Sabrina Leon adjusted her new Prada aviators and arranged her hair into tousled, rock-chick perfection. Heathrow was Sabrina’s second favourite airport in the world after LAX. There was always a scrum of paparazzi waiting for her when she walked through the electric double doors at terminal three, reminding her that she was still famous, still relevant, still alive. If anything, the Brits worshipped celebrity even more than the Americans, although they certainly delighted in seeing the mighty fallen. Sabrina was prepared for the inevitable heckles, and the pasting she was certain to get at the hands of the British tabloid press. In fact, she was looking forward to it. After three weeks of ‘lying low’, as her agent called it (playing dead, more like it), immersing herself in Sacha Gervasi’s brilliantly written screenplay till she was so gorged on Cathy Earnshaw she could have barfed out her lines, Sabrina was ready for some attention. At Heathrow she knew she would get it, and she wasn’t about to walk through customs till she was sure she looked like a total fucking vixen.
Write what you want about me, you bastards, but you’re not getting a bad picture.
‘You got everything?’
Billy, Sabrina’s Irish bodyguard of the past tumultuous four years, nodded from behind a trolley piled high with Louis Vuitton suitcases. Sabrina had brought two bodyguards with her to England: Billy, who was really more of a friend and had been a total rock since her life turned to shit earlier this year; and Enrique, an enormous hunk of Hispanic muscle who had the brain power of a special-needs rabbit and the quick reactions to match, but who looked good in photos and could always be relied upon to act as an impromptu human dildo should Sabrina find herself in need of one. She usually travelled with at least four guards, as well as Camille and Sean, her two closest hangers-on (officially her ‘stylist’ and ‘personal advisor’), but she knew Rasmirez would have a fit if she brought anything resembling an entourage onto his set. The guy was so tediously holier-than-thou about keeping things low-key, not to mention obsessed with secrecy and having as few bodies as possible on the production. ‘Fewer people means less chance of leaks,’ he’d told Sabrina endlessly, like the world’s preachiest parrot. He’d only divulged the movie’s location to his actors forty-eight hours ago, expecting them to drop everything and get on a plane like a bunch of lemmings.
‘All set, ma’am.’ Billy’s gentle brogue was reassuring. ‘You sure you’re ready for this, now? D’you want me to go in front?’
‘No,’ said Sabrina, her dark eyes glinting with a combination of fear and excitement. ‘I can handle it.’
As it turned out, she couldn’t.
The arrivals hall was complete insanity. A zoo of photographers and reporters literally trampled people underfoot, knocking their cameras into mothers and children and elderly people in their desperation to get to Sabrina. Meanwhile, from all sides, reporters screamed out inflammatory questions, desperate to get a reaction that they could spin into a story.
‘Is it true you’ve come to Britain because no American director will work with you?’
‘Dorian Rasmirez is American, asshole,’ Sabrina shot back.
‘What were you in rehab for, Sabrina?’
‘Exhaustion.’
‘Are you an alcoholic?’
‘No. Are you a moron?’
‘Is it true you were being treated for sex addiction? How many men have you slept with?’
‘Six thousand. That’s why I was exhausted.’
A few of the reporters did at least laugh at that.
‘Have you anything to say to the black community of this country, after your offensive remarks about slavery?’
The press pack was moving in closer. Suddenly Sabrina felt panicked. There were no police, no security at all to protect her. Billy and Enrique were the only things standing between her and being torn to shreds, or at least that was how it felt. Her heart rate quickened and her palms began to sweat.
‘Fuck off,’ she snarled, edging closer to Enrique, who wrapped a tree-trunk-like arm around her tiny shoulders. A cacophony of cameras whirred into action: click click click.
Meanwhile, Billy moved forward, using the luggage trolley as a defensive shield. ‘Give her some space please, guys.’ A seasoned professional, he knew that firm politeness worked a lot better than aggression in these circumstances, and wondered if Sabrina would ever learn to keep her mouth shut. The sad thing was that – for all her stupid outbursts – she wasn’t actually a bad kid. Just scared and insecure as hell, like most actresses.
