Fame

by Tilly Bagshawe

  ‘It doesn’t make me feel better,’ said Sabrina, pulling away and tying her robe more tightly around her waist like a knight fastening his armour. ‘I hope you sleep like shit.’ She stalked off, slamming her bedroom door behind her.

  Wearily, Vio continued up the stairs.

  ‘You should be ashamed of yourself, you know.’

  That was all he needed. What was Tish doing up? Judging by the look of withering disapproval on her face, he assumed she’d overheard him talking to Sabrina about Laura.

  ‘Give it a rest, Mother Teresa,’ he said crossly, trying to erase the mental picture he’d had a few hours ago of Tish naked and desirous beneath him. ‘We’re not all gunning for a sainthood.’

  Tish said nothing. She didn’t have to.

  The contemptuous look in her eyes said it all.

  The following morning the whole house was woken by the rain. The storm that had seemed so invisible last night had arrived with a speed and force that shook the ancient glass in the windowpanes and battered the trees in the park till they were bent double. Water pounded against glass and stone relentlessly, a wild cacophony of drumbeats accompanying the tortured howling of the wind. It was the kind of dawn in which you almost expected to see Cathy Earnshaw’s ghost at the window, her wrists bloodied on the jagged, broken glass, tormenting her beloved Heathcliff.

  Dorian Rasmirez certainly awoke tormented. Half of the set village had flooded, with trailers containing not only people but also valuable equipment sinking feet deep into the mud. Chrissie, who’d taken a sleeping pill after they made love last night, was dead to the world. But Dorian had pulled Wellington boots on over his pyjamas and headed out into the torrent shortly after four a.m., to help Chuck and the crew with the salvage effort. Rhys had helped out too, God bless him, and some of the extras, but it was still an uphill struggle. At six thirty, exhausted and soaked to the bone, Dorian crawled back to bed, but the pounding rain made it impossible to sleep. There was no way they could film in this, and it might last for days, a delay they could not begin to afford.

  I’ll go to London, he thought. See if I can wrangle a third loan out of Coutts. At least that way I won’t waste the day. He’d assumed Chrissie would be delighted at the prospect of a trip up to town. She was due to fly back to Romania on Wednesday (it was two weeks since she’d last seen Saskia) and had been complaining ceaselessly that Dorian never made time for her, never took her anywhere, and that her visit had been a grave disappointment. But over breakfast she surprised him by turning down the chance of a London jaunt.

  ‘I can’t face going out in this weather,’ she moaned, carefully removing all traces of yolk from her boiled egg before eating it. ‘It’s too depressing. I’d rather stay here and read.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ asked Dorian, a little ashamed by how much his spirits lifted at the prospect of going alone, but knowing he’d get far more done. ‘I thought we could catch a matinée or something, after my meetings.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ said Chrissie. ‘I have a new novel. And I never get time to read when I have Saskia with me. Really. You go. I’ll stay.’

  ‘Can I stay home too?’ asked Abel, missing his mouth with a piece of Nutella-covered toast and smearing chocolate sauce across his cheek. He and his mother were also downstairs early, as was Viorel after a fitful night’s sleep. Abel was dressed for the weather in a plastic Togz rain-suit and rainbow-coloured boots, over which he’d thrown a chain-mail knight’s outfit complete with shield and visor. ‘Viorel can play knights with me. Or Dinosaur King.’

  ‘No,’ said Tish firmly. ‘You have a play date with Jack today. We’re leaving straight after breakfast.’

  ‘We can play when you get back,’ said Viorel, ignoring the disapproving looks he was getting from Tish. He regretted sleeping with Laura, but he didn’t need Tish to keep rubbing his nose in it.

  ‘Viorel doesn’t have time to play, I’m afraid, Abel,’ said Dorian, folding away his newspaper and looking at Vio. ‘You and Sabrina need to work on Cathy’s ghost scene. Friday’s effort was pitiful. As soon as this shitty weather lightens up, we’re re-shooting it.’

  ‘I’d be happy to,’ said Viorel, ‘although I can’t vouch for Sabrina’s willingness to rehearse with me. I’m afraid I’m not top of her Christmas-card list at the moment.’

  ‘Really?’ Chrissie visibly cheered up. She disliked Sabrina Leon intensely, just as she disliked all women who were better-looking than she was, and was jealous of her tight relationship with Vio. ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ said Vio, poker-faced.

