Dirty Movies (43 page)

Polly was elbow-deep in Lucy’s Frosties when she heard the news on Radio 1. Whipping out her hand and sending sugary flakes in all directions, she pounced at the television for more details. At the same time, her phone started ringing. It was Lucy in a state of unqualified excitement.

‘Have you heard? Have you heard?’ her friend whooped jubilantly. ‘Sly Sy’s done a number on Stephen!’

‘What happened?’ gasped Polly, scanning the news channels for more morsels of information.

‘Some wonderful
ly Good Samaritan slipped Sy’s team the footage from Morocco, the night Joe called Stephen out about Cassie. He played it live on air. Stephen had a total meltdown.’

The line went quiet.

‘Polly? Polly? Are you still there?’

‘Yup’ she croaked. The events of that evening were
still there in inglorious Technicolor, every time she closed her eyes.

‘So anyway, he pulled
out Cassie’s suicide letter. God knows how he got his mitts on it. Then Stephen makes a run for it. I’m not kidding, you can actually see him sprinting off stage and colliding with the floor manager. Why is it that the ones who dish it out, like germs in flu season, always cower like wimps at the first sign of payback?’

‘No idea
,’ muttered Polly, but all she could think about was Joe. The awful truth would go some way to expounding his behaviour at the Globes, but to have it played out, or rather
read-out,
so publically must have been ghastly.

Just then
, her phone started buzzing. ‘Can I call you back Lucy? Someone’s on the other line.’

‘Sure but
check out
YouTube
later.’

Polly’s heart was in her mouth as the other call connected. The prefix indicated it was coming from America.

‘Polly!’ yelped a familiar voice. It wasn’t Joe but it was the next best thing.

‘Michael! I’ve just heard! Are you ok?’

‘Not really,’ he said bleakly. ‘I’ve got the world’s media pounding tyre tracks into my front lawn, two bruised ribs and a black eye from my Cinematographer which is now turning the most appalling shade of yellow. Oh, and Joe’s gone AWOL.’

Polly was horrified. ‘Are you sure? Since when?’

‘That’s why I’m calling, to see if you’ve heard from him. He left his hotel first thing for a meeting with me and our publicist, but he never showed.’

‘
We haven’t spoken. Not since…’ she shrugged helplessly at the phone.

‘Damn. Listen honey, if by some miracle he does get in touch, can you call me?’

‘Of course. And vice versa.’ Polly had a nasty thought. ‘You don’t think he’s done anything silly do you?’

Michael brushed it off immediately. ‘No
way, he’s more likely to be in some 80s retro bar toasting his BAFTA nomination.’

There was a pause.

‘What nomination?’ asked Polly.

‘Some Special Achievement by a Brit or something.
It was announced earlier today.’

‘But that’s amazing!’

‘Yeah it would be if he’d stuck around to find out about it. Christine got another nod too. And Benito.’ he added grimly.

Polly got the sense that the subject was still as sore as the ribs.

‘Look I gotta go, you keep in touch ok?’

‘I will. You too
.’

Polly hung up and started picking stray Frosties out of the fruit bowl. Bloody hell, she thought irritably
, encountering a coven of mushy green grapes beneath an overripe banana. Now, on top of finding a new job, finishing off her script and somehow managing to stop being mad at Joe, she was going to have to worry like crazy about him as well.

Joe rung the bell on reception then waited. The place was deserted but he could hear the unmistakable sounds of
Friends
in the adjoining office. Once the credits started rolling, an old woman with more lines on her face than a wrap party toilet cistern poked her face round the door.

‘Can I help ya?’

‘Got any cabins for tonight?’             

‘No cabins
,’ she sniffed, turning back to the TV, ‘but we got us a canvas tent going spare.’

‘Great, I’ll take it
.’

‘
It’s round the back of the site.’ she said, doubtfully, as the theme tune filtered into reception. Another episode was starting.

‘That’s no problem
.’

‘And n
ear the food lockers, so the bears might come sniffin’. It’s been a mild winter…’

Even better, thought Joe. Right now
, the thought of being gobbled up by a hungry bear sounded a lot more enjoyable than the alternative; being eaten alive by a pack of paparazzi.

With one last lingering look at the TV set, the woman heaved herself out of her chair and shuffled over to the row of keys above the front desk.

‘That’ll be 50 dollars.’

‘Can I pay upfront? For the week?’

‘Sure,’ she shrugged, glaring at his shirt and jumper. ‘That all you got? It gets pretty cold at night this time of year. You need a sleeping bag. Those tents aren’t heated, you know.’

