Blushing at Both Ends (8 page)

And, with a contented smile on her face, Susie slept.

5

Motivation

IF ANYONE STARTS
telling you how glamorous Hollywood is, it's a fair bet they've never worked there. Because, believe me, Hollywood is mostly frustration, bullshit and hard graft – especially if you're trying to get a movie project off the ground. And all the more so these days, when most of the studio ‘executives' are jumped-up, slick-suited young know-nothings who think movie history began with
Star Wars
. OK, maybe one or two of them – the brighter ones – have just about heard of Hitchcock. But mention Hawks, Lubitsch or Capra, and watch their eyes glaze over with ignorance and indifference.

You'll have gathered I don't much like Tinseltown. In fact, if it was up to me I'd never set foot in the place. As a Brit film director, I've enjoyed a fair-to-moderate career making movies my side of the pond where the bullshit level – though still high – is at least tolerable most of the time. But this latest project I was working on needed a bigger budget – some $35 million or so. And to raise that kind of money, you generally have to get into bed with one of the major Hollywood studios.

So here were Don, my producer, and I in La-La Land, pitching our project and hoping for a break. We'd been in LA a week, and things weren't going too badly; both Universal and Miramax seemed tempted to
bite
. But it would need at least another couple of weeks pitching, and already I was nauseous from the crap I was having to talk. With my last meeting of the day over, I headed thankfully back to my bungalow at the Château Marmont (hell, if you have to do LA, you might as well do it in style), looking forward to a quiet evening. There was a cocktail party up Laurel Canyon where some good contacts might be made, but I decided to leave that to Don. He's far more of a party animal than I've ever been, and schmoozing comes naturally to him. Anyway, what else are producers for?

I'd just settled into the jacuzzi with a long cool drink when the phone rang. That'll be Don, I thought, telling me what a great party it is and how I
must
come right over; so I let it ring. But then I heard the answering machine kick in, and a soft husky voice said, ‘Leo? Pick up if you're there, sweet friend and mentor. It's Luci.'

Dripping, I lunged for the phone. ‘Luci! How did you know I was in town?'

‘Oh, word gets around, my love – you know how it is here. But how come
you
haven't called
me
? Darling, I'm deeply hurt.'

I gave a short laugh. ‘Honey, take a reality check. A lot's changed in three years. You're now stratospheric; Keira snarls at the mention of your name. Me, I'm still a hack Brit director. I wouldn't get past your assistant PA's assistant PA.'

‘Oh crap, Leo, cut the humble bit.
You
can always reach me any time; you know that.'

‘Well, sweet of you to say so. And I'd love to see you, my darling. Shall we do lunch? How's tomorrow?'

‘Oh, Leo,' she said. There was that little sad catch in the voice I could never resist. ‘Leo, couldn't I come over now? Please?'

I had to pinch myself. This was Lucinda Lee, one of the biggest, highest-paid movie stars in the world,
asking
– no,
begging
– to be allowed to come over. To see
me
. Things must be serious.

‘Luce, what's the trouble?'

‘Oh, Leo, it's this new film. You know,
Angel's Kingdom
? I just can't get into it.'

I'd heard about it – an
Indiana Jones
-type romp, with Luci top-billed as the female adventurer. ‘Sounds right up your street. Is the script bad?'

‘No, the script's fine. It's the director.'

‘Jed – whatsisname – Gassner? A first-timer, right?'

‘Yes. He's a sweet guy, but he just can't give me what I need. Oh, sweetheart, you know what that is, don't you? What I always did need? What you could always give me?'

I knew, all right. ‘Motivation?'

A happy sigh wafted down the line. ‘Oh, Leo, honey, I
knew
you'd understand.'

‘Come on over,' I said.

Three years ago . . .

‘Lucinda Lee?' I asked incredulously. ‘The supermodel? You serious?'

Don leant back in his chair and grinned. ‘Leo, you're a snob. Supermodel doesn't automatically equal bimbo.'

‘Not automatically, no – just usually. And, even if she's not, what makes you think she can act?'

