‘What?’ The sneer died on Sabrina’s lips.
‘Sounds like someone’s run pictures of you and Dorian getting cosy. Who’s been a naughty girl, then?’
Tish’s eyebrows shot up. Dorian and Sabrina? Surely not.
‘Don’t be preposterous,’ Sabrina snapped at Chuck. ‘I wouldn’t sleep with Dorian Rasmirez if he were the last man left on earth.’
‘Perhaps you’d better tell that to his wife?’ said Chuck, glancing over at Dorian. He’d stepped a few feet away from the set in the hope of some privacy, but his body language was clearly that of the condemned man pleading for his life.
‘Come out here, honey,’ he begged Chrissie. ‘Please. Come see for yourself. There’s nothing going on. Less than nothing. I know when those shots must have been taken. Some local idiot was giving Sabrina a hard time and I was saving her ass, as usual. Come on Christina. She can’t compare to you.’
Hearing these last words, and knowing that Chuck and the others had heard them too, Sabrina felt a jolt of annoyance. She’d seen pictures of Dorian’s wife. The woman was positively ancient.
‘I wonder if she’ll come out,’ said Chuck.
‘Who?’ Viorel had finally joined the throng, handing Abel back to his mother.
‘Frau Rasmirez,’ said Deborah Raynham. ‘She’s on the warpath, apparently. She seems to be under the impression that Dorian’s been having his wicked way with Sabrina.’
The crew giggled. Even Tish couldn’t resist a smile.
‘Come on. That’s ridiculous,’ said Vio.
‘Thank you,’ said Sabrina with feeling. At least someone was prepared to stick up for her.
‘What’s a “wicked way”?’ asked Abel. ‘Can I have one?’
‘All right, young man,’ said Tish briskly, sensing that the conversation might be about to turn distinctly X-rated. ‘Let’s get you back to the house.’
‘If Chrissie Rasmirez does fly over, we’re all gonna need hard hats,’ Chuck MacNamee warned, once Tish had gone. ‘That lady generates on-set tension faster than a wasp in the undershorts.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ mused Sabrina. ‘Maybe if Dorian gets some action he’ll be less of an uptight asshole to work with. What do you think, darling?’ She snaked an arm around Viorel’s waist. ‘Do you think a good fuck might ease the tension around here?’
Vio felt a rush of blood to his groin. Sabrina would have been delighted if she knew how hard he was finding it, keeping to his vow of self-denial. Every day he wanted her more.
‘After we wrap,’ he said hoarsely, rubbing a hand against the small of her back.
‘Uh-uh.’ Sabrina shook her head, walking away in the direction of the wardrobe trailer. Dorian was still glued to the phone. Clearly, they weren’t going to do another take this evening. ‘If you leave it till the wrap party, I’ll turn you down.’
Vio laughed arrogantly. ‘No, you won’t.’
Sabrina quickened her pace, skipping away from him down the hill. ‘Watch me!’ she called back over her shoulder.
Later that night, Tish carried a sleeping Abel back to his bedroom. He’d wet the bed four times in the last two weeks, a regression that Tish could think of no explanation for. She’d started lifting him for a pee at ten o’clock until he got over it.
In a way, she was glad. She loved the feeling of his warm, sleep-heavy body in her arms, and the way he clung to her instinctively as she tucked him back into his bed. At Loxley, he slept in the same bed she’d used as a small child, a tiny continuity that somehow seemed poignant and meaningful to Tish. So much has changed since then, she thought, a little sadly. Soon, filming would be over. Dorian and the others would leave, first for Romania and then for Los Angeles and their ‘real’ lives. Tish would finish the repairs, install new tenants, and take Abel back to their real life, to Curcubeu and the children, to her apartment and disapproving Lydia, to Michel and Fleur …
‘Mummy?’ Abel’s voice brought her back to the present. He opened his eyes sleepily as Tish laid him back in his bed.
‘It’s late, darling,’ she whispered. ‘Go back to sleep.’
‘Mummy, next term it’s gonna be football and Viorel says I’m so excellent about football I could definitely definitely be on the team.’
‘Shhh, Abi,’ said Tish. ‘Next term we’ll be back home.’
A cloud of anxiety passed across Abel’s sweet, five-year-old face. ‘But Viorel said.’
