Fame

by Tilly Bagshawe

  ‘We’re six people,’ said Viorel. ‘Not six eggs. There’s barely room to breathe, never mind eat.’ Happily, while he was still remonstrating with the owner, Jamie Duggan texted Sabrina to say that he and Lizzie had decided to stay at home and ‘rest up’ before shooting tomorrow.

  ‘There, you see?’ said Jago brightly. ‘It’s yin and yang, man. Everything balances out in the end. Now let’s stop with all the negativity and have a beautiful evening, shall we?’

  The quaint elfin table had benches on either side rather than chairs, upholstered in the same cheerful red gingham as the tablecloth. Viorel squeezed his six-foot-plus frame into one of the benches, narrowly missing whacking his head on a low beam as he sat down. Tish quickly made a beeline for the opposite bench, sitting as far away from him as possible, but she was still so close she could have held his hand across the table. She didn’t understand why part of her still wanted to. To her right, Jago was pressed against her like a giant sardine in a tin.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asked Sabrina. ‘Not too squashed?’

  ‘I’m fine, thank you. Very comfortable.’

  Perched opposite Jago on the end of the bench, next to Viorel, Sabrina was so slim and tiny she had somehow contrived to surround herself with space. She and Vio look like two magnets repelling each other, thought Tish. Vio was dressed casually in jeans and a T-shirt and hadn’t bothered to shave, but Sabrina had clearly made an effort in a white lace Marc Jacobs sundress and a pair of delicate Louboutin sandals in palest coral pink. Unusually for her, her long hair was tied up in a ponytail and she wore a simple single-pearl pendant at her neck, enhancing the youthful innocence. Even Tish had to admit she looked stunning.

  Viorel, on the other hand, looked tired and irritable, and as if he wanted to be there even less than Tish did, if that were possible. His arms were folded defensively, and his face set into a petulant scowl as he glared at the menu.

  As Jago and Sabrina chattered away, focusing wholly on each other, the silence on Tish and Vio’s end of the table was becoming oppressive.

  ‘The food’s supposed to be good here,’ said Tish, forcing herself to at least be polite.

  ‘I hate French cuisine,’ said Viorel.

  Oh, fuck you, thought Tish. Out loud she said, ‘That’s a bit sweeping, isn’t it?’

  ‘No.’ Viorel looked sullenly up from his menu. ‘It’s fussy and pretentious. It’s up its own arse. I hate all that classist, snobby crap. It’s one of the many reasons I prefer America to Europe.’

  ‘Really?’ said Tish. Clearly, they were no longer talking about the food. ‘Well, of course I can imagine that snobbery must feel totally alien to you, coming as you do from such a simple background.’

  Viorel’s eyes narrowed. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The son of a minister, Eton, Cambridge, Hollywood …’ mused Tish. ‘I’m not surprised you’re overwhelmed by the pretensions of Castleton.’

  Viorel looked furious. That was definitely fifteen-love to Tish.

  ‘Should I ask Henri to make you up a plate of egg and chips? I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.’

  ‘Don’t be childish,’ snapped Viorel. ‘Must you make an argument out of everything?’

  Tish was too gobsmacked by the hypocrisy of this to say anything at all. Silence resumed until the first course arrived, a giant pot of moules marinières to share between the table. Viorel picked at his helping, but managed to sink two large glasses of wine. Meanwhile, Jago made a token effort to include him in conversation, asking him some dull questions about playing Heathcliff and whether he was looking forward to the last leg of filming in Romania.

  ‘I know you’re itching to get back there, aren’t you, Tishy? My sister’s an honorary Romanian,’ he stage-whispered to Sabrina. ‘Can’t get enough of the place.’

  ‘I’m not there because I like it,’ said Tish, more defensively than she’d intended. ‘I’m there because I’m needed.’

  Vio, whose head was becoming distinctly fuzzy, thought back to the countless interviews his cold and distant mother had given to the Daily Mail when he was a boy, about how Europe’s orphan children ‘needed’ her. Never mind that her own child needed her. He looked at Tish with renewed bitterness.

  ‘Of course. Where would all the poor abandoned kids be without you? Saint Letitia of Loxley.’

  Sabrina and Jago both sniggered. Tish gripped her fork more tightly. God, she hated him.

  ‘Well, I’m not looking forward to going to Romania, that’s for sure,’ said Sabrina. ‘The only reason we’re doing the interior shots there is to save Dorian money. There’ll be nothing to do.’

