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  ‘This better not be a wind-up, Polly,’ she warned, wriggling herself into a sitting position.

  ‘It’s not, it’s not, I swear. I’m seeing Stephen’s office manager at midday. See - i’ve got her number and everything.’ Polly waved the tatty scrap of Empire in Lucy’s face. Lucy whipped it out of her hand and gazed at it in amazement.

  ‘Luuuce, I have a tiny favour to ask...’

  Lucy groaned. She knew exactly where this was heading.

  ‘Oh alright, you can raid my wardrobe,’ she sighed, ‘but only because I know how many CVs you posted off and how much you worship Stephen De Vries, and ONLY if I can play Dolce to your Gabbana.’ Lucy leapt out of bed then and went splat into her own pizza box entrails. ‘My black trousers are off limits though,’ she added, grimly, peeling a rogue slice of soggy tomato off her heel. ‘They’re the only thing in my wardrobe that make my legs look like Cindy Crawford’s and I’ve got a date with that guy from the Picture Desk tonight.’

  Chapter Three

  Weaving her way through a gaggle of truanting teenagers and pursed-lipped, late-morning commuters, Polly jammed herself into the last cramped corner seat on the 10:48 to Waterloo. Her stomach was fluttering with more butterflies than a Kew Gardens conservatory and she was having to ram her trembling knees together to stop them banging against the officious-looking pin stripe next door. Her cheeks flushed as he misread the signs and wriggled closer.

  Yuck, thought Polly, ignoring him and gazing out at the billboard posters and graffiti titivating the dirty station walls instead. At the same time, she wriggled a thumb into the waistband of Lucy’s skinny jeans to alleviate the bite marks. Trust me to set my heart on something two sizes too small, she reflected gloomily, cursing the triple choc-chip muffins from the deli round the corner. They only ever came in pairs, but if you guzzled one, you felt obliged to finish the other in case it developed isolation issues.

  Caught up in the colourful chaos of Piccadilly Square thirty minutes later, she made her way through the hustle and bustle of a busy morning in Soho, retracing the very same steps that her hero Stephen De Vries had walked the previous morning. Grinding to a halt, and ignoring the wolf-whistles from a gang of predatory traffic wardens, she glanced up at an enormous brushed metal plaque.

  GBA Pictures Ltd.

  Taking a deep breath, she pressed the buzzer. A soft, husky voice answered immediately.

  ‘GBA, can I help you?’

  ‘Hi, I have an appointment to see Janie Reed?’

  ‘You must be Polly Winters. Welcome to GBA. Right to the top of the stairs please.’ There was a low mechanical hum as the door unlocked.

  Stepping into the lobby, Polly blinked and looked about in surprise. It appeared the lovely-sounding woman had beamed her aboard the USS Enterprise by mistake.

  As her eyes adjusted to the gloom, she noticed a small staircase opposite. She edged closer and came across a small gallery of framed GBA film posters. Before she could stop herself, Polly reached out to touch one then sprung away guiltily as a door at the top of the stairs banged opened and a surly but exceptionally beautiful girl flounced out. She had a icy cool detachment that only the ridiculously attractive possess.

  Plastering a smile on her face, Polly belted up the steps but the girl simply glared at her.

  ‘Hello, I’m Polly,’ she stammered.

  The girl sniffed. ‘You here for the interview?’

  Polly nodded brightly.

  Frosty blue eyes softened then to show the faintest trace of pity before she barged past her and out into the street with a clatter.

  ‘Miserable cow,’ muttered a voice, as a mass of dirty blond curls materialised in her place. ‘You must be Polly. I believe you’re here to see me?’

  Polly re-attached her smile at record speed and shot out her hand.

  Janie Reed was hauntingly pale and dressed from head to toe in black. The only splash of colour came from heavy purple shadows encircling both eyes, so conspicuous that for a split-second Polly thought she was sporting a pair of hideous comedy glasses.

  ‘Well come along, come along, no time to dawdle in the corridor,’ she heard Janie say as she grabbed her wrist and frog-marched her across the hallway and into the production office. Polly stumbled in Lucy’s unfamiliar heels, ricocheted off the doorframe and only just managed to right herself before she collided with a large oval reception desk in front of her.

