Fame

by Tilly Bagshawe

  ‘Tell me you love me,’ Sabrina whispered. She was leaning forward so her long dark hair hung over him like a silken curtain. He could smell the desire on her skin, feel the longing in the quiver of her breasts as she breathed.

  ‘I love you,’ said Vio, slowly easing himself inside her. And in that instant, feeling Sabrina’s muscles tighten around him and hearing her gasp in pleasure, he did. Running his tongue across her breasts and his hands down her naked back, it was as if his whole body had become an instrument of worship. Because she was a goddess. Physically, sexually, she was perfection. They moved together like a single, frenzied animal, grabbing at one another’s bodies like two monkeys grasping for purchase in the trees, but ultimately tumbling to the ground, locked in combat. Slipping off the couch onto the floor, Vio rolled on top of Sabrina, pinning her down, their fingers entwined. He tried to stop himself coming, but it was like an exhausted salmon battling its way against the fast-flowing river. He might be on top, but sexually, as ever, it was Sabrina who was in control. With a shudder of ecstasy, he exploded into her, every nerve in his body alive with pleasure.

  Afterwards, still slumped on top of her, it took him a full minute to recover sufficiently to speak. ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered in her ear. ‘That was way too fast.’

  ‘It was perfect,’ sighed Sabrina contentedly. She loved it when Vio couldn’t control himself. Every orgasm was a victory, a bond tightened, a bolt locked. Nothing gave her more pleasure than knowing that he wanted her.

  It was strange, this feeling Vio gave her. Their sex life was so explosive because it was a respite from fear. Her fear. When they were fucking, Sabrina knew she had him, that Vio Hudson was utterly, irrevocably hers. But at every other time – at dinner, on set, with his friends, while he slept – she doubted it. As a result, she found herself living in a permanent state of tension. Rationally, the experience was unpleasant. Sabrina needed the relationship like an addict needed heroin but, like most addictions, it brought her more pain than pleasure. Sometimes she hankered after the early days of filming Wuthering Heights at Loxley Hall, before they’d gotten together, and before Jago; the days of fun, easy flirtation. How long ago that all seemed now. For a moment, she wished Dorian Rasmirez were here with his father hat on, to guide her through these uncharted waters with Vio. But perhaps even Dorian couldn’t help her now? I’m in love. I guess this is what it’s supposed to feel like.

  ‘So what do you think then?’ Rolling onto her side as Vio eased out of her, she propped herself up on her elbow so they were face to face. ‘Christmas here? Together?’

  Reaching out, Vio stroked her cheek tenderly. ‘Sure. Sounds like a plan.’

  He smiled, banishing the sinking feeling deep in the pit of his stomach.

  There was no way out.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Dorian Rasmirez gazed sadly out of the restaurant window and thought, I have to get out of this funk. It was late December, a few days after Christmas, and Santa Monica was still decked out in its festive finery. The store windows glittered with bright, enticing displays of toys and candy, and Montana Avenue was lit with snowflake-shaped streetlights and flashing red-and-white candy canes. The post-Christmas sales had already started, and even though it was 7 p.m. and already dark, the pavement outside Luigi’s was still busy with bargain hunters.

  Normally, just being at Luigi’s was enough to put Dorian in a good mood. A modest, low-key Italian place on Montana and Seventh, it was one of his favourite LA restaurants. The Cioppino in front of him now smelled mouthwateringly good, wafts of saffron and white wine and garlic floating up from his bowl. But he couldn’t seem to enjoy it. Not with tomorrow’s marriage counselling session hanging over him like a brooding thundercloud.

  He’d been in LA for three weeks now, and with every passing day his depression had deepened. This was despite the fact that, last week, he’d finally pulled it off and signed a lucrative funding-and-distribution deal with Sony Pictures. His strategy, of building up the hype around Wuthering Heights by keeping it under wraps, could not have worked out more perfectly, with Sony and Paramount ending up bidding against each other to take a slice of the movie. The deal was large enough to pay off all Dorian’s immediate debts. More importantly, it meant that Wuthering Heights definitely wouldn’t suffer the same fate as Sixteen Nights, and sink into acclaimed but unwatched oblivion. Sony would promote it and would make sure it found its way into theatres all over the world. They’d also promised to set a good chunk of change aside for an Oscar campaign, putting Dorian head to head with Harry Greene’s Celeste, the year’s other big-budget period movie. This was the White Knight deal he’d been praying for every night since he signed Viorel Hudson’s first pay cheque. But had it come too late to help him work things out with Chrissie?

