Dirty Movies (50 page)

For Michael and Joe, the week leading up to the Academy Awards was consumed in a pantomime’s smoky puff of last-minute suit fittings, pricey haircuts, excruciating ‘face-lift facials’, as recommended by Christine, and an equally painful four hour round trip to the airport to collect Polly in peak rush hour LA traffic.

At the same time, magazines and online bloggers all over the world were frantically swapping their predictions for the big night. Even Hollywood itself seemed determined to
get into the party spirit. There were champagne corks popping all over town at the hundreds of pre-Oscar luncheons, dinners and fundraisers, all contributing to making this the biggest week in the movie-making calendar. Behind the scenes, the vast sets inside The Dolby Theatre were undergoing their final tweaks, the three hundred-odd production crew were toiling away like honey bees and long stretches of Hollywood Boulevard were being cordoned off in advance.

With the fluff of a thousand red carpets still caught between the treads of t
heir shoes, the Harper gang were more than happy to forgo the parties for a beer and a laugh by Michael’s pool. Across town, Stephen was showing no such restraint. Innocent until proven guilty, in Hollywood you were a winner until it was proven what a complete and utter arsehole you were. After storming through Awards Season, and picking up statuettes like sellotape did dog hair, Stephen was already being slapped on the back and congratulated at every party he attended. As a result, he tried to show up to at least three every day with an option for a fourth if the celeb count was guaranteed triple A.

On the Friday before the ceremony, Stephen
swung by The Dolby Theatre to rehearse his lines, included as he was in the very exclusive, extremely elite, forty-odd list of tremendously famous and talented individuals due to present awards on the night. Quite by chance, he had been allotted the ‘Best Supporting Actress’ category. He found this hilarious considering he had supported at least three of them stark naked up against his bedroom wall at one time or another.

Reeling off his auto-cue
word-perfectly, he allowed himself a moment to bask in the certain glory that awaited him here in less than forty-eight hours. The next time he stood before this magnificent auditorium, the covers would be off the huge Oscar statues lining the Boulevard outside, the three thousand-strong audience would be cheering his name and he would be walking off stage with thirteen and a half inches of the oldest, most prestigious film prize in history.

The following day, having spent a lazy, delightfully exhausting afternoon screwing his old paramour, Bunny Hopkins, Stephen made his way over to the annual pre-Oscar night Global Studios party on Sunset Boulevard. Stepping out of his car, he was immediately pounced on by a tense-looking Garrett who had been lying in wait for him in the hotel’s foyer.

‘Why the hell won’t Wilson pay my last invoice?’ he demanded
, as Stephen emerged from his limo.

‘Do I look like bloody payroll?’ snapped Stephen, pushing past. ‘I suggest you talk to him abo
ut it.’ As tall and rangy as his new business partner was short and fat, Stephen had never been a fan of Garrett’s. Now, with the Oscar in the bag, he could distance himself once and for all.

But Garrett wasn’t giving up easily.
‘I would if I could but my security pass has been revoked. Word is he’s a no show tonight too.’

‘Nonsense!’
spluttered Stephen. ‘His movie is in line for five Oscars this Sunday. Walt Wilson wouldn’t miss this chance to gloat for all the cocktail waitresses in West Hollywood.’

‘
That’s not what I’ve heard.’

‘From who?
Some Cosmos Pictures Junior Exec hell-bent on stirring it up? Have a cocktail and stop fretting. You’ll get your sodding money.’

He managed to shake
Garrett off then but his words lingered with him like a bad fart. Walt hadn’t been returning any of his calls this week either. What’s more, the completion of the new GBA/Global Studios contract was still dragging on. If Walt didn’t ink it now, then sod him, thought Stephen. Come Sunday night, he would have every other studio in Hollywood offering him bigger and better deals anyway.

Barging his way
through a horde of slick-haired, smooth-talking Acquisition Execs, he spotted Maisie over by the bar. She was sucking suggestively on a cherry and had a hand clamped, like a human jock strap, to Zach Roberts’ groin. Unsurprisingly, Zach’s oft-cuckolded hubby was nowhere to be seen.

‘What the fuck
are you playing at,’ he demanded, wrenching Maisie away.

‘Tit for tat
,’ she said sulkily, flicking her cherry stone at him. He batted it away angrily and it landed in a nearby partygoer’s Raspberry Cosmo with a plop. ‘I know for a fact you spent all afternoon with Bunny Hopkins, so I’m gonna spend all night screwing Zach Roberts.’

‘Like hell you are. I know you’re dim
, Maisie, but surely cracking onto an openly gay man is a ding dong clanger, even for you.’

‘Zach’s Bi, actually’ she retor
ted, ‘and WAY more than curious.’

‘You cheating whore!’

