Fame

by Tilly Bagshawe

  The hospital trip took forever. As predicted, Abel was fine, as evidenced by his ceaseless chatter in the waiting room and quizzing of each doctor who examined him on the minutiae of Ben 10: Alien Force. By the time they left, Viorel’s jet lag was starting to kick in, so Tish offered to drive them back to Loxley.

  Abel talked for fifteen more minutes in the back seat before finally running out of steam and falling asleep, his little dark head slumped against the window. Tish thought Vio was asleep too, when he suddenly yawned loudly beside her.

  ‘So what happened?’ he asked her. ‘With your French doctor?’

  Tish sighed. She might as well tell him. Perhaps saying it out loud would help? ‘He met someone else.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Vio.

  He sounded sincere. Tish thought, He’s a nice man. A flirt and a player and everything I don’t need in my life. But a nice man, nonetheless.

  ‘Is that why you left Romania? Abel mentioned he used to go to school there.’

  ‘No, no,’ said Tish. ‘It was nothing like that.’ She filled him in briefly on her life in Oradea. Her work with the orphans, how she’d come to adopt Abel and the PG-rated, synopsis version of her doomed affair with Dr Michel Henri. Finally, she told him about Jago and the squatters who had forced her home to Loxley.

  Viorel thought, This is quite a woman. It was a lot of life and responsibility to have packed into twenty-seven years.

  ‘So you’re really off men then, are you?’ he asked her. ‘You’re sure about that? No dating at all?’

  ‘For now I am,’ said Tish. ‘But it’s nice to be asked. Thank you.’

  ‘My pleasure.’

  ‘And thank you, for today. With Abel I mean.’

  ‘He’s terrific,’ enthused Vio, then suddenly shouted, ‘Jesus H. Christ!’

  Tish jumped out of her skin. Out of nowhere a recklessly speeding limousine flew around the corner and came within a hair’s-breadth of hitting them. Only thanks to Tish’s quick reactions were they able to swerve onto the grass verge and avoid a smash.

  ‘What the fuck was that?’ asked Vio as she slammed on the brakes. ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘I think so.’ Tish was still shaking. She turned to the back seat. ‘Abi darling, are you all right?’

  Wide awake again after all the commotion, Abel stared after the long black car as it disappeared into the distance. ‘That was so cool!’ he declared breathlessly ‘How fast do you think it was going, Vio? As fast as a jet?’

  ‘It was going much too fast,’ muttered Viorel. ‘Ridiculous on a little country road. We could have been killed.’

  ‘As fast as a rocket?’ asked Abel. ‘How about a jet-pack? Hey look! It’s coming back.’

  To Tish and Vio’s astonishment, they saw that the car was indeed coming back, marginally more slowly this time. Perhaps the driver had realized he’d run them off the road and was coming back to check that they were OK. As the limo came closer, it slowed down and stopped. Tish wound down her window, composing her features into what she hoped was a sternly disapproving attitude, and waited for the other driver’s grovelling apology.

  Instead, it was the rear passenger window that opened. The woman’s face was almost entirely obscured behind giant sunglasses, but her voice was imperious. ‘Loxley Hall,’ she barked. ‘I don’t suppose you know where the fuck it is?’

  Tish was livid. ‘Do you have any idea what speed you were doing just now? You actually forced me off the road! If I hadn’t swerved, you might have killed us.’

  ‘But you did swerve, didn’t you?’ The American accent was clearer this time, as was the arrogance. ‘Now do you know where this house is or not? I haven’t got all day.’

  Viorel leaned forward. He’d have recognized that voice anywhere.

  ‘Sabrina?’

  ‘Vio. Thank God.’ Sabrina took off her sunglasses and smiled at him sweetly. Tish looked at the slanting, feline eyes, high cheekbones and wide lips that had made Sabrina Leon a star and temporarily forgot her indignation. Her beauty was disabling, like a stun gun. What was it Dorian had said? ‘When you look like that, no one ever says no to you.’

  ‘I take it you know the way to this godforsaken location?’ Sabrina purred at Viorel. ‘We’ve been driving around for hours. I’m losing my mind.’

  ‘Sure.’ Viorel’s earlier anger seemed to have melted away like an ice lolly in the sunshine. ‘Tish and I are on our way back there now. Why don’t you follow us?’

