Darling Sweetheart

by Stephen Price

  ‘First light.’

  ‘Of course…’

  Emerson helped Annalise to her feet. ‘I’ll drive ya home, princess.’

  ‘Thanks, but I can cadge a lift with one of the crew cars. Besides, I want to change in the honey-wagon.’

  ‘So I’ll wait. I wanna show ya somethin’.’

  ‘No really, Harry, I’m absolutely knackered after last night and I–’

  ‘This won’t take long.’ He unbuckled his sword-belt, threw it at a runner and strode off down the path towards the car park. Her hands fell by her sides. She felt like crying. Tress put an arm around her.

  ‘Well done. You steered the car.’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘You handled Emerson in front of all these people. He would have argued with me, to show who is boss. We make a great team, you and me.’

  ‘I just want to kill myself. That’s the first time in my life I haven’t been able to finish a scene. I broke a bone in my foot on stage once, but I still finished the scene.’

  He squeezed her shoulders and walked her slowly after Emerson. ‘You have worked very hard today.’

  ‘If I could feel like Roselaine, things like this wouldn’t happen!’

  ‘Peter.’ Lamb fell in beside them. ‘Can we go over tomorrow’s interior sequence?’

  ‘Yes, we must. Excuse me, Annalise.’

  He released her and dropped a pace behind. Dejected, she opened a door to the honey-wagon, an articulated lorry with small dressing rooms built into its trailer. She removed her costume but halfway through pulling on her jeans, she couldn’t hold back any longer and sat on the edge of the cushioned bench and cried. Not a full-blown flood, just a silent, frustrated little sob. She stopped as quickly as she could, blew her nose, reached for the cold cream and cotton pads and tried to stop sniffling.

  She emerged to find two black Range Rovers parked at the steps. Emerson and Levine leaned up against one, the star dwarfed by his bodyguard. The other one ticked over, windows ominously sealed, like a robot awaiting orders.

  ‘Hey! You bin cryin’!’

  She gave him her best don’t-be-silly laugh. ‘Hay fever. I sometimes get a touch in forests. Look, I really have to go home or I’ll be even more useless tomorrow.’

  ‘Relax.’ He practically shoved her into the lead car. ‘Like I said, I just wanna show you somethin’. Gimme fifteen minutes of your precious time.’

  ‘What’s so important that I have to see it tonight?’

  He patted her hand, glanced at his watch and told Levine to step on it. She held on to her armrest as the heavy vehicle plummeted down dark, twisty roads.

  ‘So what was Tress sayin’ about me?’

  Her tummy turned cold. ‘Pardon?’

  ‘You heard.’

  ‘Why do you think Peter Tress would discuss you with me?’

  ‘Don’t go formin’ alliances, Annalise – not with anyone who isn’t me.’

  ‘Back-room politics aren’t my thing, Harry. Right now, I’m much more worried about my performance.’

  ‘You’re doin’ fine. Heck, you must be, because you got me fallin’ head-over-heels in love with you, just like script says.’ And she really did not know how to react to that but, fortunately, he wasn’t fishing for an answer. ‘Ah! Here we go! Told you it wasn’t far!’

  The cars entered a small village, in what seemed like a wooded valley. Rising above the houses, floodlit in orange, was an exquisite château, upright and dramatic like Beynac, but smaller and more elegant. They stopped before a portcullis-type gate. Levine aimed a hand-held control and it swung open, admitting them across a narrow stone bridge, through a pigeonnier – an ornate gatehouse that doubled as a dovecote – and into the courtyard of the castle proper. Discreetly and inevitably, Talbot appeared. The second car parked beside a row of stables across the yard. Two burly men sprang out and positioned themselves in the shadows by the bridge.

  ‘Well – whaddaya think?’

  She looked up at the mullioned windows and charmingly crooked walls.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ she breathed. ‘It’s really beautiful.’

  ‘You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.’ He took her arm – again, that light touch – and showed her through a tall, lancet doorway into a vaulted hall that ran the entire depth of the building, for it ended in a colonnade, beyond which she could see the night again. They passed through this into a garden, central to which was a rectangular swimming pool that glowed like a slab of morning sky. Beyond that, a crenellated parapet was lined with potted orange trees. Village rooftops huddled below, as if for protection.

