Fame

  At the same time, Sabrina knew it was the Best Director honour that Dorian really, secretly coveted. I owe him so much, she thought, noticing for the first time how green and unwell he looked. Please, God, let him get Best Director. He so deserves it.

  Just as she had the thought, Clint Eastwood walked onto the stage looking old and stooped. This was it then. Too nervous to look at Dorian, she grabbed his hand silently.

  ‘And the nominations for Best Director are …’ Eastwood’s familiar cowboy drawl rang out through the auditorium. ‘Jason Reitman for All God’s Children.’

  On the enormous plasma screen behind him, a montage of Reitman’s war film began playing. To Sabrina it was little more than lights and colours. She was so tense she could barely breathe.

  ‘Harry Greene for Celeste.’

  A loud ripple of applause swept around the room as the Celeste footage began rolling. Sabrina had deliberately avoided watching it till now. After Harry Greene had effectively cut them off at the knees, the whole Wuthering Heights team had boycotted his much-hyped period epic. But, looking at the highlights now, even Sabrina had to admit it was a sumptuous piece of work, the cinematic equivalent of a red-velvet cupcake, rich and textured and so delicious you wanted to slow it down, to savour every second. He’s an asshole, she thought, staring at Harry’s ramrod-straight back next to Chrissie Rasmirez, but he’s a talented asshole.

  Clips from the other nominees followed, but Sabrina found it hard to focus. Judging by the ever-tightening grip of Dorian’s hand in hers, he was struggling too.

  ‘And last but not least,’ Clint intoned, ‘Dorian Rasmirez for Wuthering Heights.’

  There was no applause for the Wuthering Heights montage. Just a rapt, breathless silence. Sabrina, who hadn’t watched the movie herself since before the night Viorel broke up with her, now saw his face again on screen, six foot high and as perfectly formed as any Michelangelo sculpture.

  Fuck, he’s beautiful, she thought, squeezing Dorian’s hand more tightly. But the pain in her heart was less brutal than she’d expected. Even when they showed the bell-tower scene, the moment that had marked the beginning of her and Viorel’s affair, Sabrina found she could detach enough to appreciate the quality of the work, and Dorian’s outstanding achievement as a film-maker. There was Loxley Hall, looking magical and haunting in the dawn light. Lizzie Bayer was practically unrecognizable as the dying Isabella. How tirelessly Dorian must have worked with her to get that raw a performance out of her. He truly was a genius.

  As the screen faded to black for the last time, a stunned hush fell over the room. After what felt like an eternity, Clint Eastwood cleared his throat. ‘And the award goes to …’

  ‘Congratulations,’ Chrissie breathed huskily into Harry’s ear.

  ‘Thanks.’ Harry Greene smiled, imperceptibly moving forward in his seat.

  ‘… Jason Reitman for All God’s Children.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Three thousand people gasped as one.

  Harry Greene slumped back into his seat as if he’d been shot. Chrissie Rasmirez’s incredulous face was panned and beamed all around the globe. Dorian, who was equally surprised, managed to keep his game face on.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Sabrina whispered through half-closed lips, aware that somewhere, a camera would be watching them both for their reaction.

  ‘Don’t be,’ said Dorian, applauding loudly as Reitman made his way onto the dais. ‘He’s a terrific director. And nobody likes a bad sport.’

  ‘He’s not a patch on you,’ said Sabrina loyally.

  ‘Thank you, sweetheart,’ Dorian smiled at her broadly. ‘To be honest, I’m glad it’s over with. And at least Greene didn’t win.’

  By this point, Harry Greene was also smiling for the cameras, quickly regaining his composure after the initial shock. Inside, however, he was fuming. Jason Reitman? Who the fuck is Jason Reitman? When Harry found out which members had voted against him – and he would find out – he would make them wish they’d never heard Jason Reitman’s name.

  With one of the Big Six out of the way, another round of more minor Oscars began, and the excitement of Jason Reitman’s shock triumph over both the night’s big-name directors died down. The next major award was Best Actor, which predictably went to Celeste’s Roger De Gray. It was the third gong of the night for Harry Greene’s movie, after Best Costume Design and Best Original Soundtrack, where it had beat out Wuthering Heights. Harry’s inside sources had assured him that Best Picture was one hundred per cent in the bag, as it should be after what he’d spent on the campaign; but then they’d been pretty confident about Best Director too, and where had that got him?