  ‘There’s nothing to do here,’ mumbled Viorel. ‘But I agree, Romania’s a drag. The sooner we get back to LA, the better as far as I’m concerned.’

  ‘I hear Rasmirez’s wife is a bit of a cow,’ said Jago, trying to lighten the mood.

  ‘That’s an understatement,’ said Sabrina. ‘She was here for a week before you showed up and I swear we all wanted to top ourselves. She’s got a face like a bulldog chewing a wasp. God knows how Dorian can sleep with her. It must be like sticking your dick in sandpaper.’

  Despite himself, Vio laughed. He instantly regretted it.

  ‘I’m surprised you find that funny.’ Tish’s voice was like ice. ‘I got the distinct impression you and Chrissie rather liked each other when I came home last Monday.’

  Sabrina’s ears pricked up. You could have cut the tension round the table with a knife. She looked at Vio accusingly. ‘What’s she talking about? I thought you hated Chrissie.’

  ‘I … no,’ said Vio awkwardly. Would Tish stick to her word, or would she blurt out the truth to spite him? His palms began to sweat. ‘I didn’t hate her, exactly. She certainly had her issues, but I mean … she was OK.’

  ‘Issues?’ Sabrina looked at him uncomprehendingly. ‘She was a fucking nightmare. Anyway, what happened last Monday?’

  Viorel waited an agonizing few seconds for Tish to say something. When she didn’t, he said brusquely, ‘Nothing happened. She was asking my advice about some interior design ideas, if you must know.’

  ‘Interior design?’ Sabrina’s eyebrows arched sceptically. But Vio was deadpan.

  ‘Yes. It’s a hobby of mine, design, architecture. You should see my Venice apartment some time. It would blow your mind.’

  For a split second, the crackle of sexual tension was almost audible. Then Sabrina pointedly returned her attention to Jago.

  ‘Yes, well, interior designed or not, the thought of living under Chrissie Rasmirez’s roof for a month is about as appealing as going back to rehab. But at least it means getting out of Loxley. No offence, darling, but I think I’ve had just about as much of rural Derbyshire as I can stomach for one lifetime.’

  Tish thought ‘darling’? Good grief.

  Under the table, Jago slipped off his shoe and caressed Sabrina’s bare calf with his foot. ‘Don’t say that,’ he said smoothly. ‘I haven’t given you the full tour yet. At least give me a chance to change your mind.’

  ‘Gladly,’ purred Sabrina.

  Both Viorel and Tish said silent, unheard prayers to Scotty to beam them up.

  ‘You know, when I first inherited Loxley, I rebelled against it,’ mused Jago. ‘It was like, this represents so many things that I’m, like, so not about: wealth and privilege and, like, the class system and everything. But after some time away, I realized, you know, maybe I was born into a family like mine for a reason.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Sabrina interrupted, a slow smile of appreciation spreading across her face as the full implications of Jago’s admission dawned. ‘You mean Loxley Hall is actually your house. Not Tish’s?’

  ‘It’s a family house,’ said Tish stiffly.

  Sabrina laughed. ‘Wait a minute, let me get this straight. All those earnest conversations you’ve been having with Dorian about the pressures of running a stately home; all your grand plans for Loxley Hall and the future after we wrap; and you’re actu
ally just a tenant, like the rest of us?’

  ‘Loxley’s my home,’ said Tish, fighting to keep the emotion out of her voice. ‘I came back to run it because Jago couldn’t be bothered.’

  ‘How very noble of you.’ Sabrina took a slug of her wine. Turning back to Jago she said, ‘But now you’re back.’

  ‘Now I’m back.’

  ‘And Loxley belongs to you? The entire estate?’

  ‘For my sins, yes,’ said Jago, delighted by how impressed Sabrina seemed to be at this information. ‘I suppose I’m a lucky man.’

  Viorel looked at Tish’s stricken face and part of him wanted to reach across the table and take her hand. But what would be the point? She’d only shrug him off and make him look like a dick for trying to be nice. She was impossible.

  Sabrina, on the other hand, couldn’t have looked more delighted if she’d won the lottery. She looked ravishing tonight in that demure but somehow super-sexy white dress. But by God she could twist the knife when she wanted to. Maybe she and Jago deserved each other, although the thought of that Anglo-Italian gigolo touching Sabrina made Vio want to rip Jago’s handsome head off with his bare hands.