  At the moment, it sure seemed that way. Dorian had flown to LA to see his wife and spend some time with his daughter over the holidays. But a reconciliation now felt further off than ever. Christmas Day itself was a disaster. They’d agreed to spend the day together, at Chrissie’s rented place in Brentwood Park, to try to keep things as normal as possible for Saskia. But in fact it was anything other than normal. Dorian and Chrissie had not been together under one roof since Chrissie had walked out four months earlier, and both of them were tense. Feeling guilty about Saskia, Chrissie had gone over the top with the decorations, shipping in a tree that wouldn’t have looked out of place in the Rockefeller Center and weighing it down with enough lights and tinsel to deck out a small Midwestern town.

  ‘Jesus!’ said Dorian, arriving at nine a.m. with sacks of presents under his arms. ‘Eat your heart out, Charlie Brown. That’s the biggest Christmas tree I’ve ever seen.’ He meant it as a compliment, but Chrissie immediately took offence, assuming it was just another of his barbed criticisms of her spending and lifestyle.

  She shook her head bitterly. ‘Incredible. You even resent paying for your daughter to have a decent Christmas.’ And things pretty much spiralled downhill from there. As usual, Dorian couldn’t put a foot right. Saskia, overtired and picking up on the tension between her parents, behaved dreadfully, crying at the slightest thing, breaking the expensive, hand-made doll’s house Dorian had bought her in under an hour, and finally eating so many candies at lunch that she threw up all over Chrissie’s new, white-mink-trimmed Ralph Lauren sweater.

  ‘She never behaves like this when you’re not here,’ said Chrissie accusingly. ‘It upsets her, seeing you again after so long.’

  Dorian tried not to show how wounded he felt by that comment. Or how panicked, because he suspected deep down it was true. He knew he’d stayed in Romania longer than he should have, finishing Wuthering Heights. But, as usual, the editing process had proved longer and more arduous and complicated than he’d expected. It had also been addictive. Sabrina’s performance as Cathy was utterly electrifying. It had been good in the scenes shot at Loxley, but it had improved so much since she’d gotten together with Vio, it was actually a struggle to edit the footage together without the difference being too noticeable. Hudson shone, too, as Heathcliff, but his work was more consistent throughout. Overall Dorian was immensely proud of the movie, and more excited by it artistically than he had been by anything he’d done in the last ten years. Early preview audience reactions to the film had been rapturous. It was that, more than anything, that had clinched the desperately needed Sony deal. But personally, the extra time Dorian had devoted to post-production had come at a cost.

  What did I expect? thought Dorian, as he drove back to his poky rented apartment late on Christmas night, alone. To show up after three months and have Saskia welcome me with open arms?

  Chrissie’s hostility had been less of a surprise, although perhaps oddly Dorian found he was less hurt by it than he’d expected. He put this down to battle weariness. After trying and failing to make his wife happy for at least the last decade, he felt numbness and resignation where once he would have felt acute misery. Since he’d got to LA, they’d be
en attending twice-weekly couples therapy sessions. These were a marginal improvement on the phone therapy, but still seemed to boil down to Dorian writing an astronomical cheque each week for the privilege of sitting on a grubby sofa in Venice opposite some dirty-fingernailed hippy, listening to Chrissie recite his failings as a husband. Every session, she seemed to get angrier. And yet she still hadn’t filed for divorce, leaving him hanging on a precarious thread of hope that, perhaps, the therapy was worth it; and perhaps, in some unseen way that he didn’t understand, these sessions were bringing her back to him.

  ‘You didn’t like the fish soup, sir?’

  Dorian glanced up, startled. His Cioppino sat before him, stone cold and untouched.

  ‘Sorry, Luigi. I thought I was hungry, but I guess I lost my appetite.’

