Darling Sweetheart

by Stephen Price

  To get an album out, the band’s new record label had sent them off to a recording studio in Oxford, and during the making of Popular Delusions – shot at Pinewood – Annalise had travelled up from London by train most weekends. Her character, Deirdre Orr, was a young student who seems to fall in love with a married art teacher. She had found the necessary mindset straight away, and work on the modestly budgeted film had gone extremely well.

  A month after she had wrapped, Lone Blue Planet had finished recording their album, so she and Jimmy had rewarded themselves with a winter holiday in Iceland, where she’d always wanted to go. They had hit the nightclubs of Reykjavik and swum in thermal lagoons. One day, they climbed to the top of the Gullfoss, Europe’s largest waterfall. Bits of it were frozen, strangely suspended in space. Jimmy had taken a photograph of her then, in a butterfingers moment, had dropped his digital camera over the edge. After a bout of swearing, he had finally laughed and said that that meant she’d be in the ice forever, or until some future archaeologist dug the camera up, took the chip to his lab, and marvelled at how beautiful twenty-first-century women had been.

  The release of Jimmy’s album had coincided with her winning a BAFTA, then, three weeks later, the announcement of her starring role in Harry Emerson’s next film. The press had swooped, hunting for fresh meat to sell newspapers. She had kept a very low profile, but Jimmy was rarely off the stage, in full view of anyone wielding a camera. Donnie Driscoll, meanwhile, quickly surrounded the newly popular band with ‘people’ – roadies, security, stylists and several drug dealers, whom he euphemistically referred to as ‘florists’. Then, there was the entourage – friends and friends of friends, hangers-on happy to feed egos in exchange for drink, drugs and kudos. Happy, also, to feed snippets to the tabloids.

  With a potential gossip in every corner and a camera in every mobile phone, Annalise had stopped socialising. As her deadline for The Perfect Heresy loomed, Jimmy spent less time with her in Greenwich and a lot more time partying with the band. He sold his flat in Canary Wharf and bought a house in Camden – where Driscoll also lived. He started to drop names like Katie, Sienna and Pete into casual conversation; Annalise pretended not to catch the references. Laughing, he had called her the youngest old lady in town.

  News of his tour had come as a complete surprise. In her mind, she had been the one scheduled to leave London, but in May 2009, Lone Blue Planet had suddenly announced forty British dates, spread across three months. The night before he left, she had arranged to meet Jimmy for a meal in an Indian restaurant in Greenwich. She had expected him to stay over, but after a vegetable balti and many promises to meet up when they could, he had called a taxi. He had told her that Driscoll wanted to leave Camden at five the following morning to make a midday press call in Edinburgh. So, she had walked back up Maze Hill alone. And that was that – Jimmy was gone.

  She had spent the following fortnight at home, going over her lines in a full-length mirror fixed to her living-room wall. The mirror was old and spotted and had once been part of a wardrobe. Her agent had phoned to make some final arrangements; Peter Tress had rung too, but only to say that Harry Emerson did not want to rehearse or even meet up until his scenes were ready. She had called Jimmy several times but had only reached him twice. Then, her agent had passed on an interview request from the Guardian newspaper. She had been reluctant, but he had pointed out that the paper usually gave her work good reviews, so she’d played nice. Though she’d thought the interviewer was a bit of a twit.

  She had tried to calm her fears by taking long walks. From the top of Greenwich Park, she’d studied the glass monoliths of Canary Wharf, trying to remember which window had once been Jimmy’s. She’d gone over her script until she could recite every scene by heart, even the few that did not include her. Then, on the longest day of the year, 21 June 2009, she had taken an early-morning taxi to Gatwick airport and boarded a flight to Bordeaux, to start the biggest film of her career.

  4

  Her mobile rang. She made a sleepy grab for it, thinking it was Jimmy, but it was only her preset alarm: 5.30 a.m. She fell back into her pillow with a groan. Her head ached; she hoped she wasn’t coming down with something. She lingered in the shower, trying to wake up, then made strong coffee and ate a leftover croissant.

