Fame

by Tilly Bagshawe

  For the next two hours, Sabrina surrendered herself completely to Vio, aware of nothing but the rush of joy that flooded her senses like a tsunami. She had no idea when his clothes had come off, or how. She lost track of how many times she came, how many positions he put her in, whether a specific sensation was being caused by his hands, his mouth, his dick. For the first time she understood what her character, Cathy, had meant when she said that she and Heathcliff were one person and described him as ‘more myself than I am’. To Sabrina, sex had always been a tool, something she had used to exert power over others, over men. With Viorel, all of that fell away. She was naked, not just in body but in soul.

  When they finally finished, she lay beside him, shaking violently. Pulling the bedclothes up over her, Viorel was shocked to see tears streaming down her face.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked, genuinely concerned. ‘I didn’t hurt you, did I?’

  Sabrina didn’t answer, but started sobbing more loudly.

  Vio looked panicked. ‘Oh, God, Sabrina, what is it?’ He’d been so lost in his own pleasure – having denied himself Sabrina’s body for three long months, and spent the last four weeks in agonies believing he would never have her, tonight had been the best, most explosive fuck of his life – he’d missed the emotional storm building up inside her.

  ‘Please don’t cry. I’m sorry. I thought it was what you wanted. You seemed, you know … into it.’

  This was such an understatement, Sabrina laughed, much to his relief. But the tears soon returned.

  ‘It was what I wanted,’ she mumbled, between sobs. ‘It is what I want.’

  ‘So why …?’

  ‘I’m frightened, you fucking moron!’ she shouted at him, sitting up. Without thinking, she drew back her arm and swung a punch at his face. Vio only just ducked in time.

  ‘Whoah!’ he said, tentatively sitting back up. ‘Easy. Frightened of what?’

  The question seemed to enrage Sabrina. Letting out a frustrated yell, she lunged at him again, but this time Vio was too quick for her, grabbing her wrists and holding tightly till she at last stopped struggling and broke down in tears again. Finally, she looked at him, her face a picture of misery.

  ‘I think I love you,’ she said quietly.

  Now it was Viorel’s heart that began to race. The silence hung in the air after Sabrina’s words like an unspoken death sentence. Gazing into her liquid eyes, still holding her hands in his, he caught a glimpse of the chasm of need and longing inside her and felt as scared as he had ever felt in his life.

  She’s the most beautiful, most desirable woman in the world, he told himself. She’s talented. She’s sweet underneath all the bullshit. She’s the best lay you’ve ever had. And she loves you.

  Say something, you asshole.

  ‘I love you too.’ The words were out of his mouth before he knew he’d thought them. Just as Viorel was thinking how uncomfortable they were, how wrong, like an ill-fitting suit, Sabrina collapsed into his arms like a demolished building, all the tension and terror magically released. Viorel held her, shooshing her like a child, murmuring meaningless words of comfort – it’s OK, it’s all right, I’m here. Very quickly she was asleep.

  Laying her down on the bed beside him, he covered her again with the sheet and bedspread and turned out the light. For a long time, he lay there, staring at her. After today’s scene, making love to Sabrina hadn’t even been a choice any more. It had been a necessity. It felt right.

  So why, watching her sleep peacefully beside him now, did he suddenly feel so wrong? Like he was playing a part; a part intended for somebody else. But then so much of his life had felt like that: England, Eton, Cambridge – maybe it had simply become second nature for him to question everything, or at least to question everything good.

  I have to relax, he told himself. Learn to enjoy it. Who knows? Maybe a challenge like Sabrina is exactly what I need?

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Saskia Rasmirez rearranged the plastic Little Mermaid tea set on her play table, and wondered how long it would be before Rula, her nanny, came back. Saskia was a happy, uncomplicated child, and at three years old had not yet thought to question the sanity or otherwise of her existence. She had no memories of Los Angeles and was unaware that other children did not live in enormous, fairytale castles like she did with movie stars running around the guest wings and paparazzi flying helicopters overhead. She did not know that her daddy was famous, or that her family led an extravagant, privileged life. What she did know was that life was a lot easier and more fun when she was left alone with Rula to play mermaids, or princess nurses, or fairies and elves, and her parents weren’t around.

