‘AMBIENT enough for you, is it?’
He ignored her, continued to inspect the stone hut that huddled miserably beside the fast-running river. A bit like herself. She was cold, wet, her boots leaked, and the last thing she needed was to be stuck here in the middle of nowhere with Oliver Darke, famous actor. He was impatient, irritable, sarcastic, cynical, and probably believed his own publicity. He was also disturbing, and that made her cross.
For the past two weeks she’d been running around in ever decreasing circles, with Oliver Darke causing most of the confusion, because the Great Actor expected to be pandered to, his nose wiped, his ego soothed…‘You are being paid, Paris.’ Yes. Inadequately, in her opinion…Stop grouching. With a rather wry smile, she leaned in the crumbling doorway, examined his tall, lithe figure as he continued to stand with his eyes unfocused, his hands hanging limp at his sides, and tried to be impartial. He was a good actor, a superb actor. Charismatic, her sister would have said. Excellent presence. But then, she would have said that, wouldn’t she? Her sister liked actors.
Hearing the car door slam, she turned to see what Henry was up to. Henry, dressed all in black, who looked as though he yearned to leap on any passing funeral procession. Oliver’s dresser, gofer, odd job man, and minder. Henry, who thought he was coming down with flu.
With a heartfelt sigh, she straightened. ‘Don’t be long,’ she warned Oliver. In her experience, the only way to cope with the acting profession was to behave like Monster Nanny, otherwise nothing ever got done. Leaving him with his ambience, she walked back towards the cold comfort of the car. Tall and thin—slim, she mentally corrected, one had to have a bit of self worth in this life—an ordinary-looking girl. Average looks, average shape, average intelligence. Dark hair with a slight curl, and amused blue eyes. Usually amused blue eyes; life at the moment hadn’t given her very much to be amused about. But she dressed well, she thought with a rather humorous defiance. Always. Bought the best she could afford; she just wished someone had thought to tell her that they would be filming in mud.
‘Oliver nearly ready?’ Henry asked hopefully. His voice had developed a theatrical croak.
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘And you’ve spoken with the villagers?’
‘I have.’
‘And they won’t be a problem?’
‘No.’
‘You impressed upon them the need to keep the area clear? Not to intrude when we return with the rest of the crew?’
‘I did.’
‘Good. And Oliver’s happy with the location?’
‘I don’t know. I didn’t ask him.’
Irritability was catching. Grimacing an apology, she patted his shoulder, wished there were someone to pat hers, opened the car door and climbed thankfully inside. Huddled into her mac, she stared gloomily through the windscreen. Being an interpreter wasn’t always a bed of roses. ‘Take Oliver and Henry to look at the new location,’ the director had said. ‘Have a quick word with the villagers, then back before lunch.’ Hah. The roads had been slippery with water and debris due to the dismal weather that had been blanketing Europe for the past few weeks; the owner of the field had been away in Oporto; Henry thought he was getting flu, and Oliver Darke, famous actor, was in a foul mood. Great. And you’re being extraordinarily bitchy, Paris. Yes. Not really wanting to consider her own behaviour, she switched on the ignition and turned the heater up to full blast.
Five minutes later, Oliver began trudging up the rainslick field. Even wet, and in a temper, he was impossibly good-looking. Loose-limbed, long legged, with heavy-lidded dark brown eyes. Unbelievably sexy. He could adopt a smouldering look at will, and usually did. Dark blond hair, probably dyed, she assured herself. The even white teeth probably owed more to an orthodontist than nature, and the rugged chin to the art of a plastic surgeon, and he was probably not used to pigging it in a small car in the middle of Portugal’s Costa Verde in the worst weather imaginable. Which was a pity, because the scenery, when it could be seen, was exquisite.
The rear door was snatched open and both men got in. ‘Let’s go,’ Oliver said shortly.
Thrusting the hired car into drive, she slowly negotiated the slippery field and edged on to the track. Dark clouds appeared to tangle with the trees, that dripped; the windscreen wipers squeaked; Henry sounded as though he was conducting an experiment with his sinuses; and Oliver was extremely silent. Grimly so, one might say.
‘How long?’ he asked abruptly.
‘The same as out. Half an hour.’ Maybe. If she didn’t get lost, managed to find the right track.
‘Something is amusing you?’ he drawled.
Quite unaware that she’d been smiling, she flicked her eyes up to the rear-view mirror, then quickly away again. ‘No,’ she murmured. Whatever else Oliver Darke might do, he didn’t amuse her. Thankfully seeing the sign for Espinho, she turned on to the right road, and a silent thirty minutes later they arrived on the set.
