Fame

  ‘It was cheaper,’ said Dorian frankly. ‘We’ve got to save money somewhere if we’re going to pay your fee.’

  Viorel grinned. ‘Touché.’

  ‘Anyway, as it turns out, it’s only one girl and her son,’ said Dorian. ‘Tish Crewe. She’s terrific actually.’

  Terrific? Vio’s ears pricked up. ‘How old is she?’

  ‘Mid-to late-twenties, I guess. The kid’s five.’

  ‘Cute?’

  ‘Oh, adorable. Five’s a great age for a boy.’ Dorian tripped over a bramble and almost went flying.

  ‘Not the kid,’ Vio laughed, helping him to his feet. ‘The girl.’

  Dorian frowned. ‘She’s attractive. Not your type though.’

  ‘Meaning what?’ said Viorel. ‘I don’t have a type.’

  ‘Sure you do,’ said Dorian. ‘I’ve seen your press. The girls on your arm are glamazons. Tish isn’t glamorous. Besides,’ he added, ‘she’s in love with some French doctor.’

  Viorel raised an eyebrow. ‘Wow. You’ve really got to know this woman. She’s confiding in you about her love life already?’ He nudged Dorian in the ribs. ‘Maybe she likes you.’

  ‘Grow up,’ said Dorian crossly.

  ‘Maybe you like her?’ Viorel teased. ‘Am I getting warm, Il Direttore?’

  ‘No, you are not getting warm. I’m a happily married man.’

  This was stretching a point at the moment, but it was true that Dorian had zero romantic interest in anyone other than Chrissie. Tish Crewe was charming and kind and, if he were honest, Dorian probably was a little star-struck by her family background. He might have inherited what Chrissie would insist on describing as a ‘fuck-off castle’, but the Crewes clearly sprang from a far more ancient and senior branch of the aristocratic tree. None of which amounted to Dorian ‘liking’ Tish Crewe, at least not in Viorel Hudson’s sense of the word.

  ‘We’ve been thrown together in the same house for a week,’ he said defensively. ‘Of course we’re going to talk. And yes, I do like her. Just not in the way you mean.’

  Viorel looked sceptical but said nothing. They’d reached the river now and began the short but gruelling climb up the other side of the fell. It was still only eight o’clock, and walking in the shade you could feel a distinct chill in the air.

  ‘What time are the others arriving?’ asked Viorel, changing the subject.

  ‘Sabrina and Lizzie should be here later this morning,’ said Dorian. ‘Jamie and Rhys both got in yesterday.’

  Lizzie Bayer, a well-known American television actress, was playing Isabella Linton, Heathcliff’s wife. Jamie Duggan, a Scottish theatre actor, was playing Catherine’s husband, Edgar Linton. And the unknown Rhys Evans had been cast as Hareton Earnshaw, the young Catherine’s love interest at the movie’s end. Along with Viorel and Sabrina, Lizzie, Jamie and Rhys made up the core cast.

  ‘I’m starting with you and Sabrina, though, first thing tomorrow. You know that, right? Heathcliff’s return-from-exile scene, outside Thrushcross Grange?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Vio. He hoped Sabrina would arrive on time and in a fit state to run through the scene with him privately before the morning. He’d tried to contact her numerous times in LA since the read-through, offering to work on their joint scenes together, but she’d blown him off each time. ‘I work better alone,’ she told him arrogantly. ‘If you’re nervous about your scenes, talk to Rasmirez. I’m sure he’d love to hear from you.’

  Vio was perplexed. ‘Have I done something to offend you?’ He’d been sweetness and light to Sabrina at the read-through, even sticking up for her afterwards with Dorian. What the fuck was with her attitude?

  ‘You’re not important enough to offend me,’ said Sabrina rudely, and hung up.

  Mind games, thought Vio, fighting down his anger. She’s trying to provoke me so I’ll lose my shit on set. Make a dick of myself in front of Rasmirez and take some of the heat off her.

  Too bad, sweetheart. At least one of us knows how to be a professional.

  He hoped he’d be able to translate some of the hostility between them into sexual tension on camera. But, after weeks of waiting, he was getting increasingly jittery about how they would play together. This was his five and-a-half-million-dollar lead role, the biggest break of his career. He wanted to get started.

  ‘Whoah.’