  Saskia viewed her father’s presence in the nursery as a freak anomaly, mildly interesting but too fleeting to be of any real significance, like an unexpected storm. Her mother’s presence, on the other hand, was more frequent and could be a serious problem. Watching Chrissie out of the corner of her inquisitive blue eyes now, Saskia noticed the vacant stare and the despondent slump of the shoulders. Mommy always had a turned-down mouth, like Nanny Plum from the Ben and Holly cartoons after a spell had gone wrong. And there was something wrong with her ears too. She’d sent Rula away so that she and Saskia could play together, but whenever Saskia asked her a question: which dolly she wanted to be, if pink biscuits were her favourite, whether the pretend tea was too hot and burn-ish, Mommy couldn’t seem to hear properly and would say something that didn’t make sense, like ‘whatever you want, honey,’ when Saskia hadn’t wanted anything.

  Occasionally, both her parents would hug her uncomfortably tightly and ask her if she loved them. Saskia had learned that the correct answer to this question was a simple ‘yes’. Nine times out of ten, this made them smile, then go away, after which Rula would invariably reappear and start playing with her properly.

  Today, however, Saskia’s mother was not in a huggy mood. She was in a staring-randomly-into-space sort of mood. Oh well. Turning back to her tea party, the little girl rearranged her other guests on their pink plastic chairs (Ariel, Growly the teddy and Princess Feather Dress rarely complained about the seating arrangements), and was about to pour them all a second cup of fairy-dust tea when the playroom door opened and a very pretty grown-up walked in. Saskia had seen this grown-up before a couple of times, sometimes talking with her father, occasionally on her own, talking on the telephone or gliding down one of the Schloss’s myriad corridors in fat, princess dresses. Saskia thought she was lovely.

  ‘Are you Pocahontas?’ she asked. ‘You’ve got very Pocahontassy hair.’

  The girl laughed, a low, warm, throaty laugh quite different from Saskia’s mother’s, or Rula’s. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘But I’m afraid not. I’m Sabrina.’

  ‘Hello, Sabrina.’

  ‘And you must be Saskia?’

  The child nodded earnestly. ‘We both begin with a “S”.’

  ‘We certainly do.’

  ‘Have you come to play with me?’ Saskia brightened. Maybe Sabrina would want to help her put clips in her hair? Or at least express a preference, biscuit-colour-wise.

  ‘Actually, I was looking for your mom,’ said Sabrina, still smiling. She seemed very happy, this woman. In a white floaty skirt and draped vest top, it crossed Saskia’s mind that she might be some sort of angel, come to cheer Mommy up. If so, she was going to have her work cut out. Since her arrival in the nursery, Mommy’s mouth had turned down even lower, till she looked a bit like Ketchup, Saskia’s friend Monica’s pet pug dog.

  Chrissie looked at Sabrina with a combination of apathy and contempt that would have withered a less robust ego. In black baggy Ralph Lauren trousers and a thin-ribbed, cobalt-blue cotton T-shirt clinging to her bony frame, Chrissie looked pale and exhausted, as washed out as Sabrina was radiant. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘Oh, nothing for me,’ said Sabrina. ‘It’s Dorian. I said I was coming back to this side of the house to get some vitamins from my room, and he asked me to
check on you. You know, see how you were doing.’

  ‘How I’m doing?’ Chrissie repeated. What was she now, some sort of mental patient who needed to be ‘checked up’ on? ‘I’m fine,’ she said frostily. ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’

  ‘Oh.’ Sabrina looked bewildered. ‘Well, Dorian mentioned you’d had a migraine this morning. I get them myself so I know how hideous they can be. But I guess you’re over it. I’ll tell him.’ She turned back to Saskia. ‘Sorry to interrupt your tea party. Maybe I can get an invite to the next one?’

  For a moment curiosity overcame Chrissie’s anger. Was it her imagination, or was there something markedly different about Sabrina today? It was a combination of her demeanour, the way she’d practically skipped into the room earlier, and a general looseness that had not been there before. Her hair hung newly washed and slightly frizzy down her back; her make-up-free face shone with sweat but she didn’t seem to care; her usual sexy jeans or shorts had been replaced by a skirt that bordered on the virginal. Then it struck her.

  Of course. She’s in love.

  Chrissie knew that Dorian disapproved of Jago Crewe, though she’d never been interested enough to find out why. She was interested now. ‘Don’t rush off,’ she said, her tone suddenly soft and inviting.

