Fame

  Viorel closed the door behind him and took a seat on a Liberty-print armchair in the corner. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Don’t drag it out. Are you going to spill the beans to Rasmirez or not?’

  Tish turned on him furiously. Unable to handle her own hurt feelings, she focused on Dorian’s. ‘How could you? You know how much Dorian loves her.’

  ‘What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him,’ said Viorel.

  ‘And that’s an excuse, is it? You aren’t even attracted to her.’

  ‘Aren’t I?’

  ‘Well, are you?’

  Viorel ran a hand guiltily through his hair. ‘All right, no. Not really.’

  ‘So why?’ asked Tish. She was embarrassed to find that her voice was shaking.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  A hundred possible answers to Tish’s question played in Viorel’s head, but none of them sounded good.

  Because she was there.

  Because I was bored.

  Because I have to prove that every woman in the world wants me, to prove my mother wrong.

  Because I’m an asshole.

  He knew his own inadequacies. But Tish Crewe seemed to have the power to make him feel them in a way that no one else did.

  ‘Look. Dorian’s a good man,’ he said. ‘Please don’t tell him. He’d be destroyed by it if he knew and he doesn’t deserve that.’

  ‘I know he doesn’t bloody deserve it,’ snapped Tish. ‘You’ve put me in an impossible position.’

  ‘Funny,’ Vio quipped. ‘Mrs Rasmirez was saying the same thing a few minutes ago.’

  ‘This isn’t funny! Don’t you have any shame? Any moral code at all?’

  Vio bridled. He knew he was in the wrong, and he hated to have Tish think so badly of him. Despite everything, he cared about her good opinion, probably more than he ought to. But he reacted instinctively against her preachiness. She sounded so like his mother sometimes, it was unnerving.

  He stood up. ‘I didn’t come here for a lecture. I’d like to know what you’re going to do. So would Chrissie. That way at least we can be prepared.’

  ‘I don’t care what you and Chrissie would like,’ said Tish indignantly. ‘You make me sick, the pair of you.’ Her wet jeans clung to her thighs like a poultice. She shivered. ‘However, as it happens, I’m not going to tell Dorian.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Viorel grudgingly.

  ‘Don’t you dare thank me,’ said Tish. ‘I’m not doing it for you. Or that bitch of a wife of his. I’m doing it for him.’

  Vio scanned her face, trying to read the range of emotions there. The rage was clearly visible, flashing in her eyes like a lightning storm. But there was something else too. Sadness. Disappointment. Pain.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he mumbled. And he was. He wished he could be the man she wanted him to be. But not everyone found self-sacrifice as easy as Tish seemed to.

  Turning her back on him, Tish gazed out of the window at the rain falling in grey sheets over Loxley’s park. She was horrified to find herself fighting back tears. ‘Just get out.’

  Sabrina Leon stared at the concrete ceiling above her head and tried to stay angry. If she didn’t stay angry, she’d start crying. And if she started crying, she wouldn’t be able to stop.

  Why do these things always happen to me? Why?

  After a fitful night’s sleep tormented by dreams of Viorel having sex with the fat babysitter, she’d woken up to the sound of battering rain against her windowpane. Real Wuthering Heights weather, but clearly they weren’t going to be able to shoot in such a downpour. Equally clearly, Sabrina knew that if she didn’t do something to engage Viorel’s sexual attention and make him jealous soon, she was in danger of losing every shred of power in their relationship. She was Sabrina fucking Leon, for God’s sake, the most lusted-after woman in the world. And here she was, tolerating being rejected in favour of a local teenage moron.

  With Dorian distracted in London, she’d never have a better opportunity to defy her house arrest and slip away for a little fun. It wasn’t as if she intended anything too drastic. She’d wear shades and a headscarf under her raincoat and head into the city incognito. Then, after a little shopping, she’d lose the disguise, hit one of the local bars or clubs and flirt up a storm. Someone would inevitably photograph her with a good-looking man, just as they always did in LA. Tongues would start wagging and, with any luck, Viorel self-satisfied Hudson would be forced to sit up and take notice.

