Authors: Cate Andrews
Polly blinked back the tears and gazed out at a sea of adoring faces. In the front row she spotted her parents
, clapping like mad and bursting with pride. All those tense confrontations over her decision to study Media Studies A-level instead of French or Physics or indeed anything other than learning how to twiddle volume nobs, as her dad liked to put it, forgotten in this one glorious, glorious moment. Even Joe was there with tears of joy streaming down his face. He had swapped his combats for a smart black tux but she could still spot the tips of his black and white converse poking out from the bottom of his trouser legs.
All of a sudden,
the Stage Manager started signaling at her to wind it up.
Stop waving at me like a windmill
, buster, she thought glaring back. I’m not even CLOSE to finishing.
‘And next up
, I’d like to thank… ’ Polly trailed off then as the rapt silence of an elated audience was rudely interrupted by a wave of muffled thumping.
How
ridiculous, she thought indignantly, wagging her finger at the Stage Manager. Surely the builders should have finished constructing the set
before
the ceremony began. Moments later, the sumptuous surroundings of Hollywood’s Dolby Theatre began to distort and take on the form of cracked terracotta tiled flooring, bruised cream walls and a dusty old air-con unit hanging above the bathroom door. Polly groaned as reality struck, followed closely by another nauseous wave of another stinking hangover.
The thumping started up again.
‘Get a move on, Polly! Breakfast ends in thirty minutes!’
Glancing at her alarm clock
, she jumped out of bed in a panic. In her fuzzy-headed stupor, she misjudged the distance between the wall and television cabinet and caught her little toe on the corner of her suitcase. She was still screaming blue murder when she yanked open the door.
‘Morning Polly
,’ greeted Joe cheerfully, giving her a casual once over. ‘I like the getup but perhaps you should layer it up a bit. I wouldn’t want you giving Vincent any encouragement this early on in the shoot.’
Glancing down
in confusion, Polly encountered faded pink and yellow striped M&S granny pants and an old
Boyzone
T-shirt that had risen up to expose her belly button. Shrieking in horror, she slammed the door and clasped her hands to her face.
‘C’mon darling
,’ sniggered Danny’s voice. ‘I can’t vouch for Mr Virginal here but I’ve definitely seen it all before. Ouch!’ he yelped, as Joe clipped him sharply round the ear.
‘Not of me you haven’t
,’ she muttered. And where was that bloody great hole in the ground when you needed it? She scanned the dusty tiles for a gaping reprieve.
‘C’mon Polly, get a move on!’
Reluctantly, wiping the sleep from her eyes, she threw on a pair of shorts and T-shirt and opened the door again. Danny and Joe were lounging against the wall opposite joking with one other but they broke it off as soon as she and her burning face emerged.
‘I’m blaming the beer
,’ she whimpered, tugging at the T-shirt.
‘You wouldn’t be the first
,’ said Joe, raising an eyebrow. ‘Granny pants eh?’ He pulled up the waistband of his Calvin’s. ‘I guess these days old age buys you wisdom
and
fashionable underwear.’
‘But not taste in music
.’
Joe laughed. ‘Touché!’
Danny looked at them in bemusement. ‘I haven’t a clue what you’re both gabbing on about but can I suggest we discuss it over grub? My stomach’s rumbling louder than an F1 engine over here.’
Polly’s first breakfast in Morocco kicked off, poolside, with two black coffees hearty enough to keep her twitching for days and the company of one Irish rogue, who would no doubt do likewise if given half the chance. Joe didn’t say much, he was too busy fending off Vincent’s emails on his iPhone, but as the edges of her hangover started to evaporate, like the stray white petals of jasmine being sucked into the pool drainage system, she was soon giggling along with Danny’s lewd references to half-naked runners.
Never one to leave a good joke hanging, the Irishman was still teasing her when they arrived at the Studios an hour later
, but all that vanished when they walked into the production office.
‘
Oh thank god you’ve arrived!’ cried Rachel, racing over to Joe and clinging to him like a monkey.
