A Star in Cornwall (A Wedding in Cornwall Book 8)

by Laura Briggs

  "A cup of tea would help you feel better," I said. "Cure your stomachache. Maybe even bring a smile to your face. I found out with time that the English are right about its powers."

  I reached for the tea tin, but Katie's sullen stare didn't change. "I'm not feeling sick," she said. "Not to my stomach, anyway."

  "Then what's wrong?" I asked.

  "Look," she said. She shoved the open paper across the table. "Michael brought it back from Truro yesterday. It was wrapped around some balsamic vinegar as cushioning ... I don't usually read them, but he left it lying on the counter and I ..." She trailed off, her lips pinching inward.

  I looked down at the crumpled newspaper, which was an entertainment scandal sheet — a tabloid, as Katie and I know them at home. It had a big, splashy photo on its page, and pictures of various celebrities, with names I recognized scattered across it. But what Katie wanted me to see was printed at the top of the page, in headline font that screamed at you from above its column.

  Ridley Cooper On the Run? And below the article's photo: Agent Mum About Actor's No-Show at MegaMetal Cast Event. The whole column was devoted to this American actor's absence, and the rumors swirling around whether he was reprising his role in the blockbuster film's sequel.

  I had heard of the film, although I had never seen it, but that wasn't the important part. It was the giant photo printed just above the column. And in case you haven't already guessed, it was of Riley O' Connell.

  I sat down, slowly, in the nearest kitchen chair, the newspaper in my hand. "How?" I said. "What — is this real?" That was the first sentence I managed. "Have you heard of him?"

  She shrugged. "The movie came out after I was in the exchange program," she said. "I didn't see it in the theater. I guess you could say I'm a little behind on celebrity news these past few months, since I've been busy. Not that I usually follow it that close."

  Spotty wireless signals from the malfunctioning satellite hadn't helped lately, I knew. Katie looked upset, biting her thumbnail hard as she gazed at the picture of Riley — or Ridley, as it proclaimed — in dark sunglasses, trying to dodge the camera as he climbed into a red sports car.

  We were both speechless, even though there was more than enough to say. There were plenty of questions to be asked — namely, why was a famous actor hiding in sleepy Ceffylgwyn?

  According to the IMDb page I finally coaxed my phone to access, Ridley's breakout role was in MegaMetal, a Man vs. Machines action flick which had blown box office records over Christmas break. I now regretted talking Matt out of seeing it when we were debating movies in Truro during a December weekend, since I would have had a difficult time not recognizing him now. Before that, he had been in several less famous movies, B-grade titles that were the usual stepping stones in an actor's career.

  "He was a racecar driver in this one," said Katie, pointing to Hot Streets, a darkly comic, action-packed drama about inner-city gang relations, gambling, and high-stakes illegal sports. "What do you think the odds are that his character drove a cab for a living before the race?"

  "Really good," I answered. Archaeologist, gang member, street magician, rock star — he had played them all in his past, in small and lead parts. Even a pickpocket.

  "What is he doing here?" said Katie, bewildered. "What's he hiding from?"

  "I don't know," I said. "But there's one way we can find out."

  Ted Russert's old barn was a familiar place to me, the same rustic spot I had decorated for Pippa's wedding reception a few years ago — its stone pathway had treacherous holes in places for my high-heeled Prada shoes, especially with a few more stones missing. Now it was back to its old self, with a few farm implements and an old tractor parked inside it, and a stack of old lumber stored away from the elements.

  A cot in a corner, a table with a battery-operated lantern, basic toiletries, and an open jar of peanut butter and package of biscuits — these were the current worldly luxuries of our would-be handyman, who had shifted here recently for his latest campsite, with Ted's permission.

  The actor himself was repairing some kind of wooden tool box when we entered, his tartan shirt tossed over the cot's end, his lean, muscular form encased only in worn denim and a dingy white cotton undershirt or 'vest' — revealing muscles that he had honed for his blockbuster role, I imagined. At this moment, he was practically the living image of the still shot from the movie, except for the hammer and nails instead of a pistol.