  It should have been so simple. But of course, it wasn’t. Despite her best efforts at concealment, she was recognized within a few minutes of arriving at Harvey Nichols in Exchange Square. An angry Tarik Tyler fan confronted her in the lingerie department (Sabrina was stocking up on her favourite Elle Macpherson bras, which were like gold dust in the States). Sabrina defended herself robustly, but within minutes the woman had been joined by a number of other shoppers, some of whom began to get physical, jostling and heckling and blocking Sabrina’s path when she tried to leave. Eventually, to Sabrina’s great relief, security arrived. But instead of rushing to her aid, they proceeded to try to escort her out of the store! As if she’d been the one making threats and causing trouble! As soon as the guard laid a hand on her arm, Sabrina lashed out instinctively, kicking and biting at him like a wildcat, demanding that he let her go.

  After that, the rest was a blur. There were many more guards, and the crowd of hecklers swelled as people came to join in the action from other floors and departments. Eventually, the police arrived, and were even less sympathetic to Sabrina’s plight than the store staff had been, bundling her into a van as if she were some sort of drug dealer, and now locking her up in this cold, windowless six-by-eight-foot cell.

  ‘It’s for your own good,’ the staff sergeant told Sabrina. ‘If we held you in one of the open cells, someone’d have a pop at you. And if we give you a window, there’ll be a camera lens pressed against it before you can say “How’s your father”.’

  Sabrina had no idea why she might want to say ‘How’s your father’, or even what such an expression might mean. What she did know was that she had committed no crime, had not been charged, and therefore had every right to demand immediate release, something she did vocally, repeatedly and in increasingly colourful language, until a superintendent arrived, told her she could make one phone call, but that if a single further obscenity passed her lips in his station he would remove the phone and send her straight back to her cell to ‘cool off’. Which, during her short but heated exchange with Dorian, he duly did.

  That had been more than five long hours ago. It was evening now, and still no sign of Dorian riding to her rescue. Lying on her bunk, with nothing to do but brood, Sabrina’s emotions seesawed from anger – at the crowd for attacking her; at Dorian for not getting off his ass and sorting this mess out; at fate for putting her, yet again, in such a hideous position through no fault of her own – to fear, depression and ultimately panic. Perhaps she had to face it. Perhaps her career, her reputation, would never be saved. Perhaps the moviegoing public, in their fickleness and cruelty, would never forgive her. She thought about Ed Steiner, the manager with whom she had battled for so many months back in LA. She could hear Ed’s voice now: ‘I’m not asking you, Sabrina. I’m telling you. You have to take this part. Rasmirez just offered you a lifeline. It’s your last chance.’

  But Ed was wrong. Coming to England to play Cathy had not been Sabrina’s last chance. That had already been and gone, so swiftly she hadn’t even registered its passing. No one was going to give her a chance now, no matter how hard she tried, or worked or prayed. Not back home. Not here in this depressing, rainy little island, crawling with gutter press like a pelt full of lice.

  There was a commotion outside the door. Voices, a clanking of metal. A bolt being drawn back. Sabrina sat up hopefully. Dorian?

  ‘Come with me.’

  No. It was only the staff sergeant.

  Despite herself, Sabrina’s stomach lurched unpleasantly with fear. Sh
e hadn’t been in a police cell since her Fresno days, and it was not an experience she’d ever hoped to repeat. They were obviously going to charge her, with disturbing the peace, or affray, or some such archaic bullshit. They must be taking her to an interview room to make it official. Of course, she’d get off in the end. She hadn’t done anything. But by then it wouldn’t matter. A criminal charge would be the final nail in her career coffin, not to mention the death knell for Wuthering Heights. She’d fucked things up for herself, for Vio, for Dorian. It was all so unfair.

  The sergeant was leading her down some stairs at the rear of the station, past what looked like the interview rooms. At the bottom was a long corridor with a fire door at the end. It almost looked like some sort of service entrance.

  ‘What’s this?’ asked Sabrina. ‘Aren’t you going to charge me?’

  The sergeant turned and looked at her. ‘No, love. You’re going home.’ He smiled, and suddenly Sabrina felt her eyes welling up with tears. She could have stood anything in that moment apart from someone being kind to her. He opened the fire door. On the other side was an enclosed courtyard. An unmarked Nissan Altima was waiting, its engine idling. The windows were darkened. The front passenger door swung open.