‘Oh go away Stephen, you’re boring me.’

‘Go fuck yourself, you mouthy bitch!’ How dare she disrespect him like this in public!

‘Joyfully’ she said nastily, grabbing Zach’s arm. ‘It’s way more satisfying than screwing you. Oh, and find yourself another date for the Oscars. I’m going with Zach.’

Stephen may have had a shot of Botox in both armpits that morning but he
was still sweating with rage. In a trice, he rounded up no less than three giggling beanpole Brazilian supermodels, settled them into a corner booth, charged a bottle of Cristal to Walt’s account and then sat back to drink in their adulation. Still, his mood didn’t improve. The party was, by all accounts, a dud. Walt was indeed a no-show, the celeb count was zilch, the cocktails were poor and, by late evening, most of the partygoers had scooted up the road to the Miramax bash at Soho House. Even a quick shag in the toilets with one of his eager beanpoles was a non-event. She had got her De Vries brothers mixed up and panted out Joe’s name by mistake. Consequently his cock had ended up fizzling more than firing and she had tottered off sniggering into her Blackberry.

By now, in
the foulest of foul moods, he stormed back into the lobby with every intention of collecting his coat and going home. Instead, he found his path blocked by a hairy blonde man with electric blue fingernails, a golden Californian suntan and ‘Surfer Dude’ stamped across the front of his faded t-shirt.

‘Mr De Vries
,’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘I’m Jesse Roth from
Hollywood Film
. Can I have a word?’

Barely breaking stride Stephen barged him out of the way like a seasoned shopper on the first day of the sales. He detested
Hollywood Film
. In fact, he detested any trade publication that had placed his brother’s movie above his in their Film of the Year lists.

‘Mr De Vries…’ persisted Jesse, trailing after him, ‘i’d r
eally like that word if you may.’

‘Talk to my publicist
,’ snapped Stephen, over his shoulder.

‘What publicist?’ asked Jesse
, innocently.

‘What do you mean
,
what publicist?
’ said Stephen, spinning round to face him. ‘Garrett. Patrick Garrett, you stupid moron. Everyone in this town knows that. All my press goes through him.’

‘I see
,’ said Jesse, trying not to smirk. ‘Would this be the same Patrick Garrett who quit your services exactly ten minutes ago?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous!
Why on earth would Garrett quit the night before the Oscars? It’s like Henry V pulling a fast one before the Battle of Agincourt.’

‘Except Henry was the underdog
,’ countered Jesse, showing off his English Major credentials. ‘Garrett resigned as soon as I showed him an article that’s appearing in our special Academy Award issue tomorrow. Would you like to take a look?’

Stephen scowled and tore the magazine from his outstretched hand. Glancing down
, he quickly discovered why Walt had shunned his own party that evening.

Moments later,
he knew he was finished.

‘What you need
is a haircut,’ announced Lucy, beaming at Lily. ‘Then Walt’s going to whisk you down to Rodeo Drive, do his best Richard Gere bit and glam you right up. Aren’t you, darling?’ she added to a frowning Walt, who was hovering by his vast stone grey fireplace beneath a priceless Picasso in his gargantuan drawing room.

‘If you say so
.’ He may be the most powerful man in Hollywood, but Walt was powerless to refuse a single thing that Lucy asked of him.

‘But I can’t accept that
,’ gasped Lily.

‘You can and you will
,’ insisted Lucy. ‘A hot date to the Academy Awards tonight is the very least Walt can do for you. You’ve spent hours slaving over a hot laptop for him, making him millions. And he was horrid to you in Cannes.’

Walt’s stee
ly grey eyebrows shot up. It was debatable what turned him on the most about Lucy - her boobs or her balls.

‘But aren’t you going yourself?’ asked Lily
, fretfully.

‘I can’t, I’m working. I promised my editor I’d do a report from the red carpet. He swung me an eleventh hour acc
reditation pass late last night.’

Lily scratched at her bare arm absentmindedly. It seemed so implausible that a posh frock and a hasty restyle would make Michael sit up and take notice
. Then again, she was in Hollywood. Maybe she should shoot for the archetypal happy ending and be done with it.

‘Ok
,’ she whispered, ‘I’ll give it a whirl.’

‘Great
!’ cried Lucy, jumping up from Walt’s cerulean-blue ten-foot long chaise longue, on which she had enjoyed far more than just sitting on in the last few weeks. ‘Project Michael is a-go! Now, as it’s a Sunday
and
Oscar morning, we may have to twist a few arms. Fortunately, Walt’s rather good at that.’

‘I’m on it
,’ he growled, whipping out his phone and dialing Serena immediately.

‘In the meantime, I’m going to call Polly and see if we can pinch Christine’s hair and make-up team for an hour or two
.’