‘I’m sure you’re very good at football,’ said Tish soothingly. ‘When we get back home you can play with Vasile and Radu and the other boys. Show them how great you are. Now go to sleep.’
‘But …’
‘Good footballers need their sleep.’
After a bit more negotiation, she settled him down and tiptoed out of the room, closing the door behind her. It was time to have a little chat with Viorel.
She found him in the library, whisky in hand, flipping through her father’s collection of Romantic poetry.
‘Can I have a word?’
Viorel snapped shut the leather-bound copy of Wordsworth’s Intimations of Immortality. ‘Of course.’ Tish was wearing a faded pair of Snoopy pyjamas and a man’s dressing gown riddled with holes. She had her hair tied up in a bun and, as she came closer, she smelled strongly of toothpaste and talcum powder. ‘You look like you’re ready for bed. What brings you down here so late?’
‘It’s Abel,’ said Tish. ‘He’s wet the bed again. I think he’s starting to feel anxious about the future.’
‘He is,’ said Vio seriously, leaning back against the corner of Henry’s desk. ‘I meant to talk to you about it actually.’
‘The important thing is not to confuse him,’ said Tish. ‘I know you meant well, but you really mustn’t put ideas into his head about staying at Loxley. Once you lot all leave, Abel and I will be going home.’
Viorel frowned. ‘Isn’t this home?’
‘Romania is where our life is,’ said Tish. ‘My work. Abi’s cultural heritage.’
Vio stiffened. His own mother used to bang on about his ‘cultural heritage’ all the time. Martha Hudson never tired of reminding him how lucky he was to have been adopted, and how important it was that he become a doctor and return to Romania one day, to ‘give back’. He hated it.
‘Don’t you think you’re being a little selfish?’
Now it was Tish’s turn to stiffen. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘I mean, you’ve adopted the kid. You’ve brought him here to England, shown him how the other half live, put him in a village school where he’s happy as a clam. And now you want to uproot him again, take him back to that hellhole of a country, just because you like playing Florence Nightingale? I don’t think you’re seeing this from Abel’s perspective.’
Tish struggled to control her anger. ‘With respect, Viorel, I think I know my own son a little better than you do.’
‘Then you know he wants to stay at Loxley,’ said Vio stubbornly. ‘More than anything.’
‘He’s five,’ said Tish, as authoritatively as possible for someone wearing a pair of Snoopy pyjamas. ‘He also wants to live in an underwater kingdom and eat chocolate buttons for every meal. That doesn’t mean it’s a good idea.’
‘Now you’re just being facetious,’ snapped Vio. The whisky was fuelling his temper. That, and his own memories of growing up with a mother who put her charitable work before the interests of her own son. He tried to remind himself that Tish wasn’t Martha Hudson. And that Abel wasn’t him. But the thought of the little boy being torn away from all he held dear made Viorel’s blood boil.
‘I’m his mother,’ said Tish. ‘I know what’s best for him.’
‘What’s best for you, you mean,’ muttered Viorel.
Tish had no idea where this sudden hostility was coming from. Certainly, she’d done nothing to deserve it. There was a meanness to Viorel tonight, a self-righteous arrogance that she had never seen before. Thank God, I never fell for him, she thought with a shiver.
‘I’m sorry you
feel that way,’ she said frostily. ‘But I’m not here to debate. Abel is my son, and I am telling you not to upset him any further with this nonsense. Understood?’
‘Fine.’ Turning away from her, Viorel poured himself another whisky and reopened his book. He felt angry, but also helpless on Abel’s behalf. What right did Tish have to let her own Mother Teresa fantasy blight the boy’s life? It was a powerlessness that Viorel Hudson hadn’t felt since boarding school. It frightened him.
Walking back upstairs to bed, Tish also felt shaken by their encounter. How dare Viorel question my parenting! What the hell does he know about it, or about our life in Romania? Judgemental wanker.
She tried to focus on her anger. But a small, questioning voice in her head made it difficult.
Am I being selfish? Am I putting myself before Abel?
She hoped not. Wuthering Heights had been Loxley Hall’s saviour. Tish was glad she’d come back and let them make the film. But the sooner they left and life got back to normal, the better. For all of them.
