Superstar
T C Southwell
Published by T C Southwell at Smashwords
Copyright © 2010 T C Southwell
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter One
Carrin stared at the blank page, pen poised, yet unable to write the first line. She couldn’t even write his name. How did one write to a world-famous film star? What should she say? Not that her letter would ever get past his press secretary. No doubt it would be read by some bored individual whose job it was to keep the fans at bay and answer their letters, sending them pictures of their favourite star without his ever having to deal with it. After all, he would be busy with his famous friends, going out with supermodels and actresses. He would not want some unknown girl from South Africa to bother him. Okay, so she was a struggling writer, but struggling was the key word. She had written several books and stories, all of which publishers had rejected. So she was a failure, a nobody. Why would a famous screen star want to meet her? Well, she had written a screenplay for him, but the studios probably would not like it, even if he did. She could only hope that he would, and, if so, that he could persuade a studio to make it. After all, if a megastar like him wanted to act in it, surely a studio would be more inclined to consider it? That was her hope, at any rate.
Carrin sighed and looked at her drawings of him, enjoying, as she always did, the pure symmetry of his face, with its clean lines and noble features. It surprised her that he was still single, yet only the other day she had seen a magazine article about him. The photograph showed him at some nightspot in America, a supermodel beside him. Well, what did she expect? She looked at the sheet of writing paper again. What would she say? That she had written a screenplay for him? He would never read the letter anyway. Still, she would never get anywhere if she did not write the letter. If there was some slight chance of ever meeting him, this was it.
Filled with determination, she wrote ‘dear’ and paused, pondering. Dear what? Dear Sir? Dear Mark? Dear Mr Lord? Dear Lord... She giggled. How ridiculous. Okay, be formal, after all, it was a business letter. She would never admit what she felt for him, even if she ever met him - that would be utterly humiliating. A schoolgirl infatuation, reserved only for the very young, and by the late twenties, one was supposed to have more sense.
The romantic strains of Depeche Mode’s In Your Room wafted around her, filling her head with impossible dreams. Mark Lord, world-famous film star, multi-millionaire and recluse. The paparazzi rarely spotted him, and scandal did not attach itself to his name. What was he really like? He was not thought to be the handsomest Hollywood star, but she found him fascinating. His dark blue eyes, so intense on the screen, glared from beneath fine, crooked brows. To her, the symmetry of his lean face, the narrow perfection of his nose and sensual curve of his lips were sheer poetry. The way his dark hair shone in the light, striking against his smooth golden skin.
Shaking herself from her daydream, she read her formal letter, asking if Mr Lord would be interested in reading a treatment. It would have to do, or she would rip it into a million pieces and flush it down the loo, and all of her dreams with it. At worst, she would get a letter from his press secretary saying thanks, but no thanks. Picking up her sketchbook, she drew him again; another angle, another expression, every pencil stroke a caress.
The plain buff envelope that arrived after two weeks was addressed in a curving hand. Carrin raced back to her cottage and flung herself into one of the worn chairs in her lounge. Her heart pounded, her mouth was dry and her hands clammy. A polite rejection, that was all it would be, she told herself, steeling herself for the worst.
Thank you, Miss York, for your strange letter, but Mr Lord does not involve himself in the childish fantasies of failed writers.
Maybe not. Maybe he was a nice person in real life. She tore open the envelope and read the single page written in bold, flowing handwriting.
'Dear Miss York...' Carrin's eyes flew to the bottom of the page, and there it was; '...Yours sincerely, Mark Lord’. He had written it himself. That meant he had read her letter. Her heart tried to crawl, pounding, into her mouth, and she swallowed hard. Hungrily her eyes scanned the few lines, and at the end, her breath stopped. He wanted to see her screenplay, and he was booking her on a flight to California. The room spun, and she realised that she had forgotten to breathe. Gasping, she stared at the wall as waves of happiness washed through her. As the tide of joy ebbed, however, ripples of doubt nibbled at her. What if he didn't like her, or her screenplay? What if she didn't like him? He could be an insufferable egotistical ass, or a charming heartbreaker who used women and then cast them aside. Weren't most Hollywood stars like that? It seemed strange that he would send her a ticket just on the strength of her treatment. That was unexpected. Surely he should have asked to read the entire script? Then again, did his reasons for wanting to meet her really matter? The main thing was that he did, unbelievable though it seemed. Perhaps bored film stars were inclined to indulge their strange urges just for the hell of it.
Going into her bedroom, she sat before the mirror. Large, scared blue eyes gazed back at her from between thick fringes of dark lashes. After a day working in the hot sun, her tanned skin was a little grubby and her short blonde hair wilting. Her bone structure was good; many people had told her that. She had high cheekbones and a small narrow nose, a firm chin, a mouth that was slightly too wide, and white, even teeth.
