightly reports. They were connoisseurs of deceitful optimism.

‘Just don’t forget to email m…’ but her words were drowned out by a
nother blood curdling beep and then silence.

Lucy hung up feeling mildly depressed and eyeballed
the cookie jar by the bread bin. She wouldn’t mind catching a bit of desert action with this Danny character. The very name itself seemed to inspire images of boyish charm and floppy brown hair.  Without thinking, she stuffed a whole chocolate chip muffin into her mouth then greedily eyed its twin.

Wondering into her bedroom
, she placed the second muffin down next to her laptop and scooped up a CD case from the floor. Giving the disc a good wipe, she stuffed it into her stereo, sat down and flexed her fingers. A reporter for the local newspaper, she had a review of the Maypole dancing at the local village fete due in tomorrow. Lucy had purposely been putting it off. The local ballet school had encountered such appalling weather conditions that the jaunty, vibrantly coloured ribbons had quickly turned into a sodden tangled, un-photogenic mess. That was before a particularly brutal gust of wind had blown it sideways into a pack of screeching Brownies.

Wolfing down the second muffin, Lucy frowned at the screen. It was going to take all her journalistic cunning and a hefty dollop of writer’s license
to spin this into a sunny May Bank Holiday spectacular.

Danny jumped into the jeep and slammed the door.

‘Better warn the camels you’re on the loose
,’ he joked, reaching round for his seat belt.

‘Let’s hope they don’t get the hump
about it,’ muttered Polly, feeling a jolt of excitement. Up until now, her only taste of Morocco had been the dusty main road connecting their hotel and the Studios.

‘W
here are we headed again?’

‘
First location. It’s about a thirty minute drive from here.’ He leant over to the driver’s seat and tapped Khalil on the shoulder. Two seconds later, the jeep’s rusty old engine lurched into life.

Despite last Monday evening’s rabid enthusiasm, she and Danny had ended up being the only stalwarts
amongst the group. Rachel had cried off at the last minute citing a head-splitting migraine, Michael had yet to emerge from his hotel room, where he’d been holed up with Maisie for the last few days, and Joe had vanished first thing this morning on some errand for Stephen. Polly was disappointed, but determined to enjoy herself. Half-listening to Khalil and Danny as they thrashed out last minute cast travel arrangements for the morning, Polly sat back and watched the desolate moonscape skyline unfold as they sped past the smattering of russet-coloured palm trees and broken-down shacks on the edge of town.

Soon
, great drifting golden dunes reaching out as far as the eye could see had replaced the haughty, peaked shadows of the Atlas Mountains. As Khalil slowed down to overtake an old cattle herder by the side of the road, Polly noticed that the skinny quarters of the herd were no match for the herder’s jutting collarbone and sunken face.

A mile later
, Khalil turned onto a sandy track with a course crudely marked out by whitewashed stones. Peering through the windscreen, Polly could just about make out the shimmering outline of the Unit Base’s glossy white trailers and canvas tents in the distance, distorted and unworldly by the ferocious desert heat.

Suddenly, Khalil veered off again and she was flung backwards into her seat.

‘Hang on Polly,’ yelled Danny, ‘we’re making a detour!’

Beneath her
, Polly felt the base of the jeep groan as the four-wheel drive kicked into action. They were now driving right in amongst the sand dunes.

Slowing to a crawl, Khalil motioned for them both to jump out. Polly was gone in a trice. Using her hands and knees she clambered up the nearest dune,
barely noticing the white hot sand beneath her fingertips, and leaving both flip flops behind in the process. Collapsing in a sweaty heap at the top, she scraped her fringe out of her eyes and felt her heart stop beating.

The setting sun was already starting to bleed burnt amber tones across the horizon and the desert below was bathed in a blanket of shadows and silhouettes. It looked so alien, so unfamil
iar but utterly, utterly breath-taking.

‘Perfect timing!’ gasped Danny as he threw himself down next to her, clutching a bottle of champagne that he’d pinched from the hotel bar. De-corking it easily, he took a slurp and passed her the bottle. She looked down at it and hesitated. She had downed enough booze this week to keep a small vineyard afloat.  

‘I’ve always believed that occasions such as these should be accompanied with a bottle of French’s finest,’ he urged her with a grin.

Polly looked back to the desert again.

‘I’ve never seen anything so beautiful,’ she murmured, taking the bottle from him.

Danny stared straight at her chest and was inclined to agree.

For the next few minutes they sat together in silence, watching the desert nibble away at the sun until the fierce orange glow was no more potent than a 20-Watt bulb. Polly continued to swig away until only the dregs were left but Danny didn’t protest. As the first stars began to twinkle merrily he reached out and took her hand. Feeling reckless and disconnected, Polly watched her fingers coil around his. The combination of the booze and the moment were overwhelming her. Turning to face him, she let him trace the curve of her left cheek with his thumb then slowly, gingerly, he leant over and pressed his lips firmly against hers.

At first
, she tasted champagne and the salty tang of sweat. Then she tasted warmth and hunger.  Pretty soon, the bottle of champagne was rolling back down the sand dune, discarded, as his arms snaked around her hips, slotting their bodies together. This wasn’t her, it was too impetuous, thought Polly, but she found she couldn’t stop.

As quick as a flash, Danny pulled her onto the secluded face of the dune out of sight from Khalil and the jeep. She felt his hand burrow deep beneath her t-shirt and then fumble at her shorts. A minute later he was inside her. She heard him groan her name and felt the rough sand graze her spine, coarse and unforgiving
, yet surprisingly soothing. Just as she was losing herself to the ever-increasingly waves, she felt him shudder to a stop like an Olympic sprinter two metres from the finish line. Then she heard the distinctive buzz of a mobile.

Danny broke away
immediately, muttering ominously about bodies lying in morgues as he tugged his phone from the front pocket of his shorts. At the same time, Polly sat up and clutched her head in horror. Without looking at him, she tugged down her top, wriggled back into her shorts and slithered back down the sand dune at break-neck speed.