Dirty Movies (49 page)

Blis
sfully unaware of how close he had come to plummeting from Hollywood Player to Hollywood Pariah in a matter of three hundred words, Stephen continued his aggressive Oscar campaign as the golden five week window, from the announcement of the nominations to the final ballot date, drew ever closer. He even put in a couple of appearances, albeit fleetingly and somewhat begrudgingly, at the last two remaining LA Award ceremonies of the season; The Art Directors and Costume Designers Guild Awards.

Stephen also made himself indispensable to the printed press, so long as they gave him final copy approval
. Before long, his smirking features were plastered across every magazine cover, from the more respected publications such as
Premiere
and
Variety
to the downright puerile,
Romanian Pet World
. He had even press-ganged a few of his Hollywood buddies into organising a last-minute memorial concert for Vincent, resulting in an emotively-charged screening of his former producer’s ‘final masterpiece’ for the benefit of all the undecided Academy Members in attendance.

Michael and Joe watched GBA’s all-out saturation of the Academy Voter’s senses unfold with clear
, if not slightly wistful, consciences as they kept plugging away as the gutsy underdogs. Learning that his father had pulled the article, Michael had begged his old mate to bury the story until the ballots closed. Eventually, Jesse had complied but only after an all-expenses trip to a Surfer’s Paradise of his choice had been booked. 

Back
in London, spurred on by Michael’s encouragement and inspired by Joe’s success, Polly was going all-out on her script and attending an interview for an in-house post at Working Title. Both she and Joe agreed that her returning to Harper was a silly idea. She would only end up doodling love-hearts and ‘Mrs De Vries’ signatures all over his budgets, and he was pretty sure that he’d spend his days dreaming up excuses to drag her into the stationary cupboard. Nevertheless, Polly was planning to fly out once the ballots closed, to offer expert hand-holding and relaxation, well for Joe anyway, in that final, nerve-wracking week before the Academy Awards ceremony itself.

In LA, Joe was missing her like crazy and driving Michael
around the bend with his constant cooing. He got it, he really did. The guy was head over heels, but it hurt to see someone so crazy happy when you were such a misery-out-of-love-guts yourself.

Michael
was also worrying himself sick over Lily’s disappearance and getting increasingly ratty about all the fictitious press articles linking him with actresses he had barely brushed past. Every interviewer he talked to seemed mildly troubled by his single status as well, as if the thought of a lone, good-looking heterosexual was somehow more alarming to their readership than child poverty or the current crisis in Syria.  Truth was, he didn’t have a clue who, or what, he wanted anymore. He just knew that every time he thought about Lily his heart thudded painfully. 

To make matters worse
, he and his father had stopped speaking again, though not for lack of trying on his part. Feeling bad about his outburst, Michael had left a string of contrite messages with Serena. The very least he could have done was FedEx his cell back to him, he reflected crossly, three days later, after he rushed out to buy a new one then spent the rest of the afternoon figuring out how to use it. But as another week passed it seemed destined to be lost forever in the vortex of Walt’s office, alongside the snuffed out careers of every headstrong young buck who had dared locked horns with him.

As it happened, Walt had been far too busy staking out the elegantly decorated, pale peach hallways of The Global Studios Hotel & Spa Complex to take a listen to, let alone return, any of his messages. Ever since he had intercepted the call from the odious Mr Peterson, he was obsessed with revealing the identity of Lily Moore. Alas, she was proving more elusive to him than his son’s Oscar chances on Sunday. As he sat there glowering in the lobby, for the ninth morning in a row, next to a huge vase of red roses and a large black and white photograph of himself snapped by Mario Testino, waiting for a glimpse of the damn woman and her damn son as they snuck into breakfast, he was beginning to understand why it had taken Magnum PI such an age to track her down.

In
frustration, he started fiddling with the strap of his million-dollar
Patek Philippe
wristwatch. The stupid woman was around here somewhere. The evidence was irrefutable. The bed sheets in her room were crumpled every morning, the complimentary coffee sipped, the minibar’s Pimms plundered. But from 7am until late, each day, Lily Moore simply upped and vanished from shot like some CGI marvel. Of course, he could have requested that hotel security march her downstairs in the middle of the night in her pyjamas, but he had an inkling that such brash, ham-fistedness would only make a bad situation worse, especially after he had convinced himself that this Lily character was the key to making everything ok again with Michael.