Carrin sighed, turning away. Even if she was beautiful, how could she compete with supermodels? Still, all she really wanted was to meet him; romantic dreams were silly anyway. She would meet him; that was the main thing. That was why she had written the screenplay in the first place. Good or bad, she would find out what he was really like.
The booking confirmation arrived two days later, and she wondered why he had sent it separately. The tangible presence of the first-class booking made up for any doubts, however. It proved that he meant what he had said. The letter had not been some cruel joke. Armed with it, Carrin marched into the farmhouse kitchen.
Her mother was cleaning beans; her brother had just finished the evening milking, and washed his hands in the sink. Julia slouched at the kitchen table, idly thumbing through a week-old copy of a woman's magazine. The oppressive late summer heat filled the kitchen with an enervating lassitude. Her mother slapped at flies that tried to land on the food, Julia swatted peevishly at hovering mosquitoes.
The singing of crickets and frogs followed her in, filling the kitchen momentarily with their sweet wild sound, then were cut off as she closed the door, to be replaced by the mumble of the TV set in the lounge. Everyone glanced at her, then returned to their occupations. Paul held his arms under the tap, revelling in the cool water. Carrin's mother shot him a meaningful glance and he shut the tap with a sigh. As he dried his hands, Carrin struggled to find the wo
rds for her announcement.
"I'm going to America," she blurted.
Paul smiled. "I'm sure you'd like to, one day. Maybe if you got a job, you could afford it."
Carrin frowned. "I'm a writer."
"It's time you gave that up and got a job. We need to renovate the cow sheds and fix the fences in the top paddock." Paul tucked the dishtowel back into its holder.
"No, I mean I'm going to America next week."
Julia glanced up. "It's just one of her silly daydreams, ignore her."
"No!" Carrin glared at her sister-in-law. "I have a first-class booking, sent to me by a film star. He's interested in one of my screenplays, and he wants me to go to America." She pulled the out the booking confirmation and brandished it.
Paul examined it, frowning. Julia snorted and returned to her mindless reading. Mrs York stopped cleaning beans to await Paul's verdict.
"It looks real." Paul glanced up at Carrin. "Where did you get this?"
"I just told you."
"A film star sent it to you."
"Yes."
"Who?"
Carrin looked away, embarrassed to reveal her secret fantasy. Julia's hard eyes mocked her, and her mother's stolid patience rebuked her.
"Mark Lord."
Paul gave a snort of laughter, and Julia joined in with hyena-like giggles. Mrs York smiled and went back to her chore. Carrin snatched the booking confirmation back.
"Laugh all you want, it's true. Next week I'll be in California. He's invited me to stay with him for a week."
Julia slammed her magazine shut. "You know, your daydreams are really getting the better of you."
Paul put a hand on her shoulder. "If it was true, who would look after the horses?"
Carrin jerked away. "Julia can do it, instead of sitting around on her backside all day."
"Carrin!" Mrs York raised her head. "That's not nice."
Carrin fled the kitchen and their mockery. She would show them. Back in her whitewashed cottage, she placed the booking confirmation beside the letter on the lounge table. She toyed with the idea of showing them the letter, but that would probably not convince them either. Her family believed in hard work and making enough money to live on. For them, a dream come true would be Paul's favourite cow dropping a prize-winning calf, or her mother's jam winning a medal at the local show. Those dreams were within their reach, but meeting a superstar was too far beyond anything they could imagine.
In her bedroom, she dragged her battered suitcase out from under the bed. As she pulled clothes from the cupboard, the inadequacy of her wardrobe came home to her. Jeans, farm clothes and T-shirts were all she had. Sighing, she dug amongst her clothes for the few nice items she possessed. A colourful sarong, a rayon swimming costume and two summer dresses that she had worn to town many times. Selecting the best, she folded them into the suitcase, along with a few jerseys, for it would be colder in Los Angeles. She would not need them on the farm anyway. Once the suitcase was packed, she lay on the bed and abandoned herself to her dream once more.
Chapter Two
When Carrin stepped off the plane in LAX, after a twenty-three hour flight, her anxiety was monumental. Cool balmy air rushed into her lungs and ruffled her hair; new sights and smells assaulted her from every direction. Her suitcase made two trips around the conveyer belt before she could reach the front of the crush to collect it. Large men pushed and shoved, and heavily scented women brushed past her. The nasal twang of their speech was alien and almost incomprehensible. There were no trolleys, but her suitcase was light, and she carried it through the customs counters and out into the arrivals' lounge.