  After five minutes of climbing, they had reached Home Farm. Vio was suitably impressed. ‘I see what you mean,’ he said, marvelling at the L-shaped building with its weathered grey stone. Even the thick front door could have been lifted directly from the pages of the novel. ‘It’s exactly what I pictured. Except …’

  ‘Except what?’ said Dorian.

  ‘Is it a little small, maybe?’

  ‘Small? I don’t think so,’ said Dorian, sounding a tad put out. In fact, he’d thought the same thing himself when he first saw the farm eight days ago, and spent much of the last week working on long-angle shots to create a better illusion of size, but it irritated him to have Viorel confirm his doubts. ‘We won’t be filming inside. I’ll show you some of the rushes we did last week of the exterior. It’s workable.’

  But Viorel was no longer listening.

  The front door of the farmhouse had swung open and a figure had emerged, covered from head to toe in thick black soot. Looking up, Dorian saw it too.

  ‘Tish?’ he asked tentatively. ‘Is that you?’ He walked towards the figure. An amused Viorel followed behind.

  ‘Oh, er, hello. Yes.’ Flustered, Tish attempted to brush the worst of the coal dust off herself, but it stuck fast, like iron filings to a magnet. She’d been up since seven, trying to rescue a nest of birds from the Connellys’ chimney shaft, and had not expected to see Dorian or any of the film people up at the farm at such an early hour.

  Leaning forward, Viorel whispered in Dorian’s ear. ‘Am I imagining things? Or is she naked?’

  Disappointingly, he saw as they drew nearer that Tish wasn’t naked. At least not quite. Beneath her sooty disguise she was barefoot and wearing nothing but a pair of knickers and a skinny-ribbed vest. Definitely not a glamazon, thought Viorel, remembering Dorian’s arbitrary description of his ‘type’. Terrific legs though. My goodness.

  ‘I was … we were … having a bit of trouble,’ Tish babbled nervously, suddenly aware of how ridiculous she must look. ‘The chimney sweep’s coming this morning, you see, and there’s a family of swallows nesting …’

  She stopped talking. From behind Dorian’s familiar, bear-like form, the most divine-looking man Tish had ever seen in her life suddenly emerged like an apparition. A vision in blue, his floppy black hair gleaming like a raven’s feathers, he stood there, staring at her. Of course, no one could ever hope to compare with Michel, not in terms of the overall package. But it could not be denied that on looks alone – when it came to regularity of features, proportionality of limbs, or any other objective standard of male beauty one might care to put forward – this toffee-tanned, blue-eyed Adonis took some beating.

  The Adonis smiled at her wolfishly.

  ‘I’m Viorel Hudson. You must be Tish Crewe.’

  ‘Hmmm?’ Tish seemed to have temporarily lost the power of speech.

  ‘A pleasure to meet you,’ said Viorel, delighted by the effect he seemed to be having on her. ‘You won’t mind if I don’t shake your hand.’

  ‘Hmmm?’ said Tish again. She seemed to have developed late-onset autism. ‘The soot,’ Vio explained.

  ‘Oh!’ Tish looked down at her ape-black hands. ‘Of course. Sorry.’

  It was only at that moment that it occurred to her that she was, to all intents and purposes, naked. She blushed so violently she was surprised Viorel wasn’t scorched by the heat coming off her cheeks.

  ‘Here.’ Dorian stepped forward, wrapping his Barbour around her. ‘You must be freezing.’

  ‘Spoilsport,’ said Viorel. Dorian glared at him.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Tish gratefully. ‘My clothes are inside
. Everything got so caked with coal dust, you see. I could hardly move, so I … I assumed … I didn’t think there’d be anyone up here so early.’

  ‘Please, don’t apologize on our account,’ said Viorel, who was starting to enjoy himself. It was hard to get a good look at the girl’s face through all the grime, but the combination of her gloriously displayed figure and all-too-evident embarrassment was seriously endearing. As was the fact that she’d got up at seven to pull a bird’s nest out of a chimney. Who did that?

  After a few more stammered apologies, Tish bolted down the hill to the manor, pulling Dorian’s oversized jacket around her tiny frame like a shield as she ran. Still grinning like the Cheshire Cat, Vio opened his mouth to speak, but Dorian cut him off.

  ‘No,’ he said firmly.

  ‘What do you mean “no”? I never said anything.’

  ‘I mean “no”. Not with her.’

  ‘All right,’ said Vio, amused. ‘But, just out of curiosity … why not?’