For her part, Lily was taking full advantage of the increased limit on her Barclaycard to stay put in California for as long as possible. Unfortunately, after a three-week all-inclusive stay at the
Happiest Place on Earth
, she and Lucas had been forced to swap the inner gushy, mushy sanctum of
Disneyland
for Walt’s Wilson’s far more price-savvy establishment on the outskirts of Hollywood, sandwiched between the industrial sprawl of Cosmos Pictures and the Global Studio’s empire itself.

Determined to exploit the free Global Studios Adventure World pass that came with every
room reservation, Lily and Lucas had been rising early each morning to beat the park’s admission queues, and not returning to the hotel until the very last ride had closed. Lily didn’t mind riding rollercoasters all day but she drew a line at the Global Studio’s Star Tour. The main appeal seemed to be a snail crawl past Vincent’s newly erected cenotaph and his exact point of impact. As much as Lucas detested his father, Lily didn’t want to expose him to all that just yet. At least not until he was old enough to graffiti profanities over it. 

Irrespective of Lucas’s delight at being able to ride the
Mutinous Pirates
rollercoaster everyday, switching hotels had been a bumpy return to reality for Lily. The thought of being this close to Walt Wilson again, regardless of his ten-foot security fence, filled her with terror. What’s worse, the black and white portrait of him hanging in the hotel lobby was a dead-ringer for the man she was hopelessly in love with.

Lily could sense Michael everywhere. This was his past
, she told herself, as she sat in the armchair by the window that morning, sipping her coffee and waiting for Lucas to stir. It might even be his future if he emerged victorious from The Dolby Theatre this Sunday. Staring down at the tiled roofs of the production company bungalows, she couldn’t help imagining all the important meetings he might one day conduct there. Blinking back the tears, she kicked off her trainers and crawled into bed next to Lucas.

‘Come on lazy bones
,’ she whispered, snuggling up to his little warm body. ‘At this rate those pirates will be setting sail without you.’

‘Silly pirates
,’ murmured Lucas with a yawn but he was soon up and dressed and swinging off the door handle in excitement.

‘I don’t see why
we have to eat breakfast,’ he grumbled, as they stood waiting for their lift to arrive. 

‘We
better stay here then,’ said Lily, blithely. ‘Those pirates want able-bodied seamen ride their rollercoasters, not poor famished weaklings.’

‘Hadn’t thought of that
,’ said Lucas, frowning. ‘It’s definitely second helpings for you then.’

Laughing, they stepped out of the lift together and made their way across the lobby, past the concierge desk and out towards the restaurant. Lily was surprised
at how crowded the hotel was. Then she remembered that they were running an hour later than usual. Trading smiles with the pretty receptionist, Lily watched her eyes hover past her left shoulder before widening in shock

‘Lily? Lily Moore?’ roared a voice
, suddenly.

Lily froze. She
would recognise that sharp, bullish drawl anywhere. In a panic, she glanced pleadingly at the receptionist, as if she might somehow rise from her desk and whisk them to safety, the service here was spectacular after all. Instead, the girl seemed far too busy pretending to be busy, as her big boss strode their way, parting the lobby like Moses.

‘I said
, are you Lily Moore?’ growled Walt again, placing a leaden hand on her shoulder. Lily watched his eyes flicker over her face. ‘Wait…don’t I know you from someplace?’

‘Get your hands off my mummy
, you big bully,’ piped up Lucas, glaring up at him with all the fearlessness of youth.

Walt let go
of her immediately.

‘My apologies
,’ he said, lips twitching. ‘I didn’t mean to frighten you. Either of you.’

‘She needs to eat her breakfast so that she can be
come a pirate,’ explained Lucas, slightly mollified.

‘I see. Then, perhaps I can suggest somewhere a little more private
?’ he said, directing this at Lily.

‘Have I done something wrong?’ she asked
, faintly.

‘I hope not
,’ murmured Walt. ‘Please,’ he insisted, herding them towards the front of the lobby. ‘I’d prefer to do this in my office and my car’s waiting outside.’

Once Serena had
arranged a guided tour for Lucas of the entire Global Studio’s Mutinous Pirates storage collection, which included a life-size, frighteningly realistic, sixty foot long Pirate ship, and no less than eighty-one stuffed green parrots, Walt directed Lily into his office, attempted to fortify her with a pint of freshly squeezed Californian oranges and insisted she take a seat on one of his sofas. Lily meekly did as she was told. She clutched her glass like it was a poisoned chalice and waited for the axe to fall.