George, the director, hurried over with flattering promptness, opened the door, helped his star out and escorted him towards the large white trailers that sat in a wagon-train-like circle on the edge of the field. Henry hurried behind like a downtrodden puppy. Eager, but ill.
Climbing out, she turned to survey the scene of utter chaos that confronted her. She didn’t know much about film-making but she had always assumed it was a little more organised than this. Of course the rain didn’t help, turning everything to mud as it had. She had also assumed that film-making involved far more people than those spread out before her. And where was the director’s chair? she wondered. They always had a director’s chair! There were cameramen, various technicians, lighting and sound experts, and a continuity man, who was leaning back against a tree with an expression of profound boredom on his face.
Moving her eyes towards the other side of the small field, she watched entranced as a young girl dressed in period costume threw a tantrum, and a tall, slim man dressed in the tattered uniform of one of Wellington’s troops, artistically daubed in blood, shouted back.
‘It’s muddy!’
‘Of course it’s muddy! It’s been bloody raining for weeks!’
‘Well, there’s nothing in my contract that says I have to crawl through mud!’
‘There’s nothing in your contract that says you have to throw a tantrum every five minutes either! You’re supposed to be the intrepid heroine, for God’s sake, not a shrinking violet who needs her bloody hand held every five minutes!’ Turning on his very muddy heel, he stalked back up the field.
Tempers were obviously getting frayed, nerves stretched; they were way over budget, and time was running out. Everything normal, in fact.
Turning up the collar of her raincoat, Paris picked her way towards the action and met him halfway.
‘You took your time!’ he grouched irritably.
‘Yes.’
‘Hmph.’ Obviously unable to think of anything else to accuse her of, he turned his attention elsewhere, saw the tubby director, and yelled across to him. ‘George! I’m going to have a drink!’ Without waiting for a reply, he stalked across to one of the smaller trailers and disappeared inside. Enter and exit unknown actor. Oliver’s stand-in. The one who did the boring bits—and got shouted at by the exciting new starlet, Melissa Bright.
Amused by the exchange, because it was, after all, what she expected from actors, she continued on her way. Halting beside George, for whom she’d been working for all of three weeks, and wished she wasn’t, she asked amiably, ‘Alcoholic, is he?’
Turning a startled face towards her, he demanded blankly, ‘What?’
‘Actor chummy,’ she explained with a little movement of her head towards the trailer.
‘Alcoholic? Of course he isn’t!’ he snapped with the same sort of irritability as the soldier. ‘And I expected you back hours ago!’
‘Sorry,’ she apologised absently as her attention was diverted towards the young actress who was flouncing, as well as anyone could flounce through mud, although she was making a pretty good stab at it, towards her own trailer, her skirts held high above her knees. When she reached the comparative safety of the top step, she turned to make a last dramatic statement.
‘And I’m warning you, George, if you don’t get that imbecile to change his attitude, I shall walk off the set! The man’s an absolute pig.’
George sighed.
‘Always like this, is it?’ Paris asked commiseratingly.
‘Yes. No. If it would only stop raining! And if she carries on her bad temper with Oliver…’
Not being able to do much about the weather, only the language, and perhaps trying to make up for her own bad mood, she asked, kindly, ‘Want me to have a word?’
‘Would you?’ he asked gratefully.
‘Sure.’ For some reason she was the only one who could get anywhere near the temperamental young actress. Probably because she didn’t offer competition.
‘Thanks, Paris.’ With a faint smile that looked very forced, he added, ‘Then you’d best get yourself a cup of tea while there’s still time.’ With another sigh, he lumbered across to have a word with the cameraman.
Passing one of the technicians, who smiled at her then gave a comical shrug, she grinned, and continued on to Melissa’s caravan. Ten minutes later, her duty done, although not very nicely, she had to admit, she hurried across to the tea-wagon. Much to her surprise, Oliver was sitting on one of the long bench seats, legs thrust out before him, a cup nursed in his palms. He was already changed into his soldier’s uniform, mud, blood, and God knew what else daubed about his person, and the dark wig he was to wear, which was perched like a dead hedgehog beside him, somehow managed to look the most contented thing she’d seen all week.
While she made her tea and something to eat, she watched him from the corner of her eye. Impatient, restless, moody, she decided—and bloodstained, of course. ‘All ready for the off?’ she asked lightly.