  Tish practically choked on her Earl Grey. ‘Come on, Abi,’ she said, hustling her son out of the room. ‘We need to make a move.’

  Dorian looked at his watch. ‘Me too … I’ll try and make it home for dinner tonight,’ he said to Chrissie. ‘We’ll go out. Somewhere romantic.’

  Chrissie smiled. ‘Sounds nice.’ She looked happier and more relaxed than Dorian had seen her all week. He hoped she was on the verge of forgiving him for the whole media storm about Sabrina.

  I wonder if the bank will be equally understanding?

  The weather was no better in London. But whereas in Derbyshire there was a certain romantic grandeur to the rain, in the city it was merely dirty and damp and depressing. Dorian sat in the back of a black cab, watching the raindrops chase each other down the windowpane, a game he’d played as a boy, fighting back his own dark thoughts.

  What have I done? he brooded miserably, as they crawled along the Embankment. His meeting at Coutts had been a disaster. Not only were they not going to recommit more money to the movie, but they’d read him the riot act about his outstanding loan.

  ‘You’re four months behind on interest payments, Mr Rasmirez.’

  Dorian did his best to rationalize this failure. ‘This is the movie business. It’s a long lead. Once the film’s wrapped and I hook a big studio partner, you’ll get all your interest and more.’

  ‘Ah, but will you find a studio prepared to back you?’ Hugh Mackenzie Crook, the Old Etonian head of the private banking team, fixed a beady eye on his errant client. ‘You promised us you’d keep Sabrina Leon under control. Recently, her press has been worse than ever. Ever since she set foot in this country, it’s been one gaffe after another, and now there are these rumours about the two of you—’

  ‘All nonsense,’ said Dorian. ‘Completely fabricated.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. Those stories are toxic, as you well know. If Sabrina’s the star draw of your film, she needs to be a draw. Right now she’s a turn-off. People’ll pay not to see her.’

  ‘I disagree,’ said Dorian. ‘The reason they’re still running stories about her is that she still sells newspapers. She still sells.’

  ‘Yes, but the film business is different, is it not? No one shows up to see an actor they dislike.’

  ‘When you see the rushes, you’ll know why they’re gonna show up,’ insisted Dorian. ‘Sabrina’s magical on film. Believe me, she’ll blow you away.’

  His confidence about Sabrina’s performance was the real deal. And not just Sabrina’s. Under his direction the whole cast, Rhys and Lizzie and Jamie, and of course the sensational Viorel, had delivered some of the best work of their careers. And Loxley had proved to be the perfect location, even more atmospheric and romantic and Gothically compelling in celluloid than it was in reality. He still had about a third of the film to shoot once he got to Romania. But he already knew that Wuthering Heights would be the critical triumph he’d dreamed of.

  What he doubted was whether they could survive Sabrina’s bad press. He’d tried to control it, to control her. But the shit kept flying. The truth was, Hugh Mackenzie Crook was right. Dorian was by no means certain that moviegoers wouldn’t boycott his film, and big studios disliked risk. One more piece of negative PR, and his chances of hooking a white knight might well disappear completely.

  ‘I’m afraid any further loan is out of the question until we receive our back inter
est on your outstanding debt,’ said the banker, closing his lever-arch file with a distinctly final click. ‘Good day, Mr Rasmirez.’

  The taxi pulled up outside Rules restaurant, one of Dorian’s favourite places to eat when in London. The Coutts meeting had been brutal but mercifully swift. At least now he’d have time for a proper sit-down lunch.

  In the cosy, candlelit atmosphere of the restaurant, settled into a squishy leather booth with a perfectly steamed steak and kidney pudding and a restorative glass of claret, Dorian felt his bedraggled spirits start to revive. OK, so he hadn’t secured any new money. But he had just enough left to finish the film in Romania, as long as he made a few cutbacks (and continued defaulting on his interest). And at least Hugh hadn’t actually recalled the original loan.

  There were other things to be thankful for too. His marriage had survived the vicious tabloid rumours. Chrissie would go home in a few days. Hopefully then some of the tensions on set would ease. If they caught a break in the weather, Dorian would be flying out to join her in a couple of weeks. He was determined to do a better job as a husband when he got home. I’ll pay Chrissie more attention. And I’ll take up some of the slack with Saskia. Aside from a few unsatisfactory Skype calls, Dorian realized guiltily that he hadn’t laid eyes on his daughter in two months. She’s still only three, he told himself. I have time to put things right. To build a real bond with her, like the one Tish has with Abel.