  He looked up at us. "Ladies," he mumbled, through a mouthful of nails. He pulled them out, and reached for his shirt, pulling it on in a gentlemanly gesture. "What brings you to my humble digs? An emergency play rehearsal?"

  "Questions," said Katie. "Like — why'd you lie to us?" She crossed her arms, fighting the urge to run away, I thought, as one hand rubbed her forearm nervously. Suddenly, she seemed slightly intimidated despite the hurt and anger in her voice moments ago.

  He glanced from her to me, with a funny smile. "What's this about?" he asked.

  "Game's over — Ridley," I said. "We know." I handed him the crumpled tabloid magazine, where a small balsamic stain left a brown smear over the column's final sentences. I saw from Riley — Ridley's — eyes that he wasn't happy at all.

  He took the paper. Glancing carefully over the column, taking in the words about his failure to attend the cast reunion, the speculation about whether he was part of MegaMetal 2: Rise of the Iron Hero. He folded it up and tossed it on the cot.

  "So?" he said. "What do you want to know?" He tucked his hands in his back pockets. "You think that's me, I take it?"

  "I think we're past pretending," I said to him, gently. "Don't do this. It's obvious. Seeing you onstage at the playhouse ... that wasn't the 'beginner's luck' of a first-time actor. You fooled us all for a little while, but how long did you think it would last?"

  "Longer than this," he answered. His laugh was sarcastic. "Long enough to get me out of town incognito."

  "Why?" Katie spoke up again. "Why did you lie? Why didn't you tell us the truth?"

  "Why, huh?" he said. "So you could throw me a big welcoming party? Stick me in Shakespeare's lead because it would be so exciting to have somebody from Hollywood in the play, wouldn't it? Maybe you could give me the key to the village, if they do that kind of thing here — and then my agent could come, and we could take pictures and exploit this whole experience."

  I didn't like this sarcastic side of Ridley, enveloping his words in a mean and ugly tone. But in those words, I detected that this wasn't about sneering at a little village's amateur theater.

  "'Cause you're too good for us?" said Katie, hands on her hips now. "You think everybody would just fawn all over you because you're famous, right? Well, wrong — you were just a name to me until five minutes ago. I'd never seen a picture of the famous blockbuster star Ridley Cooper that wasn't a glance at a movie poster out of the corner of my eye —"

  "Is that supposed to make me feel small?" Ridley snapped. "Me in the part of the arrogant movie star who gets humbled by the small town, right? I've done that already in the movies, thanks. They cast me to play townsperson number three. I didn't have an agent back then to get me the lead."

  "Your agent doesn't know where you are, does he?" I said.

  Suddenly, the barn was quieter. Ridley had stopped arguing, and his body language suggested he was uncomfortable. "Are you going to tell everybody this?" he asked.

  Katie crossed her arms again and looked away. I shook my head. "No," I said. "I'm not going to take that paper to the Fisherman's Rest and leave it on the bar. But I can't guarantee that nobody else in the village has a copy." Plenty of people probably subscribed to celebrity mags around here. Ridley's only saving grace would be if they weren't members of the theater company or regular pub patrons.

  "I wish they'd printed a smaller photo," he muttered.

  "You really don't want anybody to know?" I said.

  "No." His voice was quiet, but still bitter. "I don't. Please don't ... please don't tell anyb
ody. Just keep it a secret for awhile."

  Until he could leave the village, I imagined. And run away again, only this time as Randy Carson or Rick Clay, or another alias that he dreamed up.

  I glanced at Katie. "It's not my secret," she said, at last. She wouldn't look Ridley in the eye now. She turned and left the barn without saying another word. I could hear her quick pace disappearing down the barn path.

  Ridley watched her go. He swallowed hard, then looked at me. "Well?" he said.

  I nodded. "I promise," I said. "Like Katie said, it's not our secret, really."

  He sat down on the edge of the cot. "Everybody will be angry when they find out, won't they?" he said. "Just like Katie. They'll all say it was a publicity stunt gone wrong. That I was stepping on some little people to pad my ego as an actor."

