by Fiona Walker
He’d found his career in stunt riding by chance, helping out a friend at a charity jousting tournament and discovering something for which he had an exceptional talent that suited his fearless, extrovert nature. On a whim, he’d decided to set up his own team and, largely self-taught, had entertained audiences at country fairs and stately homes, at first using well-heeled connections, but soon earning a reputation as a breathtaking act to watch. It came so naturally to Dougie, combining his love of horses with high risk and showing off, that he wasn’t aware of exactly how good he was until television and advertising bookings began filling his diary. Soon the film work was rolling in too. That was how he’d met Iris Devonshire, the child star of the Ptolemy Finch series, who was undeniably all woman by the time she shared a saddle, then a bed with Dougie in film five, and the crush she’d had on him had turned into a compelling, all-absorbing love affair. Dougie knew he wanted to marry Iris from their first night together in a London hotel room. He’d adored her beauty, her innocence and her intelligence. She’d encouraged him to read and broaden his mind until the tabloids had reported his misdemeanours just before their wedding day. Dougie hadn’t been entirely innocent, but he’d been more faithful to Iris than he had to any other woman. Engagement broken, she’d fallen for another man, taken a break from acting and was now in her final year at university, existing in a parallel universe. And he was engaged to Kiki.
In his more self-effacing moments, Dougie was big enough to admit that it was as much his talent for seducing leading ladies as for acting that had given him his biggest acting breaks – first Iris and now Kiki – although directors certainly seemed to love what he did on screen. The phenomenon baffled him and had even been given its own nickname, the ‘Everett Effect’. To him, it was just learning lines and speaking them over and over again. And, having burned with the desire to be a big star since his first day on a movie set, he thought now that he preferred the adrenalin kick of riding stunts. His broken engagement had made him grow up and focus on what he really wanted from life. He was thirty, and still very much wanted a wife. Losing Iris had hurt him deeply and made him question his behaviour, although not enough to change it.
He tried to concentrate on his script, running through the next scene. In this sequence he said just six words, all in made-up elf language that sounded like bringing up phlegm.
‘Fireauchi blanhunt muir bechan fin nathrot!’ He gave it an enthusiastic shot, like a student ordering two beers in Stockholm.
‘Mr Ever After?’ One of the Romanian runners came in with the sandwiches and water he’d asked for.
‘Everett.’ He glanced up from the script as her cleavage came level with his nose. She had a tiny tattoo of a heart on one breast.
Catching him looking at it, she dropped a big smile and two dark blue eyes into his line of vision. ‘You like? Is where my heart, he lives.’ Her accent was rich and deliciously vampirish.
‘Actually it should be on the left.’
‘Uh?
‘Your heart’s on the wrong axis.’
Her lips parted and a pink tongue brushed along her very white teeth. Her pupils were huge, he noticed. ‘You want axes to chop wood?’
Dougie grinned. Access-all-areas come-ons were increasingly common, but ‘axes’ was a new one. He couldn’t wait to tell Abe, his agent. He’d love that. Abe was always telling him not to mistake his on-screen persona for off-screen invincibility. When Dougie had first made the transition from stuntman to film actor, his roles had inevitably been high on violent action and low on lines, with no love interest whatsoever. His biggest fans then were teenage boys obsessed with medieval warfare. Then he’d been cast alongside a pretty Hispanic actress in Dark Knight. There was minimal romantic action – she’d died in his arms in the first ten minutes, after which he cut a lot of people to shreds – but the fan-mail had poured in, and the press had got excited about the ‘Everett Effect’. Off camera, Dougie was a good-looking man with a certain British charm. On camera, however, something magical happened when he was in close-up with a female co-star, the long-lashed blue eyes mesmerizing, the handsome face simmering with unspoken sexual promise and fight-to-the-death-for-love loyalty. It was the Everett Effect.
Dougie Everett’s celluloid sex appeal was a revelation. As a result, he was working his way to the top of many casting directors’ wish lists right now and Abe was cherry-picking the roles, the latest being a huge network series that he guaranteed would propel Dougie right up there with the very biggest names. Behind the scenes, Dougie was also being offered a lot of other cherries.
‘I give you anything you want, Mr Ever After,’ the girl said now, the message in her eyes unmistakable, slim thumbs hooking through the belt loops of her skinny jeans, which lowered to reveal the smooth hollow above her pubic bone.
Dougie knew he should force himself to look away. Sex was easy currency in the movie business. Loyalty was harder won. He owed it to Kiki to break it off before he screwed around. But his blood was already pumping south, pulling logic from his mind as it fast-tracked instinct instead. The engagement was as good as over and he deserved cheering up.
He flashed his charming smile. ‘Well I don’t want axes,’ he said, remembering an old Two Ronnies sketch his father loved. ‘Do you have fork handles?’
Her dark eyes looked questioning, then a slow smile spread across her face as she took in his expression.
‘I have four tattoos.’ Her nails were the same shade of scarlet as the tiny heart. She unzipped her woollen hoodie. The little red heart was now riding high over a frilly bra. ‘You move my heart, Mr Ever After.’
