Fame

by Tilly Bagshawe

  Tish’s phone rang. Vivianna’s number flashed up on the screen. Not now, mother. She switched it off. Ever since the Wuthering Heights drama became front-page news, Vivianna had taken to calling her daughter regularly, ‘just for a chat, darling’, fishing for inside information on Vio or Sabrina with which to impress her vacuous ex-pat girlfriends in Rome. The fact that Tish knew nothing, and had told her nothing, did not seem to have put her off. Another reason to look forward to the end of the Oscars season.

  Tish spent the rest of the afternoon with Michel and the children, playing and talking with them and making notes of complaints to pass on to child services. It wasn’t until much later, after she’d got home and put Abi to bed that she remembered to switch her phone back on.

  ‘You have six missed calls,’ an automated voice told her. ‘First missed call, received today …’ Tish scrolled through the numbers. Four of the six calls were from her mother. Two were from Loxley Hall.

  Another of Jago’s dramas, thought Tish wearily. I wonder what the problem is now? His morning caviar wasn’t sufficiently aged? He found a wrinkle in his cashmere sock, and Mummy wants me to fly over and iron it for him?

  She called the house and was relieved when Mrs Drummond answered.

  ‘Hullo, Mrs D,’ she said, automatically smiling at the sound of the housekeeper’s voice. ‘What’s going on? I had a hundred and one messages from Mummy, so I can only assume it’s some nonsense about Jago.’

  ‘Oh, Letitia. You don’t know.’ The quiver in the old woman’s voice sent a tingle down Tish’s spine. This was no joke.

  ‘Know what?’ asked Tish, praying that Jago hadn’t hurt or killed himself or something awful, and already regretting her earlier snide thoughts about caviar. ‘Is he OK? Is Mummy …?’

  ‘He’s fine,’ said Mrs Drummond bitterly. ‘Your brother and mother are both quite well.’

  ‘Oh. Then what …?’

  ‘It’s Loxley Hall. I’m so sorry to be the one to tell you this, my darling. But Jago’s sold the estate.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  For three hundred and sixty four days a year, the Kodak Theatre, at 6801 Hollywood Boulevard, is just another routine stop on the LA tourist trail. Part of a large complex of restaurants and stores at Hollywood and Highland, it is best known as the venue where American Idol is filmed, although it also hosts various concerts and stage shows throughout the year, playing second fiddle to the larger, more prestigious Nokia Theatre. But for one night in March, the Kodak shines, not just as the brightest star in Hollywood, but as the guiding light of the entire global entertainment industry. A mecca for stars great and small, for one, magical night hundreds of millions of pairs of eyes are drawn to its famous, curved façade and the red carpet leading up to its grand entry. On Oscar night, the Kodak Theatre becomes the center of the world.

  The Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences – the Academy, for short – actually rents the theatre weeks in advance of Oscar night. From security arrangements to lighting, acoustics to plumbing issues, everything must be checked and double checked, tinkered with, polished and improved, so that on the night itself the fantasy remains fantastic, unsullied by mortal imperfections, a true gathering of the gods. As with the Great Pyramids of Egypt, the toil and sweat of countless lowly, unseen hands are in fact responsible for the miracle that seems to unfold effortlessly out of nothing. Work starts early and finishes late. Meanwhile, the city of Los Angeles becomes gripped with a sort of fever, a frenzy of anticipation so widespread and sweeping that it transcends the industry itself. A light, fairy dust of excitement falls over everyone, from bank tellers to waitresses, drug dealers to cops. In this most disparate and heartless of towns – as Dorothy Parker famously put it, ‘Fifty-two suburbs looking for a city’ – for one night in March, everybody’s heart beats as one. They call it Oscar Magic, and it is bottled at the Kodak.

  Every year there is one big story, the compelling narrative of Oscar week around which all lesser dramas revolve. Heath Ledger’s death was one such story. The birth of Brangelina’s romance was another, Mel Gibson’s drunken rant against the Jews a third. This year, at the Eighty-Fifth Academy Awards, industry insiders were focused on the Best Director/Best Picture battle between Harry Greene and Dorian Rasmirez. But, for the world at large, the big story was Sabrina Leon and Viorel Hudson. Neither had been seen in public together since before Sabrina’s suicide attempt. And so the question on everybody’s lips was: Would Viorel Hudson show up?