  ‘Not a problem at all, sir.’ The elderly restaurateur smiled kindly. Dorian Rasmirez had been a regular for over ten years, the kind of regular every restaurant dreamed of: famous, rich, a generous tipper and with no attitude. He looked exhausted, and miserable, and the old man felt sorry for him. ‘I’ll have the kitchen bag it up for you. We’ll throw in a plate of tiramisu as well. If that doesn’t revive your appetite, I’m afraid you may need to see a doctor.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Dorian smiled, but he felt exhausted. If tomorrow’s trip to Venice was as unproductive as the last eight sessions, he was going to say something to Chrissie. At some point she had to tell him which way she was going to jump. She’d seemed mildly pleased when he told her about the Sony deal, and the fact that Wuthering Heights was at least now set fair to be a huge commercial success. But she had yet to commit to their future together, and all the therapy in the world couldn’t make the decision for her. Did she want him back or didn’t she? If she didn’t, at least he would know where he stood. And if she did … to his surprise, he found thinking about this prospect more mentally exhausting than joyous. If Chrissie took him back, there were a million and one hurdles to jump over, things that they needed to start talking about now. Like, was she expecting him to move back to LA? And, if so, what would happen to Romania and his family home? He couldn’t just leave the Schloss. It was his duty. But if he didn’t agree to move … His head began to throb.

  It was a five-minute walk back to his apartment, and the cold night air did him some good, blowing away the worst of his anxieties. We’ll find a way through this. We’ve weathered so many storms together already. Once the movie comes out and is a hit, our money worries’ll be over. I can write my own cheque on the next picture, spend more time with the family. It’ll all be OK somehow. By the time he got home, he almost believed it. Sinking down on the couch with a bag of Kettle Chips and a Budweiser – appetite’s back; things are looking up already – he flipped the TV on to E!, hoping to catch the Sundance previews. Instead, an image of Sabrina Leon’s face filled the screen. At first, he felt oddly startled, having his living room taken over by her larger-than-life features: that familiar, soft, wide-set mouth and those mint-green eyes looming over him like some sort of sexually charged Big Brother. Then the image faded, and was replaced by a rapid-fire montage of shots of Sabrina’s love-interests, past and present, culminating with a picture of her at The Ivy restaurant on Robertson with Viorel Hudson last month. The two of them were holding hands over the table, radiating happiness, the look of love between them unmistakable.

  ‘The E! True Hollywood Story, Sabrina Leon and Viorel Hudson, will be right back after these messages.’ The announcer’s voice woke Dorian as if from a trance. Are they really running couples-shows on those two already? It was astonishing how quickly the press fever had built over Vio and Sabrina’s relationship. Of course the PR was terrific news for Dorian’s movie. It ought to have thrilled him that THS was already profiling his co-stars as a Hollywood power couple, a younger, edgier Brangelina for the new generation of movie fans. So why didn’t it?

  The commercials over, Sabrina was back on screen, this time talking to Diane Sawyer about her infamous meltdown of last year and how different her life looked now.

  ‘I’ve been working pretty much constantly since last spring,’ she said, her voice softer and more mellow than Dorian remembered it. ‘I’m really grateful for that, and grateful to Mr Rasmirez for believing in me.’

  Mr Rasmirez? Dorian frowned. She made him sound old. Like her high-school principal or something.

  ‘But I actually think being in love and so happy in my personal life is what’s changed me the most.’ Leaning forward, looking pretty and low key in a white cotton Donna Karan shirt and Ksubi jeans, Sabrina treated Diane to a megawatt smile. ‘I’m happier now than I’ve ever been.’

  ‘And you have a certain Englishman to thank for that, I assume?’

  A still of Viorel as Heathcliff appeared on the screen. Jesus, the guy’s got it, thought Dorian. Not since Johnny Depp had any serious leading actor had that combination of good looks, depth and raw, sexual arrogance that radiated out of Vio like heat from the sun. Dorian could see what Sabrina saw in him – what all women saw in him. He’d heard the rumours about a possible dalliance between Vio and Chrissie last summer in England. Movie sets were notorious hotbeds of gossip, not all of it accurate. Dorian didn’t know if the whispers about his wife and Hudson were true, but looking at Viorel’s handsome, smouldering features now, he could imagine they might be. Perhaps strangely, the thought didn’t make him hate Viorel. It would be like hating an earthquake or a flood. The sort of sexual energy Hudson possessed was a natural phenomenon, wild and unstoppable.