‘See for yourself in a minute. But, first, think through the logic. With Hugh's fee taking up such a chunk of the budget, we can't run to a big-name co-star. Now Lucinda
is
a big name – but as a model. As a first-time actress, we can get her cheap. Clever or what?'

‘Not clever at all, if she's a crap actress. Hugh'll walk. And then where will we be?'

‘OK, wiseguy. Watch this tape, then tell me to go fuck myself.'

There were four commercials on the tape. I'd vaguely noticed them before, but now I paid close attention.
Lucinda
looked beyond lovely, of course, everyone knew that, but now I realised something else: the camera adored her. Then came – oh crafty Don! – a screen test.

When it finished, I glared at him. ‘Without saying a word, huh?'

He shrugged, all innocence. ‘You were busy. It was just a hunch, and I didn't want to bother you. Well – so?'

‘Yeah, OK, you win. She's got something. Whether it's enough is another matter. But let's call her agent.'

Don's grin widened. ‘I already did.'

A week into the shoot, I knew Don and I had made the biggest, dumbest mistake of our careers. If we still had careers. Oh, Luci had potential, all right – but bringing it out was another matter.

You see, she
wasn't
dumb. That was half the trouble. She'd prepared for her big break by swallowing a stack of books, and she'd overdosed on Stanislavsky. Now the Method is fine for a lot of actors – but not if you're a natural. Which Luci was – or would have been, if only she'd let herself. Instead, she was making herself hopelessly self-conscious, blocking off her own instincts. ‘What's my motivation here?' she kept asking.

I felt like telling her what Spencer Tracy said when faced with some young Method-addled type: ‘Listen, son, I'm too old, too fat and too goddamn rich for this shit. Just play the fucking scene!' But something told me it wouldn't go down too well. So I tried to coax her out of it . . .

Without success. Spooked by her own inexperience, she reacted badly, complaining about minor details of costume or lighting, demanding retakes or added close-ups, generally getting on everyone's wick. ‘Who's she think she is?' I heard one disgruntled grip ask another. ‘Julia sodding Roberts?'

To make things worse, she was a hopeless timekeeper. An eight o'clock call, to Luci, meant 8.45 – if we were
lucky
. I suspected that her years as a supermodel, with everyone kowtowing and deferring, had spoilt her. Maybe in the rag trade they don't mind that kind of thing so much. But in the movies delay can do horrendous things to your budget. You've got actors and technicians stacked up in holding patterns, all highly paid, and the costs are ballooning by the second. So at the end of the first week I took her aside and tried to explain this. She tossed her tawny-blonde head with an ‘Oh what a
fuss
' sigh, and muttered something offhand about the traffic.

‘Come on, Luci,' I retorted, ‘don't give me that shit. There's a limo waiting for you at six thirty every morning, and Jim's one of the most reliable drivers in the business. If you're late, it's not the traffic, it's
you
.'

She looked at me with those beautiful grey-green eyes as if I'd crawled out from under something unsavoury. With an effort I held my temper. ‘OK, Luci,' I said, ‘enough already. From now on you're here at eight on the dot every morning, OK?'

‘Whatever,' she said, and swanned off.

Monday morning. Eight thirty came, and nine . . . and still no Luci. To fill in we started rehearsing the takes scheduled for after lunch, but everyone knew what the trouble was. I glimpsed Hugh, a professional if ever there was one, raising one sculpted eyebrow in exasperation. Any moment now he'd be calling his agent, wanting out – and then we really
would
be in deep doo-doo.

Finally, just before nine thirty she showed. Looking – just to make it all the more infuriating – drop-dead gorgeous.

‘Sorry,' she said airily. ‘Overslept.' She shot me a sidelong glance as if to say, ‘And just what do
you
intend to do about it, lowlife?'

That did it. ‘OK, everyone, break till ten,' I announced. ‘Luci, I'd like to see you in my office, please.
Now
.'

Two minutes later she was sitting across from me on the couch, those lovely long legs crossed, one impeccably moulded kneecap pointed at me like the muzzle of a pistol. Her attitude radiated disdain, but underneath I sensed insecurity and need. For all her outward sophistication, I reminded myself, she was only 23.