‘Your heart is exquisite exactly where it is.’ Dougie stood up and walked towards her. ‘Please don’t waste it on me.’ The kick of tasting another mouth against his was just as intense as he remembered, with the sharp punch of guilty pleasure. Kissing his way down her throat, he peeled her top sideways to reveal more froths of lingerie and another tattoo, a purple star this time. He closed his mouth around a dark nipple, her breasts deliciously small, soft and natural compared to Kiki’s peach-perfect, enhanced orbs. They even had an endearing scattering of freckles that reminded Dougie painfully of Iris. She looked no older than eighteen. As she slipped down on to her knees, her mouth eager to take him, he felt his cock strain against the leather breeches.
She looked up questioningly. ‘Where is zip?’
‘Fuck.’ Going for a pee earlier had involved two costume assistants and an unpicking device. ‘How good are you at knots?’
Chapter 7
Snow had started to fall once more by the time Dougie made it back on set, ten minutes late, his breeches knotted at a very odd angle. Fired up by the same wayward recklessness that had just taken him on a tour of the pretty runner’s tattoos, his riding was breathtaking in its speed and daring.
The flakes fattened as the wild-eyed chestnut slalomed through the trees, kicking up ever-deeper snow before breaking out across open country to join mounted comrades, pursued by an imaginary giant boar. The crew were calling for a weather check, but the director knew this was too good to stop. After each take, Dougie patted his chestnut horse and reached forward to rub its snow-topped mane and ears, grateful for its stamina, aware that his unfit Friesians could never have taken the pace or cold. It was a tedious stop-start process. The camera trolley kept getting stuck and the scene had to be reset and repeated. By the fifth take Dougie was even feeling sorry for the imaginary eight-tusked boar. He rested the heavy sword on his shoulder and wriggled his fingers, which had gone totally numb in the thick gauntlets.
At that moment, a giant black shadow seemed to explode from the snowfall overhead.
‘What the —?’ The director’s voice was drowned by the roar of rotor blades and the screams of cast and crew.
Now firm friends and united by exhaustion, Dougie and his chestnut were the only ones not to bat an eyelid when the helicopter loomed above the black firs in the middle of the scene, making an apocalyptic entrance. Lights
flashing, it swooped down, sending snow over everything, terrifying the horses and wrecking continuity.
Trotting out of the snow cloud to safety, Dougie looked back at the carnage. While horses bolted and riders flew in every direction amid the white-out, the flashy gold Eurocopter landed on the flattest piece of land, almost vanishing in a haze of snow.
The director swore furiously through the loudspeaker for order, calling a halt to that day’s shoot. The light was fading, they’d never have time to reset the scene and the fucking helicopter was in the way. It had better be the fucking Academy Awards telling him he was nominated after all.
The blades were still sending up a white-out. Head ducked against the bitter updraught, one of the grooms came to take the chestnut from Dougie, closely followed by the tattooed runner with a big squashy coat.
Having been in the saddle for almost two hours wielding a broadsword, Dougie was grateful for the early finish. His arm and shoulders ached as he clambered out of the saddle and put on the old Puffa over his costume. The unremitting cold was starting to take its toll on his body. He needed a hot shower, a painkiller and a stiff drink before he checked his phone messages.
The helicopter’s rotors had reduced to half-speed. A door was opening.
‘Think the talent’s arrived early?’ suggested the larky character actor who was playing Dougie’s accident-prone goblin sidekick.
Although Dougie was the arrow-shooting hero of most action scenes, the movie’s headline act was a far more established star, a former Bond actor who was being paid five times as much to deliver half a dozen lines and save the fairies. Dougie was looking forward to meeting him – he was a lifelong 007 fan and the man was a total hero.
‘Wouldn’t he go straight to the ski lodge?’
‘Likes to make an entrance.’
They watched as a figure leaped out of the helicopter – athletic, tall, sophisticated and possibly licensed to kill, but definitely not a lightly grizzled Welshman with a supermodel wife and a carefully concealed drinking problem. Battling through the blizzard was a very beautiful Indian girl in a wolf-fur coat and hat.
She headed straight for Dougie, her voice exquisitely deep. ‘Mr Everett?’
If there was one thing more exciting to Dougie than meeting a retired Bond hero, it was being cast in the role himself. And this was the closest he’d ever come. For an embarrassing moment he was completely tongue-tied.
‘Seth has sent me to collect you, Mr Everett,’ she told him, pocketing the tablet she was carrying and reaching out to shake his hand.
‘Who’s Seth?’
‘You have not received a call today?’
He laughed. ‘The only calls we receive out here are set calls.’
‘No matter.’ She held up her arm to the pilot. A moment later, the engine pitch changed from idling to high rev. ‘We have a restaurant table booked. Come.’
He looked down at his gimp waistcoat and boots. ‘I’ll just scrub up and change in my trailer. I must reek.’