  When Julia Roberts walked onto the stage, Sabrina said audibly, ‘Not now! It can’t be now!’

  A ripple of affectionate laughter rang out as the cameras all zoomed in on Sabrina’s face. It was unusual for the Best Actress nominations to be announced directly after Best Actor. But Sabrina’s shock was endearingly naive. The audience loved it.

  ‘So much for playing it cool,’ she whispered apologetically to Dorian.

  ‘And making the world a little colder?’ he whispered back. ‘Who cares? They’re all rooting for you anyway.’

  The montages rolled. Competition was fierce this year. Wuthering Heights and Mad Dogs were both terrific, complex movies with beautifully written female leads, and Anne Hathaway and Laura Linney were two of the best-liked stars within the industry, as well as with the public at large. Sabrina was the favourite to win it, but that in itself could often play against you, as Dorian knew all too well. He felt far more nervous for Sabrina than he had for himself. As the nominations were announced he said a silent prayer. She’s been through so much, Lord. Let her get this. Let her believe in herself.

  ‘And the Oscar goes to … Sabrina Leon, for Wuthering Heights.’

  For a moment, Sabrina froze, aware of nothing but a loud buzzing in her skull, accompanied by the insistent thud thud thud of her heart. It was the oddest sensation, as if the entire Kodak Theatre had been submerged underwater and everything was happening in slow motion. In the back of her mind she was aware of the smiles and cheers, the heads turned in her direction … and Dorian. Dorian hugging her, lifting her up out of her seat and into the air as if he were the winner and she were the trophy. Of his face, just one huge smile, and the smell of his skin: soap, Floris aftershave and something else, something comforting and familiar and strong. It was Dorian who pushed her forward, ushering her towards the podium. Dorian whose voice somehow made it through the buzzing.

  ‘You’ve won, sweetheart. You did it. Go on up there.’

  Blindly, Sabrina put one foot in front of the other until she found herself shaking hands with Julia Roberts and holding the surprisingly weighty golden statuette in her hands. The carefully crafted speech that Ed Steiner had prepared for her flew instantly out of her head. Instead, she blurted out a few short words of thanks – to Dorian, to Tarik Tyler, to Sammy Levine back in Fresno and to Viorel, whose name drew muted boos from much of the audience.

  ‘Oh, no,’ Sabrina looked hurt. ‘Please don’t. He’s my friend. If it weren’t for him I wouldn’t be here.’

  She wasn’t even aware how she got back to her seat until she felt Dorian’s congratulatory arm around her, enveloping and protecting her the way he always did.

  ‘My, my. Don’t those two look thick as thieves,’ said Chrissie snidely to Harry.

  ‘What do you care?’ he snarled back at her.

  Chrissie shivered. Harry had never used that tone with her before. It was ugly, vicious. Dorian never would have spoken to her, or to any woman, that way.

  ‘I don’t.’ She tried to keep her voice light. ‘I was only making an observation.’ But inside she felt an unpleasant lurch of nerves in the pit of her stomach. Watching Dorian and Sabrina together upset her more than she knew it ought to.

  She felt worse when, turning back to Harry, she caught him openly flirting with Carey Esposito, the s
tunning eighteen-year-old star of Disney’s latest teen hit, Love Bytes. Was she losing his interest already?

  There was only one more major award to go now, the one that everyone in the auditorium – and all those glued to their TV screens around the world – had been waiting for. Best Picture.

  Martin Scorsese was presenting the Oscar this year. He shuffled onto the stage, looking as short and stooped and nondescript as any Italian grandfather.

  ‘You’d have thought he’d have more presence,’ muttered Sabrina, but Dorian wasn’t listening. Everything rested on the next few moments. If he won, Wuthering Heights would be released and Dorian would be riding high, his faith in the movie that had cost him his marriage, his home and his professional reputation vindicated. If he lost, he faced financial ruin. His film, his beautiful film, the best thing he’d ever made, would sink without trace.