  Tish brought his thoughts back to Loxley and what was happening on set without him. He hoped Viorel and Sabrina were working and not wasting their creative energy on some silly squabble. In the early weeks of filming, the sexual tension between them had at least been creatively productive. But inevitably, as Sabrina’s frustration mounted, it had started to turn sour. On one level, Dorian instinctively revolted against the idea of Sabrina becoming another notch on Viorel Hudson’s bedpost. For all her tantrums and spoiled, selfish behaviour, there remained something incredibly childlike and vulnerable about the girl that brought out all his protective instincts.

  His phone rang, earning him dagger looks from all the other diners – pompous elderly Brits to a man. ‘Sorry,’ said Dorian, getting up to take the call outside, acutely aware all of a sudden of the Americanness of his accent. On the street the rain was still lashing the pavement, making it hard to hear. He cupped the phone to his ear. ‘Hello?’

  There was a crackle on the other end of the line, followed by some muttered cursing. At last he heard a familiar voice demand, ‘Can you hear me?’

  It was Sabrina. She sounded agitated.

  ‘Yes, I can hear you. What’s up?’

  ‘I thought you said you could hear me? I already told you what’s up. I’m in a fucking police cell in Manchester, that’s what’s up. I need you to come pick me up.’

  ‘You’re what?’ Dorian exploded. ‘What the hell …? What happened, Sabrina? What are you even doing in Manchester in the first place?’

  ‘Look, I don’t have time to chat about it,’ Sabrina replied tersely. ‘This dickhead cop’s trying to get me off the phone.’ There was another muffled altercation. It sounded as if someone were physically trying to pull the receiver out of Sabrina’s hands. Occasional choice words cut through the crackle in Sabrina’s strident American voice. ‘Just get here, OK?’ she barked at Dorian. Before he could say anything further, the line went dead.

  For a few seconds, Dorian stood in the rain, silently contemplating his options. If he raced up to Manchester, there was a chance he could sort out whatever mess Sabrina had got herself into before the press got wind of it.

  Who am I kidding? he thought miserably. The local rag’s probably already there. Still, he had to try.

  Racing back inside, dripping with water like a dog after a swim, he signalled for his bill. The waiter looked crestfallen.

  ‘No pudding, sir? Are you sure? One really shouldn’t go out into weather like this on a half-empty stomach.’

  Dorian thought about the mountain of suet he’d just eaten and almost smiled.

  Goddamn Sabrina.

  Tish fastened Abel’s seatbelt with gritted teeth. Outside the car, icy rain was soaking the lower half of her body so her jeans clung to her legs like a wetsuit. Inside, Abel continued to bounce his newly won stegosaurus toy through her hair, simultaneously wriggling around on his booster seat so it was almost impossible to click the belt into its holster.

  ‘For God’s sake, Abi, stop!’ Tish snapped. It wasn’t often she lost her temper with him, but Abi’s behaviour today had been beyond trying. The planned day at Jack’s house had been a disaster. Jack’s mother, Monica, the yummiest mummy at the village school, was not the most involved of parents at the best of times. Today, she seemed to be even more in her own, self-absorbed little world than usual, dragging Tish off to look at her newly bought Fendi dresses while the two boys ran wild, having flour fights in the kitchen, almost setting fire to themselves in the drawing room, and finally coming to blows in a particularly testosterone-fuelled game of pirates played on Jack’s bunk beds. After that, Monica had placated both boys with Kit Kats and Cadbury’s Mini Rolls, adding sugary fuel to the fire, and plonked them down in front of Ben 10: Alien Force, a cartoon that never failed to transform Abel into a bloodthirsty little thug within about fifteen seconds. At home, Tish could have imposed order with a quiet word or, if push came to shove, by invoking the dreaded naughty carpet. But here, egged on by Jack and already resentful about being dragged away from Viorel, Abel’s behaviour got progressively worse. In the end, Tish had been forced to take him home hours early.

  ‘Do it one more time, Abi, and that dinosaur goes in the bin,’ she said, finally strapping him in and squelching around to the driver’s seat.

  ‘You’re mean,’ muttered Abel.

  ‘Probably,’ said Tish grimly, heading out of the village.