  ‘It gets the sun all day. So open, yet so totally private.’

  ‘It must be like swimming in heaven.’

  He laughed. ‘I haven’t tried the pool yet – my people just moved us in this afternoon.’

  ‘Frost found this for you overnight?’

  ‘That’s why she works for me; the lady gets things done. This place is called Château Saint-Christophe – it belongs to some Parisian businessman. He was due here on vacation, but he cancelled, for a fee.’

  ‘It’s stunning, but so was your last mansion.’

  He took her arm again. ‘I beg to differ, Mademoiselle!’ He whisked her back through the colonnade and up a stone staircase, where he opened a panelled door. The room he showed her into was circular and wooden-floored, obviously part of a tower. In the centre was a Louis XIV desk with matching chairs. Around the walls, cabinets contained books of all sizes, their dun spines stamped with faded gilt. Emerson pulled one out and waved it under her nose – Essais de Michel de Montaigne.

  ‘See? Real books!’ The room smelled exactly as an old library should: of parchment, dust and knowledge.

  ‘Please tell me you haven’t gone to all this trouble because of a single, thoughtless remark from me.’ He tossed the book aside then raised a hand to her cheek, brushing it with his fingertips.

  ‘For you, a man could go to all sortsa trouble.’ His stance; his sad, almost regretful smile; the huskiness of his voice – it was as if he had staged a significant moment and was playing it to perfection.

  ‘I… I have to go. I promised myself a good night’s sleep.’

  He checked his watch again. ‘You’re right.’

  Feeling vaguely as if she were missing something, she followed him back down to the front courtyard. Talbot showed her into the car and Levine drove her away.

  Emerson waved until the car had crossed the bridge, then walked back into the vaulted hallway, where Frost now stood, talking into her mobile phone.

  ‘Yeah, about fifteen minutes from now. Rue de l’Ancienne Poste, that’s right. No, I can’t say any more than I told you this morning, except that it’s definitely happening. If Emerson knew I was talking to you, he’d fire me.’ She snapped the phone shut.

  ‘They’re ready?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘That was quick.’

  ‘It’s a good story.’

  ‘Well done on all this, Judy. I don’t know how I’d manage without you.’ He climbed the stairs whilst, behind him, Frost’s face was a picture of pleasure.

  ‘Do you have a girlfriend back home? A wife?’

  Levine glanced at her in the rear-view mirror.

  ‘Now why would you wanna know a thing like that, Miss Palatine?’

  ‘I’m just wondering what sort of life you have outside of Harry Emerson. You seem to spend all your time around him.’

  ‘That’s the job, Miss. When H.E. is shootin’ a movie, it’s twenty-four-seven. Other times, it’s week on, week off.’

  ‘And what do you do with your weeks off?’

  ‘Sleep, mostly.’ He pulled off the main road into Beynac, found her street and stopped at her front door.

  ‘So, no girlfriend?’

  ‘nothin’ permanent. This kinda life ain’t good for relationships.’

  ‘I know what you mean. Anyway, goodnight and thanks for the ride.’

  ‘Goodnight, Miss.’

>   She stepped from the car and an explosion went off in her face.

  ‘Hey!’ she squealed, shielding her eyes. She heard footsteps then the explosion went off again, accompanied by a whirring sound. ‘Bloody photographers! Stop it!’ Levine jumped out, but a shadow ran across the street, where it joined another, bigger shadow. She heard a grunt, then a man’s voice shout ‘Allez’, and a motorbike engine gunned into raucous life. Before Levine had even rounded the car bonnet, the bike was away, mercilessly revving under the weight of two passengers.

  ‘Are you all right, Miss?’

  ‘Bloody photographers!’ she repeated.

  ‘I didn’t see them, Miss.’

  ‘Me neither, until they shoved a bloody flash in my face. Now I can’t see anything!’ She rubbed her eyes. ‘What was that all about?’

  ‘Shit like this happens around H.E. – they musta thought you was him.’

  ‘I know it’s dark, but come on – how could I be mistaken for Emerson? I’ve never been papped before!’

  ‘Papped?’

  ‘Ambushed by photographers.’ The whine of the bike faded in the distance.

  ‘The boss ain’t gonna like this.’

  ‘Oh, tell the boss not to worry his pretty little head. Nobody got hurt, and you’re right – they must have thought I was him. Good night again.’