  Normally, she loved her work, but today she couldn’t face going in. Today’s scene was with Emerson and Robin McKendry, the elderly Shakespearian actor who was playing Roselaine’s father. McKendry would see straight through her, she just knew it. She pulled on a T-shirt and jeans and carried her tattered script to go over her lines on the walk up the hill. But when she opened the gateway onto the street, she almost bumped into a big, black Range Rover parked hard up against it. There was barely room for her to squeeze past. A smoked-glass window slid open, revealing Levine’s face level with her own.

  ‘mornin’, Miss Palatine.’

  ‘What the… what are you doing?’

  ‘Takin’ good care of you.’ He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. The bodyguard called Bernstein lurked opposite, like an assassin in the early-morning light. ‘When I told H.E. about the paparazzi,’ Levine yawned, ‘he was mighty upset. He sent us back to watch over you.’

  ‘You’ve been out here all night?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘But that’s ridiculous!’

  ‘H.E. thinks you might get papped again.’ In spite of her irritation, she almost laughed. Levine twisted a key and the engine grumbled. ‘We’ll take you in.’

  ‘No! I mean, no thanks, I’ll walk.’

  ‘H.E. was very specific, Miss – he wants us to take you in.’

  ‘Well, I’ll be very specific. The only way you’ll get me into that car is to tie me up and drug me. I want to walk.’ She set off along the street. Bernstein started after her. She halted, hands on hips.

  ‘This is stupid!’ she protested. Bernstein looked to Levine, who beckoned him into the car. The pair drove off. Harrumphing, she strode to the end of the street, only to see the car off to her left, creeping up the main thoroughfare. Levine had doubled back.

  ‘Ha! Follow me up this!’

  She reached the narrow Chemin du Château and started climbing it at a clip. She rounded two hairpins then tucked herself into a doorway. Sure enough, about a minute later, Bernstein jogged past, already puffing on the steep incline. She waited until he’d disappeared around the next corner then set out again at a more leisurely pace. She consulted her script. In a scene yet to be filmed, Roselaine and Bernard had sneaked into her father’s besieged castle under the cover of darkness. The defenders had welcomed her with amazement, believing her to have been captured. She had, but Bernard had betrayed his own side to rescue her. However, some of the castle guards had not been so gentle with the enemy in their midst and had dragged Bernard in chains before her father Raymond, le Comte de Trenceval.

  ‘But Father! If you love me as a daughter you will listen to him! Escape is our only option!’

  Too shrill – not enough feminine pleading. She tried again. ‘But Father, if you love me as a daughter you will listen – escape is our only option!’

  An old man wearing boxer shorts, a vest and a droopy moustache watched her from a balcony above the street.

  ‘B’jour, M’sieur,’ she nodded as she passed. He stared at her but did not reply.

  She arrived at the castle keep to see Bernstein and Levine explaining themselves to Emerson, who stood imperiously on his trailer steps. When he spotted her, his expression switched from anger to concern and he leapt from his perch, pushing through his burly employees. He took her hands.

  ‘Annalise! Are you okay? These two clowns were supposed to be Takin’ care of ya!’

  ‘I’m fine. And don’t be cross with them, they’ve been up all night.’

  ‘It’s their job to be up all night!’

  ‘ I don’t know what those stupid photographers wanted with me, anyway.’

  ‘Kid, when you work at my level, this sorta thing
happens a lot. They musta thought it was me in the jeep.’

  ‘Levine said that, but they still took plenty of shots.’

  He grinned. ‘Then welcome to the movies, baby! Next, they’re gonna wanna know what ya had for breakfast!’

  She groaned. ‘ God, I hope not…’

  ‘But it’s all good! It shows there’s a buzz out there! Scarlett and Brett, baby! Scarlett and Brett!’

  ‘Rhett…’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Well, please don’t post any more guards outside my door.’

  He frowned. ‘We gotta think about your personal security. It’s a dangerous world out there.’

  ‘I’m sure it was just a one-off. When they realise they’ve got nothing, they’ll leave me alone. What time is it?’

  ‘Six-twenty.’