Finally, they made it outside the terminal building, where a blacked-out limo was waiting for them. Enrique bundled Sabrina inside, lifting her up one-handed and stuffing her into the back seat like a rag doll, simultaneously pushing back two photographers with his other hand. Sabrina put her head down between her knees and waited for all the banging and shouting to stop. Even once the car pulled away, with Billy in the front seat shouting ‘Go, go, go!’ at the driver like a marine heading into battle, she looked up to see grown men chasing after them like a pack of slavering hyenas, the flashes on their cameras hopelessly pop-pop-popping as the car gained speed.
Only once they’d reached the motorway did Sabrina sit up and take a breath.
‘Well that was fucking crazy.’
Billy turned around and gave her a disapproving look. ‘You shouldn’t have said anything, you know,’ he said. ‘They’ll use it against you.’
‘They were attacking me!’ protested Sabrina. ‘If you guys hadn’t been there they’d have torn me limb from fucking limb. You saw it.’
‘Yeah. We did. But whoever sees those pictures in tomorrow’s papers won’t have seen it. All they’ll see is you lashing out and swearing. Is it really that hard to put your head down and say nothing?’
Yeah, thought Sabrina. It is. For me it is. I’ve always been a fighter. If I hadn’t fought back, I’d still be in Fresno, pumping some shit into my arm and getting molested by assholes who knew they could get away with it.
Leaning against Enrique’s chest, she felt comforted by the size and smell of him. The awareness of his strength and closeness, combined with her own wildly pumping adrenaline, suddenly gave her a rush of desire. If only they were alone, she’d pull over somewhere and have him take her right there on the back seat. Screw all the fear and tension out of her head.
But sadly they weren’t alone. They were with Billy who, as usual, was right. She shouldn’t have said anything to the reporters. This movie was her chance, her comeback, her lifeboat back to adulation. She’d already agreed to spend the entire summer holed up in Butt-Fuck Nowhere England with a director who clearly hated her and Vain-o-rel ‘you’re in my light’ Hudson as a co-star, for no pay. So the idea that she might have screwed things up for herself before she’d even reached the set filled her with frustration and dread.
‘How long till we get there?’ she asked morosely.
‘According to the sat-nav, three hours,’ said Billy. ‘Here.’ He threw a pillow into the back seat. ‘Put Mr Muscle down for five minutes and try and get some sleep.’
‘What do you think?’
Viorel looked across Loxley’s deer park to the house in the distance. It was still early morning, and a low, dawn mist hung over the grass like a gossamer shroud. In the air he could smell scents at once deeply familiar and long forgotten – wood smoke, mown grass, rain, honeysuckle – smells of the English countryside. It felt bizarre to be standing here next to Dorian Rasmirez, of all people, with the director holding out his hand like a proud father, as if the exquisite Elizabethan manor were his home and not some movie location he’d rented by the hour.
‘I think it’s perfect,’ said Vio. ‘Quintessentially English. Merchant Ivory couldn’t have dreamed this place up.’
He’d arrived from LA very late last night and gone straight to his room to crash. The housekeeper who’d shown him where he’d be sleeping was a real blast from his boarding-school past, a bossy, no-nonsense matron type who could not have been less impressed by Viorel’s movie-star status.
‘Clean towels are in the cupboard,’ she said brusquely. ‘Sheets are changed on Mondays, and if you want a cooked breakfast you need to be down by half-past eight.’ She was gone with a swish of her tartan dressing gown before Viorel had a chance to ask her her name, let alone where breakfast would be served, or whether she had such a thing as an alarm clock. As it turned out, he didn’t need one. After a fitful night’s sleep on a bed that seemed to have been fashioned out of a solid slab of granite, he woke before dawn to the sound of rooks cawing in the trees and had to pinch himself in order to remember that this was not in fact 1996, he was not in his bedroom in Martha Hudson’s Dorset rectory, and that his fabulous LA life, fame and success were not merely a beautiful dream from which he had just woken up.