  ‘Because she’s our hostess.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So it will cause tension on my set,’ said Dorian. ‘And because she’s a nice girl who doesn’t need your bullshit. And because I say so,’ he added stubbornly. ‘There’s a village full of eager young women on the other side of those gates. If you have to get your rocks off, go do it with one of them.’

  ‘OK, boss,’ said Vio, still smiling. ‘Whatever you say.’

  The next time Viorel saw Tish was at lunch. Mrs Drummond had laid on a welcome spread for the actors. Walking into Loxley’s impressive, wood-panelled dining room in jeans and a plain white T-shirt, her newly washed, still-damp hair tied back in a ponytail, Tish blushed scarlet when she saw Viorel standing there.

  ‘My, my,’ he teased, enjoying her discomfiture. ‘Don’t you scrub up well?’

  ‘Ignore him,’ said Dorian, introducing Tish to the rest of her temporary house guests. ‘Lunch looks spectacular, by the way. You shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble.’

  The long mahogany refectory table had been set with white bone china and silverware, and a variety of estate-grown food laid out on large platters in the middle. There was a side of venison, fresh tomato and basil salad, a whole poached salmon and various vegetable dishes, including a mouthwatering stack of asparagus dripping in butter, which Mrs Drummond proudly informed everyone had been churned at Home Farm from Loxley cows.

  ‘The fish is out of this world.’ Rhys Evans, a stocky, curly haired Welshman with a reputation as a practical joker, tucked into the salmon with unconcealed delight.

  ‘It’s all delicious. Very generous of you, Miss Crewe,’ said Jamie Duggan, wiping a yellow stream of liquid butter off his chin. Jamie was better looking than Rhys, blond and regular featured, but Tish found herself thinking how utterly devoid he was of sex appeal. She tried to picture him as Edgar Linton, making love to Sabrina Leon’s Catherine Earnshaw. It wasn’t easy.

  ‘Please, call me Tish,’ she said. ‘And I’m afraid I can’t take credit for lunch. It’s entirely Mrs Drummond’s hard work.’

  Viorel watched Tish as she chatted to everyone in the room, playing the interested hostess like the well-brought-up lady of the manor that she was. She swapped Scottish reeling stories with Duggan, a dreadful, pompous bore in Vio’s opinion, smiling at all his weak jokes, and tried valiantly to engage Lizzie Bayer in conversation, not easy given that the girl had the attention span of a concussed goldfish. Vio had tried to chat Lizzie up himself in LA after the read-through. Classically pretty in a large-breasted, Scandinavian, FHM sort of way, she’d looked as if she’d be worth having a crack at. But looks could be deceiving. In fact, Lizzie Bayer had about as much spark as a decomposing kipper. All she wanted to talk about was her deathly dull TV show and its ratings.

  ‘Variety named me as one of NBC’s “faces to watch” this year,’ she had told Vio for the third time, preening vacantly in the Veyron’s rearview mirror.

  Really? thought Vio. I’d have named you one of their ‘faces to slap’. Talk about self-obsessed. In the movie, Lizzie was to play Isabella, the trophy wife who Heathcliff relentlessly abuses and humiliates. Viorel was looking forward to it already.

  Looking round the room at his cast-mates, Vio swiftly decided that Rhys was by far the best of the bunch – funny in a cheeky-chappie, naughty-glint-in-his-eye sort of way that gave Vio hope that he might become a mate. He was flirting with Tish outrageously but quite hopelessly, each elaborate compliment flying over the girl’s head like so much wasted shrapnel.

  Aware of Viorel’s eyes boring into her, Tish was starting to feel unpleasantly hot. The effort of not returning his stare was giving her a headache and making it hard to concentrate on what Rhys Evans was saying. It was relief when the phone in the hallway rang and she was summoned away to take the call.

  Two minutes later she returned to the table looking white.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ asked Dorian.

  ‘It’s my son,’ said Tish, her voice a monotone. ‘He’s had an accident at school. They’ve called the local GP. Apparently, he’s concussed.’

  ‘Oh my God. What happened?’

  ‘He fell out of a tree. He and another boy were playing Alvin and the Chipmunks or something … the doctor says he’s fine, but he’s been asking for me. I have to get down there right away.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Dorian. ‘Do you want me to drive you?’

  Tish looked at him blankly for a moment, lost in her own anxiety. She was sure she’d read somewhere that people often seemed fine after a head injury but then haemorrhaged and died hours later.

  ‘Tish?’