  ‘Then we should be in costume.’ She released her hands and walked towards the wardrobe marquee but could feel him watching her back.

  Tress had decided to shoot a small number of interiors at the castle itself, for authenticity. The grand hall on the first floor was now filled with cameras, crew and lights. Emerson knelt below the stained-glass window. Two guards stood over him, wearing breastplates and helmets. One held a chain attached to his wrists, the other a sword, close to his cheek. Make-up had given him a cut above one eye, but he still looked handsome and deadly.

  Robin McKendry – Raymond, le Comte de Trenceval – gathered his robe and pondered Bernard de Vaux where he knelt.

  ‘You must release him,’ Roselaine begged her father, ‘he is our friend. I promise you!’

  ‘Release him?’ the comte wheezed. ‘He is a Frankish knight, and his countrymen would murder us all!’

  ‘Not this one, Father. He saved my life and has behaved with nothing but honour towards me.’

  The comte studied his daughter’s face. ‘And you have behaved with nothing but honour towards him?’

  She blushed. ‘I… of course!’

  ‘You promised your mother on her deathbed that you would remain pure.’

  ‘But I have, Father! And I will!’

  ‘An old man’s eyes see many things, my daughter.’

  ‘Then they must see the truth!’ Bernard made to stand, but the guard holding his chain tugged it violently. With a snarl, he tugged it in return, and the guard fell towards him, tumbling over his back and into the second guard who also fell, dropping his sword. Quick as a snake, Bernard grabbed the weapon and leapt upright. The two guards struggled to stand, but the comte raised a hand.

  ‘So you can fight! That is a useful skill in these troubled times, but I was leading armies when you were a suckling babe. What truth must I see?’

  Bernard lowered the sword. ‘That the men outside your gate will not go away until your walls are breached and all within them burned!’

  ‘Leave us,’ the comte ordered the two guards. Sullenly, they obeyed. The comte stroked his beard. ‘What would you have me do, crusader? Wish your countrymen away on a prayer?’

  ‘That’s not going to happen. Your castle is finished. I know de Montfort – he will not relent. But if you listen to me, you can still escape with your lives.’

  ‘This is my home and I do not intend to leave it.’

  Roselaine stepped forward. ‘ Father, if you love me as a daughter you will listen! Escape is our only option!’

  The comte touched her cheek. ‘You speak of love, my child – but there are many different kinds of love.’

  She met his gaze then frowned.

  ‘ I’m really sorry – I’m not sure what to do here…’

  The comte held his pose.

  Emerson stamped a foot. ‘Aw, man, not again!’

  ‘It is okay! It is okay!’ Tress rushed forward from behind the nearest camera. ‘It is okay, Harry. That was a good take, some of it I can use. Cut, everybody – cut!’

  ‘Thank Christ.’ McKendry scratched his beard. ‘Bloody glue’s got me chin all itchy.’

  ‘Peter, I’m sorry I keep screwing up, but am I supposed to look at Robin with love, respect, anger, pity or what? Should I cry?’

  ‘All of these things,’ Tress replied.

  ‘But how do I feel?’

  ‘How do you feel, Annalise?’

  ‘Come with me, girl.’ McKendry took her arm and led her off the set, watched closely by Emerson, who pouted but seemed reluctant to impinge on the older man. They walked to the far end of the hall.

  ‘I’m really sorry, Robin. But I know you can see straight through me.’

  ‘The only thing I can see, dearie, are these pieces of wool they’ve stuck to my eyebrows.’ They found a pair of plastic seats. A young male runner approached and opened his mouth to speak.

  ‘Boy!’ McKendry commanded. ‘Two coffees! Both black, with honey!’

  ‘Right away, Sir, but can I just–’

  ‘I say,’ McKendry interrupted, ‘what’s the difference between a sandwich and a blow job?’

  The runner blushed from his neck up. ‘I, uh, ahh… I don’t know…’

  ‘Goody!’ He clapped his hands. ‘Let’s go for a picnic!’ He chortled as the young man fled.

  ‘You’re awful.’