  No one doubted Sabrina’s attendance. As odds-on favorite to win Best Actress, and with public love and affection for her running at an all-time high, this year’s Oscars were set to be Sabrina Leon’s ultimate comeback.

  No pressure, then, thought Sabrina, flipping through the five couture dresses her stylist had laid out on the bed. She was staying at The Peninsula, in a vast penthouse suite. Right now her bedroom resembled a bustling corporate office, full of scurrying minions all looking harassed and with cellphones glued to their ears.

  The gowns on Sabrina’s bed were the final five. She’d been offered, and rejected, scores of outfits by every designer under the sun, Marchesa, Lanvin, Carolina Herrera, Jason Wu, Marc Jacobs, and had thought she’d settled on a silver sequined Armani gown; but then this morning one of the make-up girls said she thought it washed her out, plunging Sabrina back into a frenzy of indecision.

  ‘Forget the short ones.’ Katrina, the bossy British stylist Ed Steiner had foisted on Sabrina the day she was nominated (‘You’re a nominee now, sweetie. Best Actresses do not dress themselves’), picked up two exquisitely embellished Versace cocktail dresses and flung them unceremoniously onto the pile on the floor. ‘That leaves the Gucci, the Lanvin and the Victoria Beckham.’ At the mention of this last name, Katrina crossed herself. She’d always sworn it would be a cold day in hell before she dressed one of her clients in something dreamed up by a footballer’s wife from Essex, but even she had to admit that the clinging, wine-red silk column with its subtle draping across the collar bones and sensual, deep V in the back was utterly ravishing.

  Sabrina looked at the dresses again, picturing herself on the podium at the Kodak, the same fantasy she had had every day for the last seven years, since she first stepped on stage at Sammy Levine’s theatre in Fresno. Except today, it wasn’t a fantasy. Today, it was happening for real. And she had no idea which Sabrina she wanted to be. The Lanvin was virginal, white and pretty and feminine, perfect for the innocent, wronged Sabrina that the press seemed so eager for her to be. The Gucci was more mature, more businesslike, a beautifully cut gunmetal grey satin that would announce to the world she had finally grown up, thrown off her demons and evolved into the great actress she was always meant to be. But the Beckham dress was an enigma. Sexy without being slutty, dangerous yet controlled, dark and tempting and complicated.

  I wish Dorian were here, thought Sabrina. He’d know which dress I should wear. He’d know everything.

  It was strange how much closer she’d grown to Dorian since the awful awkwardness of his bedside proposal. She’d expected to feel uncomfortable around him afterwards, or for him to feel embarrassed, too crippled by wounded pride to be around her. But in fact during the interminable round of promotions and pre-Oscar press junkets that had become Sabrina’s life since she got out of hospital, their relationship had blossomed quite unexpectedly. With Viorel voluntarily removing himself from all Wuthering Heights promotion, Dorian had taken on a more prominent role. As a result, he and Sabrina were thrown together constantly, giving interviews to every network talk show in America. There was a new dynamic to their relationship now, a jokey banter that had been entirely absent during the long months of filming. It was Dorian’s friendship that had kept her sane through this whole crazy roller-coaster ride, and stopped her from dwelling too much on Viorel.

  ‘You’ve got so much ahead of you,’ he would tell her, day after day. ‘So much good work, so much love. This is the beginning, Sabrina, not the end.’ Eventual
ly, Sabrina began to believe him.

  ‘I’ll go for the VB dress,’ she said, suddenly decisive.

  ‘Great,’ said Katrina. ‘I agree. Now, accessories.’

  ‘No accessories,’ said Sabrina.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said the stylist brusquely. ‘This is the Oscars, not prom night in Bethlehem Pennsylvania. You need diamonds. Now, the question is, do we go Fred Leighton?’ She flipped open a dark red box to reveal an elaborate diamond and ruby choker and matching drop earrings, ‘or keep it classic with Cartier?’

  ‘No,’ said Sabrina firmly. ‘No jewellery. No clutch.’

  ‘But Sabrina—’

  ‘And I want my hair up.’

  ‘With no earrings?’ The stylist gasped incredulously.

  Dorian always says I do my best work when I stop trying so hard. If he were here he’d tell me to keep it simple.

  ‘No earrings.’

