The Angel and the Devil

********************

A movie set is a dull and boring place. Anyone who tells you different has never spent a day on one. They’re generally full of clashing egos and nervous breakdowns, long periods of delay and very little action. People read from notes, take notes, compare notes and drink gallons of weak coffee. I’m always amazed how a motion picture actually gets finished. Maybe I’ve just been standing in the wrong place.

And there’s a lot of standing around in my job. Standing, watching and listening. I gave up trying to look menacing a long time ago, I’ll leave the new boys to that. You see them on every shoot with their black suits, buzzcut hair and the inevitable Ray Ban’s, eyes always a mystery and a jaw seemingly carved from stone. Pretty good for the catwalk, but I always wondered exactly how they’d perform if the shit hit the fan. Be interesting to find out.

Not that I’d seen much action in my time as on-set security. Sure, there was always the occasional fan who tried to break ranks and get closer to their idol, but a quiet word and guidance soon put a stop to things. Nearly everyone collapses at the first sign of resistance, and the key is to be gentle but firm. The new boys always liked to beef it up a little, raise a voice or start some pushing, but I figured they were just young. I suppose I was like that at one time.

This set was no different to any other. After I’d escorted Virginie across to the main group of trailers without getting a spot of weather on her, I waited outside with the umbrella and watched the crew erect tarpaulin covered lighting rigs with about as much good humor as a man who’s been told his feet need to be amputated but someone has offered a buck for his shoes. Even with the rain a small group of spectators had gathered against the metal barriers at the end of the street, needlessly being kept in check by a brace of the black-suited goons.

The movie was called The Angel And The Devil. It was a large production and expected to be a great success as the director had a been on a string of box-office achievements in the last few years. Virginie and the hugely popular actor Vincent Cassel were the main stars, alongside the Italian actress Asia Argento. I had seen Cassel arrive as I waited outside the trailer, striding through the rain alongside his own personal protection, who I guessed was one of the other guys Detroit Jones had contacted in a panic. We nodded to each other as he passed, and I realized that for once, I’d got the best end of the deal. Cassel was probably a decent man, but no way did he have the legs of my client. I wasn’t sure if I’d seen Argento, but I wouldn’t have recognized her anyway. Her Father was a famous director of thrillers in his native Italy, and I had worked for a security team on his last picture, alongside Conroy Scott, who Jones had received my number from. I knew she was a star, but that’s as far as my knowledge went. As I said to Jones, I rarely watched movies, preferring to restrict my viewing habits to football and the bottom of bottles. Luckily, both could be done within the confines of a bar.

The day drifted by without incident or excitement. I did my usual impression of a statue most of the morning, watching exterior scenes being set-up, filmed and re-filmed. Both Virginie and Cassel looked cold and miserable between takes, and on several occasions Virginie came and stood under the umbrella I raised for her, although I lowered it as soon as she returned to work. I was dripping wet anyway, and a man standing alone under an umbrella was not an image I wished to portray. On one such occasion when she came to me I was sipping from a styrofoam cup of Hot Chocolate, and when I offered it to her she took it gratefully.

‘That’s good,’ she murmured into the cup, and then peered out from under the umbrella at the ashen skies. ‘Damn weather, I’m freezing.’

I sighed. ‘Yeah, it’s not all glamour, is it?’

She laughed, already a sound that I looked forward to hearing. ‘It rarely is.’

‘Why do you do it, then?’

She looked at me curiously. ‘Why do you do it?’

I had answers to the question, but not any that I wished to share. ‘Better than lying in a gutter I suppose.’

At that moment a runner approached and informed her that she was required back for the shot. She thanked him, turned back to me and returned the chocolate to my hand. She took a step out from under the canvas, and then turned back to me, the rain thudding off her hair.

‘We’re all lying in the gutter Daniel,’ she said, ‘but some of us are looking at the stars.’

And as I watched her move gracefully back towards the waiting camera, I realized that for the first time in as long as I could remember, I actually found myself liking someone.