  Dinner limped on. Tish and Vio had both lost their appetites and waited impatiently for the bill to arrive, while Jago and Sabrina drank and flirted happily. There was no way Tish could talk finances with Jago now. Sabrina would have a field day at her expense if she pulled out the financial files she’d brought with her, and in any case Jago was too drunk and love-struck to concentrate on the figures. The whole night had been a wash-out. Judging by the sour look on his face, Viorel felt the same.

  When they got back to Loxley, Tish went straight to her room. Vio followed suit, much to Sabrina’s chagrin. It was hard to make someone jealous when they refused to stick around and watch you doing it.

  ‘Is Hudson always this miserable?’ asked Jago, pouring Sabrina a large glass of Laphroaig from the bar in the West Wing library. It was a glorious room, especially at night with its dark wood panelling glowing in the candlelight like a newly polished conker. Sabrina wondered how she’d managed to spend two months at Loxley without ever noticing it before. ‘I’ve had more enjoyable evenings on an operating table.’

  ‘Not always.’ Sabrina smiled, allowing her fingers to brush Jago’s as she took the glass. She would never have accepted a drink if Dorian were here, but while the cat was away … Moving towards the window, she said. ‘I guess his nose is out of joint since you came along.’

  ‘Me?’ Jago feigned ignorance.

  ‘Sure.’ Sabrina sipped her whisky. It was so long since she’d had spirits, the liquid burned her throat, but it was a delicious burning. All the more so for being forbidden. ‘All the girls on set think you’re hot. It drives Vio crazy.’

  ‘All the girls?’ Jago had moved up behind her. Slipping a hand around her waist he pressed his lips lightly to the back of her neck. Sabrina closed her eyes and let the arousal course through her. It was so long since she’d had a man, just the light pressure of Jago’s lips felt wonderful.

  ‘How about that tour I promised you?’ he whispered. His warm breath made the hairs on Sabrina’s neck stand on end.

  ‘Sure,’ she said huskily. ‘You’re the Lord of the Manor. Impress me.’

  Jago thought for a moment. Though he’d have liked nothing more than to rip Sabrina’s clothes off there and then and fuck her on the library floor, he didn’t want to blow it. Sabrina Leon was a film star, after all, used to having men bend over backwards to please her. He had to think of something romantic, impressive, unique. Suddenly, it came to him.

  ‘I know,’ he said excitedly. ‘The folly. Has anyone taken you across the lake yet?’

  Sabrina looked at him blankly. ‘What lake?’

  ‘Perfect.’ Jago grinned. ‘Follow me.’

  Fifteen minutes later, Sabrina found herself lying back on a pile of old blankets in the back of a rowing boat, gazing up at the stars. It was almost midnight now and there was a chill in the air, but wrapped up in two of Jago’s sweaters and a heavy woollen overcoat of Henry’s, and with the warmth of the liquor still in her chest, she felt cosy and safe and quite preternaturally happy.

  The lake itself was a revelation. It was so close to the house – a short wooded path behind the stable yard led you straight there – and yet neither Sabrina nor anyone else on the movie had ever found it, as far as she knew. And it was big. Once you emerged from the path, the velvety water spread out before you apparently endlessly, like a giant sheet of silver baking foil. In the middle of it, sticking up like a strange, Gothic pie funnel, was a redbrick tower straight out of The Lady of Shalott.

  Jago rowed towards it, prattling on about Buddhism and Tibet and what a perfect spot the tower was for transcendental meditation. Sabrina tuned out his voice, focusing instead on the rhythmic lapping of the oars against the water, and the way Jago’s impressively sculpted biceps rippled with each new stroke. Above her, the stars shone comforting and familiar. She suddenly remembered looking up at them in Fresno, one particularly clear night when she was sleeping rough, and shivered to think how far she’d come. Too far to slip back? She wasn’t sure sometimes.

  ‘Are you cold?’ asked Jago.

  ‘I’m OK.’

  ‘We’re almost there. I’ll warm you up once we get inside.’

  They hit the shore with a gentle bump, and he dragged the boat up onto the grass, lifting Sabrina out and setting her down gently beside it. Looking up into the smooth planes of his face with its strong jaw, full lips and flawless olive skin, she wondered what it was that made him so much less appealing than Vio, then smiled to herself because the answer was obvious.

  Viorel plays hard to get. I only ever want what I can’t have.