‘
Easy Rach, you’re strangling me.’ Joe gently removed her arms and straightened up his polo shirt, but not before Polly caught a glimpse of a taut stomach with lots of sexy black fuzz. ‘Come on, hit me with it,’ she heard him say wearily, ‘i’ve had my coffee, I’m feeling invincible.’
Rachel took a deep breath. ‘Stephen took an earlier flight without telling a
nyone. He’s due here any minute.’
Both men stiffened.
‘And Vincent’s let slip that Michael’s flying in a week early,’ she wailed. ‘He’s taking it out on EVERYONE. Nancy’s crying in the wardrobe trailer because he told her the costume designs were shoddy, and Roger’s refusing to draw any more set designs until Stephen apologises for threatening to throw his models out of the window.’ Rachel started chewing on her fingernails. ‘Oh Joe, what are we going to do?’
Joe thought
quickly as he ran his hand through his curls.
‘Danny, nip and have a quiet word with Roger would you?’ he muttered over his shoulder, ‘tell him I’ll come by in a bit. I’ll go and perk Nancy up myself. If they quit now we’ll sink like a sto
ne.’
‘Ay Ay Captain’
Polly watched them sprint off down the hallway together with a thousand unanswered questions buzzing around her head. Who was Roger? Who was Nancy? And how come a cool-headed Joe in a crisis was way more appealing to her than Brad Pitt in his boxers? Meanwhile, Rachel was blowing her nose and peering ruefully at her over a sea of white bog roll.
‘Poor cow
,’ she muttered. ‘Seems you couldn’t escape the Moroccan mayhem after all.’
Polly shook her head,
suddenly overwhelmed by the task that had been thrust upon her at 6am yesterday morning. Like a nervy sparrow, her eyes kept darting to the door. Any minute now, Stephen De Vries was going to waft into room, all heady and macho like an uber-expensive aftershave. Hiccupping uneasily, she hoped her hangover wasn’t making a comeback.
‘Well, i’ve baggsied you a desk next to me
,’ she heard Rachel say. ‘Our IT Tech wizard is trying to fix you up with an Internet connection but I wouldn’t hold out much luck. His ten-minute work intervals are usually interspersed with three hour-long cig breaks.’
‘Okay..
.’
‘And t
hat’s Stephen’s room next to Vincent’s,’ she continued, pointing to a door off the main office. ‘He’s too vain to wear glasses, but far too tight-fisted to pay for contacts so he prefers to keeps his target practices close-by. God forbid he mistakes the desk lamp for your head.’
Polly giggled but Rachel’s expres
sion stayed as po-faced as a Vegas poker champ’s.
‘Is this place living up to your expectations then?’ she asked
her suddenly, blowing her nose on a fresh swathe of bog roll.
‘Umm sure, it’s great! Fantastic!’ enthused Polly
, ignoring the filthy floor, bric-a-brac collection of broken book cases and the spidery web of cement cracks spreading like wild ivy across the ceiling. ‘Where are the others?’
‘Gill and Vincent are still shacked up in their hotel room. You’ll notice they tend to work different hours to the rest of us
,’ replied Rachel, a note of contempt creeping into her voice. ‘And Lily’s son has a tummy bug so she won’t be in till later.’
‘Lily’s
son
?’ Polly was surprised.
‘Yes.
Lucas. He’s five and such a sweetie. She always brings him on location, along with her slutty, permanently sozzled Australian nanny. One gin, sans tonic, and the silly cow’s anyone’s. Charlene’s more commonly known round here as the set bike.’
Polly looked confused.
‘As in everyone’s had a ride…?’
‘Ah.’ There was clearly little love lost there. ‘So is Lily’s husband here too?’
‘Nope. No hubby or baby-daddy as far as I can tell.’
Just then
, Polly spied a very, suave photograph of Stephen presiding over them from the office pin-board. Rachel followed her gaze and snickered. ‘It’s customary to have photos of cast members stuck to the walls of production offices but Stephen insists we include one of him as well.’
Polly stared at the photo again and felt her stomach lurch.
