‘Well?’ McKendry addressed the runner severely, who looked panicked. Then, he caught the old actor’s meaning and fumbled for his mobile. He turned it on and gave it to Annalise.
‘Signal’s a bit weak in here,’ he mumbled.
‘Thanks, I won’t be long.’ As she made for the exit, McKendry patted her vacated seat.
‘Sit down, dear boy,’ he smiled sweetly at the runner, ‘and tell me about yourself. Do you work out? You look as if you take regular exercise…’
Annalise climbed the turret stairwell, stepped outside and dialled her agent’s number. Even so high up, the air was perfectly still. Below, the valley baked in the heat.
Conrad Loach was the fogeyish Notting Hill agent from central casting, all tweed jackets and a nasal Oxbridge drawl. Annalise could picture him in his absurdly untidy office, brogue-clad feet crossed carelessly on top of the scripts littering his desk, with not a computer in sight – he professed not to know how to use one. However, he was in fact only thirty-five years old, sharper than a sewer rat and, despite the drawl, originally from Reading. Usually, he allowed his phone to go to message. Unusually, he answered it straight away.
‘Ah, it’s you,’ he intoned. ‘And how’s the Dordogne?’
‘Very beautiful; I’m looking at the river right now.’
‘Lucky old river.’
‘Is something up? They told me to ring you.’
‘Mmmyes. Tell me – you haven’t gone and hired yourself a publicist, by any chance?’
‘What?
He spoke slowly, as if to a child. ‘Have – you – hired –a –publicist?’
‘No! Why would I do that?’
‘Because you’re on the front page of a certain tabloid newspaper this morning, in an item that bears all the hallmarks of a planted story.’
Her stomach tightened. ‘What… what are you talking about?’
‘Hmmm… so you didn’t know? That makes me doubly glad I called. Great big photo on the front of The Sun – nothing too revealing, you’ll be delighted to hear. You’re getting out of a car, although not in a snap-my-knickers sort of way, which I know just isn’t your style.’
The view and the valley disappeared; she slumped against the parapet. ‘What… why am I on the front page of The Sun?’
‘Well, the headline says, “Emerson’s English Rose”.’
‘WHAT?’
“‘Emerson’s English Rose”,’ Loach repeated, calmly. ‘Quite decorous by the paper’s normal standards – at least it doesn’t call you a “wag” or a “squeeze”.’
‘What… how… I mean… bloody HELL! What else does it say?’
‘I take it it’s not true then?’
‘Conrad! Read me the rest!’
He coughed. ‘“British stunna” – that’s stunna with an “a,” mind you – “British stunna Annalise Palatine has stolen the heart of Hollywood heartthrob Harry Emerson. The actress is on location in France for Emerson’s latest film, an historical bodice-ripper described as ‘sizzling’ by one insider. But love has spilled over from the set and the couple share romantic candlelit dinners most evenings.”’
‘That’s insane!’ she wailed. ‘We’ve had dinner once, and it wasn’t even candlelit!’
He pressed on. ‘“Palatine, Britain’s hottest acting property, is also linked to Lone Blue Planet frontman Jimmy Lockhart. Her father was the comic David Palatine, who was notorious for his wild playboy lifestyle. He died tragically in 2001, but it looks as if his love of the high life has rubbed off on his daughter. ‘It’s the right move for Annalise,’ our sources say. ‘Harry has the influence to send her career into overdrive. They spend all their spare moments together; they’re like a younger, trendier version of Michael Douglas and Catherine Zeta-Jones.’ Lockhart, currently on tour with his band, could not be reached for comment.”’
Jimmy. Oh, Jesus. What will Jimmy think?
‘Are you all right, m’dear?’
‘No, Conrad, I am not all right! This is nuts! How dare they? It’s not true! How can they print stuff like that?’
‘What’s not true, exactly?’
‘The whole bloody thing!’
‘You’ve been to dinner with Emerson?’
‘Yes! Once!’
‘That’s all they need – the rest may be highly speculative, but it’s hardly libellous.’
‘Speculative? It’s completely made up!’
‘Look, here’s the thing – I can call them and give off hell if you want, but they’ll print any denial then repeat the story. That will give it legs for another day. Maybe not such a bad idea, actually.’
‘Hey! Whose side are you on?’
‘I’m on our side, Annalise. You know, something like this does you no harm at all.’