  Sabrina smiled. She could feel her confidence surging back. Just thinking about Dorian made her feel calmer. She could picture him now, fixing his cufflinks with no more drama than if he were going out for a casual dinner with friends. If only I could be a bit more like that.

  ‘I can’t do it. I can’t go.’

  Dorian lay back on his therapist’s couch, eyes closed, wondering if he were going to throw up.

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  Damn fucking therapists. Always asking questions, never giving you a straight answer.

  ‘Because, I can’t do it! What if Viorel shows up?’

  ‘What if he does? I thought the two of you got along?’

  ‘We do,’ said Dorian miserably. ‘But Sabrina will look at him, and then she’ll look at me, and I’ll have to watch the –’ he winced – ‘the love in her eyes and I’ll have to comfort her. And I can’t. I can’t do it. I can’t go. Oh, Jesus.’ He put a hand on his chest, willing his heart rate to slow down.

  It was so ironic. Everybody had him down as the steady one, the mother ship, cool, calm and collected through all the dramas. For the last month, he’d devoted every ounce of his energy to hiding his true feelings from Sabrina. But tonight, with the whole world watching, he didn’t know if he could keep it up. What if Sabrina and Vio got back together? What on earth was he going to do then?

  ‘You can go,’ said the therapist gently. ‘The question is, do you want to?’

  And the answer is no, thought Dorian. Win or lose, tonight would mark the end of something he had come to treasure. The end of him and Sabrina spending time together, day in and day out. What excuse would he have to be around her after this?

  But the truth was, he had to go. Who am I kidding? Of course I have to be there. I’m up for Best Director and Best Picture. Me against Harry Greene. This is it. The Showdown.

  It was already almost two o’clock. If he was to make it to the Kodak on time, he needed to get back to his hotel right now, change, and jump in the limo with his game face on.

  ‘Sorry Doc.’ He sat up, rubbing his eyes as if he’d just woken from a deep sleep. Which in a way, he had. ‘I gotta run.’

  ‘Good luck,’ said the therapist, shaking him by the hand. ‘And remember, you’re not a fortune-teller. The truth is you don’t know what Sabrina’s thinking, or feeling, or what her reactions might be. But whatever they are, you can’t control her. You can only control yourself.’

  Hopefully, thought Dorian. He felt as sick as a dog. But it was time to go.

  Harry Greene looked around the packed auditorium and smiled.

  So far, the evening was going swimmingly. As his limo had pulled up, he’d been practically deafened by the screaming fans. Celeste was a phenomenon. It had broken every box-office record for a period drama, was almost as big a hit with audiences as Fraternity. Oscar or no Oscar, the movie was a runaway success. Indeed, if it hadn’t been for his obsession with thwarting Dorian Rasmirez, Harry couldn’t have cared less about his Oscar chances. Who gave a fuck what a bunch of self-important old farts at the Academy thought of his directing skills? The public were the only critics who had ever mattered to Harry Greene. But he knew Rasmirez felt differently. That he actually cared about the opinions of his ‘peers’, as he’d pretentiously called them on Katie Couric’s talk show yesterday, the self-important douche bag. Dorian really wanted those Oscars, Best Picture and Best Director. Harry Greene couldn’t wait to see the look on his face when he lost. But first he would savour the pleasure of walking the red carpet with Dorian’s wife, cuckolding him in front of hundreds of millions of people around the world.

  Chrissie looked great tonight in a scoop-necked flesh-colored Carolina Herrera cut on the bias, with a classic, Old Hollywood fishtail train. As befitted any date of Harry’s, she also wore half her bodyweight in diamonds. No point having a trophy if you couldn’t make it sparkle. At home, behind closed doors, Harry had already started to find Chrissie’s neediness tiresome. She kept pressuring him about a date for the wedding, which was difficult as Harry had not yet decided if he intended to go through with it or not. In many ways it would be the icing on the cake of his annihilation of Dorian. But, on the other hand, it meant being married. Matrimony had never been Harry Greene’s strong suit.

  Chrissie, meanwhile, was having the time of her life. Photographers were shouting at her from all sides. ‘Congratulations on your engagement!’

  ‘Thank you,’ she replied graciously, clinging demurely to Harry’s arm.

  ‘Can you show us the ring?’

  ‘How do you feel about seeing your ex-husband again tonight? Are you nervous?’