  ‘Hmm? Oh, no, thank you. I’m fine to drive.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Dorian looked concerned.

  ‘Positive. Excuse me,’ she said to the room at large, running out at a jog.

  Tish was already in the car and starting the engine by the time Viorel caught up with her. He opened the driver’s door. ‘Scooch over.’

  ‘What?’ Tish looked flustered.

  ‘I’m driving.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘It wasn’t a question,’ said Vio firmly, nudging her over to the passenger side. ‘I’m driving. You need to focus on your son.’

  By the time they got to St Agnes’s primary school, Abel had got over his teary, ‘I want my mum’ stage and was thoroughly enjoying being the centre of attention.

  ‘I nearly died,’ he told Tish cheerfully, pointing proudly to the cold compress strapped to his forehead with Dennis the Menace bandages. ‘If I’d died, Michael would have had to go to prison until he was a hundred years old.’

  ‘No I wouldn’t,’ said Michael, without glancing up from his colouring-in. ‘It was a accident, wasn’t it, Miss Bayham? No one goes to prison for a accident.’

  Miss Bayham assured Tish that it had indeed been an accident, and that Dr Rogers had said there was no need to get Abel’s head X-rayed.

  ‘I’ll drive you to A and E, just in case,’ said Vio. He couldn’t take his eyes off Abel. The kid looks exactly like me.

  ‘Who’s he?’ asked Abel, noticing the dark-haired man staring at him as Tish carried him across the playground. ‘Is he a taxi driver?’

  Tish looked embarrassed but Viorel laughed. Dorian was right: the kid was seriously cute.

  ‘I’m Viorel,’ he said, offering Abel his hand to shake. ‘I’m a friend of your mother’s.’

  ‘Viorel who? I’ve never seen you before.’

  Vio grinned. ‘Viorel Hudson. Why, how many Viorels do you know?’

  ‘Two,’ said Abel, ‘at my old school.’

  Vio’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Really? Where was your old school?’

  ‘Romania,’ said Abel.

  Vio felt the hairs on his arms stand on end. No wonder he looks so like me. And nothing like his mother. I wonder if he’s adopted?

  ‘My long name is Abel Henry Gunning Crewe,’ said Abel, abruptly changing the subject. ‘What’s your favourite dinosaur?’
br />   ‘Therizinosaurus,’ said Vio, not missing a beat. ‘What’s yours?’

  Abel looked at Tish, wide-eyed with admiration. Most grown-ups were embarrassingly ignorant on the giant reptiles of the Mesozoic Era. Mummy’s new friend was cool.

  ‘Mine’s Ceratosaurus, but in a tie with Fukuisaurus. My mum likes T-Rex, but that’s just because it’s the only one she knows.’ He rolled his eyes.

  Vio nodded in sympathy. ‘That’s girls for you.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  In the car on the way to the hospital, Tish told Vio, ‘You’re good with children.’

  He smiled. ‘You sound surprised.’

  She shrugged. ‘I suppose I am, a little.’

  ‘Why? Because I’m an actor?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe, yes.’

  Lifting his hand off the gear stick, Vio rested it casually on Tish’s leg. ‘Don’t judge a book by its cover, Miss Crewe. I’m actually good with all sorts of things.’ Slowly, infinitesimally slowly, he began stroking the ball of his thumb up and down the fabric of her jeans.

  It was a definite come-on. Tish felt a rush of blood to her groin that she hadn’t experienced since Michel. Oh Lord, she thought. He’s incredibly sexy. But he’s a film star. Do I really want to be another notch on his bedpost?

  ‘I’m sure you are.’ Gently she removed his hand.

  ‘But …? I’m sensing there’s a “but”.’

  ‘But I’m afraid I’m off romance at the moment,’ said Tish. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Ah, yes. The frog doctor,’ said Vio dismissively. ‘Dorian mentioned it.’

  Tish looked mortified. When she’d spoken to Dorian about Michel, she’d assumed it was in confidence.

  ‘Oh come on, lighten up,’ said Vio, seeing her face fall. ‘For one thing he’s French. You can’t possibly want to date a Frenchman.’

  ‘Oh, really?’

  ‘Yes, really. And for another he’s an idiot. Any man who let you slip through his fingers is, by definition, an idiot.’

  Tish softened slightly. ‘You’ve got all the chat, haven’t you, Mr Hudson?’

  ‘I try,’ Vio grinned.