  "Does it need padded?" For the first time, I felt a real smile twitch my lips. "It sounds like you're pretty impressive from your bio. You really are a jack of all trades in your choice of characters. Critics said MegaMetal was the new Independence Day — and that you're the new Will Smith."

  His mouth twisted in a wry smile. "I've heard that one," he said. "I don't need my ego stroked, thanks."

  He didn't seem inclined to say anything else, since he was busy studying the wall behind me. The attitude of a cornered man surrendering his false passport to the authorities. If he dared to stay more than a few hours, it would be with the knowledge that two of his new friends would never see him quite the same.

  "Hey, at least I'm not a real thief. Right?" He looked at me with this remark. I thought his smile looked sad.

  "Just a game of pretend," I said, softly. "You were telling us the truth all along about that."

  Since Ridley had nothing else to say, I left him to his thoughts. Closing the barn door behind me, I wondered if I would ever see him again, except on the theater's screen.

  ***

  "Okay, as everybody knows, this is the big night," I said. I placed my cup of coffee on the floor, next to the clipboard — I was way past the need for scene checklists now. "We've survived some bad rehearsals, a few disasters on tech night, but we're here and we're ready to give the village a new Romeo and Juliet, right?"

  I scanned the faces of the cast in the auditorium as they applauded my last line, and caught a glimpse of Ridley near the back. He was sitting far away from Katie and her friends, with only a latecomer playing a butler sitting near him.

  "If nothing else, let's all remember that we're doing this for Millie," I said. "This play means a lot to her, and since she couldn't direct it, let's do our best to make sure it's still her vision. Let's give her the play she wanted." I cleared my throat. "So, with that in mind, it's time to set the stage, everybody."

  There was the usual scramble after my opening remarks, but this time with a purpose other than scripts and snacks. Gerard was here tonight, manning the curtains and overseeing the set, all while dressed in his customary formal togs; Nora and Nellie, dressed in all black as part of stage crew, were hurrying everybody into costumes. The tiny little dressing room spaces were now a bustle of makeup kits, borrowed Versace and Prada knockoff labels, and clouds of hairspray.

  I squeezed between sets in the wings, past the newly-lidded coffin for Juliet now stacked with carefully-labeled props for the first act, and Gerard hustling his light board operator to his post, feeling glad I had shed my high heels in the cloak room earlier. Holding my breath, I silently prayed that nothing would go too wrong this night — an error-free play was a rarity, Millie had cautioned me beforehand.

  No set collapses, no long, awkward pauses, no sudden disappearance by an actor with a secret. That was all I asked.

  I found Ridley already dressed in his suit and sneakers, pretending to study the script in a dark corner far from the dressing room. He didn't look up until he was sure I wasn't going to walk past him.

  "I kind of thought you might not be here," I said. "I thought I'd have to ask your understudy to step up tonight."

  "A good actor doesn't walk off set because of a few personal problems," he said.

  "Not according to an article I read this morning," I answered, archly. As Martin passed us in the wings, we both fell silent.

  "That was just a promo party. It had nothing to do with the movie, or the sequel." Ridley let the pages of his script flip closed between his hands. "I'm not supposed to be in Los Angeles, anyway," he said. "I'm supposed to be in London."

  "London?" I repeated — although I lowered my voice, seeing Ridley was uncomfortable about being overheard. The story hadn't said that the new movie's location was overseas.

  "I'm not talking about the cast reunion," he said, quietly. "I'm talking about the theater. A new Macbeth opening there, and I'm supposed to be in it. Rehearsals start in a week. I was supposed to be in London five days ago to open up my apartment, and meet the play's director."

  "Why aren't you?" I said. "If you're running away from Shakespeare, you did a pretty poor job of it here." So Ridley was running away from the theater — into another theater? A small one, of course, but still — it didn't seem like much of an escape somehow.

  "I'm not running away from the theater," he said, his voice dropping still lower. "I wanted the play. It was my idea. I auditioned for it ... and it was one of the biggest moments of my life that they cast me, even if they only did it because of the movie."