  Behind a row of the messiest desks she had ever seen sat three women, their faces partially obscured by towering piles of documents, over-loaded paper trays and groaning lever arch files. Nearby walls were plastered in shooting schedules, telephone lists and old film location photographs. Even the computer monitors were coated in triffod-like trails of yellow sticky notes that appeared to multiply before her very eyes. Telephones kept bursting into life like they were being zapped by ER heart paddles, and the low drone of nervy chatter buzzing around the room was hypnotic. No one bothered to acknowledge Polly except a timid-looking girl with very fine, ash-blonde hair sat nearest the door. She looked up and smiled. At the same time the fax machine next to her started beeping Morse code and spewing out a sea of bright yellow pages. Her neighbour leapt up from her desk to catch the cascade before racing past Janie and Polly and bellowing at the top of her lungs,

  ‘Hold the blackmail Vincent, the permit’s come through!’

  ‘Oh, thank god!’ whistled Janie, slumping in relief against a large photograph of Stephen De Vries accepting a Golden Globe from Tom Hanks. ‘We’ve been waiting for that location permit all morning. Sorry for the chaos, Polly, but we fly to Morocco in two days to start prepping for our new movie, A Desert Affair. The last few weeks of pre-production are always utter madness.’

  Polly ummed and ahhed in sympathy but was quickly distracted by the sight of six immaculately polished BAFTA Awards on the bookcase opposite.

  ‘Gillian, do you have sec?’ she heard Janie say, ‘i’d like you to meet Darcie’s replacement.’

  ‘Darcie’s what??’ Polly whipped round in shock.

  ‘Well, do you want the job or not?’

  Polly’s answer was instantaneous.

  ‘Good. Now we’ve got a helluva lot to get through this morning to bring you up to speed. First, meet Gillian, she’s our production manager,’ explained Janie, nodding at a skinny redhead in the corner. Gillian glanced up from her laptop and narrowed her eyes at Polly before snatching up her telephone. Two seconds later she was gabbling away about the merits of various camera-stock whilst curling the phone cord around her dirty fingernails.

  ‘And this is…’

  ‘Are you sure?’ interrupted Polly suddenly, ‘are you really, really sure? Have I really got the job?’

  Janie allowed herself a small smile. ‘It’s a little unorthodox I know, but we’ve simply no time to dot the ‘I’s’ and cross the ‘T’s’ today. Besides, you were the only one who answered her phone at 6am this morning. Stephen axed one of our runners last night and with the amount of work we’ve got to get through I need someone smart and keen to able to start right away. You’re up for the challenge, right? Your CV certainly suggests you are.’

  Polly nodded frantically.

  ‘That’s what I thought. Now, moving on… Next to Gillian sits our production coordinator, Rachel, whom you just saw disappearing into our producer’s office. And this is…’

  ‘Lily, Lily Moore,’ interrupted the timid-looking girl rising from her desk. ‘Hello, i’m GBA’s script supervisor.’

  ‘Lovely to meet you Lily,’ Polly smiled, recognising her voice from the intercom.

  ‘I’ll explain everyone’s job roles once the team are out of the door on Friday,’ continued Janie, ushering her out of the room, ‘right now you better meet Vincent. Stephen’s on very important business at the Ritz again this afternoon so he won’t be back for the rest of the day.’

  There was an imperceptible snort from Gillian’s direction at this.

  ‘Nice to meet you Polly,’ whispere
d Lily.

  Marching up the corridor, Janie screeched to a stop outside another door and rapped brusquely on the frosted glass. Polly glanced uneasily at the splintered imprint of a fist in the doorframe.

  ‘Vincent?’

  No answer.

  Janie tried again. ‘Vincent? Can I come in?’

  ‘Fuck Off’ screamed a voice eventually, ‘I’m on the fucking phone to fucking LA!’

  At the same time the door opened a few inches and the girl from the production office stuck her head out and made a face. Beyond her brown ponytail, Polly caught her first glimpse of Vincent Edwards, far fatter and balder than any of his photo-shopped press images suggested. The famed producer was slumped over his desk and clutching a telephone receiver so tightly that his knuckles had turned the same colour as his office manager’s face.