  ‘Not at all,’ Chrissie preened, turning from side to side so that the cameras could catch the best angle on her dress. ‘Dorian and I are still great friends. I wish him well.’

  ‘We’ll be sure to stop by and commiserate with him after the show,’ added Harry, to general laughter.

  Inside the theatre, things got even better. Harry had been given a seat a full six rows in front of Dorian. But, as the auditorium began to fill up, Dorian’s seat, and those of the rest of the Wuthering Heights nominees remained empty. For a moment, Harry’s heart lurched. Surely, it wasn’t possible that he would do a no-show? Not tonight. Harry had dreamed of this night for eight long years. Beating Rasmirez wasn’t enough. He wanted to watch him being beaten, to see the pain in his eyes. But, to his relief, a few minutes before the lights went down, Sabrina Leon arrived, swiftly followed by a dishevelled and stressed-looking Dorian.

  You’d have thought he’d get his suit pressed for the fucking Academy Awards, thought Harry disparagingly, taking in Dorian’s crumpled tuxedo jacket and amateurishly tied bow tie. His face looked dreadful too, so pale it was almost green (nerves?), the eyes lined and puffy with exhaustion.

  ‘Is he here?’ Chrissie spun around, following Harry’s gaze. ‘Oh my goodness,’ she gasped. ‘He looks ill.’

  He’s lovesick, she thought smugly. Pining for me. Maybe, when all of this is over, I’ll take him back after all? I should marry Harry first, of course, get a decent divorce settlement …

  After the double rejection from Dorian and Viorel last year, it felt fabulous to have two men fighting over her. And not just two men, but two of the biggest power players in all of Hollywood. For a washed-up soap actress over forty, she wasn’t doing too badly.

  Lifting a white-gloved hand, she waved regally at Dorian, but he stared straight through her.

  Leaning over, Sabrina whispered in Dorian’s ear. ‘Two o’clock, Wicked Witch of the West, waving.’

  ‘Hmm?’ said Dorian. ‘Oh.’ He waved absently back at Chrissie. It was like acknowledging a vague acquaintance. All he could think about, all he could see, was Sabrina.

  Sitting beside him in her wine-red dress, she radiated beauty and sophistication, as well as that trademark vulnerability that had helped transform her into the perfect Cathy. Her bare neck and wrists shone infinitely more brightly than Chrissie’s diamonds, at least in Dorian’s eyes. How was he ever going to let her go?

  But
that’s ridiculous, he told himself firmly. You never had her in the first place.

  At least Viorel’s seat to Sabrina’s right remained resolutely empty. He knew he shouldn’t, but Dorian thanked him for that, for staying away. It wasn’t until the lights dimmed and the opening refrains of ‘Hollywood’ rang out from the orchestra that it struck Dorian.

  This was the Oscars. Best Picture. Best Director. Technically speaking, he might actually win, although according to every industry pundit, Celeste was the runaway favourite for both gongs.

  Sabrina squeezed his hand. ‘Good luck.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Dorian, reluctantly releasing her fingers. ‘You too.’

  As ever, the ceremony dragged on for what felt like an eternity. The interminable litany of thank-you speeches were enough to make anybody lose the will to live. Best Dubbing Mixer, Best Animated Short – Why was it all the animation people were always bald, wore knitted ties and ‘zany’ wire-rimmed glasses and couldn’t seem to speak without mumbling? thought Sabrina – it was torturous. She tried to shake the feeling of unreality that seemed to have settled over her. She, Sabrina Leon, from Fresno California was nominated for Best Actress. Best Actress. At the Oscars. Surely, any moment now, she was going to wake up. If she did, and this were all a dream, would Viorel wake up beside her? Would she want him to?

  Glancing at his empty chair, she wondered why she didn’t feel worse. Had she hoped he’d show up tonight, or feared it? She didn’t even know any more. All she did know, feeling the warmth of Dorian’s body next to hers, was that she was glad her friend was here to support her. Glad too that she was there for him, especially with that cow Chrissie here twisting the knife, and Harry Greene clearly determined to destroy him. If Wuthering Heights got Best Picture, Sony would be forced to do a U-turn and release the film in cinemas after all. Either that or allow another distributor to buy out their contract, at an extortionate profit, of course. Not even Harry Greene carried enough clout to keep an Oscar-winning classic out of theatres indefinitely.