Fame

by Tilly Bagshawe

  Dorian followed Tish into the house.

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ she asked him. ‘I bought milk and biscuits on the way home.’

  ‘I can’t,’ said Dorian. As they walked to the kitchen, he explained briefly about The Sun’s article and the problems Sabrina had caused. ‘I should have dealt with it this morning, but it was such a great day, I didn’t want to lose the light.’

  ‘I’m sure she didn’t mean it the way it came out,’ said Tish, wondering as she switched on the kettle why she was defending Sabrina, who – if yesterday’s behavior was anything to go by – was a loathsome little madam. ‘Our papers do have a way of twisting things.’

  Dorian rolled his eyes. ‘You sound like Viorel.’

  Tish made herself a cup of Lapsang and asked casually, ‘How was he today? I hope we didn’t tire him out too much yesterday, with the hospital and everything.’

  Dorian watched in silence as Tish put far too much tea into the pot, lost in her own thoughts. ‘Might that not be a bit strong?’ he asked, after the seventh heaped spoon of tea leaves.

  ‘Oh!’ Tish blushed. ‘Sorry. I was, er … I was miles away.’

  Damn it. Dorian frowned. Why couldn’t Hudson have left the girl alone?

  ‘Listen,’ he said, taking the stewed tea and emptying it into the sink. ‘Viorel’s a great actor and a nice enough kid. But he’s young. He’s looking for a good time, not for anything serious.’

  Tish looked taken aback. Was it really that obvious she found Viorel attractive?

  ‘I know it’s none of my business and I’m probably over-stepping the line here,’ said Dorian. ‘But you’re a nice girl. I wouldn’t want you to get burned.’

  Tish contemplated getting angry. It was none of his business. But she knew that Dorian meant the advice kindly. She also knew he was right.

  ‘Actors are a difficult breed,’ he told her. ‘Moody. Unpredictable. Trust me, I’m married to one. One minute you’re the hero, the next you’re the villain, and no one ever gives you the script in advance.’

  ‘It sounds exhausting,’ said Tish.

  Dorian thought of Chrissie. Since his refusal to fly home to Romania for Saskia’s ‘Temperature-gate’ they were barely on speaking terms.

  ‘It is. But you know, when you love someone, you’ll put up with anything, right?’

  ‘Well, hopefully not anything,’ said Tish. ‘You have to know where to draw the line.’

  For a split second, Dorian wondered how different his life might have been if he’d married someone like Tish – sensible, reasonable, self-assured – and not the wildly needy Chrissie. He hoped Tish’s level head extended to her own love life and that she steered clear of Viorel Hudson.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she said, reading his mind. ‘I like Viorel, and Abel adores him. But I have no intention of making my life more complicated than it already is.’

  ‘You forgive the meddling?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Tish, adding a touch sadly, ‘My own father died last year. It makes a nice change to have someone looking out for me.’

  Jeez, thought Dorian. She looks on me as a father? Working with Sabrina Leon must have aged him even more than he thought.

  On her way up to her room, Sabrina passed the kitchen and saw Dorian sitting at the table with Tish, laughing it up, as relaxed and avuncular as Santa Claus. Of course he’s sweetness and light with wholesome Lady Letitia, she thought bitterly. It hadn’t escaped her notice yesterday, the way that Dorian had automatically taken Tish’s word over Sabrina’s about that stupid non-incident with the car. To see the two of them now, so companionable and touchy-feely, you’d think they were lifelong friends. Or maybe it was more than that? Maybe Dorian patron-saint-of-marriage Rasmirez isn’t as squeaky clean as he makes out?

  Trudging up the back stairs to her room, Sabrina tried to put her bastard director out of her mind and focus on the evening ahead of her. After filming, Vio had offered to take her out to the pub for supper and she’d jumped at the chance. She was under contract not to touch a drop of alcohol, but she was still looking forward to it. With any luck, tonight would mark the beginning of a beautiful friendship with her sexy co-star. Unless Rhys or the dreadful Jamie Duggan decided to join them – or, worse, Lizzie Bayer, who’d already been nicknamed ‘Mimi’ by Chuck MacNamee and his crew because she talked about herself so much. Sabrina thought this was hilarious, but had no intention of joining in the general cast banter or becoming ‘one of the gang’ on set. That wasn’t what stars do. Stars remained aloof, fraternizing only with others of their own status. In this case that meant Dorian Rasmirez or Viorel Hudson. Sabrina knew which of those she preferred.