Outside the Regent Beverly Wilshire, a legion of paparazzi lay in wait for the glamorous attendees of tonight’s Starlight Ball, like a shoal of piranhas scenting blood.
In the back of Linda Greaves’s chauffeur-driven Bentley Continental, Chrissie Rasmirez positively throbbed with excitement. It was a long time, years, since she’d been the object of so much media attention. Of course, she was used to having her picture taken. As the wife of a Hollywood winner, she’d been snapped on Dorian’s arm at countless awards ceremonies and exclusive industry parties. But always as an appendage, a plus one. Tonight, she told herself, I’m the star. It’s me they’ve come to see, not Dorian.
The fact that they were here because of Dorian’s alleged infidelity did slightly take the edge off her triumph. But only slightly. For one thing, after speaking to her husband today and hearing the utter desperation in his voice, Chrissie was certain that Dorian hadn’t, in fact, cheated. He wasn’t going to leave her, for Sabrina Leon or anybody else. For another thing, if there was one role that Chrissie knew how to play to perfection, it was the role of the victim, the wronged wife stoically standing by her man. Make that wronged, drop-dead gorgeous wife. Her backless Dolce & Gabbana number looked even hotter on her tonight than it had in the store. Or perhaps it was Chrissie herself who was hotter, flushed with pleasure at so much unsuspected attention?
‘You OK, honey?’ asked Linda as they pulled up outside the hotel. ‘You’re sure you wanna do this?’
Chrissie looked at her friend, and felt her confidence swell still further. In a red Valentino sheath, with half of Siberia’s annual diamond output round her neck, Linda looked rich, glamorous and old. Too much Fraxel had frozen her once-beautiful face into a bland, featureless mask. Her hair was too blonde, her tits too big and her smile too desperate. She was the perfect date.
‘I don’t want to do it,’ Chrissie lied, arranging her face into an expression of fragile vulnerability. ‘I have to. I can’t let malicious gossip ruin my marriage.’
The popping of flashbulbs and calls of ‘Chrissie! Chrissie!’ as she stepped out of the car were almost enough to give her a small orgasm on the spot. Clasping Linda’s hand, head down in a perfect Princess Diana pose, she walked slowly into the building, making sure the photographers got plenty of time to catch her sexy back-view before disappearing inside.
Tonight, she decided, was going to be a lot of fun. And it was. Friends old and new flocked around her, drawn to the drama like junkies to a dealer.
‘Of course it isn’t true,’ Chrissie repeated to all of them, with practised, sorrowful dignity. ‘Dorian’s tried to act like a father to that troubled girl. He’s too generous for his own good. Everyone knows Sabrina Leon’s addicted to the press. It wouldn’t surprise me if she’d planted the story herself.’
‘Aren’t you mad?’
Cue modest, forgiving head-tilt. ‘I try not to waste energy on anger. Not when I have so much to be thankful for.’
By the time dinner came around and they all sat down for the auction, Chrissie was thoroughly enjoying herself. She’d had just enough glasses of champagne to loosen her up, been flirted with by at least two men who were better-looking than Dorian and another three who were richer, and she’d seen on the table plans that she’d be sitting next to Keanu Reeves, on whom she’d always had a mini-crush.
‘Hello, Mrs Rasmirez. You’re quite the belle of the ball tonight.’
Through her semi-drunken haze, it took Chrissie a few moments to recognize the immaculately dressed, handsome blond man who’d sat down beside her. Not until he’d kissed her hand and chivalrously pulled out her chair did it come to her.
‘Harry Greene.’ She giggled coquettishly. ‘I don’t think I’m allowed to talk to you.’
‘Says who? Dorian?’ Ignoring the dirty looks from his fellow guests, Greene pulled a cigarette out of a vintage silver case and lit it. ‘Don’t tell me you’re the kind of girl who takes orders from her husband. I couldn’t bear the disillusionment.’
‘It’s not a question of taking orders. It’s a question of loyalty,’ said Chrissie. ‘And that’s somebody else’s seat.’
‘Not any more it isn’t. I’m afraid I wanted you all to myself, so I told Keanu he was moving.’ Harry waved across the room to table nine, and a familiar dark-haired man waved back. Chrissie was torn between annoyance and gratification. She’d been looking forward to flirting with Keanu, but it was flattering that Harry Greene had singled her out, and sexy that he had the power to tell major movie stars where they could and couldn’t sit. Chrissie had always been turned on by power.