  The camera cut back to Sabrina, puppy eyed and adoring. ‘I do, yes,’ she told Diane Sawyer. ‘It’s early days, but we’re very much in love.’

  All of a sudden Dorian felt sick. The beer and chips curdled in the pit of his stomach like sour milk. And it hit him with a lurch, right there, as if someone had cut an elevator cable and left him plummeting into the abyss: I’m in love with her.

  I’m in love with Sabrina.

  It wasn’t just exhaustion stopping him from making progress with Chrissie. It wasn’t frustration, or despair, or his inner perfectionist shackling him to an editing suite. It was more than that. He wasn’t in love with her any more.

  I don’t love my wife.

  The thought was so shocking, so unexpected, he tried to dislodge it physically, shaking his head from side to side like a dog drying itself after a swim. He even tried the words out loud, to see how ridiculous they sounded.

  ‘I don’t love Christina.’

  The ring of truth was so deafening, Dorian burst out laughing. Holy shit. For a moment he felt liberated, filled with something close to elation. But then reality kicked back in. It wasn’t all about Chrissie, about whether he loved her or not. There was Saskia to consider. They were a family. You didn’t just jack in a twenty-year relationship because your heart no longer skipped a beat every time you saw one another. Not unless you were a teenager. Or a jerk. As for being in love with Sabrina, that was just crazy. She’s young enough to be my daughter. Not to mention the fact that she’s utterly besotted with Viorel. Again, he tried the words out loud for size.

  ‘I love her. I’m in love with Sabrina Leon.’

  The phone rang. Dorian jumped out of his skin, like a guilty adolescent caught with a copy of his dad’s Penthouse magazine. His heart was pounding and his palms sweating when he picked up the receiver.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Dorian?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s me.’ He didn’t recognize the voice on the line, but it was male and sounded clipped and businesslike. ‘Who is this?’

  ‘Jonathan Lister.’

  Lister, Lister, Lister … the name rang a vague bell.

  ‘Sony Pictures.’

  Oh yeah. Lister. Tall. Blond. Very white teeth. Mike Hartz’s number two. About as much sense of humour as an undertaker with haemorrhoids.

  ‘Hey, Jonathan. What’s up?’

  ‘We need you in our offices first thing tomorrow. Eight a.m.’

  Dorian bridled. He di
sliked being dictated to, even by someone as powerful as Johnny Lister.

  ‘I’m afraid that’s not possible. Not tomorrow. I—’

  ‘Make it possible. We’ve run into some significant problems. We may have to withdraw our offer.’

  Now Lister had Dorian’s attention. He muted the TV, struggling to quell the feelings of panic pressing against his chest. ‘What do you mean “withdraw”? You can’t withdraw.’

  ‘Certainly we can withdraw.’ The voice on the other end of the line was as emotionless and blunt as an android’s. ‘It may not come to that, but significant problems have arisen …’

  ‘What sort of problems?’ demanded Dorian. ‘I don’t understand.’

  Jonathan Lister began his next sentence with two words that struck dread into Dorian’s heart. ‘Harry Greene’s come forward at the last moment with a proposal that we have to look at seriously, OK?’

  ‘OK?’ Dorian repeated, incredulous. ‘No it is not “OK”. We agreed a deal, Johnny. We signed a deal. You and Mike can’t just fuck me over because Harry Greene says “boo”. You know the guy has a personal vendetta against me.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘Be in our office at eight a.m., Dorian. It’s in your own interests.’

  Dorian felt his anger mounting. ‘I told you. I can’t make a meeting tomorrow. I’m in an all-day therapy session with my wife. Couples counselling. So whatever bullshit you’re trying to pull, you’re just gonna have to tell me over the phone. Or, better yet, get Mike Hartz to do his own dirty work and call me himself.’

  Another pause, longer this time. When Jonathan Lister spoke again, his tone was different. If Dorian hadn’t known him to be an emotionless drone devoid of shame, he might almost have thought the man was embarrassed.