  It’ll be just the two of us, she thought happily. Viorel and me for the whole summer, with no competition and no distractions. A summer affair was just what she needed to lift her spirits. That and for the movie to be a hit. But it would be. Having hot sex with one’s co-star off set invariably made for better love scenes once the cameras rolled. If Dorian Rasmirez was determined to make her life on this movie a misery, which if today was anything to go by he quite plainly did, then Viorel Hudson could be her consolation prize.

  Starting tonight.

  Back in her room, Sabrina crashed for a couple of hours, exhausted after the traumas of the day. When her alarm went off at seven, she was so out of it that it was a struggle to open her eyes, but the prospect of a night out with Viorel propelled her up and into the shower, and after ten minutes beneath the pounding hot jets, she felt fully revived. Opening her still-unpacked trunk, she pulled out a sexy new pair of white Fred Segal trousers and a floaty chiffon blouse from Chloé. The trousers were skin tight, but the overall look was casual and effortless. It wouldn’t do to let Hudson think she’d tried. To heel or not to heel, she thought, holding up a pair of hot pink Manolo sandals and some simple Fendi ballet pumps. Fuck it. She pulled on the heels. One could take this low-key shit too far.

  Rough-drying her still-damp hair, she spritzed herself with Gucci Envy, dusted a little bronzer across her cheekbones, and opened her bedroom door. On the floor in front of her was a folded note with a set of car keys on top. Sabrina picked up the note and read it.

  ‘Sorry Angel. Terrible migraine. Gone to bed. I left you the keys, in case you still fancy getting out of Dodge tonight. Will make it up to you soon, promise, V xx.’

  The disappointment hit her like a punch to the stomach. She was angry with herself for caring so much. After all, it was only one dinner. And it was only Viorel Hudson who, if Dorian had let her keep Enrique, she probably wouldn’t be bothering to try to seduce in the first place. Even so, standing there in her sexy pants and heels, it was hard not to feel a bit like Cinderella at midnight. She also wondered whether Vio really had a migraine, or whether this was some sort of petty power game he was playing to get her attention. He’d been fit as a fiddle all day on set. It had certainly come on very suddenly.

  Pocketing the car keys, she was about to change back into flip-flops and wander down to the kitchen – most of the actors skipped Mrs Drummond’s buffets and ate supper in the catering trailer with the crew, but Sabrina had no interest in making small talk with cameramen – when she suddenly changed her mind. Sabrina had never been to a British pub, and although the thought of dinner alone was not exactly appealing, it was better than spending the night here making conversation with Tish Crewe and her housekeeper, or, worse, getting cornered again by Rasmirez. She was pretty sure she remembered the way down into the village.

  Fuck it, she thought. I’ll go.

  The Carpenter’s Arms in Loxley was a low-beamed, medieval building, built in the same warm stone as the rest of the village, but covered almost completely at the front by blossoming violet wisteria. It had an old-fashioned swinging sign, a pretty beer garden overlooking the village green and, on a warm, late spring evening like this one, it was packed.

  Sabrina didn’t even have to step out of the car for people to turn and stare. Just the sight of Vio’s
rented Mercedes SL 500 pulling into the car park was enough to set tongues wagging, and see pint glasses being set down warily on wooden picnic tables. When Sabrina actually walked in, you could have cut the silence with a knife.

  ‘Table for one?’ she asked the barman, nervously. What had felt like a casual outfit back in her room now seemed ludicrously over the top. Everyone else here seemed to have at least one item of clothing held up with string. Perhaps this had been a mistake.

  ‘We’re a bit busy at the moment, love,’ the barman began, but he was interrupted by his wife, a stocky woman with wobbly, butcher’s arms and a distinctly lesbian haircut, who grabbed Sabrina’s hand and pumped it vigorously, as if she were a fruit machine in a Vegas casino.

  ‘Busy? Course we’re not busy, Dennis,’ she said, smiling ingratiatingly at Sabrina and revealing a row of half-rotten teeth. ‘Table for one, was it? Follow me. I’d expect you’d like somewhere nice and private, would you?’