Walt sat down in the leather sofa opposite, crossed his legs and undid his jacket button in one single motion.

‘How do you know my son, Miss Moore?’ he asked her calmly.

Lily stared at him in shock. He didn’t remember her!

‘We worked together,’ she answered, quietly, glancing at his balcony. ‘I was a GBA employee for seven years.’

His eyes narrowed again.

‘You look so familiar…Are you sure we haven’t met before?’

Lily stared down at her orange juice, got a waft of its juicy sweetness and felt sick.
Her reprieve had been fleeting.

‘We met in Cannes, Mr Wilson
.’

‘Oh?’

‘At the
Spartan’s Fury
after-show party.’

There was a pause
as Walt frantically tried to remember if Lily was one of girls he had partied with that night. She didn’t look like one. She was too guarded, too delicate. Her trembling fingers were too pale and her wispy ash-blonde hair was almost certainly natural. Most of those gold-digging broads had steel plates welded to their St Tropez tans.

He shook his head. ‘Sorry, honey, but I don’t recall….’ Suddenly he stopped. ‘Wait a minute
,’ he said, rising to his feet. ‘I know you! You’re the chick who confronted me about Michael.’ As he said it, he stabbed an accusing finger at her. ‘You’re the one who told me not to cut my losses.’

Lily cringed against the black leather. ‘I’m so sorry Mr Wilson
,’ she gasped, too terrified even to cry. ‘You were right. It was none of my business. I never should have said anything.’

‘Well I’m fucking glad you did
,’ said Walt, his thunderous expression breaking into a smile. ‘You look real different though,’ he added, sitting back down. ‘I don’t remember you being so…’ he stared down at her newly slender thighs in their black skinny jeans, ‘…so cute.’

Lily gaped at him. 

‘How d’ya know he was planning to leave Global?’ he asked her suddenly.

‘Michael confided in me about it in Morocco.’

‘You two must be pretty close.’

She shook her head. ‘Not really, but your son was very kind to me and Lucas.’

Walt looked puzzled. ‘If you weren’t close then how come he’s had the most expensive PI in London trailing you for the past two months?’

Lily dropped her glass of orange juice. It caught the edge of the expensive coffee table, flipped 180 and deposited it
s contents all over Walt’s even more expensive-looking burgundy carpet.

‘Oh my god
!’ she cried, leaping up in horror. ‘I’m so sorry, Mr Wilson!’

Walt shrugged
it off as he reached for his intercom. Lily Moore sure did a lot of apologising.

‘Serena, put a call through to house cleaning, would ya?
’

‘Certainly, Mr Wilson
.’

He let go of the button again.

‘How do you know?’ she said him, trembling like a blade of grass caught in a thunderstorm. ‘How do you know about the PI?’

‘N
ever mind that’ he said hastily. ‘To be honest, honey, I’m more interested in
why
he had a PI on you.’

He
watched Lily’s face crumple then, as swiftly and silently as a house of cards. Ah crap, thought Walt, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.  Bolshie young A Listers he could handle but tearful young women were a different matter altogether. Even Serena was a dud with this one. She was about as comforting as a rusty nail.

‘Miss Moore
?’ he said gruffly, as she sat there with her face buried in her hands. When she didn’t respond, he navigated his way around his enormous coffee table and sat down next to her. There was something else going on here. He just hadn’t figured it out yet.

‘I’m so sorry
again, Mr Wilson,’ hiccupped Lily, mopping up a puddle of tears that had pooled into a crease in the leather. ‘I don’t mean to ruin your sofa. Or your lovely carpet,’ she wailed, spying the damp patch spreading beneath her feet.

‘Fuck the carpet
,’ said Walt blandly, ‘and fuck the sofa for that matter. What’s the deal here, darlin’?’

‘No deal
,’ she sobbed, shaking her head. ‘It’s just that… Oh Mr Wilson’ she wailed suddenly, unable to hold back any longer. ‘I think I’m in love with your son.’

As she dissolved into tears again, Walt sat there in stunned silence before allowing himself a small smile. Aha, he thought,
his mind racing wildly.

Bingo.