‘Conrad, you’re married.’
‘Yes.’
‘Imagine going home to Michelle tonight, if that was you on the front page!’
‘But I’m not a beautiful actress, making her first Hollywood film. Don’t you realise how much this sort of publicity could boost your next fee, even if it is a load of old bollocks? And if it’s not bollocks, then congratulations!’
‘Listen. I want you to listen very closely.’
‘Yes?’
‘The sound you’re about to hear is me throwing you off a five-hundred-foot cliff.’
She held her arm out and released the handset into the void. It fell for quite a long time before disappearing into the trees. She immediately felt guilty – what if she’d hit a house? Then, she felt doubly guilty, for she remembered it wasn’t her phone. Then, she slapped her forehead. She should have used it to ring Jimmy…
‘But what are we going to do about it? That’s what I want to know!’
Emerson sprawled on a white leather sofa in his trailer. They were both still in costume. Too agitated to sit, she stalked up and down before a polished sideboard that bore a large, silver-framed portrait of the star. Tress had called a break and she had asked to speak privately to Emerson. However, far from sharing her outrage, he seemed amused.
‘Hey kiddo – what can you do? It’s just a story in some paper – big deal!’
‘But it says things that aren’t true!’
‘If it said we were makin’ a lousy movie, I’d be pissed. If it said we were doin’ drugs, I’d sue their fuckin’ asses. But a bitta good, old-fashioned publicity – I don’t see the problem.’
‘You sound like my agent!’
‘Then your agent is a smart guy.’
‘Harry, it’s all right for you – you don’t have a boyfriend sitting waiting for you at home. I mean, girlfriend. You know what I mean.’
‘Hey, if he’s a good enough person to deserve love from you, then he’ll understand.’ She scanned his face for any sign of insincerity, but he looked as serious as a deacon.
‘Can I use your phone? I promise not to throw it off a cliff…’
‘Be my guest.’ He indicated a handset on a nearby coffee table. ‘By the way, I told Levine to give that runner two hundred bucks.’
‘Thanks, but you shouldn’t, I’d have sorted him myself.’ He stood. ‘I’ll give you some privacy.’
‘No – don’t go,’ she dialled Jimmy’s mobile number, ‘I might need you to vouch for my innocence.’
He gave a wry smile. ‘If it was me on the end of that line, your word would be enough. What’s a relationship without trust, huh?’
‘It’s just that I haven’t seen Jimmy in over a month and – hold on, it’s connecting.’ But it diverted to mockney Jimmy.
‘It’s me. I can’t talk, but you know what to do.’ Beep.
‘Jimmy,’ she pleaded into the void, ‘you need to ring me. There’s a story in the papers and it’s a pile of made-up shite. Please. Ring me as soon as you can and for God’s sake leave your phone turned on until I get you. I love you!’ She hung up. She felt her eyes water and she couldn’t make them stop. She sat in the nearest chair and hid her face in her hands. ‘I’m… I’m sorry
…’
‘It’s okay.’ His voice was soft. He came close, put an arm around her shoulders, gave her a light squeeze, then removed it.
‘It’s just that I… Jimmy and I have hardly spoken since I arrived because he’s on tour and I’m busy and I always seem to miss him and I keep screwing up my scenes and everything is just wretched. Now this bloody story and here I am crying in front of you like a flipping teenager!’
‘Here.’ He knelt before her, holding a box of tissues that he’d magically produced from somewhere. She accepted one and dabbed. ‘I think I’ve been kinda tough on you, Annalise. This is a big movie and I’m very focused, but you’re doin’ so fine I keep forgettin’ it’s your first time at this kinda level. You gotta take care of your personal life too, you know?’ She sniffled, taken aback by his tenderness and understanding.
‘You’re very kind, but I don’t think I’m doing very well at all and I don’t mean to let my personal life intrude but I desperately need just to get on with my job and… and…’ She realised she was babbling, so she stopped and blew her nose. Emerson lifted the phone.
‘I’m used to this sorta shit, you ain’t.’ He spoke into the receiver. ‘Judy? Where are you? Oh, that close, huh? I’m in the trailer – looky here, there’s somethin’ I wanna take care of. Okay, shift those buns.’ He hung up. ‘Now that’s lucky; Judy was on her way here with stuff for me to sign.’
