Fame

  ‘The staff need to see you here, Tish. Morale’s as low as it’s ever been. People are starting to say that maybe you aren’t coming back.’

  ‘Of course I’m coming back,’ said Tish, irritated. ‘I was always going to be gone over the summer. Nothing’s changed.’

  ‘Well it has here,’ said Carl bluntly. ‘We’re broke and exhausted. Child services know you’re in England and they’ve been on our backs harder than ever. You know they want to reopen Vasile’s custody case?’

  Tish didn’t know. She felt terrible. She’d been so caught up in all the drama at Loxley, she realized she’d pushed everything else out of her mind, even the children who counted on her. But at the same time, Viorel’s criticism still bothered her. Was taking Abel back to Romania selfish? Or was staying here selfish? Whichever way she turned, she was wrong. Irrationally, she blamed Viorel for this.

  ‘I’m damned if I do and damned if I don’t,’ she complained to Mrs Drummond one evening, sorting through a vast pile of Abel’s laundry on the kitchen table. ‘I feel like I’m being pulled three ways. There’s Loxley, there’s Curcubeu and there’s Abel. And I can’t let any of them down.’

  ‘You aren’t letting any of them down,’ said Mrs Drummond matter-of-factly. ‘Thanks to you, Loxley Hall’s future is looking rosy.’

  ‘I wouldn’t go that far,’ said Tish.

  ‘I would. We’ve got that nice family moving in in October, haven’t we?’

  This was true. To Tish’s delighted relief, Savills had found long-term tenants for the hall who were prepared to take occupancy in the autumn, once the shoot was over.

  ‘Yes, that’s a start.’

  ‘And the last third of the film money’s still to come. As for your children’s home, you’ve paid the bills and you’ll be back before they know it. And Abi will be happy wherever you are, my lovely. Don’t let that jumped-up Hudson lad or anybody else tell you different.’

  Mrs D’s encouragement meant a lot. But Tish still felt depressed and overwhelmed. Since catching him in flagrante with Chrissie, living under the same roof as Viorel had become virtually unbearable. She couldn’t wait for him to leave, yet at the same time she dreaded Dorian’s departure and how empty Loxley was going to feel once they’d all gone.

  One bright Thursday afternoon, Tish found herself with that rarest of luxuries, some time on her hands. Abel had gone out riding with old Bill Connelly, and was going to spend the night sleeping up at Home Farm in a tent, an event of almost indescribable excitement. Bill had found himself somewhat out of favour with Abi since Viorel’s arrival, but with Vio now keeping his distance and focusing all his energies on the final few days of filming, the elderly farmer was once again proving a draw.

  ‘Lavender and I’ll take good care of him,’ Bill assured Tish, unnecessarily. Conscious that their time in England was running out, she wanted Abel to squeeze every last ounce from his Derbyshire summer.

  After two blissful hours hiding in the library window seat, lost in her book, Tish could no longer resist the lure of the late-afternoon light dancing across the woods and parkland, and decided to go for a stroll. Heading down to the bridge where she’d spent so many happy hours as a child, she felt quite overcome with nostalgia. Henry’s presence was everywhere, in the cawing of the rooks overhead, the burbling rush of the stream, the dappled glow of the sunlight filtering through the leaves. I’ve made my life in Oradea, thought Tish. But if home is where the heart is, Loxley will always be home.

  She sat there musing and soaking up Loxley’s magic for longer than she’d intended. All of a sudden she felt cold and, looking up, realized it was dark. The night had crept up on her. Hurrying inside, she found most of the downstairs lights were off. It must be even later than she’d thought. A dim glow drew her towards the kitchen. There were bound to be some leftovers in the fridge and she realized suddenly that she was starving.

  Not until she’d pulled the remnants of a cold roast chicken out of the fridge and turned on the hob to fry up some onions did she sense she wasn’t alone. She didn’t hear anything exactly, or see another body in the room. But she felt a presence behind her, so strongly that she didn’t think to question it. She also sensed its malevolence. Mrs D wouldn’t sneak up on me like that, she reasoned. Nor would the film crew. They’d announce themselves. It must be an intruder. Gripping the saucepan more tightly, Tish prepared to swing around, steeling herself for confrontation, when a familiar voice froze her to the spot.