‘You know, your husband’s a fool.’ Harry leaned back in his seat, languidly blowing smoke rings into the air. ‘Fooling around with Sabrina Leon when he has a woman like you at home.’
‘He hasn’t been fooling around with her,’ said Chrissie stiffly. ‘It’s just the tabloids, stirring up trouble.’
Harry raised a perfectly groomed eyebrow, but said nothing.
Chrissie looked irritated. ‘I trust my husband.’
‘Is that why you’re flying out to his set next week?’ Harry asked wryly. ‘Because you trust him so much?’
Chrissie cocked her head to one side, curious. ‘How did you know I was going to the set?’
‘I know a lot of things,’ said Harry. He took another deep, satisfying lungful of nicotine and looked at her appraisingly, the way a trainer might examine a racehorse. Locking eyes with her he said: ‘If you were my wife, I wouldn’t let you out of my sight.’
Chrissie felt a rush of pleasure course through her. Of course, she knew that Harry Greene had it in for Dorian, and that he was probably flirting with her so outrageously to settle some kind of score. She’d never entirely understood Harry’s beef with her husband – something about his ex-wife and a screenplay – but she knew he had damaged Dorian professionally. Not that she gave a shit about Dorian’s precious career. No, what Chrissie cared about was the look of pure lust in Harry Greene’s eyes. That was something that could not be faked.
This is what I’ve missed, she thought, stuck out in Romania, running after Saskia all day like the hired bloody help. I’ve missed being adored.
‘Sure you would.’ She played along. ‘You’re all the same, you directors. You’re workaholics.’
‘It’s true I love my work,’ admitted Harry, leaning in closer. ‘But not as much as I’d love spreading your legs and licking you till you come and come and come.’
Chrissie gasped. ‘You can’t say things like that!’ But she was so turned on, she felt her eyelids getting heavy and her lips instinctively beginning to part.
‘I can say whatever I like,’ said Harry.
Chrissie squirmed helplessly as his hand began caressing her thigh under the table.
‘I can do whatever I like. I’m a god in this town, sweetheart. I don’t have to run around with a begging bowl every time I want to get a movie made, like your husband. You know what I heard??
?? His hand was creeping higher.
‘What?’ Chrissie breathed heavily, so aroused now she felt as if she’d been hypnotized.
‘I heard all this bad press swirling around Sabrina Leon is killing interest in his movie. Withering Heights, they’re calling it.’ He laughed, stubbing out his cigarette. ‘The film’s dying on the vine.’
‘That’s not true,’ said Chrissie, trying to block out the sensations in her groin and focus on what Harry was saying. ‘If you must know he’s had a lot of early interest from the big studios.’
‘Like who?’ Harry tried to keep his voice casual.
‘Like Paramount,’ said Chrissie smugly, ‘among others.’
‘And what “others” might those be?’ asked Harry.
Chrissie opened her mouth to tell him, when something made her hesitate. It was as if the hypnotist had suddenly clicked his fingers and awoken her from the trance. I’m being played, she thought, furiously. He’s not interested in me. He’s just pumping me for info on the damn movie. Removing Greene’s hand from her thigh, she cleared her throat. ‘Nice try,’ she said tersely. ‘But if you want information about my husband’s business, you’re going to have to fish for it elsewhere.’
Turning her back on him, she engaged the man on her other side in conversation, and proceeded to ignore Harry Greene for the rest of the night. Irritatingly unfazed, Harry focused his attentions on the pretty blonde to his right, ‘helping’ her to bid for a number of items at the charity auction, including a delicate Fred Leighton emerald necklace that Chrissie coveted wildly and a six-night stay at the Post Ranch Inn, which just happened to be Chrissie’s favourite hotel in the entire world.
They didn’t speak again until they were leaving. Reunited with an out-of-her-mind-drunk Linda Greaves, Chrissie was waiting at the coat check for her borrowed vintage mink when she felt someone come up behind her and slip a hand around her waist.
‘You’re right,’ Harry whispered in her ear. ‘I did want information. But I wanted you more.’
Before Chrissie had a chance to say anything, he planted a kiss on the back of her neck that made every hair on her body stand on end.