  Was it worth it? he wondered, as the Best Picture clips appeared on the screen. Making this film had changed his life – in all tangible senses for the worse. His family was in tatters. His ancestral home was about to be repossessed by the state. He was tragically, pathetically in love with a girl who had no romantic interest in him whatsoever. Would an Oscar really make it all worthwhile?

  Six rows in front of him, he watched the tense, tuxedo-clad shoulders of his rival, Harry Greene, and wondered what was going through his mind. He was the favourite to win, of course, for Celeste – this strange man who had whipped up such a ferocious enmity out of nothing at all; who had slept with Dorian’s wife and tried to keep him from his daughter; who had sabotaged his deal with Sony Pictures out of sheer spite. It occurred to Dorian that he didn’t really know Harry Greene at all, just as Harry didn’t really know him. And yet some strange, toxic gravitational force had brought their lives and careers together, propelling them towards this moment, this ultimate ruling on … what? Which of them was the more talented? Hardly. Everybody knew that it was studio money that won you an Oscar these days. Studio money that Dorian simply didn’t have.

  Even so, tonight would settle Harry Greene and Dorian Rasmirez’s eight-year feud once and for all. In a few short seconds, one of them would win and one of them would lose. A coin-toss for my whole life’s work.

  ‘And the Academy Award for Best Picture goes to …’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  All over Los Angeles, people were throwing lavish, glitzy parties to celebrate the Oscars. But everyone who was anyone knew that there were only three events that mattered. Madonna’s party. Vanity Fair’s. And the Governor’s Ball.

  Winners of the big gongs usually put in an appearance at two of the three at least, with the Best Actor and Actress being the single most-coveted guests at each after-bash. This year that was Roger de Gray and Sabrina Leon, but as De Gray had already announced that he and his heavily pregnant wife would only be going to the Governor’s, the hysteria when Sabrina showed up at Vanity Fair’s was quite unsurpassed. It took security a full five minutes to help her get safely inside the Chateau Marmont through the throng of pre-approved press swarming her like locusts.

  ‘Sabrina! How do you feel?’

  ‘Have you spoken to Viorel?’

  ‘Did you know he wasn’t going to attend tonight?’

  ‘Has he offered his congratulations?’

  Sabrina smiled at everyone, but inside she was irritated. Why won’t people stop talking about Viorel? I just won an Oscar, for God’s sake. Can’t tonight be about that?

  ‘It must be tough for you tonight, not having someone here to share your triumph with.’ The comment came from a spiky-haired brunette whom Sabrina recognized as a stringer from People magazine.

  ‘I have someone here,’ said Sabrina, sweeping past her into the hotel. ‘I have my friend, Dorian Rasmirez.’

  Only she didn’t. Where was Dorian?

  Celeste taking Best Picture would have been reason enough for Dorian to want to disappear and lick his wounds. But he’d seemed pretty stoical about it at the time, sitting calmly through Harry Greene’s gloating acceptance speech, politely accepting commiserations from the many friends who came up to him after the ceremony. He and Sabrina had left the theatre together, but somewhere in the melee of well-wishers and old friends, Sabrina found herself being swept away and the two of them had lost each other. In the end she’d gone on to the Vanity Fair party alone, hoping to find Dorian there. But as she scanned the sea of famous faces in the Chateau’s famous rose garden, she couldn’t see the only one she cared about.

  ‘Sabrina.’

  She spun around. Tarik Tyler, looking older than Sabrina remembered him but with the same kind eyes and crooked smile, was right behind her. Sabrina hadn’t seen her old director in person in over two years, not since before the ungrateful ‘slave driver’ comment that had marked the beginning of her fall from grace.

  ‘Congratulations, kiddo.’ He smiled warmly. ‘And thanks for the mention in your speech. I appreciated that.’

  Sabrina found herself momentarily lost for words. But eventually she found the right ones. ‘I’m so sorry, Tarik. Really.’

  ‘I know you are,’ he said, hugging her. Embarrassingly, Sabrina felt her eyes welling up with tears.

  ‘Hey, c’mon, are you kidding me?’ said Tarik. ‘You can’t cry tonight. This is your night, and you so deserve it.’