  Meanwhile, in an attempt to slip through the crack in the door undetected, Rachel’s belt loop snagged on the door handle. Losing her balance, she caught Vincent’s wastepaper basket with one flailing foot and cursed as a waterfall of crushed, empty Diet Coke cans clattered to the floor. Vincent looked up at the noise and glowered. As quick as a flash, he picked up the industrial-sized stapler on his desk and lobbed it in Rachel’s direction. It pinged painfully off her large bottom, but she shot out of the room without so much as a whimper. She gave Polly a flicker of a smile as she passed.

  ‘Don’t look so shocked, he’s chucked a thirty kilo camera peli-case at me before. Best not to go in there for a bit,’ she added, turning to Janie. ‘Walt and Michael have just vetoed casting Maisie again. Vince is fuming.’

  As if to illustrate this point, Vincent started bellowing into his phone.

  ‘What the hell do you mean she’s over-exposed?? She’s a goddamn movie actress you stupid cretins!’

  ‘Walt Wilson is the Head of the Studios in Hollywood and Michael’s our newly appointed Exec,’ explained Janie to Polly quickly. ‘Those three can never agree on anything, let alone casting. Sounds like Walt and Michael are pushing their luck today though. We’re meant to start shooting a week on Monday.’

  ‘Typical GBA chaos then,’ muttered Rachel.

  ‘Which isn’t helped by you standing around gossiping all day,’ retorted Janie. ‘This is Polly, Darcie’s replacement. Can you show her the ropes whilst I grab Gillian? She needs to calm Vince down before he upsets the whole of Global Studios.’

  ‘No problem, she can help me pull back the ring tab on his ninetieth diet coke today! C’mon Polly,’ said Rachel, grinning at Polly’s expression. ‘Let’s get you acquainted with your new best friends; the photocopier and the kettle.’ And with this she led Polly through a side door and into a kitchen so small, it probably moonlighted as a broom-cupboard at the weekends.

  ‘So where did you work before?’ she asked her, ‘Working Title? Tiger Aspect?’

  ‘Nowhere actually,’ admitted Polly shyly. ‘This is my first job.’

  Rachel looked at her, aghast. ‘Shit! Janie must be desperate! Oh sorry, that didn’t come out right,’ she added quickly, seeing Polly’s face fall. ‘Look, i’m sure you’re more than capable…it’s just that the revolving door of runners in this place drives us nuts. Stephen insists on screwing them, which invariably leads to him dumping them when something better comes along.’

  Polly gaped at her in shock.

  ‘We’re four down this year already’ she went on, chucking an open carton of milk that smelt suspiciously curdled back into the fridge. ‘Stephen and Darcie were in LA heaps last month for pre-production meetings. That’s when he nailed her first.’

  ‘But why fire her if they were having an affair?’ gasped Polly. ‘Surely that’s as good a reason as any to keep her around?’

  ‘Not after last night’s dramatics. She turned up at Stephen’s apartment to give him a copy of the script changes and some Hollywood actress answered the door in her underwear. Darcie did her nut, keyed his favourite Ferrari then chucked a rock through his window.’

  ‘Maybe it was his wife?’

  ‘That old soak?’ retorted Rachel scornfully. ‘No chance, she’s back in rehab. Bella’s fuming she has to go to Morocco now. Probably doesn’t have a plug adapter for her hair straighteners, stupid cow.’

  ‘Bella must be the blond girl,’ guessed Polly.

  ‘How do you know that? Oh hell, you’re not friends are you?’

  ‘Not exactly. We passed on the stairs earlier.’

  ‘Surprised she didn’t push you down it. Stephen only hired her because she was the first brainless bimbo to walk through the door.’

  ‘Are Bella and Stephen …?’ Polly cast furtive glances around the kitchen. It would be terrible if the director had a secret listening device hidden in the bread bin.

  Rachel shrugged. ‘It wouldn’t surprise me. Hey do you fancy a brew while we’re here? I’d take advantage of the quiet moments if I were you. You’ll discover they’re rather few and far between.’

  Polly watched in awe as Rachel shoveled tablespoons of coffee into an enormous cafitiere. She had never met anyone so willing to divulge such sensational scandal. Working at GBA was going to knock the socks off data-entry.