‘Frost? What does she–’ but before Annalise could finish her query, the trailer door flew open and a vision of glamorous efficiency wafted in, wearing a pale-green Chanel summer suit and a chic pair of frameless glasses. Annalise was acutely conscious of her raw eyes and runny nose.
‘H.E.’ Frost’s smile knew no limits. ‘How are you today?’
‘I’m fine, Judy, fine. Miss Palatine, however, is not fine.’
‘I’m real sorry to hear that.’
‘She bumped inna some photographers after she left us last night…’
‘Levine mentioned something.’
‘Yeah, well this British paper is runnin’ a bullshit story about her and me.’ He laughed. ‘Apparently we’re the next Mike and Catherine.’
‘Ohmigawd.’ Frost turned to Annalise. ‘Pay them no heed, honey, you are so much prettier than Catherine Zeta-Jones.’
‘Uh… thanks.’
Emerson clapped his hands together, as if an idea had just occurred to him.
‘Where is your boyfriend? Where is he, like, today?’
‘Jimmy? He’s in Bristol. He’s got a concert there tonight.’
‘Where’s Bristol?’
‘Southwest England,’ Frost informed him. He turned to her. ‘How far is that?’
‘Not far.’
‘How long would it take?’
Frost shrugged. ‘Four hours, max.’
Annalise interrupted. ‘How long would it take to… what?’
Emerson wore a slight smile. ‘To get from here to Bristol.’
‘Four hours? I don’t think so. By the time you’ve driven to Bordeaux, flown to London, taken a train or a plane over west – it’s a ten-hour journey, minimum.’
Emerson and Frost exchanged a look, as if sharing a joke. Then Frost repeated, ‘Four hours, H.E. Four hours max.’
Annalise snorted. ‘Your arse in parsley.’
‘My what?’
Emerson’s smile broadened. ‘Tell her, Judy. Modesty forbids me.’
Frost regarded Annalise coolly. ‘H.E.’s private jet is at Bergerac. It’s a Gulfstream G550, fitted to carry up to ten passengers anywhere in the world, in total luxury.’
‘So?’
Emerson knelt before her and showed her his watch. ‘So, I make it nine forty-five in the a.m. – what time is it in Bristol?’
‘Eight forty-five,’ Frost interjected.
‘So why don’t you hop in that bird of mine and spend the resta the day with your boyfriend? Wouldn’t that be a heckuvva surprise for him? You could sort out this newspaper bullshit and be back on location first thing tomorrow mornin’!’
It dawned on Annalise that he was serious. ‘I couldn’t possibly do that…’
‘Why not? Spend a coupla hours with the guy, catch his concert, kiss and make up, then fly back in time for work!’
‘But we have a schedule to keep! I can’t just walk out on Peter at the drop of a hat!’
‘You leave Tress to me. I wanna reshoot one of my action scenes anyway. He can live without you for half a day.’
‘Harry! Private jets are… well, let’s just say they’re not my style.’
‘Until I bought one, they weren’t my style either! I know it sounds like a heckuvvan indulgence, but that bird saves me a lotta time and money. Judy, tell the crew to warm her up!’ Frost whisked her phone from her jacket pocket.
‘No! Wait!’ Annalise jumped up, disbelieving. ‘I can’t do that! I mean, it’s a very kind offer, but I can’t possibly fly all the way to Bristol on a whim!’
‘It ain’t a whim.’
‘But think of the pollution! What a wasteful thing to do!’
‘I’m really glad you said that,’ Emerson nodded, ‘’cos it shows you think just like I do.’
‘Pardon?’
‘I care very deeply for the environment – don’t I, Judy?’
‘You sure do, H.E.’
‘So I never go anywhere without… you know, plantin’ a bun-cha trees.’
‘Offsetting the journey,’ Frost clarified.
‘That’s it. Judy, before you call the plane, get the tree-plantin’ people.’
Annalise tried to intercede. ‘Now wait a minute…’
Frost pointedly ignored her and thumbed her phone. After a few seconds, it answered.
‘Hello? Yeah, hi. Put me through to carbon offsets please, the Helius account. Yeah, Helius. Hello? Good evening, Helius Productions here…’
‘They’re in LA,’ Emerson whispered, ‘it’s still night-time there.’
‘Harry, stop this!’ she hissed.