  ‘When we get home, I’m going to play with Viorel and not you.’

  ‘You’re not going to play with anyone, I’m afraid,’ said Tish. ‘You’re going to tidy up that playroom, and then you can help me and Mrs Drummond make some soup. What are you doing?’

  ‘I’m using “the force”,’ muttered Abel, ominously.

  In the rearview mirror, Tish watched her son trying to strangle her with Darth Vader’s death grip, sweaty little fingers outstretched, eyes narrowed in malicious concentration. He seemed quite baffled that it wasn’t working.

  Despite herself, Tish laughed aloud.

  ‘Come on, darling,’ she said. ‘Let’s not argue. How about you tidy up your toys, and then we’ll play Connect Four?’

  They were still negotiating when they arrived at Loxley, but as soon as Mrs D came out with a tray of home-made shortbread biscuits, the tension evaporated. ‘We’ll tidy up the toys together,’ she whispered conspiratorially, leading him off to the playroom. ‘I’ll race you.’

  Exhausted and soaked to the bone, Tish followed them inside, heading straight for her room and a change of clothes. When she reached the landing, she heard the first noise. It sounded like a muffled scream. Heading down the corridor, she turned the corner to see one of her father’s favourite Victorian lamps had been knocked off a side table. All the bedroom doors were open. A few feet further on, a broken vase lay between discarded articles of clothing.

  Oh my God, thought Tish. We’ve been burgled. In the middle of the day!

  A second scream, not muffled this time but audibly a woman in distress, rang out from the direction of Dorian and Chrissie’s bedroom.

  And the burglar’s still here.

  Arming herself with the fallen lamp (its heavy resin base would make a perfect blunt instrument), Tish ran towards the screams, adrenaline pumping.

  ‘I’ve called the police!’ she shouted. ‘Whoever you are you can get the hell out of here, now!’

  She burst into the bedroom and froze. It was hard to tell who was the more shocked: Tish, Viorel or Chrissie Rasmirez. Chrissie was naked and spread-eagled at the foot of the four-poster bed, with b
oth arms tied to the wooden posts with what looked like ripped pieces of shirt – Dorian’s shirt, unless Tish’s eyes deceived her, which at this point she could only pray that they did. Chrissie’s body looked even thinner naked and with arms outstretched, her breasts an insipid pair of fried eggs spread across jutting ribs, her hip bones grotesquely prominent.

  Viorel was also naked but, lying flat on his back on the bed, he was mostly concealed by Chrissie. Unfortunately for all of them, Chrissie’s enthusiastic bucking and yelping had only stopped when she registered Tish’s presence, a full three seconds after Tish had in fact walked into the room. Three seconds that would be burned in Tish’s memory for the rest of her life.

  ‘You’re back early.’ Viorel’s languid, arrogant voice was the first to break the silence. If he was embarrassed, or guilty, he didn’t show it. ‘I would say “this isn’t what it looks like”, but I’ll admit I’m hard pressed to come up with an alter native explanation. Would you buy “experimental yoga”?’

  But Tish was in no mood for banter. She turned and fled, unable to bear the sight of the pair of them a second longer. She felt sick, physically sick, and violated, as if Viorel had deliberately lured her into his obscene little peep show. Sitting down on the bed, she put her head between her knees, willing the nausea to pass.

  There was a knock on the door.

  ‘Go away,’ said Tish.

  ‘Can’t, I’m afraid.’ Viorel, who’d got dressed back into his black jeans and James Perse sapphire-blue shirt stood sheepishly in the doorway. ‘We need to talk.’

  ‘No, we don’t.’ Tish could still barely bring herself to look at him.

  ‘We do,’ said Vio. ‘I need to know what you’re planning to do. Are you going to tell Dorian?’

  Incredible, thought Tish. Even now, all he cares about is saving his own skin.

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m going to do.’

  Ever since their stupid falling-out about Abel and her plans to take him back to Romania, Tish had clung to her anger, convincing herself that her feelings hadn’t been hurt by the loss of Viorel’s friendship. Now she realized fully just how much she’d been deceiving herself. It was Viorel who had made her forget Michel. OK, so nothing romantic had developed between them. But his affection, the way he looked at her, sought out her company and advice; all that had restored Tish’s self-confidence. She missed the person she’d believed Vio Hudson to be. She missed her friend, the one who had brought her back to life.