  ‘One the benefits of being venerable, my child.’

  ‘I’m sorry for stopping the scene.’

  ‘Now you listen to me, young lady: that was not your fault.’

  ‘Yes it was.’

  ‘No, it’s that silly moo of a director.’

  ‘Peter? How?’

  ‘I know his type. So preoccupied with what he wants visually that he leaves his cast to second-guess him. Some directors understand actors, some don’t. I’m afraid Tress doesn’t. If you need guidance, he’ll be the last one to provide it.’

  ‘Do you think?’

  ‘Oh, I know. He didn’t once ask me how I intended to play the comte, so I’m just giving him my standard aristo routine, and he seems happy with that. But he fussed around in make-up for over an hour this morning, until they got this bloody beard the way he wanted it.’ McKendry tugged at the item in question.

  ‘It’s not Peter’s fault. I mean, I do wish he was more supportive, but it’s me – I can’t get into Roselaine, I just can’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I don’t know! I love the part, but I can’t get under her skin. It’s driving me crazy!’

  ‘Dearie, you should do what I do and just ham it up.’

  ‘Oh, I wish I could be like you and just walk on and do anything. But it doesn’t work like that for me. I need to be immersed.’

  ‘Well it can’t be easy trying to feel like a twelfth-century maiden,’ he grinned, ‘when you’re not a maiden!’ She pretended to slap his arm. ‘Tell me, how are you getting on with your co-star?’ She looked round guiltily. ‘Don’t worry, he can’t hear you.’ Sure enough, Emerson was still at the far end of the hall, now in vigorous discussion with Tress. The two guards had gone outside for a smoke.

  ‘Harry? He’s uh… fine, I suppose.’

  ‘I’ve seen the way he looks at you.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘As if he owns you. Have you two been partying without your pants on?’

  ‘ God! No!’

  ‘It’s very strange. If I had to guess, I’d say he’s my way inclined, yet he only has eyes for you.’

  She lied. ‘I can’t say I’ve noticed…’

  ‘In some ways, he reminds me of your father.’

  Now she flinched. ‘Really? H-how?’

  ‘Something about him.’

  ‘My father wasn’t, uh, gay…’

  ‘Silly, I don’t mean that!’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘If you don’t mind me saying… Emerson is cock-sure and very opinionated, but that’s usually a sign of raging insecurity.’

  ‘I didn’t know you knew my father!’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘Why would you? It was an awfully long time ago. We did quite a bit of television drama together, back in the early seventies – a BBC thing called
Play for Today. Some of it was quite good, actually.’

  ‘What… what was he like to work with?’

  ‘David? Oh, he was incredible. He didn’t play a part, he was the part. You’d go to dinner afterwards and he’d still be in character – the face, the accent, the mannerisms: everything. If he was playing a Welsh coal miner, then he was a Welsh bloody coal miner. He could imitate anybody, an extraordinary mimic.’ He laughed, remembering. ‘When we were at the BBC, he would regularly ring up other cast in the evenings, pretending to be the producer. He would tell them to do ridiculous things like come to work in a kilt, or with their hair dyed purple – and they would do it, because they thought they had to! He would even ring other producers, recommending David Palatine for work – he was incorrigible.’

  She smiled. ‘All long before I was born, I’m afraid.’

  McKendry looked wistful. ‘When he was still one of us.’

  The runner returned with their coffees. ‘Excuse me.’ He avoided McKendry’s sly smile, looking only at Annalise… ‘I was trying to say. I’ve been told to tell you that your agent rang. He wants you to call him back as soon as possible.’

  ‘But he must know that I’m on set.’

  ‘The floor manager said to tell you at the next break.’

  McKendry peered towards the other end of the hall, where Tress and Emerson had been joined by David Lamb and Maria Kepecs, the second assistant director. The discussion had become even more animated.

  ‘Go on,’ he urged her, ‘they won’t be shooting anything for a bit, and a call from one’s agent should be treated as the exceptional event it truly is. I’ll say you’ve gone pee-pee.’

  ‘But I’ve left my phone at home.’