  ‘Thank you. That’d be great.’

  The landlady led Sabrina to a recessed corner of the room, where an old man was nursing the dregs of a pint of bitter. ‘Let me clear that away for you, Samuel,’ she said briskly.

  ‘But I’m not finished,’ the old man protested, as she physically prised the glass out of his gnarled hands.

  ‘You are now. We need the table. Lady’s having dinner.’

  ‘Oh, please, you mustn’t disturb your customers on my account,’ said Sabrina, embarrassed. Insisting on special treatment at Hollywood clubs was one thing, but she wasn’t in the habit of turfing harmless seniors out on the street, especially not in a little village joint like this one. ‘I can wait.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ the landlady laughed nervously. ‘Sam doesn’t mind.’

  ‘Yes, I do,’ muttered the old man with an air of hopelessness as he was dragged from his cosy corner and propelled towards the snug bar.

  ‘There now,’ said the landlady, ignoring him and turning back to Sabrina. ‘You make yourself comfortable. Dennis’ll be over with a menu in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.’

  Feeling more awkward than she had since high school, Sabrina sat alone at her stolen table, cursing Vio Hudson. What the hell was she doing here? Grateful for the low lighting, she slunk back as far as possible into the corner and, a few moments later, hid herself behind the large, leather-bound menu. Deciding that as she was here, in a British pub, she ought at least to do the thing properly, she ordered steak and kidney pudding and chips. She was contractually forbidden to drink, but no one was here except for the locals, and they could barely see her in the gloom, never mind the contents of her glass, so she ordered a double vodka and tonic, following it swiftly with a second. By the time she’d finished that, and eaten the chips (she took one bite of the pudding and almost gagged), she found she was feeling less awkward and, for the first time since arriving in England, relaxed.

  ‘You’re that actress, aren’t you?’ A young girl having supper with her parents approached Sabrina’s table. She looked to be about eleven, with braces on her teeth, and wearing a low-cut pink top that revealed nothing at all but which she clearly thought of as teenage and cool. ‘Can I have your autograph?’

  ‘Of course,’ Sabrina beamed. She used to resent autograph hunters. In the States they were like locusts, they’d swarm you anywhere – at the doctor’s office; while you were on the phone. But she realized with a twinge of panic that this kid was the first person to ask for her autograph since before she went to Revivals, over four months ago now.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Michaela,’ said the girl shyly.

  Running her pen across the back of the cardboard coaster, Sabrina felt a rush of pleasure like a heroin shot in the arm.

  ‘There you go, Michaela. It was a pleasure to meet you.’

  The child skipped away happily, clutching her treasure. Sabrina was gazing after her, basking in her own magnanimity, when she felt a tap on her shoulder.

  ‘I sincerely hope that was a mineral water.’

  Dorian Rasmirez was towering over her, holding her empty glass in his enormous, fat-fingered hand. He was wearing corduroy trousers and a chunky knit fisherman’s sweater, which only added to his already substantial bulk, and he was smiling, the first time Sabrina had ever seen him do so. He’s happy because he’s caught me out, she thought dully, but she was too tired to care. She felt like an exhausted salmon about to be eaten by a bear.

  ‘Of course,’ she lied, wearily. ‘Ask at the bar if you don’t believe me.’

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ said Dorian, pulling up a chair and sitting down opposite her. ‘Luckily for you, however, I don’t care. You’re entitled to a drink after today.’

  Sabrina’s eyes narrowed. Was this a trick?

  ‘Why are you being nice to me?’

  ‘Would you rather I wasn’t?’

  ‘What are you doing here anyway?’ She eyed him suspiciously. ‘Did you follow me?’

  Dorian laughed, a deep, throaty laugh that shook his whole chest and made people turn around to look at him. ‘I have better things to do with my evening. Like trying to undo the shit-storm you caused with your little impromptu press conference at Heathrow yesterday.’

  ‘Look, I’ve said I’m sorry,’ said Sabrina, who felt the beginnings of a migraine coming on herself.

  ‘Did you?’ Dorian raised an eyebrow. ‘I must have missed that.’