There, at last, the enormity of her situation dawned upon her. She was alone in a strange country. What was she to do now? Mark Lord had sent her no address, not even a phone number. Was he meeting her at the airport? Surely not. Droves of paparazzi would hound him, and, if he came in disguise, how would she recognise him? A man pushed past her, almost knocking her over, and she glared at him as he was engulfed in the arms of a waiting woman with three children. Scanning the crowd, she spotted a group of formal looking men holding up name boards. Her gaze lighted upon one with her name on it, and she hurried over to the pleasant looking young man who held it. He was tall, and a little on the chubby side, with short sandy hair and a blunt-featured face, and his dark brown eyes shone with amity. When she arrived before him, he lowered the sign.
"Miss York?"
Carrin nodded, then staggered as someone pushed past.
The young man put out a hand to steady her. "Mr Lord sent me to collect you. I'm his chauffeur."
Relief washed through Carrin, and she smiled up at him. "I'm really glad to see you. I was feeling rather lost."
The chauffeur nodded. "You looked it. My name's John."
Carrin experienced a resurgence of confidence as John took her bag and led her through the luxurious airport. At the sliding doors, a sleek grey limousine waited, an airport security guard watching over it. John opened the door, and she slid into the cool, leather-upholstered interior with a mixture of awe and intense pleasure. She gazed out through the tinted windows while John put her suitcase in the boot. Running her hand over the silky leather seat, Carrin looked around at the sumptuous deep grey carpet and the gleaming wood inlay on the doors and console before her. When she glanced out of the window again, she was surprised to find that the car was moving. With a soft whine, the window separating her from the driver sank down, and John's eyes met hers in the rear-view mirror.
"If you want something to drink, there's a bar in front of you. There are some snacks in the fridge too. It's a long drive, so relax, Miss York."
Carrin nodded, studying the console with renewed interest. It took only a moment to figure it out, and she sat back with an ice-cold glass of orange juice. As the car whispered along, she gazed at the passing scenery. Curious stares from other motorists made her shrink back into the soft seat, and a glance at John caught him grinning. He cleared his throat in embarrassment.
"Don't worry, they can't see through the tinted glass."
Carrin smiled. "They'd be awfully disappointed if they could."
John's eyes twinkled. "Mr Lord likes his privacy."
"Do they know that this is his car?"
"No, but only important people drive around in cars like this. Mostly they're just rich business tycoons, not movie stars."
Carrin relaxed as they left the city and glided onto a freeway. "Where are we going?"
"To his house in Beverly Hills. He's at a meeting with a producer at the moment. As soon as I've dropped you off I'll be going to fetch him, so you'll have time to settle in and freshen up."
Carrin nodded, her heart pounding at the prospect of meeting Mark Lord. She watched the passing scenery, sipped her drink and nibbled on chips and pâté. Leaving the freeway, they drove through broad, tree-lined avenues. High walls and hedges guarded the privacy of those who lived in the mansions that lined the road. It was not until they pulled up before a set of enormous steel gates that her heart started to flip-flop again.
The gates clicked and swung open to admit the car into a secluded garden of clipped hedges, flowering trees and gay floral boarders. Gravel crunched under the tyres as they drove up to a double-storey house. The imposing mansion had a pleasant air of a home about it. Creepers adorned the walls and hung over the windows. The limousine halted, and John opened her door. As she stepped out into the cool garden, filled with sweet scents and birdsong, Carrin became all too aware of her wrinkled jeans and cheap T-shirt. John extracted her suitcase from the boot, then mounted the shallow steps to the polished wooden door and rang the bell. Within moments, a uniformed maid opened it, and John returned to his limousine. The girl's cold eyes raked Carrin's cheap outfit, her lip curled.
"Welcome, Miss York." The maid's tone did not match her words, and contempt filled her eyes. "I'm Helen."
Helen picked up Carrin's suitcase and turned away before she could reply. As she followed the girl
up a curving flight of marble stairs, Carrin wondered why such a lovely girl worked as a maid. Helen's raven hair gleamed in its upswept coiffure, and her creamy skin glowed in the subdued lighting. Her pale green eyes gleamed like jewels between thick black lashes lavishly coated with mascara, and her tight uniform revealed luscious curves and long tanned legs.
Carrin followed Helen through the gracious white marble halls without really noticing their beauty. Rare paintings graced the walls and subdued, recessed lighting bathed potted palms in pools of warm light. What chance did she have of impressing Mark Lord when even his maid was so lovely? Helen showed her into a bright, spacious bedroom furnished elegantly in pale salmon pink and white with hints of light grey. Everything looked brand new, from the soft grey carpet to the spotless pink and white linen on the four-poster bed. Lacy curtains fluttered in the breeze that blew in through the glass doors that opened onto a balcony.
Carrin went over to it and gazed out. Below, a second manicured garden surrounded a marble pool filled with sparkling blue water. Carrin turned to find Helen opening her suitcase.
"Oh, don't worry about that, I'll unpack it later."
The maid straightened and raked Carrin with a contemptuous glance. "Very well."
As she turned to leave, Carrin asked, "Would Mr Lord mind if I use the pool?"
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