  ‘I have to.’ Sabrina looked apologetic. ‘I’m needed back on set.’

  ‘Oh, needed schmeeded,’ said Chrissie, scooching over and patting the space next to her on the window seat. ‘We both know my husband’s a tyrant. He had you working till all hours last night. Come hang with the girls for a few minutes.’

  The girls? Sabrina was just adjusting to the shock of Chrissie Rasmirez in ‘nice mode’ when Chrissie dropped the second bombshell, adding conspiratorially: ‘You’re obviously dying to tell someone about him.’

  Sabrina blushed. Was it really that obvious?

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she muttered, unconvincingly.

  ‘Yes, you do,’ said Chrissie. ‘There’s no need to be shy about it. I was the same when I was your age. When you’re in love, you just can’t hide it. He must be quite a guy.’

  ‘He is,’ sighed Sabrina, then clammed up again.

  ‘Listen, if you’re worried about Dorian, don’t be,’ said Chrissie. ‘I don’t tell him everything, you know. And besides, you are entitled to a private life.’

  Sabrina was torn. It would be nice to tell someone. Anyone. Last night had been so magical, so perfect, she’d had the urge to pinch herself all day. Viorel Hudson loves me! Had he really said those words? He hadn’t repeated them this morning, but had been so gentle and tender with her when she woke up, and later on set, that she was sure she hadn’t dreamed them. Or had she? Every few minutes, the irrational, gnawing fear returned that it had all been a dream, a figment of her fevered, overworked imagination. Perhaps telling the story to someone else would make it more real, more solid and true; less likely to slip through her fingers like a fistful of sand?

  On the other hand, she knew Dorian would disapprove, an idea that bothered her more than it should have. She wished she didn’t care so much for her director’s good opinion, but her admiration for him had sort of crept up on her and now she was stuck with it. Neither she nor Vio wanted to look unprofessional, especially after she’d made such a big deal about Jago, and Viorel had told the whole set how he never slept with his co-stars.

  ‘I wouldn’t want Dorian to get the wrong idea, that’s all,’ she said eventually. ‘I take my job very seriously, even though sometimes I know he thinks I don’t.’

  Chrissie laughed. ‘Let me give you a little friendly advice about dealing with my husband. With any director, come to that. Give them an inch and they’ll take a mile. Screw what Dorian thinks about your love life! It’s none of his business. From what I hear, you’re doing a stellar job as Cathy.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Sabrina, genuinely touched. Not because Chrissie’s opinion meant much to her, but because she could only have heard this from Dorian, and his opinion meant everything.

  ‘So come on! What’s he like?’ Chrissie dropped her voice to a whisper. ‘I hear Englishmen are the kinkiest lovers.’

  Sabrina grinned. ‘I wouldn’t say kinky exactly. But he certainly gets an A plus in bed. And not just in bed, in everything.’ And she was off, gushing out her love uncontrollably like water from a broken fire hydrant. ‘He’s different from anyone else I’ve ever met. I knew it the first time I laid eyes on him, although I guess I didn’t want to admit it at first.’

  Chrissie nodded understandingly.

  ‘I know on the surface he can seem arrogant. But underneath it all he has such a good soul. He’s talented, he’s intelligent, he’s educated …’

  Educated? Chrissie paused. She was sure she remembered Dorian saying something about Tish’s brother being some sort of New Age Neanderthal. What was the expression he’d used again? Ah yes: ‘Thicker than a pile of horseshit but with half the charm.’ Then again, Sabrina Leon was vagrant white trash from Fresno not so many years ago, so it was all relative.

  ‘You mustn’t be intimidated by his family, you know,’ said Chrissie, cutting Sabrina off mid-drool. ‘You’re as good as any of them.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Sabrina. ‘But I don’t think that’s an issue.’

  ‘Of course not, my dear. You’ll fit right in at Loxley Hall. All it takes is a little practice.’

  ‘Oh!’ Sabrina laughed nervously. ‘No, no, it’s over with me and Jago. I sincerely hope that I never have to set foot in Loxley Hall again.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Chrissie, her smile wilting at the edges. ‘Then who?’

  ‘Viorel!’ said Sabrina joyously. ‘It all happened last night, although to be honest we both knew it was coming for a while. Months, ever since we got to England really. I guess I was in denial or something. I wasn’t sure if he felt the same, but now …’

  Misinterpreting Chrissie’s stricken face as moral disapproval, Sabrina paused, then backtracked.