  He sounded doubtful. ‘Good night, Miss.’

  ‘Don’t call me Miss – it makes me feel like a schoolteacher.’

  ‘Just tryin’ to do my job, Miss.’

  She dug her key from her pocket. Once inside, she made straight for the mobile phone on her bedside table and saw that, yet again, she’d missed a call from Jimmy. He’d left no message. She rang back immediately, but his phone diverted.

  ‘It’s me. I can’t talk but–’

  She hung up and scrolled through her contacts. Donnie Driscoll, the band’s manager, was not someone she liked speaking to, but if there was a post-gig party, he would be at it. His number rang several times.

  ‘Come on…’ she muttered.

  It answered. ‘Heyyy!’ There was a lot of noise in the background, music and laughter. ‘Whozis?’

  ‘Donnie, it’s Annalise.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Annalise!’

  ‘Doll! Howya doin’?’

  ‘Good, thanks – you at a party?’

  ‘Do bears make sweet, sweet love in the woods? Come on over!’

  ‘I’m in France… making a film?’

  ‘Wow, yeah, right. And howzat goin’ for ya?’

  ‘Good. Where are you?’

  ‘Some hotel. The Regency, I think.’

  ‘I meant, which city?’

  ‘Uhhh… Bristol. We got two sell-out gigs. Tonight went down a storm, your boy was only great.’

  ‘That’s why I’m ringing – I can’t get Jimmy on his mobile. Can I speak to him, please?’

  ‘He’s round here somewhere, hold on.’ She heard him yell, ‘Guys! Where’s Jimmy? Britain’s hottest acting talent wants a word!’ She heard hoots and jeers and thought, not for the first time, what a complete and utter arsehole Driscoll was. He came back on, ‘Juzza minute, doll. Lemme see if we can lo-cate him.’

  She could picture the scene. The band and their male hangers-on would be sprawled across the biggest suite in the hotel. On the sideboard, there’d be more alcohol than anyone could ever hope to drink and, scattered across the tables, a mess of ashtrays, spilt grass, cigarette papers, rolled-up banknotes and white smears of cocaine. Dotted around the suite, girls plucked from that evening’s audience would be preening, sitting in groups giggling or attempting to wrap themselves around a band member. Someone’s iPod would be blaring, the TV would be on with the sound turned down and everyone would be fooling themselves into thinking they were having a really wild time, before falling into either a stupor or one another for the night. She was glad Jimmy wasn’t in that suite.

  ‘Hey doll!’ Driscoll again. ‘Jimmy must have, like, wandered off somewhere, ’cos he’s not in his room.’

  ‘What room number is he? I’ll try him later.’

  ‘He’s uh, four… four… now, lemme see, what is it… four-eighteen?’

  ‘And you’re in Bristol for another night?’

  ‘Yeah, the Academy. We gonna rock this town again, only even harder.’

  ‘ Tell Jimmy I rang.’

  ‘Cool in the pool. Maybe we could come over and hang out. You got a pool where you are?’

  ‘No, there’s no pool where I am.’

  ‘Heyyy! There’s one right here in this hotel! In the basement! You should come over!’

  ‘I’m in France.’

  ‘Nice one.’

  ‘Goodnight, Donnie.’

  ‘Rock’n’roll!’

  She hung up, thinking – not for the first time – how odd it was that a band that sang songs about saving the environment should have an old-fashioned rock pig like Driscoll managing their affairs. Still, that was Jimmy’s business, not hers. She rang international directory enquiries, had herself put through to The Regency Hotel in Bristol and asked for room four-eighteen.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ a young female clerk told her, ‘but I have a do-not-disturb order on that room.’

  ‘I’m the partner of the person staying in that room – he’s expecting my call. I need to speak to him, please.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but I do have a do-not-disturb order on that room. I can take a message…’

  She was so tired and fed up that she nearly said, ‘Hey! I’m Annalise Palatine the actress, now put me through to my boyfriend, you fucking little moron!’

  But she killed the line instead. She frowned at the handset.

  It had been just over two years, but so much had happened in that time, it seemed like a lot longer.

