Fame

  ‘What did Dorian say?’ she asked Ed. ‘He must be over the moon. Has he made a statement?’

  ‘Ah,’ said Ed. ‘I was hoping you might be able to tell me. Dorian’s been AWOL for the last two weeks apparently.’

  ‘What do you mean “AWOL”?’

  ‘He packed up his LA apartment and took off. No one knows where the hell he is. His agent called me twenty minutes ago. Asked me to ask you and Hudson if either of you’d heard from him.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Sabrina. ‘I’m sure he’ll call soon though. If his agent can’t reach him, he’ll see it on the news.’

  She imagined Dorian’s shock and delight and felt a rush of affection and happiness for her director. He’s such a good man. He deserves this more than any of us.

  It seemed as if the curse of Wuthering Heights was well and truly broken. Everybody’s luck was finally changing.

  ‘How is this possible? HOW the FUCK is this happening?’

  Harry Greene paced around Mike Hartz’s office like a caged tiger, banging his fist on the walls so that his rage could be heard reverberating down Sony Pictures’ corridors.

  ‘You told me you would kill that movie. And now it’s up for a fucking Oscar? Oh, excuse me, my mistake, four fucking Oscars? Including Best fucking PICTURE? For that schmaltzy pile of crap?’

  ‘With respect, Harry,’ Mike Hartz swallowed hard, ‘we don’t have any influence over the Academy. It’s extremely rare for something like this to happen, especially at such a late stage. A fluke, if you will.’

  ‘If I will?’ Harry Greene erupted, his face reddening like an engorged baboon’s backside. ‘I FUCKING WON’T, Mike, you supercilious son of a bitch. You told me you would bury Rasmirez. With what? A giant pile of Academy fucking Awards?’

  ‘Harry, be reasonable. The fact that Wuthering Heights has been nominated doesn’t mean it stands a hope in hell of actually winning. Rasmirez doesn’t have a buck for a coffee, never mind funding for a serious Oscar campaign. Celeste will take Best Picture.’

  ‘It had better,’ Harry muttered murderously. ‘Because if it doesn’t, I swear to God I will take Fraternity IV back and burn it before I’d let you assholes release it.’

  Mike cleared his throat nervously. ‘I must remind you that you are under contract. If you—’

  He didn’t get any further. Lunging across the desk, Harry grabbed the terrified producer by the lapels. ‘If you ever, ever, say the word “contract” to me again, I will shred the fucking contract and ram the pieces down your throat until you choke to death, you useless, corporate fuck. Do you understand? I will slice off your balls and use them for earrings.’

  Outside in the lobby, Mike Hartz’s secretary Linda listened to her boss being eviscerated by Harry Greene and felt a small, illicit rush of pleasure. Mike was a bully, greedy, sexist and vile. All his staff loathed him.

  Linda Googled the odds on Dorian Rasmirez beating Harry Greene to take home Best Picture.

  A hundred to one.

  Not encouraging. But then this was Hollywood.

  Anything could happen.

  Viorel waited at the traffic lights at Doheny and Sunset, oblivious to the stares of the tourists on the pavement. Normally, he enjoyed the attention, although he was never totally sure whether people were ogling him or his Bugatti, the slick, matt-black Batmobile of every small boy’s dreams. But today, he didn’t care. Nothing could lift his spirits, not the street audience, not the blazing LA sunshine overhead, not the knowledge that this morning’s audition had gone as close to perfectly as he could have wished. All he could think about was the tape playing over and over in his head:

  I have to tell her.

  I have to break things off with Sabrina.

  He’d been meaning to do it for weeks now, but every time she looked up at him with that adoring, trusting, beautiful face of hers, his nerve failed him. He despised himself for his own weakness, for allowing things to go as far between them as they had. But it was so hard, what with the press making such a huge deal about their relationship, and how his love had ‘saved’ Sabrina. Viorel enjoyed being a saviour. It had a better ring to it than ‘heartbreaking asshole’. The pressure of knowing that the whole of America was debating the details of a wedding you knew in your heart you would never have – would the service be outdoors, would they do a magazine deal, would Sabrina go traditional with the dress or opt for something edgier? – crushed him like a dead weight, and sapped all of the courage out of him like a giant mosquito gorging on his blood. But nothing compared to the pain he was about to cause Sabrina.