‘Perceptive,’ he muttered rudely.
With a little shrug, knowing that he liked her even less than she liked him, she continued to fill the silences that tended to stretch between them. ‘Doesn’t look the sort of epic you’d want to be involved in.’
‘Doesn’t it?’
‘No.’ Not that she knew very much about him, only what she’d read in the Press; although she wasn’t daft enough to believe everything she read, stories were usually based on fact, and there had been that rather nasty piece about the way he’d treated a young girl not so long ago, and, whether true or not, her own observations about his character this past week hadn’t yet given her any reason to dismiss such allegations out of hand, or change her mind about him. But his private life aside, in the one or two films she had seen him in he’d been either a hard-hitting industrialist, or a cop. Meaty script, tough action. Nothing at all like this. ‘Docudrama, isn’t it?’
Still staring moodily down into his cup, he gave a brief, unamused laugh. ‘One word for it. I certainly can’t fault the drama.’
‘No. Always difficult, is she? Melissa?’
‘But the producers would only agree to fund the production if Melissa was in it? Because she’s flavour of the month?’ But obviously not his month, judging by his scowl. She was supposed to be portraying Isabella Soares, a Portuguese girl who followed the drum, and her lover, Captain Richard Marsh, as portrayed by Oliver, who was wounded at Almeida and captured by the French. She rescued him, dragged him across country, and eventually took him to the stone hut they’d just viewed. ‘And I never did discover how she got him this far,’ she commented musingly.
‘Horse and cart.’
‘I didn’t see a horse and cart.’
‘No.’
Blood from a stone. So why don’t you just shut up, Paris? Because she couldn’t, because from the moment she’d first clapped eyes on him—in the flesh, so to speak—two weeks ago, there had been this uncontrollable urge to needle him. ‘Horse went lame, did it? Cart broke?’ He didn’t answer, and she gave a wry smile. He’d already done the Spanish scenes before she’d arrived on the set, then nipped away to whatever else he was currently doing and she’d had the honour of picking him up from the airport, whence he’d flown in his private plane, so that he could complete the mini-epic. Reluctantly, it would appear. ‘You don’t look like you do on the screen,’ she pondered aloud.
‘Don’t I?’
‘No. And this doesn’t really seem like the sort of thing you would be involved in.’
‘Doesn’t it?’
‘No. Television series, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. Sixty minutes of fiction based on fact. Of Isabella following Wellington’s army through Spain, rescuing her lover.’
‘In an hour?’ she asked in amusement. ‘So why are you doing it? For the money?’
‘No. I owed George a favour.’
‘What sort of favour?’
Slamming his cup angrily on to the table, he got to his feet. ‘God, don’t you ever stop asking questions? You sound like a relative of Torquemada!’
‘Do I?’ she queried softly. ‘Because they’re questions you can’t answer without a script in your hand?’
He opened his mouth, closed it, and then gave her a narrow stare. ‘We are feeling inadequate, aren’t we?’ he drawled, not very nicely.
‘I beg your pardon?’ she asked blankly.
‘It has been my experience,’ he continued in the same cool tone, ‘that such pickiness as you’ve been displaying usually stems from inadequacy.’ With a dismissive little dip of his head, he picked up his wig and started towards the door just as it opened and the funeral director put his head inside.
‘We’re ready to start,’ he explained apologetically.
Oliver nodded, gave her a look of dislike and walked out.
‘Damned cheek,’ she muttered, ‘I don’t feel in the least inadequate!’
‘Don’t,’ Henry pleaded. ‘Please, don’t upset him.’
‘More,’ she corrected moodily. ‘Don’t upset him more.’
‘More,’ he agreed as he bent to hunt in one of the cupboards.
‘Has a fragile ego, does he?’
‘Who, Oliver?’ he asked in astonishment. ‘Good God, no.’
No? No, possibly not. Possibly it was her own dislike that coloured him grey. Possibly. And she had asked for it. Somewhat ashamed of herself, feeling unsettled and irritable, she absently fished a stray tea-leaf from her cup. Unable to leave things alone, needing to know more, she asked, ‘Why is he doing George a favour?’
‘Because George gave him his first big break.’
‘Ah.’
‘And this is George’s last chance to rescue his reputation. His last two films were, in acting parlance, bummers. Seen any lemons?’
‘Oh, Henry.’ With a smile that was genuine, more like her old self, she asked gently, ‘Cold no better?’