  The passion in his eyes, evident even in the shadows, dimmed slightly. "I had to fight my agent to do it, because he hated the idea. He said it's a waste of time, and there's no good press in being onstage. Not like there would be if I took the part he wants me to take ... an opening for the lead in Blood Runners. The biggest action flick of Thanksgiving weekend, everybody says." Ridley's sarcasm was back for this last line. "The perfect role to keep me an action hero until MegaMetal 2 in the spring."

  "So what are you doing here?" I asked, softly. "Why aren't you in London, doing what you want to do?"

  Ridley sighed. "My agent's trying to break the contract. He's been trying for months now. He's promised Blood Runners' director that I'll be in Los Angeles for a reading the day I'm supposed to start theater rehearsals...spreading it to the press, so it looks like I'm already committed to it." He shook his head. "We fought about it ... then I just struck out on my own. Left without telling anybody: my family, my friends, my security team. I thought if I disappeared, he'd get the picture that I wouldn't be at any audition. My way of winning. Even if I can't get what I want."

  I glanced over my shoulder. I could see Katie emerging from the dressing room, wearing the matronly sweater, skirt and pearls of Lady Capulet, her hair streaked with white highlights here and there. She paused at the sight of Ridley, a look of disappointment in her eyes. After an awkward glance, she turned away.

  "So what are you going to do?" I asked Ridley. "Keep running? Run until your agent can't possibly find you?"

  "Sounds like a good plan to me," he replied. A stubborn edge to his voice.

  "Sounds like a waste to me," I replied. "A waste of a great talent."

  "Yeah. Who's destined to end his career after starring in a string of action flicks in Hollywood — with everybody telling him to never step outside that box," Ridley retorted. "Because it's a risk that just isn't worth the money."

  He had a point ... but it was a hard one to accept. Because Ridley had a definite gift, one that made him special, as Katie claimed. Not just anyone possessed it ... and this role with the Cliff's House Players might be the last time anybody witnessed it.

  "What role in Macbeth?" I asked him.

  I saw a faint blush cross Ridley's face. "Take a guess," he said.

  My smile was directed at the floor — I didn't want to meet Ridley's eye at this moment. "I don't think I have to," I answered. I could sense his discomfort, his embarrassment for the truth.

  He buried his face in one hand with a groan. "It's because of the movie, I know," he said. "Too young, too inexperienced — a Hollywood brat buying a role, the critic
s will say. But I wanted to own that part. I really did." He ran his hand over his features, then leaned back against the wall. "I wanted to do something new with it. Open a new window for myself. Change people's minds about me."

  "Will Smith plays every kind of role now, doesn't he?" I said. "Oscar-nominated roles."

  Ridley smiled, briefly. "Yeah, he does," he said. "But it's not easy to get there. Trust me. That's why most people don't make it." He laid aside his script, one I knew he didn't need to study at all.

  "Half hour 'til curtain, ladies and gents!" announced Nellie as she passed by. It reminded me that I had a million things to do before then if I wanted to avoid catastrophe.

  I squeezed Ridley's arm. "Break a leg out there," I said. "Not that you need the help."

  "Thanks," he answered. Before I could walk away, he laid his hand on my own arm. "Tell Katie ... tell her I'm sorry that I was pretending," he said. "It wasn't all pretend, you know. There was still a lot of me in that part. I wish everybody could understand that." A softer tone for these words. The humility in his eyes was for something other than theater critics and Hollywood privileges, I knew.

  "Tell her yourself," I said, gently. "She just needs a little time to get past the divide between the real life and the celebrity version." I gave him an encouraging smile before I moved on to the dressing room.

  At fifteen minutes to curtain came the final lights check, props check, and last-minute stage makeup touches. Ten minutes to curtain, the cast was assembled in the wings, waiting for the velvet drapes to rise and reveal the crowd from the surrounding villages. I saw more than one nail biter, a few whose lips moved either in silent prayer or last-minute recitation of their lines.