Tutting, she walked back towards him, pressed her nose into his neck and breathed deeply. ‘You smell good. You have no time to change.’ Beckoning him, she disappeared into the white-out as the blades whined towards full speed.
For a moment, Dougie was glued to the spot, nonplussed. Then, zipping up his Puffa and hoping the restaurant had a relaxed dress code, he followed her.
When Dougie had climbed into a plush leather seat in the helicopter beside the woman and strapped on the safety harness, she handed him a set of headphones, which he put on, then waited for her to explain what the hell was going on. But she said nothing, pulling out her iPad and typing into its screen instead.
‘What’s your name?’ he shouted, over the little microphone by his mouth.
‘Deepak,’ came a walrus-voiced reply from the pilot as they took off. ‘You have been filming a movie, yes? What is the story?’
While Dougie shared the fantasy action plot, the woman showed no sign of listening in.
Dougie studied her thoughtfully. Whoever this ‘Seth’ was, he went for the glamorous-assistant cliché big-time. Chital-deer-eyed, glossy-haired and pouting, she was exquisitely put together, albeit chillier than the glacial landscape outside. When he glanced at her iPad, expecting an encoded memo with Top Secret at the top, he saw she was solving a Sudoku puzzle.
Instead of flying along the river valley towards civilization, as he’d imagined, they were travelling higher into the mountains, a journey of less than twenty minutes that took them to a frozen lake. As they came down to land, Dougie half imagined that its surface would break open to reveal an amazing high-tech headquarters. Instead, he saw a huge dome of snow carved beside it, against the mountainside, too symmetrical to have been shaped by nature. It resembled a giant sculpture of a beetle, the size of an aircraft hangar, with one long central backbone from which arched limbs protruded.
‘Ice hotel,’ the pilot explained, as they came down to land. ‘The best in Europe.’
Inside, the building was a cathedral formed in snow, the light extraordinary, filtering through the walls from outside in a curious subterranean glow and enhanced with the coloured artificial beams that gleamed from the ice walls and ceilings. Dougie felt as if he was walking inside the aurora borealis.
The glamorous fur-clad girl led him along the domed spine to a curtained archway marking the opening to a private suite of ice rooms, bathed in yet more exquisite light.
Dougie looked around for Bond baddies but there was just a luminous purple table spread with black slates topped with smoked-fish appetizers and two huge fur-lined ice chairs, one of which the girl indicated he should sit in. He imagined that the mysterious Seth was probably watching from behind a double-sided ice-wall mirror. He had to be Indian, turbanned and mystical, with dark glasses and a tame eagle on a gauntlet.
‘Would you like a beer, Mr Everett?’ She walked to an ice wall carved with little indentations, each containing bottles of premium lagers. ‘What would you like? Vintage 3? Something Belgian?’
‘Budvar’s fine, and please call me Dougie.’
She uncapped it and held it out. ‘Seth became a great admirer of your work when he saw High Noon. He believes you have serious talent. I also thought it was excellent and you are most talented.’ Her voice was perfectly modulated but strangely unemotional, like a satnav. ‘I recommended it to him.’ Just for a moment the dark eyes flashed with something close to warmth, then shuttered back to professional cool.
‘Thank you. I’m sorry, I don’t know your name?’
‘My name is Dollar.’ Her face remained unsmiling. ‘Indeed, I also enjoyed Dark Knight, in which the stunts were very accomplished.’
‘Thank you.’ Dougie’s head swelled happily, as she settled on the reindeer pelt in the adjacent chair. Her face was so still and beautiful. ‘When is Seth joining us?’
‘He’s not.’
Having been anticipating the arrival of a megalomaniac in full kurta pajama, Dougie was disappointed. The girl was ravishing, but not very enlightening company: she had yet to crack a facial expression. Right now her eyes gave him that strange, split-second warm glow, or was he imagining it?
‘Seth is in Moscow this evening,’ she was saying in her deep monotone, ‘but we are in constant communication, and he has entrusted this meeting to me. First I must ask you to sign this.’ She produced her tablet, on which was loaded a page of close-typed legalese. Scrolling down to a blank box, she held out a touch pen. ‘It is a straightforward confidentiality agreement that states nothing we discuss in this room this evening will be shared with a third party.’
‘Hang on, I have no idea what any of this is about.’
‘You’ll find out if you sign it, Mr Everett.’ She waggled the stylus impatiently.
Dougie scribbled on the screen.
‘Thank you.’ She took back the pen, unsmiling. ‘Please eat. I will get straight to the point. We would like to offer you a job.’
Dougie had his mouth full o
f raw tuna exploding with pink peppercorns, vanilla and grapefruit. ‘Tell me more,’ he mumbled, longing for beer-battered cod and chips.
‘Seth would like you to be his professional huntsman. For one year initially.’
Peppercorns popping, eyes watering, Dougie stared at her in astonishment. There was no warm glow in the dark eyes now. Her beautiful face was unblinking, like that of a form-filling bureaucrat anticipating a yes or no answer.