  ‘I didn’t mean to hurt Jago,’ she said defensively. ‘I mean, I know we were engaged and all, but it had only been a few weeks. And the way I feel about Vio, well, it can’t be compared. When Jago gets over the shock and sees how in love we are, I’m sure he’ll understand. He will understand, won’t he?’

  But Chrissie was no longer listening. She didn’t care about Jago Crewe, or Sabrina, or any of them. Viorel hadn’t rejected her because he felt guilty. He’d turned her down because he had a better offer, from a girl fifteen years Chrissie’s junior. He didn’t want her because she was old.

  ‘Mommy?’ Saskia was pawing at her trouser leg, trying to get her attention. With a jolt, Chrissie realized that she’d switched off and been in a world of her own, for how long she wasn’t sure. Sabrina was also looking at her strangely, her hateful, flawlessly youthful features knitted into an expression of faux concern.

  ‘Are you sure you’re OK, Chrissie? Is it the migraine again?’

  Chrissie nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She needed to be alone, to think.

  This was all Dorian’s fault. Dorian and his obsession with this damn movie. Ever since he’d started work on Wuthering Heights, the problems between them had escalated. He’d been away more, neglecting her more, practically pushing her into Viorel’s arms only for him to reject her too. In her mind, it was the movie itself that was the enemy, the catalyst for all her disappointment, anger and fear. But if Dorian thought she was going to lie down and take the humiliation quietly, if any of them thought that, they had another think coming.

  Harry Greene sat on his therapist’s couch looking angrily at his watch. Forty-five minutes of my time, another two hundred bucks down the drain, and all this schmuck’s got to tell me is I need to ‘let go of my anger’? I know that, dip-shit. That’s why I’m here. What I want you to tell me is how.

  Harry Greene had been coming to this bland, corporate-looking office in Beverly Hills once a week for the last eight years. Before that he’d gone to a chick th
erapist, Liana, in Bel Air. That had been a lot more fun. Liana had a terrific pair of tits, and a penchant for wearing very short skirts and semi-sheer underwear that had made the hour of self-analysis positively fly by. But the bitch had dumped Harry as a client after he’d asked her out for dinner – dinner, for Christ’s sake! It wasn’t like I tried to rape her; although God knew she’d been asking for it hard enough, the little prick tease. Trying to tell me I’ve got ‘issues’ with women. Fuck you, doctor. He’d been seeing Dr Brewer ever since.

  A slight, balding man in his mid-sixties, with no distinguishing features other than his eyebrows, which were enormously bushy, like two hairy caterpillars intent on taking over his face, Dr Brewer shared his patient’s frustration at the circular nature of their sessions. Harry Greene was a profoundly angry man, a hater-by-nature – of women, certainly, but also of anybody he perceived to have crossed him. This was a very long list, and one that, despite showing up every week on Dr Brewer’s couch, Harry appeared to have no interest whatsoever in reducing.

  ‘Professionally, things are going well?’ Dr Brewer probed. ‘You’re happy with your current project?’

  ‘Very happy.’ Harry Greene smiled, as he always did whenever he thought about work. His latest movie was a departure from his normal fare of big-budget comedies or action flicks. A period drama, based around a fallen woman in eighteenth-century Paris, Celeste was a visually gorgeous feast of a film starring Marta Erikksen, currently Hollywood’s highest-paid female star, thanks to her breakout success in the latest Tarantino movie. If anyone had told Harry that Celeste was a deliberate attempt to go head to head with Dorian Rasmirez’s Wuthering Heights, he’d have denied it vociferously. Rasmirez didn’t have a monopoly on artistic, critically acclaimed films. Why shouldn’t Harry branch out? Besides, anyone could do that arty shit – anyone with an eye for the right script and the clout to cast his first-choice actors in every role, right down to the third fucking under-gardener. Harry knew for a fact that his production budget had been more than four times the size of Dorian’s. He also knew that Dorian was going to have a hard sell trying to bring a distributor on board, what with the continued negative press buzzing around Sabrina Leon. Thanks to the veil of secrecy surrounding Wuthering Heights, the big studios’ interest was piqued. But it was a long way from piqued interest to a multimillion-dollar cheque. Harry Greene knew that better than anyone. Celeste is gonna wipe the floor with Rasmirez’s piss-poor remake.