********************

The production ground to a blessed halt at three forty-five that afternoon. One of the cameras had blown, closely followed by Vincent Cassel, who politely told the director to go and fuck himself before retreating to his trailer. The weather had continued with it’s destructive mood, a mood which echoed my own. I was beyond cold. My feet had lost all feeling, my balls had retreated into my body and my fingertips had crinkled as if I’d spent too long in a bath. Right now, the thought of a bath was all that was keeping me going. Well, that and cigarettes and vodka, and I intended to combine all three as soon as I made it back to the apartment. Incredibly I’d only been able to bum one smoke from a crew-member all day; it seemed as if everyone in the city was rejecting their vices just as I was sinking further into my own. I intended to buy a fresh pack of Camels at the store on the corner of my I street and smoke the whole deck while laying in a tub of flesh-searing water with a drink in my hand. Possibly get some Hendrix on the stereo to complete the picture.

I was contemplating this fantasy when Virginie crossed over towards me. She still looked as gorgeous as when I’d first seen her this morning, despite the fact she was as wet as I. Regardless, her smile still bought a small shaft of sunlight into the day.

‘All finished?’ I asked, as we hurried towards her trailer.

‘Yes, thank God. This has been a terrible day. For you as well, I think?’

‘I’ve had better.’

She unlocked the door and we both threw ourselves into the welcoming heat of the trailer. Virginie moved to a closet near the couch and removed two towels from inside, tossed one across to me. I wiped streams of water from my overlong hair.

‘How’s your headache?’ She said.

‘Gone. Now I just feel like frostbite has set in.’

‘You want to try wearing this skirt all day.’

I coughed into the towel and shook my head. ‘I haven’t got the legs for it.’

Our eyes met and after a moment we both laughed, and a trigger flicked on in the back of my brain reminding me that this was how things were meant to be done. Just as I was about to say something I might have possibly regretted, there was a sharp rap on the door. I opened it to see the weasel face of Detroit Jones, still encased in his ridiculous coat. I motioned for him to come inside but he shook his head and remained on the step, and as a consequence let all the heat escape.

‘That’s it for today, Miss Ledoyen,’ he said pointlessly.

‘I know, Monsieur Jones,’ she replied with a distinctive mark of irritation in her voice. I guessed she had the same opinion of Jones as myself. Okay, but still a prick.

‘Problem is, your driver has left. He’s fallen sick.’

‘I’m not surprised. We will probably all catch colds after this day.’

‘I have arranged another car for you,’ said Jones, looking at his watch, ‘but it will be more than a hour. We can-’

‘I’m not waiting an hour,’ she replied, cutting him short. ‘I’m wet, cold, tired and pissed off. I’ll take a taxi.’

Jones shook his head. ‘I’m not sure about that. There will be people and press.’

Virginie took the towel from her head and shook her hair free. It fell in twists, framing her face beautifully, almost dramatically. ‘I appreciate your concern for my well-being, even though I know it’s because you’re paid to do so. However, I’ve lived in this city for a long time and I know it like my own reflection. The city and the people. So you can hang around this miserable place all afternoon for all I care, but in five minutes I intend to be in the back of a cab heading for the river.’ She threw the towel over the arm of the couch. ‘Anyway, Daniel is coming with me.’

‘I am?’ I said, unable to keep the surprise from my voice. Jones looked at me with suspicion and perhaps a hint of jealousy.

‘Well, I assume you need to go home?’

I nodded.

‘Then we can share the ride. And with Daniel I will also be safe, Monsieur Jones, yes?’ She smiled sweetly at the production manager.

Jones stared at her, then glanced at me. He opened his mouth to say something, either thought better of it or knew when he was fighting a losing battle, and closed it again. A moment later he was walking into the rain once more, and I thankfully closed the door on his eye-watering coat.

When I looked back at Virginie she had removed her denim jacket and thrown it next to the towel. Her shirt, obviously thin when dry, was now almost completely transparent as it gripped her damp skin. I could clearly make out the flat sweep of her stomach, her bellybutton a dark smear, and my gaze moved higher to the mounds of her small breasts, capped with tiny nipples that were dark and pushed against the fabric. I stared for a brief moment, and then suddenly became very interested once more in the photographs that dotted the wall.

‘You’re sure you don’t mind escorting me home?’

‘Of course not,’ I replied, without looking at her.

‘Good. Give me a moment, and I will be ready.’ I heard her close the door to the other room behind her, and only then did I dare to take my eyes from the pictures.