  ‘Hello, Tishy. Made enough for me?’

  Tish turned around slowly.

  ‘Jago.’

  It was almost two years since Tish had last seen her brother in the flesh. He’d grown a beard since then and lost weight but, even in his current lean, angular state, Jago Crewe was preposterously good-looking. With his raven-black curls and sensuously full lips, he was so like their mother, Vivianna, it was disconcerting. Standing in the kitchen doorway now in an open-necked hemp shirt and flowing linen trousers, with various beads and talismans hanging from his neck and wrists, Tish thought he looked like a Hollywood version of Jesus.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  Jago pouted, instantly ruining the beatific effect. ‘Well, that’s not very welcoming. What about, “How are you, Jago?” or, “Nice to see you, Jago”?’

  Tish turned back to her cooking, mindlessly chopping at an onion.

  ‘So what happened to Tibet? The life of a hermit started to pall, did it?’ She made no effort to keep the sarcasm out of her voice. Tish loved her brother, but sometimes his selfish ness was really too much. As for his faux spirituality, it had always stuck in Tish’s craw. Especially as every time he committed himself to a new cult he abandoned his responsibilities without a backwards glance, leaving others to pick up the pieces. ‘You’re all caved-out, I suppose?’

  ‘You know, that’s always been your trouble, Tishy,’ said Jago, walking up behind her and rubbing her stiffened shoulders. ‘You’re so quick to judge things you don’t understand.’

  ‘I understand that you buggered off and left Mrs Drummond at the mercy of your drugged-out bloody friends!’ Tish said furiously, shrugging him off. ‘I had to leave my home and my work to fly back here and get rid of them, but not before they’d trashed the place. They sold Dad’s paintings, you know. Oh, no, sorry, you don’t know. You were too busy trying to stick your head up your arse in some Tibetan fucking ashram!’

  Jago shook his head pityingly. ‘You see, there you go again. So materialistic. What’s a painting, Tish? Some coloured marks on a bit of canvas, that’s all. Let them go.’

  ‘That’s all very well,’ snapped Tish, ‘but some of those coloured marks were Staithes Group originals. We lost over a hundred thousand pounds, Jago! It’s not about materialism, I don’t want to rush out and spend the money on a bloody necklace. It’s about preserving Loxley for the next generation. When I got here, we were days away from bankruptcy. Days.’

  ‘I’m assuming that’s why you sold your soul to Mammon,’ said Jago, disapprovingly. ‘I saw the film trailers parked outside. They’re American, I assume?’ He said the word as if it were code for ‘vermin’.

  ‘If it weren’t for those Americans, you wouldn’t have a home to come back to,’ said Tish.

  ‘Even so, you might have asked me,’ grumbled Jago, helping himself to a Braeburn from the fruit bowl. ‘You know I loathe Hollywood. The crap they churn out’s all propaganda for the fascist, capitalist globalization movement. Loxley shouldn’t be supporting that.’

  It was all Tish could do not to hit him. ‘I couldn’t ask you,’ she said through gritted teeth, ‘because you weren’t here. If you remember, you did tell Mrs Drummond and anybody else who’d listen that you wouldn’t be coming back.’

  ‘Yeah, well, life’s a journey, isn’t it?’ said Jago. ‘Things change. Now be an angel and give me a plate of that chicken, would you? I’ve been travelling for two days straight; all I want to do is eat and crash.’

  ‘You’re st
aying, then?’ asked Tish despairingly, thinking of the tenants she’d lined up for October and all the hard work she’d done wrenching the estate’s finances back from the brink.

  ‘I dunno,’ said Jago. ‘I’ll see how I feel. One step at a time, eh, Tishy? You gotta live for the now.’

  The unexpected return of Loxley’s prodigal son created ripples of excitement among the Wuthering Heights cast and crew.

  All of the make-up and wardrobe girls pronounced Jago Crewe ‘gorgeous’ and took to hanging around the set in hot pants and barely there vests in an attempt to gain his attention. Poor Deborah Raynham could barely utter a syllable in Jago’s presence, much to the irritation of Rhys Evans, who’d been quietly trying to woo the girl for weeks. Rhys wasn’t the only male whose nose was out of joint. Viorel, who’d had the same effect on the girls when he first arrived, but who had rapidly lost his appeal once his on-set vow of celibacy became common knowledge, was wildly jealous.