  Poor kid. The irony was that he cared about her far more deeply now than he had when they’d first got together. Back then it had been purely sexual, a pride thing as much as anything else. He had to have her, to conquer her, to make her his own. But now that he knew her, now that he had seen her vulnerability and sweetness, all the sexual impetus was gone. She was as beautiful and desirable as she had ever been, but it was no good. Viorel wasn’t in love with her. He could never be the husband that she needed him to be, and he was terrified of what she would do when he told her.

  The lights finally changed and he sped west on Sunset, past the grand mansions of Beverly Hills and the kitsch pink magnificence of the famous Beverly Hills Hotel. For once the traffic was actually moving. Lost in his own thoughts, Viorel drove on through Holmby Hills, past the Playboy Mansion and the East and West gates of Bel Air and on into the suburban tranquillity of Brentwood, unaware of anything except the heaviness in his heart. He had to do it today. If he didn’t he’d be well on his way to a nervous breakdown.

  Turning left onto Ocean, as the condos of Santa Monica gave way to the ramshackle Twenties cottages of Venice, he tried out opening phrases.

  ‘We need to talk.’

  ‘I don’t think things are working out.’

  ‘I don’t think I’m right for you.’

  Jesus. It was all so clichéd, so trite, like a bad episode of In Treatment. But could there ever be a right set of words to tell someone who expected to marry you that you weren’t in love with them after all?

  As so often recently, Viorel found his thoughts turning to Tish Crewe. Tish would know what to say, how to let Sabrina down gently. She was so wise about stuff like that. He wished their relationship was at a point where he could call and ask her for advice, but after their last disastrous phone conversation, he was by no means sure that he and Tish would ever speak again. The thought depressed him still further.

  Turning into the back alley behind Navy, Viorel saw that the entrance to his parking garage was blocked with a throng of paparazzi. Ever since Sabrina moved in, a small group of die-hard paps had taken to hanging around the apartment daily, an intrusion into his privacy that Vio violently resented. It was tough for them to get any kind of a decent shot, though, thanks to the apartment’s fortress-like walls and high metal gates, and most had given up the stakeout. A group this large – fourteen or fifteen photographers all jostling for position around the garage – was distinctly unusual. As the Bugatti pulled closer and the garage door opened, they descended on Viorel like locusts, shouting his name as their flashbulbs popped.

  ‘Congratulations!’

  ‘Have you talked to Sabrina yet? Is she home?’

  ‘Were you surprised by the news?’

  Vio said nothing, driving inside with his Ray-Bans still on and his Lakers cap pulled low over his face. He could still hear the cameras and the muffled shouts as the electric doors wheeshed shut behind him. What the fuck was going on?

  He took the lift up to the apartment. The second the doors opened, a naked Sabrina, still wet from the shower, leaped into his arms and started showering him with kisses.

  ‘Ohmygodohmygodohmygod!’ she squealed, grinning from ear to ear like a kid on Christmas morning. ‘Did you hear?’

  ‘No. Hear what?’ Vio laughed awkwardly. Her slippery, naked skin was sending unwanted, automated messages to his dick, which was the last thing he needed right now
. Setting her down on the floor, he opened the hall closet and pulled out a towel. ‘Here.’ He wrapped her in it. ‘Don’t die of cold.’

  ‘I won’t die of cold,’ she beamed. ‘I might die of excitement though. And you might die of shock. Wuthering Heights got four nominations today.’

  ‘Nominations for what? Shortest cinema release in history?’

  ‘I’m serious!’ said Sabrina. ‘We’re up for four Oscars, including Best Picture.’

  Vio frowned. ‘That’s impossible.’

  ‘I know, that’s what I said,’ laughed Sabrina. ‘But you should call Ed Steiner if you don’t believe me. It’s all over the news too – just turn on the TV. Four nominations, that’s the second most after Celeste. And …’ she took a deep, dramatic breath, ‘I’m up for Best Actress.’