After a cold shower (no hot water till seven, he later learned), he pulled on a pair of vintage Levis and a blue silk Armani sweater and headed downstairs in search of the kitchen and a cup of coffee. Everyone else was asleep, so the house was quiet and gloomy. It took Vio a while to get his bearings. The place was enormous, a veritable maze of corridors, with servants’ staircases popping up in unexpected places and leading you into another section of the rabbit warren. Vio had been in hundreds of similar houses growing up: grand, old, down-at-heel. Hundreds of bedrooms, no bathrooms. Everyone living in the kitchen. But his memories of England had not been happy ones, and the familiarity of Loxley Hall made him more queasy than it did nostalgic.
Once he found the kitchen, however, he perked up. It was cheerful and bright, with a large jug full of daffodils on the table and a child’s scribbled artwork Blu-tacked to the cupboards. There was real coffee in the fridge, and bacon, and someone had helpfully left a sliced white Hovis loaf and a frying pan out on the table. Two bacon sandwiches and a mug of coffee later, feeling infinitely revived, Vio was just about to explore outside when he ran into Dorian, another early riser. They agreed to take a walk together.
‘Wait till you see the farmhouse,’ said Dorian excitedly. ‘It’s like they designed the thing to Brontë’s exact specifications. You’ll love it.’
Vio followed him down a steeply sloping sheep track.
‘You can cross the river at the bottom,’ Dorian panted over his shoulder. ‘Then it’s up the other side and over the hill.’
‘What are the family like?’ asked Vio, making conversation as they trudged along. ‘They’re living here for the duration, I gather? That’s a bit unorthodox, isn’t it?’
‘It was cheaper,’ said Dorian frankly. ‘We’ve got to save money somewhere if we’re going to pay your fee.’
Viorel grinned. ‘Touché.’
‘Anyway, as it turns out, it’s only one girl and her son,’ said Dorian. ‘Tish Crewe. She’s terrific actually.’
Terrific? Vio’s ears pricked up. ‘How old is she?’
‘Mid-to late-twenties, I guess. The kid’s five.’
‘Cute?’
‘Oh, adorable. Five’s a great age for a boy.’ Dorian tripped over a bramble and almost went flying.
‘Not the kid,’ Vio laughed, helping him to his feet. ‘The girl.’
Dorian frowned. ‘She’s attractive. Not your type though.’
‘Meaning what?’ said Viorel. ‘I don’t have a type.’
‘Sure you do,’ said Dorian. ‘I’ve seen your press. The girls on your arm are glamazons. Tish isn’t glamorous. Besides,’ he added, ‘she’s in love with some French doctor.’
Viorel raised an eyebrow. ‘Wow. You’ve really got to know this woman. She’s confiding in you about her love life already?’ He nudged Dorian in the ribs. ‘Maybe she likes you.’
‘Grow up,’ said Dorian crossly.
‘Maybe you like her?’ Viorel teased. ‘Am I getting warm, Il Direttore?’
‘No, you are not getting warm. I’m a happily married man.’
This was stretching a point at the moment, but it was true that Dorian had zero romantic interest in anyone other than Chrissie. Tish Crewe was charming and kind and, if he were honest, Dorian probably was a little star-struck by her family background. He might have inherited what Chrissie would insist on describing as a ‘fuck-off castle’, but the Crewes clearly sprang from a far more ancient and senior branch of the aristocratic tree. None of which amounted to Dorian ‘liking’ Tish Crewe, at least not in Viorel Hudson’s sense of the word.
‘We’ve been thrown together in the same house for a week,’ he said defensively. ‘Of course we’re going to talk. And yes, I do like her. Just not in the way you mean.’
Viorel looked sceptical but said nothing. They’d reached the river now and began the short but gruelling climb up the other side of the fell. It was still only eight o’clock, and walking in the shade you could feel a distinct chill in the air.