  ‘Was that a princess?’ asked Abel to Tish’s irritation as she backed onto the road. ‘She’s really pretty. And she’s got a cool car. With cool windows.’

  ‘That is not a princess,’ snapped Tish. ‘That is a very rude woman. And you wouldn’t think her car was so cool if it had hit us. Why didn’t you say something?’ she added crossly to Viorel. ‘She shouldn’t be on the roads.’

  Viorel clocked Tish’s angry, tense expression and thought: She’s jealous. How endearing. She didn’t like me being nice to Sabrina. ‘I’ll have a word with the driver later,’ he said soothingly.

  He hadn’t been looking forward to this shoot. He’d already spent far too much of his life in the English countryside, and had always found it deadly dull. But perhaps Derbyshire would be the exception?

  There was hope in the Hope Valley after all.

  ‘No! No way. They’re not going to a fucking hotel.’

  An hour later and Sabrina Leon’s screams could be heard the length and breadth of Loxley Hall.

  ‘Well they’re not staying here, Sabrina.’ Dorian Rasmirez’s voice was ten decibels lower but every bit as firm. ‘I told you before. No entourage.’

  ‘Entourage?’ Sabrina’s yelling shot up an octave. ‘In what alternative fucking universe are they an entourage? They’re my bodyguards. I need them for protection. How are they gonna protect me if they’re in a hotel?’

  ‘They aren’t, because this is bullshit,’ said Dorian. ‘Self-important bullshit. No one else brought bodyguards. What do you need protection from?’

  ‘The press!’ shrieked Sabrina. ‘Who do you think? You should have seen them at Heathrow, like a pack of fucking hyenas.’

  ‘Perhaps you should try being polite to them?’ said Dorian. ‘They’re always very respectful to me.’

  ‘They’re not interested in you,’ said Sabrina bluntly. ‘No one else brought bodyguards because no one else sells newspapers the way I do, OK? It’s that simple.’

  Dorian was unmoved. ‘You can shout all you like. Those neanderthals are not staying on this set and that is my final word on the subject.’

  ‘Fine. Then I’ll check into a hotel with them.’

  ‘No you will not. You will stay here. You’re under contract.’

  At that point both the decibel level and the language got so bad that Tish had to abandon Abel’s bedtime story and come downstairs to confront them. ‘I’m sorry, but I have a small boy sleeping upstairs. If you can’t have a civil conversation, please go and shout at each other somewhere else.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Dorian sheepishly. ‘I forgot you guys were home.’

  Abel, looking more adorable than ever in his white cotton Peter Rabbit pyjamas, appeared on the staircase behind his mother. ‘Guess what?’ he said brightly to Dorian.

  ‘What?’ said Dorian, ignoring Sabrina and focusing all his attention on the boy.

  ‘I nearly died today.’

  ‘Did you, now?’

  Abel nodded solemnly. ‘Uh-huh. Twice.’

  ‘Don’t exaggerate, Abel,’ said Tish.

  ‘I’m not!’ Abel insisted. ‘Once when Michael pushed me out of the apple tree, and once when that lady tried to crash into our car.’ He pointed at Sabrina.

  Dorian’s eyes narrowed. ‘Is this true?’

  ‘No!’ said Sabrina.

  ‘Yes,’ said Tish simultaneously. ‘She ran us off the road. Or at least her driver did.’

  ‘That’s crap,’ said Sabrina. ‘She was driving like an old lady. We passed her and
she panicked. Tell him, Viorel.’

  ‘Oh no. Don’t look at me.’ Walking down the stairs, Viorel stopped behind Abel, scooping the boy up into his arms.

  ‘Hello, Abel Henry Gunning Crewe.’ He beamed.

  ‘Hello, Viorel Hudson.’ Abel beamed back.

  Sabrina said what everyone was thinking. ‘Holy crap, you two look alike.’

  ‘Language!’ hissed Tish. But she was really annoyed with herself for feeling so flustered now that Viorel had turned up. He’d changed out of the jeans and sweater he’d been wearing earlier into a pair of white linen Paul Smith trousers and an open-necked Gucci shirt in racing green that made his eyes positively glow. This is ridiculous, thought Tish, as another rush of blood made its way towards her cheeks. If he’s going to be living under my roof for the next two months, I’m going to have to stop blushing like a schoolgirl every time we’re in the same room.