  Viorel read the joy in Sabrina’s face. Turned up hopefully towards him, her wet hair still dripping, she was awaiting his approval, his praise, his love. With no make-up on, smelling of toothpaste and soap, she looked younger and more innocent than he had ever seen her. So trusting, wanting only to share her triumph with the man she loved. He felt his resolve crumbling to nothing, like a sandcastle in the rain.

  ‘That’s wonderful, baby.’ He hugged her tightly. Coward, coward, coward.

  Sabrina breathed into his chest. ‘I love you so much. Let’s go to bed.’

  Dorian was dreaming the first time the phone rang.

  He was standing on the bridge over the river at Loxley. It was pouring with rain. On one side of the bridge, Chrissie was playing hide and seek with Saskia, who was slipping down the bank towards the water. Dorian ran to try to save her, but found himself being pulled back to the other side of the bridge. Turning around to see who was pulling him, he saw it was Sabrina Leon. ‘What are you waiting for?’ she asked him.

  She was wearing a white dress and smiling a strange, angelic smile. ‘Come back inside the house. It’s raining.’ Dorian looked up at Loxley Hall, and suddenly it began to crumble to the ground, bricks and masonry crashing down all around him like giant hailstones. Then he heard sirens wailing. The emergency services must be coming. The sirens grew louder and louder, shriller and shriller, dragging him groggily back to consciousness … my phone.

  Fumbling on the bedside table for his cellphone, by the time he picked it up it had stopped ringing. Heart racing, he slumped back against the pillow of his grimy motel room bed. Stupid. I must have left it on last night by mistake. He’d been drunkenly scrolling through his photos before bed, staring at pictures of his daughter. Since he’d fled LA two weeks ago, he’d made a point of keeping his phone switched off. Last night was the first time he’d looked at it in over a week, ignoring the hundred-plus missed calls and groaning mailbox and going straight to his media file.

  Saskia, holding up her grey cat and yawning.

  Saskia, laughing on a swing in a Santa Monica playground.

  Saskia sleeping in the car, her chubby, baby’s head lolling to one side of her car seat, a picture of innocence and peace.

  I’ve been a shitty father. I was never there for her. Harry Greene can’t do a worse job than I did. The dark, depressing thoughts kept coming back, one after the other, like waves in a sea of pain.

  After he’d broken the news to the cast and crew that a year’s hard work and commitment had been for nothing, Dorian had kept driving on up the coast, stopping only for gas and some basic supplies before he reached the skuzzy motel on the outskirts of Big Sur. A stunning stretch of the California coastline, just south of the quaint tourist town of Carmel, Big Sur was a popular romantic vacation spot for couples, or for artists or nature lovers seeking inspiration from the dramatic seascapes and majestic ancient redwood forests. The Sea View Motel was one of the rare ugly buildings to be found there, a low 1960s breezeblock box with dirty windows, set back from the road amongst some scrubby pines. But for Dorian it was perfect. Remote. Anonymous. Cheap. He had no idea how long he intended to stay, or what his future plans were. All he knew was he couldn’t be around people. Not yet. His family life was in tatters. His career was over. He was financially ruined. And yet none of these things haunted him as much as one bleak, unalterable fact.

  Sabrina Leon was going to marry Viorel Hudson.

  They’d shown up at the meeting at Dracula together, hand in hand, two poster children for youth and hope and romance. Sabrina was obviously disappointed, though she tried not to show it. Dorian saw the way she leaned into Viorel’s chest for support, how he had wrapped a comforting, possessive arm around her shoulders. Like a passer-by staring at a car crash, he couldn’t seem to tear his eyes away. But the pain was exquisite.

  God only knew he didn’t want to be in love with Sabrina. It was ridiculous, a man of his age and a young girl like that. Of course she was in love with Hudson. Why on earth wouldn’t she be? If Dorian were half a man, he’d be happy for them.

  The phone rang again, an irritating, insistent buzz like a trapped bumblebee demanding release. Dorian picked up.

  ‘Go away.’

  ‘So you’re alive, then.’ David Finkelstein sounded more annoyed than relieved. ‘Where the hell have you been, D? I’ve been trying to reach you for more than a week.’

  ‘I’m sorry David. I don’t want to talk to anyone,’ said Dorian, and hung up.

  Before he could switch the phone off, it rang again.