‘Oh Rachel, how am I going to cope?’ she gasped, ‘i’ve only just learnt to make coffee in a cafetiere. Oh hell, is it six scoops again or seven?’
‘Seven. And don’t look so terrified! Janie’s asked me to hold your hand. To be honest
, i’m so relieved that I don’t have to put up with Bella i’m happy to carry the extra workload. Remember to note down any request from Stephen,’ she said, plonking a large empty notebook down in front of Polly, ‘and always keep an up-to-date script and contact telephone list with you, just in case he starts demanding numbers in between takes, which he will do,
frequently
. And if you’ve any problems with flights, accommodation, difficult girlfriends etcetera, let me know and I’ll help sort it out.’
Polly looked at her doubtfully. ‘You’re making it sound relatively manageable
.’
Rachel laughed. ‘Am I? Just keep your head down and maintain that steady supply of teas and cafetiere-made coffees. This particular army marches on Tetley and organic roast
alone…’
‘Sound advice
, Ms Matthews,’ drawled a voice from the doorway. ‘Stick the kettle on and I’ll rally the troops.’
Polly turned and felt her stomach drop. International Superstar film director
, Stephen De Vries, had somehow snuck into the room undetected and was now standing right behind her with a dangerously unreadable expression on his handsome face. There was a horrified pause before Rachel sprung into action, bounding forth to shower him with sycophantic salutations.
‘St
ephen! How wonderful to see you! You’re looking well. I trust you had a good flight?’
‘Not bad
,’ he snapped, glaring at her. Stephen loathed ugly girls on his film sets but Gillian refused to work with anyone else so he put up with Rachel for Vincent’s sake. Batting away her enquiries as to whether his hotel room was luxurious enough, he chose to focus all of his attentions on Polly instead, who was, by all accounts, a far more attractive proposition.
‘The hotel assu
red me you had the finest room,’ prattled on Rachel regardless, ‘and we’ve had the bedding you like flown in direct from Harrods.’
‘Be quiet you stupid girl!’
His words were as effective as a gorgon’s stony stare. Neither girl moved as he continued his silent assessment of Polly.
‘So you must be my new r
unner,’ he said quietly, flashing a perfect set of gnashers in her direction. Polly was a helpless rabbit caught in his headlights. It took a swift nudge in the ribs from Rachel to eject a response.
‘Oof. Yes hello
, Mr De Vries, very pleased to meet you. I’m Polly, Polly Winters.’
It
came out all stilted but Stephen simply raised one perfectly plucked eyebrow and continued to sweep icy-blue eyes over her body. As the seconds dragged on, Polly began to feel a bit like a stalked wildebeest on the Serengeti, an analogy not helped by the fact that Stephen’s long dark hair was uber sleek and mane-like in appearance. No curls there, she noted, silently comparing him to Joe. Both brothers were undeniable knockouts, but whilst the younger sibling was all messy mop, shabby-chic, Stephen was as primped and preened as a red carpet on Oscar night. As she stood there waiting for him to speak, she couldn’t help wondering how long his immaculate streaks of crisp auburn highlights took to apply.
‘Pleased to make you acquaintance
, Polly Winters,’ he said eventually, turning on his heel. ‘Bring me my coffee when you’re ready. I’d like to go through a few things with you before our production meeting tomorrow.’
As he disappeared
into his office, both girls looked at each other in horror.
‘You don’t think he heard the bit about his difficult girlfriends
, do you?’ whispered Rachel, ashen-faced.
Polly gulped. ‘I doubt he would’ve bothered with the pleasantries if he had
.’
‘Well
, for goodness sake, go and make his coffee. We need to keep him happy for as long as possible!’
Nodding meekly, Polly belted over to the prehistoric kettle
. She then had to wait ages for the stupid thing to wheeze and cough its way to boiling point. Hopping from one foot to the next, she mulled over the last few minutes with a dash of elation and a big, fat lump of disappointment. She had expected to feel a little intimidated, star-struck even, but not this gnawing disquiet. It wasn’t the fame or his fearsome reputation that unnerved her. Behind the façade of pomp and casual indifference was a man so cold he could make Jack Frost shiver.