  As with most people, she had first seen Jimmy Lockhart standing on a stage – in her case, at The Fridge in Brixton. She had just finished shooting a period costume drama called La Belle Joanna, about Whistler’s mistress Joanna Hiffernan, and the wrap party had shifted from a Caribbean restaurant to the nearest nightclub. Only half-listening to the drunken gabble from several cast and crew, she had noticed the lanky young singer, almost as thin as his microphone stand, his face invisible under a mop of red hair. There had been something about the way he held himself, something about the way he held his guitar, singing up there in the white light – she had drifted away from her companions to watch him and his band perform.

  The next afternoon, she had gone mooching alone around Greenwich market to try to shake her hangover. Sucking on a restorative fruit shake, she had drifted from stall to stall, afloat on the colours and smells, until she had wandered out beside Greenwich’s second-most-famous tourist attraction, the Cutty Sark. Annalise always felt sorry for the Cutty Sark. Every line of the big old sailing ship seemed to be straining to escape from its dry dock, to sail back out to sea where it belonged. Sometimes, she fantasised about a wave, caused by global warming, that would breach the Thames barrier and free the Cutty Sark for one last voyage – a poetic end to all things.

  Then, she heard someone singing an old song by Soft Cell – ‘Say Hello, Wave Goodbye’ – to a lone acoustic guitar. She knew the song, because Darling Sweetheart had played it all the time when she was little. Thinking it too much of a coincidence, but knowing that she recognised the voice, she’d walked around the great vessel to find the redheaded boy from the night before, busking. But he’d picked a terrible pitch – away from the tourists, close to the river, competing with a cluster of youths crashing around on skateboards. Still, she had leaned against the railings and listened, an audience of one. As the boy sang, an idea occurred to her. When he finished, she walked over and threw a coin in his otherwise-empty guitar case.

  ‘Hard times, huh?’

  He’d squinted up at her.

  ‘ Pardon?’

  With his explosion of red hair, she’d been expecting a Scots or maybe an Irish accent, but from that one word, she disc
erned that his was pure middle-class London.

  ‘I saw you in The Fridge last night. Times must be hard if you have to sing for your supper. But you should move over there.’ She’d nodded towards the prow of the ship. ‘You’d make a lot more money.’

  ‘I’m not here to make money.’ His face was solemn. ‘I’m here because I’m a pampered wanker who thinks he can build up his street cred by pretending to busk. I’d be too embarrassed to sing for all those tourists.’

  She’d laughed, but as it turned out, Jimmy Lockhart had not been joking. His father was something in the City and paid for – amongst many other things – his mother’s insanely unprofitable East End art gallery and a flat for Jimmy across the river from Greenwich in Canary Wharf. But Annalise had found this out only gradually. When, a month after they met, they’d first slept together, it had been at her modest house off Maze Hill. She had bought it herself, on a mortgage against her own earnings. Neither parent had left her a penny; her father’s royalties and all the rights to his work were tied up in some legally moribund trust and after her mother’s death Annalise had even found herself paying creditors back in Ireland. Her father’s trust owned their family home, Whin Abbey, and that too was being fought over as it tumbled into dereliction.

  However, Jimmy had never had to work, which was why, he explained, Lone Blue Planet sang about issues – it was his way of putting something back. Annalise had smiled at that, but said nothing. The night they first slept together, the Cutty Sark had burned down because some workman who was renovating the wooden ship had left a vacuum cleaner switched on over the weekend. Annalise had taken that as an omen, but again had said nothing.

  Her next film, Popular Delusions, was about a young woman apparently falling in love for the first time and soon she and Jimmy were spending quite a lot of time together. When she’d told him about her father, he had been mildly interested but not at all impressed. For most people under thirty, David Palatine was just some famous dead guy from a much older generation. Self-absorbed in an idle but apparently good-natured way, Jimmy never asked questions about anything whatsoever, which suited her fine.

  She had gone to his gigs and, in turn, he helped her to learn her lines for Popular Delusions. Then, Lone Blue Planet had begun to take off, thanks to a television appearance that Annalise had quietly organised by pullng in a few favours, but without telling Jimmy. She had been genuinely happy for him, even though he now spent more time doing promotional work, showcase concerts and generally obeying the demands imposed by a very effective if creepy manager. Annalise had no idea where Jimmy had picked up Driscoll – that whole hermetic, bitchy world of success-hungry musicians reminded her too much of acting to want to get involved in it.