‘OK, Lucinda,' I began. ‘First off, let me make one thing clear – you're not indispensable to this movie. Not by a long shot. You may be numero una in the rag trade, but here you're just another first-timer with no track record. Time enough to act the prima donna when you've earned it. As it is you're in gross breach of contract, and I'm well within my rights to fire you right now.'

‘You can't,' she protested. ‘I've shot all those scenes. You'd have to –'

‘Reshoot them all with another actress? I know. But I'll be happy to do that. In the long run it'll be less hassle and, assuming she's more professional than you – which ain't difficult – probably quicker. We'll wrap the movie OK, don't you worry. But your film career, Luci, will be down the pan. When it gets round how you behaved on this shoot, no reputable production company will touch you with a ten-foot boom. It's back to the catwalk for you, my girl.'

By now she was starting to look worried. ‘But I want to act – I really do! And I know I can! You wouldn't believe how boring modelling is! Look, Leo, I'm sorry I've been such a useless bitch. I'll really try from now on – and I won't be late again, I promise. Honest!'

‘Yeah, I've heard that one before.' I paused, letting her dangle, then added, ‘Still, against my judgement, maybe I can offer you one more chance.'

Relieved, she began to get up. ‘Hold it!' I snapped. ‘No one said you were getting off scot-free.'

She sat back down, looking puzzled.

‘Here's the deal, Luci. Either I fire your ass off the picture, or –'

‘Or what?'

‘Or, young lady, I put you across my knee here and now and give you a damn good spanking.'

Her mouth fell open. ‘A spanking? But you can't!'

‘Want to bet?'

‘I – I'll call my agent!'

‘I just did, ten minutes ago. And I told Brendan exactly what I proposed to do. Want to know what he said?'

Luci nodded, still aghast.

‘He said, ‘‘Good on you, Leo. She's a lovely girl but spoilt as hell. A well-tanned arse is just what she needs.'''

‘I don't believe you!'

I shrugged and handed her my phone.

She dialled frantically. ‘Brendan? It's Lucinda. It's unbelievable! Leo's threatening to . . . What? You . . . But I . . . But he can't . . . Oh.'

She put the phone down and gazed at me in dismay. All the surface sophistication had drained away, and she looked like a little girl who knows she's in deep dark trouble. In fact, she looked so distressed and appealing, and so beautiful in her distress, that I almost opened my mouth to let her off. Almost. Instead I just waited in silence. Finally she dropped her eyes and whispered, ‘All right.'

‘All right, what?'

‘I'll . . . take the spanking.'

‘Good girl,' I said. I came and sat beside her on the couch. ‘If it's any consolation, Luci, you won't be the first young actress to spend time across my knee. If I told you the names of some of the girls whose bottoms I've warmed in the cause of good movie-making, you'd be amazed.'

‘Like who?' she asked, genuinely intrigued.

‘Oh no. That's strictly between me and them – just as this will be strictly between you and me. I'll tell
you
this much, though – a touch of old-fashioned discipline did their careers no harm at all. But enough talk; time's wasting. Over my knee with you, young lady.'

Taking her by the wrist, I drew her down into position. She gave a little gasp as she found herself face-down in the classic spanking posture, but she put up no real resistance, and her slim lovely body fitted perfectly across my lap. Reaching down, I lifted the hem of her short black dress.

Lacy black panties covered rather less than half the expanse of Luci's lush creamy bottom. A decade or so back, when models were all skinny clothes-horses, she'd have stood no chance in the profession; but the advent on the catwalk of Naomi Campbell and other black girls, and later of Sophie Dahl, had changed the parameters – and all for the better. Now it was reckoned OK for models to have female-shaped rearward curves – and Luci had those, all right. She was no J-Lo, but her bottom was peachy, pouting and beautifully rounded. This girl would be a delight to spank.

As if reading my thoughts, she twisted round on my lap and gave me a rueful grin. ‘You're going to enjoy this, aren't you, you kinky bastard?' she said.

‘Enjoy it? You bet I am. Who wouldn't? You've got a lovely bottom, Luci, but it's a bottom that's badly in need of a good sound spanking – on the bare, too. So before I start we'll just have these sexy panties down.'