  ‘Personally, I don’t see what the big deal’s about with Jago Crewe,’ he complained to the odious Jamie Duggan, who played Edgar Linton, Sabrina’s on-set husband. Normally, Viorel wouldn’t have stooped to chat with Jamie, who was a crashing bore, but he was fast running out of friends on set. Sabrina and Tish were both still barely speaking to him, and he avoided Dorian’s company for obvious reasons.

  ‘I agree,’ said Jamie Duggan, tongue in cheek. ‘A rich, landed aristocrat who looks like a Calvin Klein model … they’re ten a penny, aren’t they?’

  ‘That’s what I told Debbie,’ chipped in Rhys Evans. ‘“It’s a Welshman you want,” I says to her. “Size isn’t everything, you know.” But does she listen?’

  Vio frowned. ‘He isn’t that attractive.’

  ‘Oh, come on.’ Rhys nudged him in the ribs. He liked Vio, but he found his vanity hilarious. ‘He’s not exactly Quasimido, is he? Anyway, look on the bright side. Lizzie Bayer’s so smitten with Lord Jago she’s finally stopped boring everybody’s tits off about her bloody career.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Vio smiled thinly. Any relief he felt that Jago had captured Lizzie’s vacuous attentions was more than counterbalanced by the effect he seemed to be having on Sabrina.

  The morning after Jago arrived, he strode onto the set in the middle of a take and, completely ignoring everybody else, including Viorel and a furiously gesticulating Dorian, introduced himself to Sabrina.

  ‘I loved Destroyers,’ he said, taking her hand and kissing it. Sabrina was so taken aback, she actually blushed.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You were so beautiful on screen, I didn’t think it was possible you could be any lovelier in the flesh. But here you are. Jago Crewe.’ He released her hand. ‘A pleasure to meet you, Miss Leon.’

  ‘Likewise,’ said Sabrina, smiling broadly, ignoring the death stares from everybody else on set. ‘And please, call me Sabrina.’

  ‘Er, excuse me!’ shouted Dorian irritably through his loud-hailer. ‘We’re in the middle of a scene here.’

  Jago ignored him. ‘I understand you’ve been here for some weeks already, Sabrina. But if you were interested, I’d adore to give you a full tour of Loxley and her grounds.’

  ‘I’d love that,’ said Sabrina.

  ‘Great.’ Jago’s face lit up. ‘I need to reconnect with the place myself. I’ve been doing a lot of inner work recently, you know, following the call of the Spirit? But hopefully, I can bring a more centred energy now that I’m back.’

  ‘Uh-huh,’ said Sabrina, trying to keep her focus on Jago’s chiselled bone structure and not the unadulterated drivel coming out of his sensuous, full-lipped mouth.

  It was all getting too much for Vio. ‘For God’s sake,’ he snapped. ‘Can we get on with the fucking take?’

  Delighted to have finally made him jealous, Sabrina deliberately reoffered Jago her hand for another lingering kiss.

  ‘Till next time,’ Jago murmured flirtatiously.

  Sabrina was elated. Put that in your pipe and smoke it, Viorel Hudson. Looks like you’re no longer the only show in town.

  As the days passed, Sabrina’s flirtation with Jago intensified. Apart from being a diverting way to pass the long, boring hours at Loxley, it had the added advantage of irritating both Viorel and Tish, who was annoying Sabrina at the moment more than ever. Her cliquey little friendship with Viorel now appeared to be well and truly over, thank heavens. But Tish’s bossy, head-girl wholesomeness continued to rub Sabrina up the wrong way. She got particularly irritated by the way that Dorian continually leaped to Tish’s defence.

  ‘Give her a break,’ he’d say, whenever Sabrina made some cutting remark or joke at Tish’s expense. ‘She’s a nice girl, and a great mom. At least she’s trying to make a difference.’

  ‘So am I,’ said Sabrina indignantly. ‘You don’t have to open a frikking Romanian orphanage to do good in this world, you know. I’m making art.’

  She tried not to be put out by Dorian’s hearty guffaw.