  After three tense hours on the phone, pacifying everyone from the British Institite of Race Relations to the American Screen Actors Guild, he’d walked the forty minutes into Loxley village to try to clear his head. Stopping at the pub had been an afterthought, but he was glad he’d had it. The landlady waddled over. Dorian ordered a malt whisky for himself and ‘the same again’ for Sabrina, who instantly tensed.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, relax. If I didn’t fire you for this morning’s papers, I’m not going to fire you for having a drink. Just don’t make a habit of it.’

  The drinks arrived. Dorian raised his glass. ‘To our movie.’

  Cautiously, Sabrina did the same. ‘To Wuthering Heights.’ After a short pause, she added, ‘I’m not a racist, you know.’

  ‘I believe that,’ said Dorian, truthfully.

  ‘That’s why I didn’t want to apologize to Tarik Tyler. I know I should have. It made me look so much worse, not saying anything for so long. But it would have been like I was admitting I said something I never said, you know? Like I viewed people a certain way because of their colour. It’s bullshit. So what if his grandmother was a slave? My grandmother was a crack whore, but you don’t hear me banging on about it.’

  After months on the wagon, the alcohol was quickly going to her head. Not only was she babbling, but she found herself staring at Dorian in a way she never would have if she’d been sober, examining his features closely for the first time. When he wasn’t scowling, or shouting, he was actually quite attractive in a rough-and-ready, Sean Penn kind of way. Of course he was old, and certainly not handsome in the way that Sabrina liked her men – no one was going to sign Rasmirez up to model Calvin Klein underwear any time soon, that was for damn sure. But there was definitely something about him.

  ‘So why are you here?’ she asked him.

  ‘Same reason as you. I had a shitty day, I needed a drink, and this is the only pub in town. Plus, a friend told me not to drink here, which of course made me curious to try it.’

  ‘A friend? You mean Tish Crewe?’ Sabrina asked archly.

  ‘Yes, as it happens.’

  ‘You like her, don’t you?’

  ‘I do,’ said Dorian, either missing the insinuation or choosing to ignore it. ‘I like you too, Sabrina.’

  This was too much for Sabrina, especially delivered with such a straight face. She laughed so hard she choked on her drink, spraying vodka and tonic all down the front of her blouse and narrowly avoiding giving Dorian an impromptu shower.

  ‘Really?’ she spluttered, cleaning herself up with a napkin. ‘I’d
love to see how you treat actresses you don’t like.’

  ‘I treat them exactly the same,’ said Dorian. ‘I’m not in the business of favouritism. If Viorel or Lizzie or Rhys had been all over The Sun this morning, I’d have yelled just as hard at them.’

  Sabrina looked at him sceptically.

  ‘It’s true. You personalize everything, Sabrina. I’m not your enemy. If it’s an enemy you’re looking for, try the mirror.’

  Sabrina opened her mouth to argue with him, but decided against it. She was too tipsy to defend herself properly, and anyway it made a nice change to be having a semi-civil conversation.

  ‘Tell me about yourself,’ said Dorian, taking a long slow sip of his whisky. It was delicious.

  ‘Tell you what?’ said Sabrina. ‘The sob story? Rags to riches? Doesn’t everybody know that already?’ She put on her best whiney, facetious voice: ‘I’m Sabrina Leon, and I’m from a bwoken home.’

  Dorian just looked at her, arms folded. Waiting.

  ‘You really wanna know? OK fine.’ Sabrina jutted out her chin defiantly. ‘My mom was a heroin addict. Dad was a petty thief and general, all-round douche bag, or so I’m told. I never met him. I first got taken into care when I was eighteen months old.’

  ‘First? You went back to your parents?’

  ‘To my mom, twice. The first time she left me with “friends”, who tried to sell me to pay off a drug debt.’

  ‘Shit.’ Dorian had heard this story from Sabrina’s agent, but had assumed it was apocryphal.

  ‘The second time the neighbours called the cops after I almost died climbing out of a second-floor window. Mom’s boyfriend was hitting her round the head with a frying pan. I thought I was gonna be next.’

  ‘How old were you then?’

  Sabrina took a sip of her drink. ‘Three.’

  Saskia’s age.

  ‘By five they made me a permanent ward of the state. Which pretty much saved my life, although after that I was constantly on the move, bouncing around from one foster home to another.’