  Following a guided tour of the stationary cupboard, the girls headed back to the production office and Polly was shown to her new desk.

  ‘You’ll be sharing this space with Bella, you lucky devil,’ grinned Rachel, tipping several large rolls of thick black gaffer tape off her chair.

  Polly smiled weakly. It was hard not to survey the oval reception desk with anything other than horror. The space was a chaotic Everest-sized mountain of paper and clutter, and the occasional glimpses of neon pink post-it notes looked like Sherpas bounding up the sides.

  ‘What time shall I start tomorrow?’ she asked Rachel, faintly.

  The coordinator clucked at her in sympathy. ‘I think you’ll find you’ve already started. Janie will chat to you about salary and stuff when she gets back, but in the meantime, do you mind copying that script for me?’ She indicated to a thick wad of paper on the desk. ‘I hope you’ve had lunch. I need ninety-eight copies bound and set for a meeting at two.’

  Chapter Four

  Stephen had been pimping for work in the downstairs bar of his ultra-hip, members-only Soho club when he first clapped eyes on Vincent Edwards. Choking on his cigar, he watched agog as a one-man hurricane charged through the mahogany doorway, effing and blinding at anyone stupid enough to get in his way. All around him people started sniggering into their brandies. Even Stephen felt the corners of his mouth twitch. There hadn’t been this much uproar at Sunset House since he was caught shagging the coatroom attendant in the bogs.

  ‘By jove, is that Vincent Edwards?’ brayed a colleague suddenly, causing Stephen to choke on his smoke for a second time. That man couldn’t be the flourishing Independent Producer he thought incredulously, running his eyes over the sweaty, overweight stranger. For starters, he looked too out of place, too ridiculous compared to the well-heeled superficiality of the rest of the film industry crowd.

  Vincent was decked out in a cheap, ill-fitting suit that barely covered his waist and with turn-ups that hovered a good few inches above scuffed brown brogues. His face didn’t fare much better. His stubble, the colour of homemade marmalade, was patchy and scraggly as if a hungry moth had nibbled at it in the taxi ride over, and, when he opened his mouth to demand a bowl of peanuts, his teeth were as crooked as his budgets were purported to be.

  Vincent had burst onto the scene two years previously with a series of astonishingly successful low budget, east-end gangster movies that were rumored to bear more than a passing resemblance to his past. Such achievements were deemed unprecedented for a first-timer, especially one who didn’t appear to possess a single scrap of a producer’s understanding of a film’s appeal and marketability. What Vincent did have, however, was a super-human talent for squeezing every last bean out of a budget, whilst pocketing a cut on the sly. He was also a brute and a bully with a ferocious temper that t
errified the life out of everyone. Industry insiders often commented that his success had more to do with production company bosses’ inability to say no to him rather than any discernible filmmaking talent.

  Shoveling up a fistful of peanuts, Vincent clocked the young director scoping him out. Neatly dodging the incoming swell of high-end production executives, he made his way over. Vincent wasn’t remotely interested in working for them anymore. He was fed up of being offered bore-fest Indie scripts with budgets less than this evening’s bar bill. Vincent had spent years compromising originality for financial reasons and enduring funny tummies from all the cut-price catering on set, and from now on he would only be considering movies with a minimum of eight car chases, like Stephen’s De Vries’ latest, Gung-Ho in Guatemala. Vincent’s exposure to the pulsating vein of success had stirred up a vampire-like obsession that had moved him beyond the narrow streets of Soho. His natural greed and competitiveness demanded more and he wouldn’t be satiated now until he was feasting on the big boys in Hollywood.

  If Vincent had one fatal business flaw, however, it was his fatal attraction to those with a similar blood-sucking ambition. He recognised a kindred spirit in Stephen almost immediately. In turn, the director was more than a little envious of the jaw-dropping acclaim that Vincent’s films were generating. Currently in post-production on his third Hollywood feature, which incidentally had more cheese than a margherita, Stephen was itching to set up his own company and forge a cracking first look picture deal with one of the major studios. This would give him the money and the freedom to pick and choose great scripts, as well as a fast-track to the Oscar podium.