‘This is crazy
,’ whispered Lily, but so were a lot of things since Walt marched her out of his hotel on Friday morning. There was the discovery that he wasn’t such a cold-blooded bully, then she had declared the entire contents of her heart to him, and finally, just when things couldn’t get any weirder, he had persuaded her to fess up to Michael and pledged his full support in helping her do so. As a result, she and Lucas had been holed up in Walt’s Bel Air mansion for the last two days whilst he and Lucy devised the best strategy to knock Michael off his feet with a well-aimed, impeccably timed missile of Lily Moore loveliness.

Eventually, they
had both agreed on the heady, breathless, razzle-dazzle of the Oscar red carpet. Where else could Lily legitimately materialise dripping in diamonds and looking a trillion dollars? Certainly not Michael’s doorstep. According to Walt, everywhere outside Bel Air was a no-go ghetto and she would have been mugged before she even made it up the drive. What’s more, once Lily and Michael’s eyes had met over the tops of the heads of all the diminutive action stars, they would still have plenty of time to scoot inside for a pre-ceremony smooch before the business end of the evening got underway.

Lily was touched,
despite a growing hunch that Walt’s intentions were mired more in self-interest. At the same time, her tiny bubble of optimism was being constantly pricked with razor-sharp needles of doubt. She was a single mum. She had an appalling track record with men and, despite her recent dramatic weight loss, it would take a billion Beverly Hills haircuts to put her within a single split-end of Michael’s league.

Over by
his Picasso, Walt was getting an earful from Serena. After his article had appeared in
Hollywood Film
this morning, her phone had been ringing off the hook with requests for interviews. She had just cancelled the rest of her Jane Austen re-enactment weekend to deal with it all.

‘And that’s not the worst of it
,’ she screeched at him. ‘I’ve had to take eighty-one messages from that revolting scamp, Stephen De Vries, alone.’

Walt was rather taken-aback by this. If it w
ere
he
who had been branded a ‘raging egotistical sadist’ and a ‘disgrace to the film-making community’, as he described Stephen so pithily in his article, he would have emigrated to Eastern Siberia.

Perhaps Stephen was planning to brazen out the allegations on the red carpet later? If so
, he would have a helluva lot to comment on, reflected Walt darkly. Vincent’s fraud, his protracted affair with Maisie, his contemptible treatment of his crew… Walt had skillfully drawn on every last rotting morsel from Lucy’s footage, before chucking in on final, savage missive of his own; That from this day forward, under absolutely no circumstances, would he, Global Studios or any of its hundreds of industry subsidiaries, have anything whatsoever to do with Stephen De Vries.

Across town, Joe was sat at Michael’s kitchen table in a white t-shirt and black Calvins, devouring Walt’s article in
Hollywood Film
. Polly was perched beside him, her feet resting on his knees, looking almost unrecognisable with her long dark hair wound into bright green rollers and half a tissue box rolled up and stuffed between her toes as the second coat of oyster pink nail varnish dried.

They both glanced up as Michael wondered into the kitchen. The American was already dressed in a crisp white dress shirt and tux trousers
. With his hair slicked back and bow tie undone, he looked more
Ratpack
than Dean Martin himself.

‘I know you paraphrased it to me last week but
, my god, this thing is brutal!’ exclaimed Joe.

Michael smirked and grabbed the orange juice carton from the fridge door. ‘Now you know why I had to bury it
.’

‘You can’t drink that!’ cried Polly, butting in. ‘
Aren’t you sick with nerves? My stomach feels like Mike Tyson’s punch bag.’ She watched in amazement as Michael pulled out a fruit salad and started snubbing the grapes and picking on the pineapple chunks.

‘I think my
body’s in denial,’ he said, grinning at her.

‘You and Stephen both
,’ murmured Joe. ‘There’s no way in hell he’s going to wriggle out of this one.’

‘He can’t. It’s completely unrecoverable
,’ said Michael simply. ‘The article’s not just a character assassination, it’s a veiled threat to the rest of Hollywood to steer clear. That’s why Dad needed to retract it before the ballots closed.’

Joe turned back to the
paper. He had waited three long years for Stephen’s comeuppance, but now that it was here, and in spite of all the dreadful things he had done to them, he couldn’t bring himself to take any pleasure in his brother’s spectacular downfall.

‘The bit I can’t piece together is how your father found about Vincent and the
Harper scripts in the first place.’

Polly stopped testin
g her nail varnish with a toothpick. ‘Ah, I think I might have some idea about that,’ she said cagily, as her phone started ringing. ‘Speak of the devil... Hi Lucy,’ they heard her mutter, maneuvering the handset in between the rollers. At the same time there was a knock at the front door.

‘Fucking media
,’ growled Michael, slamming the fridge door. With his father refusing to speak to the press, his front lawn was once again being ripped apart by their broadcasting vans.