There was water in the fridge and I poured a glass before sitting heavily on the couch. I took several mouthfuls and wished it was something stronger, then closed my eyes and rubbed against the sockets with the back of my hand, feeling the sting and discovering how tired I felt. When I dropped my hand to the couch I felt dampness on my palm, and I looked down to see the towel Virginie had rubbed through her hair. I contemplated it for a moment before lifting it to my face and inhaling deeply. The odor was of fresh water and a light scent, as I knew it would be, but for me it also smelt of memories, of a time long passed. I allowed myself another few seconds to remember, before replacing the towel in the same place and rubbing my hands once more against my face. The last thing I wanted was for her to see the tears that filled my eyes.

********************

The rain had stopped and been replaced by a harsh wind that cut freshly against my wet clothes, and I had to clamp my jaw together to stop my teeth from chattering. Virginie had the luxury of changing into dry jeans and a sweater, and had wrapped an knee length woolen coat around herself before we locked the trailer and moved off the set. We passed the security barrier after I had signed myself out on the clipboard that the sullen guard held out to me, and I returned the laminated pass that had been pinned to me all day.

The street was crowded and filled with spray from passing vehicles. The city was nearing rush-hour and as would soon be approaching the usual gridlock situation, and unless we wanted to be sitting in traffic for hours we had to get moving. A cab with a lit vacancy sign approached, and I stepped off the curb and hailed it, jumping back as the vehicle churned up a plume of water as it pulled in towards us. I held the backdoor open for Virginie and she thanked me and slid inside, and a moment later I was next to her.

A silence fell between us, but not one that I found unpleasant. I’m generally a man of few words and not prone to making what you might call idle chit-chat. I also didn’t find the way Virginie leant against me disagreeable. I’m not saying she was laying across me, but she didn’t stop the weight of her body on my own when she was pushed into me as we rounded a corner at speed, which seemed to be the only way the cabbie knew how to drive. I found myself pushing an arm against her own, not with enough pressure that she would notice, but with enough to make me know that I was touching someone else. Bizarrely, it was almost comforting. The driver asked for further directions as we crossed the Louis-Philippe Bridge, the Seine boiling away underneath us, and as she told him I noticed he took several long stares at her. If that was because he recognized her or because she appeared so beautiful in the late afternoon light that came through the greasy windows I didn’t know, but I certainly couldn’t blame him for looking.

Her apartment was in the ultra-smart suburb of Neuilly, located just off the very centre of the city. A district of stunning architecture, tree-lined avenues and litter-free sidewalks that seemed a world away from my own sleazy area, even though it was no more than two miles north. The cab pulled up carefully outside of a grand nineteenth century building that had manicured shrubs and a peak-capped doorman infront of the entrance.

‘I’ll see to the fare,’ I said, as she began to root around in her purse.

‘We’ll share it.’

I pulled her hand away from the bag and closed it. She looked up at me once again with that tremendous smile. ‘I’ve got money,’ I said.

‘You’re sure?’

I nodded and as I did so she leant into me, one hand on the sleeve of my jacket, and kissed me with a feathery lightness on my cheek. A strand of her hair tickled against my chin as she pulled away.

‘Thankyou Daniel. I’ll see you in the morning?’

‘I’ll be there,’ I replied. ‘Hopefully a little more coherent than today.’

‘I think you’re fine as you are,’ she said, and then opened the door and stepped onto the sidewalk with one easy movement, a chill replacing her as she left. The door slammed closed and I twisted in the seat and looked at her out of the back window, her black coat streaming behind her as she reached into her purse. The words of the driver made me look round.

‘Monsieur? Ou Pour?’

I sighed heavily. ‘Just drive.’

He turned back to the wheel muttering under his breath, but I wasn’t interested. I looked back at Virginie, and saw that she now standing facing a small, scruffy-looking man. He was mouthing words that I couldn’t hear, and she inturn looked cold and totally unamused.

I heard the cough of the taxi’s engine, the scrape of metal as the worn gears engaged, the clicking as the handbrake was released.

And I knew something was wrong.

I launched myself across the backseat and threw the door open before the cab had moved more than a couple of feet and crossed the sidewalk to where she and the small man stood. Behind me I heard brakes squeal and the cabbie curse loudly as I moved quickly towards her.