‘Ah.
’

‘Here
,’ she said, reaching under the desk and flinging one his way. ‘We keep a spare for you townies. That’s freshly laundered this morning.’

Joe shot her a grateful smile and counted out his change. 

Once satisfied, she grabbed a torch from the same shelf. ‘Ok son, follow me…’

The day
had been all but a memory by the time he reached Yosemite National Park. Still reeling from Sy Jacob’s expose, and determined to get the hell out of LA before the media got wind of his whereabouts, Joe had hired a car first thing and belted up the coast to San Francisco, yet one look at the vista of shimmering skyscrapers had sent him scampering east. With no set plan and no mobile phone, hours later he found himself following signs for the
Black Bear Lodge
and parking up in the dark shadow of a sheer grey cliff face.

‘You keep up with me now
,’ warned the woman, as she toddled on ahead, leaving Joe nothing but the clicks of her old joints as guidance. Past the cabins and out past the shower blocks, he saw nothing but darkness and the occasional frenetic flash of torchlight until, finally, they reached a dingy white canvas structure on stilts, nestled beneath two enormous trees. It had a flimsy wooden door and three warped steps leading down which, on closer inspection, the mites had clearly taken a shine to. 

‘Here ya are. Normally I’d give ya a map and send ya on ya way but you don’t look the map sort
,’ she sniffed, shining her torch at his Converse. ‘You have a good night now. There’s a café up by reception if you’ll be wanting food in the morning…’ And with that, she waddled off into the darkness again like an arthritic penguin.

Joe
eyed up the tent uneasily. He wanted a great escape from it all but this was ridiculous. Unlocking the door, he was hit by a powerful, earthy smell and the pong of damp hiking socks. Still, the bed seemed clean enough, if a little clammy. Spreading out the sleeping bag, he took off his trainers and climbed in, zipping up quickly.

F
or the next hour he tossed and turned on the narrow camp bed, unable to find comfort in any position. No matter where he ran, there would be no escape from Cassie’s adulterous legacy now. Pulling the flimsy pillow out from under his head, he gave it a good pummel. He couldn’t understand why the hurt felt so fresh and so raw. Then it dawned on him. Maybe he hadn’t faced up to it at all? Maybe, despite all this time, he still hadn’t come to terms with the fact that his wife had cheated on him with a brother more depraved than a celluloid villain?

Joe lay there staring at the dark. There were no distractions here. No super strong Mozambique cocktails to befuddle him, no Sam to screw, no intense movie project to develop, direct and sell. Just a steady creaking of the branches above his tent and a mattress that was thinner than the front row occupants of a New York fashion show. He flipped onto his side again and groaned
. The night stretched out before him like the vista from the start line of a marathon.

The next day he rose early. For a while he sat shivering on the steps of his tent with his sleeping bag wrapped around his shoulders, entranced by what he saw. Below the purest blue skies he had ever laid eyes on, lay a carpet of the richest spread of greens, all bounded by great, milky-grey cliff faces rising, like industrial tower blocks, out of the undergrowth. Even the trees dotted along the tallest ridges looked like deputies on the lookout for stray paparazzi.

Joe breathed in the chilly morning air and felt himself relax for the first time in months. Here h
e felt safe. Here he would stay. At least until the public thunder storm hanging over his personal life had cracked its last bolt of lightning.

Polly
cleaned out the manky fruit bowl, the cutlery drawer and under the sink twice, before she decided enough was enough and took her worries for a jaunt into town instead.

A
fter trailing up and down Carnaby Street, with nothing to show for it except an earring splurge in Accessorize, she rang Janie to see if she fancied a spot of lunch, or rather an invite to be pumped shamelessly for the latest news on Joe. To her delight, she discovered that her former colleague had also felt the need for a chinwag and, quite by chance, had booked a table at
Giuseppe’s
for herself and Rachel, whom she had just bumped into tearing out of Topshop. 

‘Why don’
t you join us?’ Janie suggested. ‘Perhaps with half a bottle of Frascati and a bowl of calamari stultifying your senses I’ll be able to persuade you take your old job back?’

No chance
, thought Polly, arriving first and settling into the corner seat. It didn’t matter how freely the booze flowed this afternoon, her mind was set. She was going to find herself another production job and finish her script. Besides, she would rather get bashed about by Stephen again than suffer the agonies of sitting in an office with Joe. There was too much history, too much hurt. Plus, she was still fuming with him.