‘I’ll handle it
,’ called out one of Bill’s team from the hallway, as Polly squeezed past with her phone clamped to her ear.

‘I want a word when you’re done, honey
,’ called out Michael. ‘I get the feeling there’s something you’re not telling us.’

Just then
, Bill’s publicist appeared in the kitchen’s doorway with a very neat looking man wearing an exceptionally well-ironed black polo shirt tucked into his underpants and clutching a russet brown leather briefcase.

‘I didn’t realise you took house calls from your accountant
,’ murmured Joe as Michael dived forward to greet him.

‘Mr
Peterson!’ he yelped. ‘Holy crap, this is a miracle! I’ve been trying to reach ya all week!’

‘I’ve been on holiday, Mr Wilson,’ snapped Mr
Peterson tersely, ‘which also happens to be in your neck of the woods, so I decided to swing by and deliver my final invoice to you in person. Of course, if I’d known what a jungle awaited me on your front lawn, I would have emailed it to you instead.’ This was added somewhat reprovingly, as if the press intrusion was entirely Michael’s fault.

Joe hid his sniggers behind
Hollywood Film
. He had never met anyone so bureaucratic. What on earth was he doing in sunny California? The man should be camping in Slough. At least then all the little grey buildings would match his personality.

Meanwhile
, Michael was gazing at him with a bewildered look on his face.

‘
How can this be your final invoice?’ he said, as Ray thrust a manila envelope at him. ‘You haven’t supplied me with what I requested.’

This time it was Ray’s turn to look confused
. ‘Mr Wilson, i’m not ordinarily in the habit of repeating myself and, as I explained last week, the subject of your investigation has been staying in Los Angeles since January. In fact, I’ve just received word that she and her son were seen leaving The Global Studios Hotel & Spa in the company of your father, no less than two days ago.’

‘You’re telling me that Lily’s been here in LA this whole time? With my
father
?’

‘Mr Wilson’ said Ray, frowning, ‘I’m afraid this is all very muddling to me. You seem to be acting as if our entire phone conversation
last week never took place.’

‘But it didn’t! It couldn’t have! I left my phone in my f….’ Michael stopped.
Without another word, he turned on his heel, grabbed his car keys and barged headfirst into a blizzard of blinding flashbulbs.

By the time he reached the pampered verges and sprawling mansions of Bel Air, Michael’s heart was thudding painfully against his ribcage. Not his father, please god not his father, he kept repeating to himself over and over again.

Glaring coldly at
Walt’s security team, he tore up the driveway with his foot to the floor, spraying tiny bullets of ice white gravel in all directions. He reached the house just as Lucas came bouncing out of the front door like a jolly blonde beach ball. He was sporting a
Mutinous Pirates
T-shirt and clutching a grey, plastic cutlass between his teeth.

Michael squealed to a stop.  The little boy had shot up at l
east three inches since Morocco. Pure happiness, due in part to two days exclusive use of Walt’s four swimming pools, radiated forth from him like sunshine.

‘Michael!’ he screamed in delight, catching sight of his face above the steering wheel.

In a flash, Michael was stumbling out of the car to reach him, catching his shoe under the clutch and leaving it discarded in the footwell.

‘Lucas
,’ he muttered, as the little boy threw himself into his arms.

‘I still like bugs
,’ he announced. ‘And I really like your daddy’ he added, grinning up at him. ‘He’s a lot nicer than mine.’

Michael flinched
as if Lucas had stabbed him through the heart with his plastic cutlass. ‘I’m glad you like him, Lucas,’ he managed faintly. ‘Does your mom like him too? Is she happy here?’

Lucas nodded.

‘Is she around? Can I speak to her?’

Lucas shook his head. ‘Nope. She’s gone shopping with Mr Walt
.’

Just then
, a short, pixie-faced blonde, the same blonde from his father’s office, appeared on the porch, shading her eyes with one hand.

‘Lucas, sweetie, your fish fingers are nearly done
,’ she chirped then froze when she saw Michael, shoe-less and white-faced, standing in the driveway.

Michael stared
back at her in horror, assuming she was Lucas’ new nanny. Oh Lily, he thought to himself, helplessly, you’re a magnet for the world’s most inappropriate childcare. The blonde and his father were clearly screwing each other’s brains out. No great surprises there. His father had always had a thing for his nannies.

‘I have to go
,’ he muttered into Lucas’ hair suddenly, wrenching himself away.

‘No, please, don’t
,’ cried Lucy, taking a step forward. ‘Walt and Lily won’t be long. I’m expecting them back any minute.’

‘
Then tell ‘em I said
hi
,’ he said bitterly.

Moments later, he was tearing back up the driveway again.