  ‘Get in.’

  Dorian’s voice sounded neutral. At least he’s not yelling, thought Sabrina. Not yet, anyway. She got into the car and closed the door. Immediately, double electric gates in the rear wall opened, and they drove slowly out into the night. All the press were outside the front of the station, so they escaped without incident. It took Dorian fifteen minutes to navigate his way out of the city and onto the motorway, fifteen minutes in which neither he nor Sabrina spoke a single word. For Sabrina, the silence was torture, her mind running through every possible scenario:

  She’d be fired.

  She’d be sued.

  She’d be fired and sued.

  She wasn’t sure whether her unauthorized jaunt to Manchester was officially a breach of contract or not. But it was certainly a breach of trust, Dorian’s trust. As always when she felt guilty, Sabrina came out fighting.

  ‘You took your time,’ she complained as they eased into the slow lane of the M6.

  Dorian kept his eyes on the road.

  ‘I sweated it for five hours in that stinking cell.’

  Silence.

  ‘Not that I expect you to give a shit about me; about my false imprisonment, my being assaulted, any of that.’ Sabrina flicked back her long dark hair dismissively. ‘But I figured the media attention might have persuaded you to put your fucking foot down and get me outta there. Wrong again. What were you doing? Let me guess. Shopping with your lovely wife?’

  ‘Are you finished?’ said Dorian quietly.

  ‘I guess.’ Sabrina, who’d been expecting an immediate firestorm, suddenly felt stupid and chastened.

  ‘Good,’ said Dorian. ‘Firstly, for what it’s worth, I agree with you. You should never have been held. From what the police told me, you were clearly the innocent party.’

  Sabrina was so shocked she was speechless.

  ‘Of course, you should never have been in Manchester in the first place. You know you’re not supposed to leave the set.’ Sabrina opened her mouth to protest, but Dorian gave her a look and she swiftly shut it. ‘But I understand your frustration, cooped up in that house for so long.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Of course.’ Dorian smiled at her astonished face. ‘I know things between you and Viorel have been … tense. I’m not an ogre, you know, Sabrina. I do have some inkling of the pressures you’re under.’

  ‘Do you?’ Sabrina raised a sceptical eyebrow.

  ‘Believe it or not,’ said Dorian, ‘I’ve been trying to protect you from them. To protect you from situations like this.’

  ‘Protect your investment, you mean. Your precious movie,’ said Sabrina, horrified by her own hostility, but apparently unable to stop herself lashing out. It was as though she had some bizarre form of Tourette’s, a voice in her head telling her to self-destruct.

  ‘No,’ said Dorian quietly. ‘That’s not what I mean at all.’

  Sabrina looked across at him, suddenly aware of how physically close they were in the confined space of the car. Dorian was so big that he seemed stooped in the driver’s seat, and his knees appeared to be in constant danger of bashing against the underside of the dashboard. He looked tired too, she noticed, the grey hairs at his temples in keeping with the heavy bags under his eyes, and though he’d shaved for today’s meetings, there was no disguising the pallor of his skin, despite weeks spent filming outside.

  He needs someone to take care of him, thought Sabrina. Someone other than that whingeing harridan of a wife.

  The combination of the darkness outside and the torrential rain slamming against the windscreen and roof heightened the sense of being in a cocoon: warm, insulated and safe, together. Impulsively, Sabrina reached across and stroked Dorian’s cheek.

  It was a small, tender gesture, but the sexual jolt it sent through both of them could have rebooted the national grid. Dorian reached up to remove her hand but found himself gripping it tightly, his fingers entwining themselves with hers. Suddenly it was hard to breathe, let alone drive. He pulled over onto the hard shoulder and turned to face her.

  ‘Sabrina,’ he began falteringly, barely trusting himself to speak. ‘I … we can’t.’

  She leaned forward and kissed him full on the mouth. Not a long kiss, but passionate and hungry, a taste of the wildness inside her. Dorian kissed her back, but it was he who pulled away first.