  ‘Look,’ snapped Sabrina, irritated that for a full minute attention had been diverted from herself. ‘I don’t have time for this. I’m tired and I need to get this shit resolved about my security guys so I can get some rest.’

  ‘It’s resolved,’ said Dorian. ‘They go. You stay.’

  Sensing things were about to kick off again, Viorel stepped in, snaking one arm around Sabrina’s waist and lifting her suitcase with the other. ‘You must be shattered, darling,’ he said smoothly. ‘Tish has already shown me where your room is. Let me take you up.’

  ‘I’ll help!’ said Abel, leaping onto Sabrina’s Louis Vuitton trunk like a squirrel monkey. ‘I’ve got super-strong muscles. Look.’ He flexed his nonexistent biceps at Viorel.

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Tish stepped forward to retrieve her son. ‘You’ve had enough injuries for one day.’

  ‘But I want to,’ Abel moaned. ‘I want to help the lady who tried to run me over with her car.’

  Viorel roared with laughter.

  ‘For God’s sake,’ said Sabrina, ‘I did not try to run him over.’

  ‘I didn’t mind,’ Abel assured her. ‘It was a really cool car. You’re very pretty.’

  Even Sabrina had to be charmed by that. ‘Thank you. Abel, is it?’

  ‘Abel Henry Gunning Crewe.’

  ‘Well, thank you, Abel. But I think you’d better go upstairs now. Your mommy looks mad.’

  Doesn’t she just? thought Vio mischievously. Tish was a gorgeous girl, and sweet with it, but he knew which side his bread was buttered. Rasmirez had warned him off in so many words, and heartbroken chicks were usually more trouble than they were worth anyway. Not as much trouble as Sabrina Leon, perhaps, but then Vio had already decided he wasn’t going to screw Sabrina. As Terence Dee, the agent who discovered him, had once memorably said about the perils of sleeping with one’s co-stars: ‘Even dogs don’t shit where they eat.’ If eight weeks of celibacy proved too much, Vio would simply have to take Dorian’s advice and get his rocks off with a local girl.

  Pity.

  A few hours later, Tish collapsed into bed exhausted. What a day it had been! From her crack-of-dawn expedition up the Home Farm chimney and mortifying first encounter with Viorel Hudson, to Abel’s hospital trip and their near-death run-in with Sabrina Leon, the arrival of the actors seemed to have raised the stress levels at Loxley by a factor of about a hundred.

  Viorel’s flirting was flattering. But Tish was a sensible girl. Men like him were in it for the chase, for the game. As soon as one slept with them, they lost interest and were off to the next girl. Even Sabrina’s arrival today had turned Hudson’s head, like a dog suddenly seeing a squirrel.

  I have enough drama in my life without all that nonsense, Tish told herself, turning out her bedside lamp. Especially after Michel.

  And that was when she realized.

  Today was the first day in over a year when she had not thought about Dr. Michel Henri once.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Harry Greene lay back against his purple velvet pillows and scrolled down the options on the giant screen in front of him.

  Lisa

  Twins 1: Sandy and Dee

  Twins 2: Keisha and Joanne

  Clara

  The list ran to over twenty, but Harry always ended up picking from the same three movies. He’d basically given up commercially produced porn. Ever since he’d started filming himself having sex, over two years ago now, he found his home-made collection infinitely more arousing. For one thing, the girls were better looking. For another, he got to direct them exactly the way he wanted: thighs wide, lips parted, eyes always open and straight to camera. Other producers had Hollywood at their feet. Harry Greene had Hollywood on its knees, sucking his dick. Clicking on Keisha and Joanne, he threw the remote onto his Chinese silk bedspread and slipped a hand under the waistband of his Turnbull & Asser pyjamas, already hard with anticipation.

  At thirty-nine years old, Harry Greene truly was the man who had everything. His Fraternity movies were the most successful comedy franchise of all time. As a result, he was not only wealthy beyond his own wildest dreams – his main residence, in Beverly Hills, was a 30,000-square-foot palace that made Versailles look poky, but he kept life interesting by maintaining fully staffed mansions in every habitable continent of the globe, for the rare occasions when he felt like a change of scene – but he was also worshipped by his peers in the movie business as little less than a god. Women fell into Harry Greene’s bed like ripe apples from a never-exhausted tree. Studio executives fell over themselves to make deals with him. In Los Angeles there was no party to which Harry Greene was not invited, no club of which he was not a member, no luxury known to man of which Harry was not able to avail himself, day or night, whenever he chose.