‘No,’ he said gloomily. ‘Worse if anything. I just hope I don’t give it to Oliver.’
‘Deary me, no; that would be a tragedy.’
He gave her a look of long suffering.
Unrepentant, she peered through the misty window, then grinned as she watched the lovers trudge towards each other through the mud. Henry joined her, then sighed. Sighing seemed to go hand in hand with filmmaking. ‘It wasn’t supposed to rain,’ he murmured gloomily.
‘It wasn’t?’ she teased. ‘You really expected hot sun in November? Anyway, it won’t hurt him to rough it for a bit.’
Glancing at her, he reproved gently, ‘You’re very scathing.’
‘Mmm. I don’t like actors.’ An over-simplification, and not strictly true. She didn’t, in fact, really know that many actors, so it was totally unfair to lump them all into the same camp as those she did know and dislike, but she could hardly tell Henry the real reason for her childish behaviour towards Oliver, even if she fully understood it herself, which she didn’t. ‘Little prima donnas,’ she muttered, ‘who constantly suffer for their art.’
‘Rather a sweeping statement, and Oliver isn’t like that.’
‘Isn’t he?’
‘No.’
‘I’ll take your word for it.’ And maybe he wasn’t like her rat of a brother-in-law: petulant, childish, a cheat and a liar, who, when he was out of work, borrowed indiscriminately from all and sundry with never a thought to paying it back when he was in funds—so why did she keep trying to make herself believe that Oliver was like that? Because of the overpowering awareness that had hit her the moment he’d stepped down from his private plane? Hit her so hard it was really rather frightening? Paris wasn’t used to being frightened. And so, in order to get over these damned silly feelings, she had to dislike him? Was that it? It didn’t need to be rational! Anyway, her brother-in-law was like that, she thought moodily and as though it was some sort of justification. And probably the bigger the star, the bigger the ego. Rupert had been like that, too, and he was an actor. Rupert, who’d thought she should be grateful for his interest, astonished that she’d minded his affair with another woman, and, in one scathing statement, had mocked her values and wrecked her self-confidence.
Barely aware of Henry, who seemed to be hunting for a lemon alternative, she continued to silently brood on her feelings towards Oliver, and, from there, to her own troubles. Her sister, Athena, and the mess she was now in, all due to her blasted husband, the not-so-famous Chris Lowery, who was currently swanning round the United States, on her savings, in search of meaningful work. She wished Hollywood joy of him. No, she wished they would employ him, then he could send for his wife, her sister, who was staying in Paris’s flat, because she couldn’t afford to stay anywhere else, running her into debt, which meant she had to take on any work that was going in order to keep her own head above water. And much as she loved her sister, she was getting just the tiniest bit fed up with the mess she had made in her once immaculate home. And decidedly peeved at the current state of her own finances as she continued to help her sister out.
Still absently watching the confusion outside the trailer, the technicians relaying their miles of snaking cables, lighting experts re-setting their arcs and then hanging on to them like grim death in the fitful wind, she gave a faint smile as she watched Oliver stride to where the roughly made pallet had been artistically arranged in front of the tree-line, and lay down to wait. Paris couldn’t see his expression but she imagined it was gritted. Melissa finally finished tippy-toeing through the mud towards him, held her skirts up, and daintily knelt.
‘They didn’t shout action,’ Paris murmured in tones of severe disappointment.
‘Oh, gosh, they probably forgot,’ Henry muttered, sounding peevish. ‘Should I go and tell them, do you think?’
‘No!’ With an infectious little gurgle of laughter, she turned to look at her companion. He was hunched miserably on the long seat, a picture of dejection. ‘Poor Henry,’ she commiserated. Reaching above her head, she took the packet of soluble aspirin from the cupboard, dissolved two in a glass of water, and handed it to him. Boiling up the kettle, she made him fresh tea and placed it on the table beside him.
‘Thanks, Paris.’ Managing a smile, he asked curiously, ‘Why so cynical about it all?’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she evaded. ‘Is that how I sound?’
‘Yes. Don’t you like any of them?’
‘I like you…’ she teased.
‘But not Oliver?’
She gave a wry smile. ‘He rubs me up the wrong way.’
‘And that says it all? End of?’