‘…can you give me an estimate,’ Frost continued, ‘for two ninety-minute flights in our Gulfstream please? Two crew, two passengers… yes, hold please…’ She took the handset from her ear and looked at her boss.
‘So,’ Emerson patted Annalise’s arm, ‘are we puttin’ a great big smile on your boyfriend’s face today?’
‘This is absurd!’
He pouted. ‘Think of all those poor farmers, dyin’ to plant us some trees. Where do the farmers plant the trees, Judy?’
Frost shrugged. ‘Africa, I think. Or maybe India – some place like that.’
‘Harry,’ Annalise pleaded, ‘why are you doing this?’
Emerson’s face was tender now. ‘Because I can see you’re upset and I feel responsible. Because I want you to be happy. Judy,’ he commanded, ‘tell those guys to go plant some trees!’
‘The order is on,’ Frost informed her telephone, ‘to offset two ninety-minute flights. Bill our account as usual, please.’
Annalise gave Emerson a hug, a proper one. He seemed surprised, but pleasantly so.
‘Thanks. This is incredibly generous of you.’
‘Shucks, you’re worth it. Levine will go with you, he’ll handle the formalities.’ She kissed his cheek and, for the first time since they’d met, he blushed slightly. ‘Don’t forget your passport,’ he mumbled.
He stood high on the keep wall. Using a pair of small, ultramodern binoculars, he watched Annalise leave her apartment. He could see that she was wearing a red raincoat and carrying a brown leather bag. Standing beside him, even with her naked eye Frost could discern Annalise climb into the Range Rover in the street far below. It moved off in the direction of Bergerac.
‘Well played, H.E.,’ she murmured. ‘For a minute, I thought she wasn’t gonna bite.’
‘Carbon offsets, my ass. Who took that call?’
‘Talbot.’
‘Are we a hundred per cent certain about this information?’
‘A thousand per cent certa
in.’
‘How did you get it?’
‘Hotel staff are the same the world over – the more money you promise them, the more they’ll do for ya.’
‘What if they’re wrong?’
‘Then they don’t get paid. But the guy I’m dealing with is pretty adamant. I’ve told Levine to give me regular updates.’
‘Keep me informed.’
‘Of course. Just one thing she said doesn’t make sense…’
‘Yeah?’
‘What’s “my arse in parsley”? I mean, did I hear that right?’
‘I think arse is, like, Irish for ass.’
‘So why would my ass be in parsley? Is that like saying your ass is grass?’
‘Judy – how the hell would I know?’
‘Harry! How are you?’ The pair turned to see Tress waving up at them from inside the keep. ‘Are we ready to start work again?’
‘Ready to roll.’
‘Where’s Annalise? Is she feeling better?’
‘A lot better, yeah.’ Emerson thrust his binoculars at Frost and descended a grass ramp, his sword clanking. ‘Peter, we need to discuss our schedule this afternoon. I wanna reshoot one of my action scenes from yesterday…’
Annalise looked around the interior of the jet with a mixture of giddiness and guilt. The seats were like leather marshmallows. A set of buttons in the arm could make them swivel or even recline, like a bed. She played with hers while the pilots finished their final checks. She hadn’t set foot inside the terminal – Levine had driven her straight through a security barrier at Bergerac airport to where the jet was parked beside a hangar, barely flashing their passports at a French policeman in passing. Two reassuringly mature and responsible-looking pilots greeted them at the plane. Levine showed her a bedroom at the rear of the cabin, which had a tiny ensuite bathroom. There was a bigger bathroom for general use, ten of the marshmallow seats and a variety of veneered cabinets and flat-screen televisions. Levine served her a mineral water, pointed out her seatbelt then strapped himself in near the cockpit – the pilots left the intervening door open and chatted over their shoulders to him. She noticed that they too referred to Emerson as ‘H.E.’.
Her excitement at surprising Jimmy was tempered with awe at knowing a man who changed castles more frequently than other men changed their socks; a man who so casually loaned her a private jet. It was perfectly possible that Jimmy hadn’t even seen the stupid newspaper, that he was still lying crashed-out in bed. She would buy a copy when they landed, to see how horrendous it really was. Maybe they could laugh it off together over a room-service lunch and a naughty bottle of champagne. As the jet took off, she felt as if she were in the middle of a strange but luxurious dream.
Darling Sweetheart Page 8