‘Virginie?’ I said, and she looked at me quickly and for a moment I thought I saw panic in her eyes, softening as I touched her arm. ‘Are you okay?’

‘I’m fine,’ she replied, but I felt her muscles stiffen beneath the coat sleeve. I looked from her to scruff, who had an obvious expression of annoyance on his unshaven face. He said something in French that I couldn’t understand, and she replied, shaking her head and taking the photograph and pen that he had taken from his jacket. The photograph was of Virginie, and it looked as if it had been taken as she entered the very building in front of which we now stood. She scrawled her signature across it and as she did so I looked at scruff. In return he glared back at me, and I was too tired and cold to ignore it.

‘What’s your problem?’

Surprise lit his face. ‘Monsieur?’ His pronunciation was as awkward as my own would have been, and I’ve lived in Paris long enough to be able to spot the real thing.

‘You’re not French.’ I said.

‘Neither are you,’ he retorted in perfect English.

Virginie had completed the autograph and she handed the photo back. Scruff seemed delighted, and ran a dirty fingernail across the image.

‘Thankyou so much, Miss Ledoyen,’ he whispered, continuing with the English. ‘Would it be possible to have a kiss?’

Virginie flicked her eyes at me, only for the briefest of moments, but it was all the reaction I required to let me know that kissing this idiot was the last thing she was keen on doing. She also stepped a fraction closer towards me.

‘That’s not going to happen, pal,’ I said. ‘Maybe you should be on your way.’

His eyes blazed fire in my direction. ‘I wasn’t asking you,’ he spat, a tiny fleck of saliva decorating his lower lip.

‘But now I’m telling you. Get lost.’

He took a quick step forward, raising his hand towards her, and that was all I needed. I caught his wrist in midair and twisted, feeling small bones grind beneath my grip as I used the weight of his body to spin him around and force his arm up behind his back. I jammed the thumb of my other hand into the soft cartilage behind his ear and pushed, and he gave a startled cry as I wheeled him away from Virginie towards the granite wall of the apartment building. People were staring as they passed, and in my peripheral vision I could see the doorman reaching for a telephone.

‘Fuck off’, shouted scruff, but before he could give anymore abuse I rammed his arm harder up his back as my reply, high enough so that the palm was between the shoulder blades. ‘Okay, okay. Jesus, that hurts!’ he cried, and I released the pressure slightly. It was easy to break a bone this way, and I didn’t want to go that far. I lowered my face to his ear, smelling sweat and dope on his skin.

‘It would be good to not see you around here again,’ I said. ‘Understand?’

He nodded quickly and I let him go, pushing him away from me. For a moment all I could see was the back of his head, dirty blonde hair creeping over his collar. Then he turned slowly to face me, and I was genuinely surprised to hear him laughing gently. He rubbed the strained shoulder joint and looked at me with a dirty grin.

‘C’mon, man. All I wanna do is get inside her pants.’

My anger flared, but there were by now too many people watching. ‘She’s already got one asshole in her pants, fuckface, and if you’re not out of sight by the time I draw breath I’ll break you in half.’

He stayed still and silent for a second, then split his face with a yellow-toothed grin and gave me the peace sign before spinning on his heel and running away into the sea of people that filled the sidewalk.

I turned back around to find Virginie standing with the smart doorman, who was gesticulating with one hand and holding a telephone in the other. The taxi-driver was leaning out of his window looking at me with raised eyes, and I pushed some bills into his hand and returned to Virginie.

‘You alright?’ I said.

‘I am used to people approaching me, you know,’ she said, but there was no trace of the intended anger in her voice. Instead she sounded quiet, almost scared. Before I could reply the doorman spoke quickly in French. He still held the receiver, a finger poised over the keypad. She touched his arm and gently persuaded him to replace the phone, giving him her best movie-star smile as she did. I had no idea what she said, but if it stopped him from calling the police, which I’m sure was his intention, then I was grateful.

‘I’m going inside,’ said Virginie. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, Daniel.’

‘Do you want me to come to the door with you?’ Immediately I wondered why I’d said that. Her building obviously had good security, and I had watched scruff run away in the opposite direction. Virginie was right; she was used to people bothering her, asking her to sign pictures. That was one of the aspects of fame, and in Paris she was extremely well known. So why was I suddenly being overprotective?