  Sabrina shook her head. ‘I don’t deserve it.’ She held up her Oscar. ‘Dorian deserves this. He’s the one who gave me a chance when no one else would. If it hadn’t been for him …’ Her words tailed off.

  Tarik Tyler looked at her for a long time. Sabrina remembered how he used to do this on set, stare at his actors as if looking for some sort of key, some clue in their faces that would unlock whatever emotion it was he was trying to get out of them. It was disconcerting then, but it was even more so now.

  ‘What?’ She laughed nervously. ‘Do I have spinach in my teeth or something?’

  Tarik kept staring. Finally, he said, ‘Why don’t you just tell him?’

  Sabrina frowned. She’d never been any good at riddles.

  ‘Just tell him that you love him.’

  Sabrina sighed. ‘Sorry, Tarik, but you’re way off target. Viorel’s a part of my past and I’ll always love him for that. But it’s over. I’m not thinking about him, honestly.’

  ‘Nor am I,’ said Tarik. ‘I was talking about Dorian Rasmirez.’

  Dorian sat on the bed in his hotel room, staring out at the lights of Beverly Hills, tears streaming down his face. He hated himself for feeling so depressed. There are people starving in this world, he told himself. Right now some poor bastard’s being told his cancer is terminal, and you’re sitting here crying because you didn’t win Best Picture? Because you lost some money and you can’t live in a castle any more? What the fuck is wrong with you?

  What he didn’t want to admit to himself, but what he knew deep down, was that he wasn’t crying because he hadn’t won Best Picture. Nor even because Harry Greene had, and had been so loathsomely triumphant and graceless about it. In fact, Dorian realized with absolute clarity as he walked out of the Kodak Theatre that he didn’t give a rat’s ass about Harry Greene, or about Chrissie, who’d called his cell twice in the last hour offering what sounded like genuinely heartfelt commiserations. He hoped she’d see the light about Greene eventually. Maybe then they could become friends. For Saskia’s sake, that had to be a good thing. He tried to picture his daughter’s sweet, smiling face, but not even that could lift him out of his despair. The only person who could do that was a few miles across town, hopefully having the best night of her life.

  He’d felt guilty ducking out of the after-parties. Having officially accepted both the Governor’s Ball and Vanity Fair, he ought to have been there, to support Sabrina if nothing else. He knew that his not showing up made him look like a sore loser, and the thought bothered him. No doubt the media would crucify him in his absence, just as they had poor Viorel, who’d been found guilty of cowardice for not showing up tonight but woul
d no doubt have been hung, drawn and quartered for insensitivity if he had.

  But a man had to know his own limits. Dorian didn’t know if he could hide his emotions tonight, if he could act happy around Sabrina. And if I can’t be happy around her, I have no right to be there. This is her moment, not mine.

  ‘Room service.’

  A knock on the door brought him back to reality. The service at The Peninsula really was excellent. Dorian had only ordered the bourbon a couple of minutes ago and already someone was at his door.

  ‘Coming.’

  Kicking off his shoes and dropping his crumpled jacket on the bed, he shuffled across the room. ‘That was quick. I …’

  He caught his breath.

  Leaning against the doorframe, her beautiful body curved like a Greek statue and her head tilted shyly to one side, Sabrina looked more perfect than she did in his dreams.

  ‘Can I come in?’

  ‘No.’

  She frowned. ‘No? It was kind of a rhetorical question. Why not?’

  ‘Because,’ Dorian looked at his watch, ‘it’s only eleven fifteen. You should be at the Governor’s Ball, enjoying yourself.’

  Sabrina shrugged. ‘So should you.’

  Dorian shifted awkwardly from foot to foot. ‘I wasn’t in the party mood.’

  ‘Anyway, I did enjoy myself. You should have seen Chrissie’s face when Harry Greene stuck his tongue down Carey Esposito’s throat on the dance floor.’

  ‘No!’ Dorian gasped. ‘Really? Jeez. I feel bad for her.’

  ‘Why?’ Sabrina pushed past him into the bedroom. ‘She treated you like shit.’ But she hadn’t come here to talk about Chrissie Rasmirez. Kicking off her own shoes, she hitched up her dress and stepped out onto the balcony. Not knowing what else to do, Dorian followed her.