  ‘I mean it,’ said Dorian, getting angrier now. His hangover was starting to kick in after last night’s solitary downing of a bottle and a half of Cabernet. It was still early – at least, he thought it was early – and he wanted to go back to sleep. ‘Leave me alone.’

  ‘Wuthering Heights got a Best Picture nomination from the Academy,’ Dorian’s manager blurted out, before he got hung up on again. The line went deathly quiet.

  ‘Dorian? Are you still there?’

  ‘I’m here,’ said Dorian.

  ‘Well, aren’t you gonna say something? This is the Oscars, man. This is the big one. You got four nominations. Sabrina’s up for Best Actress.’

  The mention of Sabrina’s name seemed to rouse Dorian from his stupor.

  ‘Have you spoken to her?’

  ‘Jesus, D, no, I haven’t spoken to her. She’s not my client. You are. I’ve been trying to speak to you. Surprise, surprise, Sony suddenly want to talk to you.’

  ‘I have nothing to say to those bastards,’ said Dorian with feeling.

  ‘Be that as it may, you need to get your ass back to town. Every media outlet this side of the fucking moon wants an interview.’

  ‘OK,’ said Dorian. ‘I’ll call you back.’

  ‘No, D, wait! Don’t hang up!’ begged David. But it was too late. The line was already dead.

  Throwing back the bedclothes, Dorian dropped his phone back on the bedside table and staggered unsteadily across the room to open the blinds. Glaring sunshine poured in through the window. He winced. Shit. It must be noon at least. How long had he been asleep? He turned on the coffee machine next to the unused television set, and opened a packet of Oreo cookies, mindlessly chomping through them as his mind slowly lurched back to life.

  The Oscars. Four nominations. Best Picture.

  It was a fantasy. The kind of stuff that Hollywood dreams were made of, but that never actually happened in Hollywood. At least not to him. He’d been saved by some mysterious guardian angel, right at the very moment when he’d stopped believing. He ought to be ecstatic. Giddy with happiness. Instead he felt … what? He felt nothing. Blank.

  Maybe I’m losing it. Maybe I need some psychological help.

  The coffee was brewed. Dorian poured a cup and drank it, black and strong, the bitter liquid reviving him even as it burned his tongue and throat.

  He had to go back. To make a statement. A Best Picture nomination meant he would have to talk to the press, to travel, to promote the film until the soles of his feet ached and his voice was hoarse. Although quite how he was going to pay for a PR tour he had no idea. Sony almost certainly wouldn’t
fund it, Harry Greene would see to that. Not that Dorian would have taken a cent of Mike Hartz’s money, even if it were offered.

  More importantly, an Oscar nomination meant he could no longer hibernate and lick his wounds. He would have to see Sabrina again. With Viorel. To stand next to the pair of them and smile while they proclaimed their love to the world, hand in hand on Oscar night, looking on like an avuncular cupid, the man who’d brought Hollywood’s new golden couple together. Suddenly, embarrassingly, Dorian’s eyes welled with tears.

  Get a grip, he told himself angrily. You’re Sabrina’s director and her friend. Nothing more.

  He would go back to LA, congratulate Sabrina, master his emotions and pretend to be happy. But inside, Dorian wondered whether he would ever be truly happy again.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Sabrina sat down at the corner table at Mastro’s, aware that every eye in the upstairs restaurant had followed her as she walked across the room. Perhaps she shouldn’t feel so gratified by the adulation. But then again, it wasn’t every day one got nominated for an Oscar. Why shouldn’t she enjoy it?

  After a blissful afternoon spent making love to Viorel – as always, sex had been a virtuoso performance, with Vio as lost and intoxicated in the moment as she was – she’d driven over to Ed Steiner’s office on the Wilshire and Beverly Glen and given a press conference. The last time Sabrina had faced the press in her agent’s office, she’d been grudgingly delivering a pre-scripted mea culpa to a sea of hostile, bloodthirsty faces. This time, the love in the room was so thick she could have eaten it with a spoon.

  How did it feel to be back on top in her career? Was she surprised by the nomination, given the movie’s very limited release? Had she spoken to Dorian Rasmirez, or the rest of her co-stars?