‘Mm.’ It didn’t, of course. She wished it did. He had a gentle smile, did Henry, and, when he wasn’t full of cold, probably a kind heart. Paris wasn’t sure if her own heart was kind. It had been, she thought, but circumstances of late had put too many charges on it, and yet, until certain events had made her view the acting profession with such cynicism, she had treated them with the same amused tolerance she treated everything else, as though they were children in need of guidance. And now she was the one in need of guidance. Of the financial variety—and perhaps emotional—because she had not expected that it would be another actor, this particular actor, who would give her such an awareness of self. An awareness that was extraordinarily disturbing, and was being strenuously denied. And would continue to be strenuously denied as long as there was breath in her body. Hence her unusual irritability with Oliver Darke. Adored, feted, well-paid. Oliver, who did the close-ups, dialogue, acting, who got the glory. All normal practice, she believed, so no real need for her disparagement…
With a self-deprecating grin, she shook her head at herself. Your prejudices are showing again, Paris. Yeah. And she surely did have plenty of those. Normally very easy to get along with, easy to talk to, she was friendly and amusing—but with a stubborn streak a mile wide. She also tended to make snap judgements about people, and was never quite sure if the fact that she rarely changed her mind about them was because she was right, or stubborn. Although in the case of Oliver Darke it wasn’t stubbornness that kept the prejudice in place, but fear.
She couldn’t actually hear what was being said at the far end of the field, but she didn’t need to be Einstein to know that something was going very wrong. Again. Melissa abruptly stood, her back a rigid line of outraged dignity, Oliver leaned up on one elbow, looked as though he was saying something exceedingly scathing, and the director shouted, ‘Cut!’ There were sundry irritable sighs and tuttings, and then a peremptory bang on the door as it was pulled open and one of the technicians put his head inside.
‘Paris, George wants you down with the spectators,’ he told her with almost gleeful mockery. ‘Now! Melissa says they’re putting her off.’
‘Thank you so much! I’ve only just got warm,’ she complained.
He smiled. ‘Don’t shoot the messenger.’
Putting down her cup and half-eaten sandwich, dragging the collar of her damp raincoat up round her neck, she hurried out. Here they went again.
The spectators weren’t really on his set, she saw, but an excuse was an excuse, and it was obviously something to focus his temper on. Trudging down the field towards a straggling group of spectators, mostly children, she summoned up a smile, asked them to kindly move back a few paces, explained that they were in camera shot, which they weren’t, and asked if they would remain very quiet until after the filming. They grinned at her, obediently moved back, and were instantly silent. How very nice to meet people who did as they were asked without fuss.
Remaining where she was, she watched Oliver and Melissa get themselves back into mood, which, with rain dripping down their necks, was no mean feat, and they made it all so believable, as though they really were desperately in love, desperate to be safe, free. And, having read the script, she knew he was going to die of his wounds. A real tear-jerker.
She watched them embrace, kiss, tried to remain objective—and failed. She felt aroused, felt an awful fluttering in the pit of her stomach, felt hot. Averting her eyes until the love-scene was completed, she sighed along with everybody else when it was decided that it needed to be done again. Melissa flounced round to glare at George—no comfort there, he was adamant—but she seemed to spend an awful lot of time flouncing, did Melissa. Perhaps she was intimidated by having to act with the world’s greatest star…Perhaps she just needed a good smack.
The make-up girl dashed up to where Captain Richard Marsh lay wounded. Fresh blood was daubed on his thigh, chest, the side of his face. Melissa’s shiny nose was unshined. George examined the scene from all angles and finally nodded.
‘OK, let’s go.’
A signal was made; Melissa crouched, the clapperboard clapped, and she hesitantly touched Oliver’s face, gazed down into pain-filled eyes. Strong arms rose to clasp her tight and mouths met in a sizzling display of passion that made Paris even more aroused than she’d been before. She could almost feel that mouth touching hers, parting, yearning…Turning abruptly away, she stared at the dripping trees, at the spectators, wished she were in Japan, where she’d wanted to be in the first place, and where someone else was in her stead.
‘Cut! It’s a wrap! Five minutes, everyone, let’s get this scene shifted!’
There were sundry thank Gods and an ironic cheer from someone. Melissa hastily stood, was wrapped warmly in a rug by her dresser; Henry hurried off to do the same for Oliver and was waved away.
Glancing up at the lowering sky, and, with the optimistic observation that it looked brighter, George asked Oliver if he wanted to try for the hut scene. Get it all wrapped up in one day.
‘If we can. What time is it?’
‘Twelve-thirty…An hour there, an hour to shoot, if we’re lucky…’ And no one had any tantrums was left unsaid.
Everything was packed up, loaded into the trailers. Paris went to her car—and found Oliver there before her.