  Since Manchester, Sabrina had grown closer to Dorian. The kiss was never mentioned and never would be. But the communication barrier between them finally seemed to have been broken. If only Tish Crewe weren’t always around him like a bad smell, laughing and joking and talking about things that made Sabrina feel excluded, like politics and Romania and literature, intellectual things, Sabrina and Dorian might have really connected. As it was, Sabrina felt yet again as though she were playing second fiddle.

  Tish acts like she owns him, she thought bitterly. Like she’s the only one who gets him. She’s not even in the movie business. What does she know about his life? It bothered Sabrina hugely that Dorian seemed so impressed by Tish, in awe of her even, because it played on her own deep insecurities and feelings of inadequacy. Around Tish Crewe, Sabrina felt like the little girl from Fresno again. She hated it. But Jago’s arrival was a gift. Correctly surmising that by flirting with Jago she could strike back at Tish where it hurt, Sabrina wasted no time returning Jago’s interest.

  You try and take over my world, honey, and I’ll try and take over yours. See how you like it.

  Not that flirting with Jago Crewe was too difficult a sacrifice. True, he wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer. Sabrina heard enough of all that New Age, spiritualist bullshit in California, but somehow it seemed even more vacuous delivered in a posh British accent. And true, he lacked sex appeal. Despite his undeniable good looks, there was something deeply vanilla about Jago. Like Viorel, he was vain, but Jago’s vanity had none of the sharp, predatory edge of Vio’s. However, one shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth, particularly after so many months in a parched sexual wasteland. Jago was handsome, rich and quite openly smitten with Sabrina. In the wake of Viorel’s rejection, his lust alone was enough to draw Sabrina to him like a junkie to a needle.

  Five days after Jago’s return, he invited all the actors out to dinner at the new French restaurant in Castleton, Fait Maison.

  ‘I see you’ve got over your moral objections to capitalist film-makers, then.’ Tish looked up from behind a giant stack of filing on Henry’s desk. Even now, with her return to Romania imminent, there was a lot to be done.

  ‘You invited them, so they’re here now. It’d be churlish not to behave graciously,’ said Jago sanctimoniously. ‘Besides, poor Sabrina’s been cooped up at Loxley like a chicken for the last God-knows-how-many weeks. Rasmirez sounds like a total bastard, locking her up like Lord Capulet or something. I can’t think why she puts up with it.’

  Dorian had flown out to LA that morning on a suddenly scheduled three-day trip. The rumour on set was that he was in Hollywood doing some early scouting around for a distribution deal. But, as always with Dorian, information was thin on the ground.

  ‘Dorian’s lovely,’ said Tish loyally. ‘Trust me, “poor” Sabrina would try anybody’s patience. Anyway, I thought you and I were going to sit down tonight and go over the finances?’

  Jago sighed dramatically.

  ‘You’ve been putting it of
f ever since you got home,’ said Tish, ‘but we have to talk. It’s not my idea of fun either, you know.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Jago with a shrug. ‘Come to the dinner. You can show me your precious pie charts while we eat.’

  Now it was Tish’s turn to sigh. Dorian and Rhys were both away, reducing the prospects for a jolly evening to nil. Jamie Duggan and Lizzie Bayer, temporarily reunited since Jago had fixed his sexual attentions so firmly on Sabrina, would have eyes only for each other. Which meant that Tish would be left making small talk with Viorel while her brother drooled over Sabrina like a starving puppy.

  On the other hand, she had to pin Jago down about Loxley. She hoped to convince him to hire a full-time financial manager after she’d gone. Soon she’d be back in Romania, and the thought of all her hard work going to waste – of Jago letting the estate slip back into the abyss – was enough to bring her out in hives. A least at a restaurant, he’d be trapped. She could force him to look at the numbers.

  ‘OK,’ she said. ‘I’ll be there. But I’m bringing the files with me. And you must look at them.’

  ‘Give it a rest,’ grumbled Jago. ‘I said I would, didn’t I?’

  Tucked into what had once been a medieval millworker’s cottage, Fait Maison was a cosy, candlelit gem of a restaurant, but very much designed for romantic dinners for two. The ‘table for six’ to which the owner proudly led Jago was tucked under the eaves and looked as if it had been made by elves.