There
was a kerfuffle over by the door as Janie and a slim but vaguely familiar girl bustled into the restaurant, shaking out their umbrellas, getting their handbags caught up in their scarves and generally joking around with the waiters as they clogged up the entrance. It was only when they were herded in her direction that Polly recognised Rachel. Having shed at least two stone, swapped her mousy hair for a blonde bob and dumped all the glassy glaze of disenchantment from her eyes, her old friend looked incredible. They fell upon each other with squeals of delight as Polly said as much.

‘A month in
Serenity,
’ winked Rachel. ‘Cost more than our dear, departed Vincent’s annual diet coke allowance but it was worth every penny.’

‘I can’t get over it
,’ gasped Polly, hugging Janie too. ‘I hardly recognised you.’

‘Nor I, you
,’ said Rachel with a slight frown. Polly looked completely flattened, like a loaf of bread that had been trapped at the bottom of a shopping bag.

‘Janie told me what happened with Joe
,’ she said softly. ‘I know it’s no excuse but he’s such a screw-up at the moment. Did you see all that stuff with
Live with Sy
?’

‘I saw the highlights
,’ said Polly in a choked voice.

‘Couldn’t
happen to a nicer dickhead. I wonder if he’ll turn up for the BAFTAs now? His turgid Romanian shite is nominated for shed-loads.’

‘
All depends on the Oscar nominations in a couple of weeks,’ said Janie, picking up her menu. ‘If he’s in the running, he’ll show, irrespective of his traumatised ego. He needs that Oscar more than ever now. These awards are all about relentless promotion, which is why Joe couldn’t have chosen a worse time to skip out on us. We need to keep the buzz on our film, not family feuds or absent directors.’

Rachel picked up her menu too. ‘Walt’s demanding Stephen
holds a press conference to give one of those mawkish speeches that disgraced athletes do. You know, when they’ve had their penis antics splashed across the press.’

Janie looked at her in astonishment. ‘Where on earth did you hear that?’

‘I spoke to Danny an hour ago.’

‘How is he?’ asked Polly eagerly. ‘I haven’t seen him since Romania
.’

‘He’s ok. Stephen promoted him
to 1st AD on his last project.’

‘
Yikes, has he any hair left?’

‘Not much
,’ said Rachel, frowning again. ‘He looks a bit like a survivor of The Somme, all haunted eyes and riddled by shell shock. He asked after you by the way. Told me to say hi.’

Just then the waiter arrived to take their drinks order.

‘A bottle of the house white, please,’ said Rachel cheerily. ‘I don’t have to be back at my desk ‘til 2.’

‘I didn’t realise you’d gone back to work?’ said Polly in surprise.

‘Data-entry for the Council,’ she confided with a grin. ‘Mindless, mindless nonsense but I actually get a lunch break! A lunch break, I tell you! Someone actually had to explain to me what that was.’

Polly started giggling. Meanwhile Janie was looking very
putout.

‘Here I am
, sat with two amazing production people, and neither of them wants to work with me!’

‘R
ather the pay-cut than a guaranteed heart-attack by forty,’ drawled Rachel. ‘So what’s your excuse?’ she asked, turning to Polly.

‘I’m job-hunting
,’ she mumbled.

‘Don’t you mean Joe-hunting?’ she asked slyly
, as Janie shot her a warning look. Polly shook her head quickly and dived behind her menu.

‘
Any sign of him?’ she heard Rachel ask, as she gazed unseeingly at the seafood specials. 

‘Nope
,’ said Janie, ‘but he can’t have gone far. He left his passport in the hotel safe, plus Michael spoke with the concierge and he hired a car that morning.’

‘I reckon he’s
booked himself on a three day tour of great 80s movie landmarks,’ joked Rachel.

‘He’s already done that,
’ said Polly automatically.

Janie
and Rachel shared another look

‘Well if I can’t persuade you ladies to work for me, perhaps I can persuade you to
party
with me instead,’ said Janie, changing the subject. ‘Michael’s insisted I invite you both along to the Harper BAFTA aftershow party at
Sunset House
next month.’

‘Ooh
, yes please!’ said Rachel accepting on the spot. ‘I need some good gossip. Working for the council is proving somewhat predictable in that department; my overweight boss is sleeping with his blonde secretary, everyone despises the office manager and there’s been a huge outcry after someone left a rotten avocado at the bottom of the staff fridge.’

Polly
shook her head. ‘Sorry Janie but I can’t.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous! You want to stay working in this industry, right?’

‘Yes, of course, but…’

‘Then you, my lovely, need to network and where better than a roomful of tanked-up British filmmaking talent?’ said Janie firmly. ‘Plus, when Stephen puts in an
appearance,
everyone
ends up at
Sunset House
on BAFTA night, we’ll be able to pelt him with ice cubes.’