  And yet Harry Greene was not a happy man.

  Born into a stable, loving, middle-class family in a swish suburb of San Diego, Harry had always been blessed. Smart, charismatic and good-looking, he was popular at school and a natural success with women. By the time he met his wife Angelica, at a valley party when he was twenty-four, he was already a relatively successful producer, with two profitable indies under his belt and a reputation as an up-and-comer in the industry. This modest success was more than enough to earn him ready access to all of Hollywood’s many temptations. Having never denied himself in the past, Harry saw no reason to do so now, simply because he had moved one woman under his roof. He loved Angelica. She was smart, stunningly beautiful, loyal and undemanding. Harry had repaid her with a five-carat diamond, a new surname and an unlimited platinum AmEx card. With these gifts, he considered his spousal duties to be fully discharged.

  It was a shock, therefore, when, after five years of marriage characterized by unfettered philandering on his part, Harry’s wife left him, suing for divorce on the grounds of his adultery.

  ‘I don’t understand it,’ Harry complained bitterly to the business acquaintances that he mistook for friends. ‘I gave her everything she wanted. I never said no to her. Never. How could she stab me in the back like this?’

  For the first year, he was so bitter about Angelica’s blatant betrayal that he refused to speak to her at all, restricting all contact to terse exchanges between their respective battalions of attorneys. But eventually, being the magnanimous soul that he was, Harry met his ex-wife for lunch at one of his ex-houses, and it was here that she’d dropped the bombshell.

  ‘When did I first find out? Jeez, Harry, I don’t know. I think the first time someone said something to me was at Bob Grauman’s Halloween party. Some guy dressed as Richard Nixon was gossiping about you and Farrah James. I was in a werewolf mask at the time; I don’t think he even knew who I was. Anyway, after that I did some digging … you’ve only yourself to blame you know. More Chablis, honey?’

  Harry Greene did not blame himself. Nor, any longer, did he blame poor Angelica. He blamed some loose-lipped cunt in a Richard Nixon mask. That shit-stirring little fucker, whoever he was, had ruined a perfectly happy marriage. In a town where marriages were considered a success if they outlived mil
k, Harry Greene considered himself to have been seriously hard done by, wantonly robbed of something rare and precious, something that was his – that should have been his – for life. He did some digging of his own. And lo and behold, his nemesis had a name! A name that Harry Greene had come to loathe over the years with a passion bordering on the pathological: Dorian Rasmirez.

  So stealing my scripts wasn’t enough for you, eh? Or turning my writers against me? Oh no. You have to take my wife from me too? My wife!

  What stung the most was that Dorian’s own marriage remained a Hollywood paragon. Of course, everyone knew Rasmirez’s wife was a slut, a middle-aged, over-the-hill TV actress who fucked everything with a pulse under thirty in a sad attempt to keep her husband’s attention. Yet Dorian stood by her, besotted, proclaiming his cuckolded love for her from the rooftops. Harry Greene wanted to destroy Dorian Rasmirez’s marriage, to take away his wife the way that Dorian had taken away Angelica. But the Rasmirezes remained tighter than ever, a fact that ate away at Harry like a flesh-rotting virus.

  He’d tried to numb the pain by hurting Dorian professionally, using his immense influence with studios, distributors and the media to damage his rival’s movies. Harry liked to think that by deliberately moving the release date of the most recent Fraternity film so that it coincided with Rasmirez’s dull and worthy war flick, he’d put the final nail in the coffin of Sixteen Nights. ‘He’ll be lucky if it runs for fourteen nights,’ Harry told a reporter from Variety, in a quote that made headlines across the industry – and turned out to be an accurate prophecy. The film bombed. But the satisfaction it gave Harry to know that Rasmirez had lost money was fleeting. Money could always be replaced. A marriage, on the other hand, once destroyed was destroyed forever.

  On the screen in front of him, two girls were giving each other head. One was black, the other Asian. Both were perfect physical specimens, narrow-hipped and boyish, the way Harry liked them, but with outlandishly large, round breasts stuck to their ribs like two soccer balls. Every couple of seconds they looked up from each other’s pussies and stared into the camera, while Harry whispered obscenities at them. As always it was the look in their eyes that made him come. So desperate, so wholly under his control. Harry Greene liked things being under his control. It made him feel that life was as it should be.