  ‘We can’t,’ he said again. ‘Really.’

  He said it so gently and with such kindness, Sabrina found herself nodding in agreement. ‘I know. Of course we can’t. You’re right.’

  Outwardly, she sounded calm. But inside she was still in shock, horrified by how much she’d wanted him in that moment. Still, she told herself, it was just a moment. An animalistic connection that flared up for a second between them and was gone.

  ‘I don’t know what I was thinking.’

  ‘Nor do I.’ said Dorian. ‘A gorgeous young woman like you oughtn’t to be wasting your time with a stuck-in-the-mud old man like me. You could have anyone you wanted.’

  ‘You’re not old.’ Sabrina laughed, relieved that the tension had been broken. ‘And besides, I can’t have any man I want. I can’t have Vio.’

  After that it all came spilling out: her increasing longing for Viorel, her frustration at his rejection, her anger and despair about his screwing around, knowing she had no option but to sit by and watch.

  ‘I came to Manchester to make him jealous,’ she admitted, shaking her head with embarrassment. ‘Pathetic, isn’t it?’

  Dorian put a reassuring arm around her shoulder. ‘Not pathetic,’ he assured her. ‘Not the smartest move in the world, perhaps – I dread to think what the papers are gonna do to us in the morning – but not pathetic.’

  ‘Oh God, the papers,’ groaned Sabrina. ‘I’ve fucked it up for all of us. Again.’

  ‘Yes, well. It’s not an ideal state of affairs,’ admitted Dorian.

  Sabrina eyed him suspiciously. ‘How come you’re being so calm about it?’

  ‘I’m like a swan,’ Dorian grinned. ‘I look serene, but under the waterline my feet are paddling like crazy. Look, the truth is there are some golden rules in movie-making. And one of them is, if the director panics, the ship goes down. Studios want to see confidence. One sign of weakness and you’re finished.’

  Sabrina remembered how desperate she’d been to act confident in front of Dorian the first time they’d met, terrified that if he saw how much she needed it he’d take the part away. How embarrassingly cocky she’d been at that lunch in Beverly Hills.

  ‘Thanks for bailing me out,’ she said meekly.

  ‘You’re welcome. Shall we get going?’

  Sabrina nodded and Dorian turned on the ignition.

  Easing back into the sluggish traffic, he said,
‘I do love my wife, you know.’

  ‘Of course you do,’ said Sabrina. ‘I never doubted it for a second.’

  Who’s he trying to convince? she wondered silently. Me or himself?

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  For the next three days, until Chrissie left for Romania, Tish felt as if she were living in some sort of play. Everybody was acting, and nothing was what it seemed. I suppose I’m as guilty as the rest of them, she thought, watching Chrissie lavish affection on Dorian, hugging and kissing him at mealtimes and making a big deal about holding his hand on set. I’m playing the detached, gracious hostess, behaving as if nothing’s wrong. I’m part of the charade.

  Dorian had been in a strange mood ever since he’d got back to Loxley with Sabrina, who’d managed to get herself into even more hot water in Manchester. The headlines the next morning had been predictably awful, but Dorian seemed unfazed, pressing on with the shoot thanks to an early break in the weather. In two weeks, most people working on the film would be heading home to join their families. Only a skeleton crew and the five lead actors would be coming out to Romania to shoot the final interior shots at Dorian’s Schloss. As a result, the end-of-term atmosphere was palpable. Once Chrissie left and the sun returned in earnest, the mood on set became even more positive. The work they’d done at Loxley had been worth all the effort. At last, they were on the home straight.

  Only Tish found it difficult to share in the celebratory mood. Try as she might, she couldn’t get the awful image of Viorel and Chrissie in bed together out of her mind. Every time she saw either of them, she felt sick. To make matters worse, the day after she’d walked in on them, she received a phone call from Carl at Curcubeu. One of the kids from Tish’s children’s home had been taken seriously ill with suspected liver failure. They’d had to empty the home’s bank account to pay for the little boy’s treatment. As a result, none of the carers had had their wages paid for a week, and two had threatened to quit. Tish had wired emergency funds right away, but Carl had made it clear this wasn’t enough.