‘Sounds fun
,’ grinned Rachel. ‘They’ll only stick to him, mind. That man is one big block of cold.’

‘Better keep your distance with that sexy new haircut
,’ warned Janie. ‘Betcha he tries it on with you.’

Rachel made a gagging motion with her finger. ‘So what do you say, Polly? Will you be my chaperone?’

Polly watched the lady at the next table break her breadstick in half. That’s what Joe’s done to my heart, she thought in anguish.

‘Oh
, what the hell,’ she said, draining her glass and holding it out for a top up. ‘It’s not every day I get invited to a free bar at
Sunset House
.’

When Polly arrived home six hours later, she was so full of zesty pomodoro sauce that her stomach had surpassed the stage of ‘simply full’, and was now the source of untold misery. Worrying herself sick about stretch marks, she crashed through the door with a great garlicky hiccup and collided with a huge stack of cardboard boxes that had been left in the hall. Hearing the commotion, Lucy shot out of the lounge with a notebook in hand and reading glasses perched on top of her cropped blonde hair like a pair of scientist’s goggles.  

‘Careful!’ she screeched, diving protectively in front of the boxes as if they were precious treasure chests.

‘I’m ok thanks for asking,’ huffed Polly, rubbing her knee. She watched her friend gently drag the nearest box towards the lounge. ‘What is all this stuff anyway?’

‘It’s umm…’ Lucy stopped as a gust of stale Frascati wafted her way. ‘Polly Winters! Have you been drinking?’

‘I may be a little tipsy, yes, so it’s all the more reason not to make obstacle courses in our hallway. By the way you haven’t answered my question.’

‘Its work,
’ explained Lucy, gently tapping the side of the box with her toe. ‘My informant finally came through for me this morning. These are the copies of the footage the police confiscated from Stephen’s stalker.’

‘Don’t tell me
you have to watch
all
of them?’ Their flat currently resembled the inside of a BBC rushes library.

‘There are more boxes in the kitchen and living room
,’ confessed Lucy. ‘I even had to store a couple in the bath.’

‘Do you really have to watch every single one?’

‘I’m an investigative journalist, silly. Do you know how many of my colleagues would murder their own mother in laws to get their hands on these discs? Stephen De Vries is a walking, talking, hush-hush exclusive. The man’s shagged every actress from here to Hollywood, not to mention all the dirty backroom deals he’s been privy to over the years. I could land every front page from here to next year with the stuff I uncover from this lot!’

‘
Ok, so what have you discovered so far?’

‘Nothing great,
admittedly. Just a lot of Stephen scratching his balls. Still, I’m only four discs in…’

‘Any sign of my small screen debut?

‘Only to deliver coffees and fiddle around with his pot plants. You overwatered them by the way.’

‘Lucy
Richards. Investigative journalist and budding indoor gardener,’ teased Polly, ‘what a multi-talented individual you are.’

Lucy rolled her eyes and turned back to the lounge. ‘For goodness sake, stop gassing and go and make me another coffee. Better
still, dig out those emergency chocolate muffins. I’m pulling another all-nighter and I need all the sugary provisions I can lay my hands on.’

The clock on the DVD player was blinking 4:37am. Lucy stamped the pins and needles out of her foot and loaded up another disc. Stifling a yawn, she zipped through the first few minutes of Stephen and Vincent engaged in another tedious head to head in the director’s office.

After twelv
e straight hours of watching those two blather on and on at each other, Lucy had learnt all of two things. One, that their conversations rarely strayed from money, or rather how to extort more from Global Studios, and secondly, each conversation inevitably included a dig at Michael Wilson, or some horribly misogynistic comment about Polly. There had been no strippers hanging off Stephen’s fancy designer uplighter or starry-eyed wannabe devouring him on the leather sofa, just two revolting people, boring on at each other’s egos which, in her mind, was considerably less enjoyable than a screen full of static.

Mentally shelvi
ng her front-page scoop and centrefold bonanza, she was soon despairing of even a single paragraph in a second-rate Sunday supplement showbiz pullout, when all of a sudden Vincent slumped forward onto the desk and put his head in his hands. It was such an uncharacteristically defeatist gesture that Lucy leapt up from the sofa with a cry.

With trembling fingers, she hit the pause button, freeze-framing Stephen’s stunned expression. Rewinding rapidly, what she learnt over the next minute sent her elevated pulse gallo
ping faster than Red Rum.