  Misinterpreting her expression, Jago smiled back. ‘Your tower awaits, my lady.’

  ‘I sure hope so,’ Sabrina grinned, staring unashamedly at the bulge in Jago’s corduroy trousers.

  Walking up to the tower, she rattled the door. ‘So does this thing open, or what?’

  ‘Locked,’ said Jago. ‘Happily, I have the key.’ Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a heavy brass key, unlocking the thick wooden door with a satisfying click. Inside, slightly disappointingly, an electric light switch glowed in the dark. Jago pressed it, illuminating a narrow, winding staircase that seemed to swirl above them into infinity.

  Freud would have a field day, thought Sabrina, starting to climb. But for the first time in a long time, she was actually having fun.

  ‘What’s at the top?’ she called back over her shoulder. The stairs were steep and relentless and she was already becoming out of breath.

  ‘A trap door,’ said Jago. ‘You’ll see. Just push it, hard, and it’ll open.’

  A few seconds later, Sabrina saw it. As he’d asked, she braced herself against it with both hands and pushed. ‘Wow,’ she gasped. ‘This is amazing!’

  At the top of the tower was a small, circular room, with one enormous mullioned window facing the lake and the ghostly, moonlit turrets of Loxley Hall beyond. In daylight, Sabrina imagined, one must be able to see for miles. But at this time of night the view was limited to the hall’s few, orange-bright windows glowing warm and inviting through the trees. Inside, the room had been simply but beautifully decorated in white, with cotton cushions and soft lambswool blankets scattered over the sanded wooden floor and a quaint, white-painted rocking chair facing the window. It was feminine, but not at all fussy: sparse and yet comfortable at the same time. Sabrina was delighted. Taking off her heavy overcoat and Jago’s sweaters, she lay them on the rocking chair and twirled around like a little girl, the skirts of her Marc Jacobs sundress billowing up like a musical-box ballerina’s. ‘It’s like heaven.’

  She turned around and immediately found herself wrapped in Jago’s arms, being pulled ever more tightly against the hard warmth of his body. ‘You’re like heaven,’ he murmured. Reaching behind her, he expertly undid the zipper of her Marc Jacobs dress with on
e hand while the other caressed her cheek. ‘You’re the most perfect thing I’ve ever seen.’

  Sabrina shifted her weight slightly onto one hip so that her dress slipped off her body onto the floor. Beneath it, she was completely naked.

  Jago stepped back and caught his breath. He’d slept with countless beautiful women over the years, but none of them could hold a candle to Sabrina. With her full, high breasts, long, supple legs, and most of all with that face, so angelic and yet so utterly, defiantly wanton, only a nymphomaniac God could have created her.

  Reaching up, Sabrina released her hair from its elastic band, never taking her eyes from Jago’s as the slick chestnut mane spilled over her shoulders like molten chocolate.

  Jago tried to speak but his throat was so dry, the words came out a strangled croak.

  ‘Tell me what you like.’

  ‘I like everything,’ said Sabrina truthfully. It’s been a long time.

  Taking this statement as a metaphorical starting pistol, Jago began tearing at his own clothes as if they were on fire. Within seconds, he too was naked and had thrown Sabrina down quite roughly onto some of the cushions, positioning himself on top of her so that the tip of his enormous erection brushed the top of her thighs. Good, thought Sabrina. She wasn’t in the mood for foreplay. Closing her eyes, literally squirming with excitement and anticipation, she imagined Viorel watching them, seeing another man take all the pleasure in her body that he’d so determinedly denied himself. This’ll teach you to ignore me. To think that you can lead me on, then walk away. It was a delicious fantasy, so intoxicating that she found it hard to hold herself back from coming. Desperately, she reached around Jago’s hips, trying to pull him inside her, but Jago pulled back.

  ‘Uh-uh,’ he whispered, teasing her. ‘Not yet. You don’t say when. I say when.’

  It was like flicking a switch. Sabrina’s eyes widened, her pupils dilating like a junkie after a hit. Jago slid his body downwards, parting Sabrina’s thighs wider, slipping one hand under each of her taut buttocks. He bent low so she could feel his breath between her legs. Suddenly she no longer cared about Viorel. She was here in the moment, arching herself up towards Jago, her body begging him to give her what she needed, one animal to another. But again he made her wait, his tongue darting everywhere but where she wanted it, caressing her legs, her hips, her belly, tantalizingly close.