‘What time are the others arriving?’ asked Viorel, changing the subject.
‘Sabrina and Lizzie should be here later this morning,’ said Dorian. ‘Jamie and Rhys both got in yesterday.’
Lizzie Bayer, a well-known American television actress, was playing Isabella Linton, Heathcliff’s wife. Jamie Duggan, a Scottish theatre actor, was playing Catherine’s husband, Edgar Linton. And the unknown Rhys Evans had been cast as Hareton Earnshaw, the young Catherine’s love interest at the movie’s end. Along with Viorel and Sabrina, Lizzie, Jamie and Rhys made up the core cast.
‘I’m starting with you and Sabrina, though, first thing tomorrow. You know that, right? Heathcliff’s return-from-exile scene, outside Thrushcross Grange?’
‘Absolutely,’ said Vio. He hoped Sabrina would arrive on time and in a fit state to run through the scene with him privately before the morning. He’d tried to contact her numerous times in LA since the read-through, offering to work on their joint scenes together, but she’d blown him off each time. ‘I work better alone,’ she told him arrogantly. ‘If you’re nervous about your scenes, talk to Rasmirez. I’m sure he’d love to hear from you.’
Vio was perplexed. ‘Have I done something to offend you?’ He’d been sweetness and light to Sabrina at the read-through, even sticking up for her afterwards with Dorian. What the fuck was with her attitude?
‘You’re not important enough to offend me,’ said Sabrina rudely, and hung up.
Mind games, thought Vio, fighting down his anger. She’s trying to provoke me so I’ll lose my shit on set. Make a dick of myself in front of Rasmirez and take some of the heat off her.
Too bad, sweetheart. At least one of us knows how to be a professional.
He hoped he’d be able to translate some of the hostility between them into sexual tension on camera. But, after weeks of waiting, he was getting increasingly jittery about how they would play together. This was his five and-a-half-million-dollar lead role, the biggest break of his career. He wanted to get started.
‘Whoah.’
After five minutes of climbing, they had reached Home Farm. Vio was suitably impressed. ‘I see what you mean,’ he said, marvelling at the L-shaped building with its weathered grey stone. Even the thick front door could have been lifted directly from the pages of the novel. ‘It’s exactly what I pictured. Except …’
‘Except what?’ said Dorian.
‘Is it a little small, maybe?’
‘Small? I don’t think so,’ said Dorian, sounding a tad put out. In fact, he’d thought the same thing himself when he first saw the farm eight days ago, and spent much of the last week working on long-angle shots to create a better illusion of size, but it irritated him to have Viorel confirm his doubts. ‘We won’t be filming inside. I’ll show you some of the rushes we did last week of the exterior. It’s workable.’
But Viorel was no longer listening.
The front door of the farmhouse had swung open and a figure had emerged, covered from head to toe in thick black soot. Looking up, Dorian saw it too.
‘Tish?’ he asked tentatively. ‘Is that you?’ He walked towards the figure. An amused Viorel followed behind.
‘Oh, er, hello. Yes.’ Flustered, Tish attempted to brush the worst of the coal dust off herself, but it stuck fast, like iron filings to a magnet. She’d been up since seven, trying to rescue a nest of birds from the Connellys’ chimney shaft, and had not expected to see Dorian or any of the film people up at the farm at such an early hour.
Leaning forward, Viorel whispered in Dorian’s ear. ‘Am I imagining things? Or is she naked?’
Disappointingly, he saw as they drew nearer that Tish wasn’t naked. At least not quite. Beneath her sooty disguise she was barefoot and wearing nothing but a pair of knickers and a skinny-ribbed vest. Definitely not a glamazon, thought Viorel, remembering Dorian’s arbitrary description of his ‘type’. Terrific legs though. My goodness.
‘I was … we were … having a bit of trouble,’ Tish babbled nervously, suddenly aware of how ridiculous she must look. ‘The chimney sweep’s coming this morning, you see, and there’s a family of swallows nesting …’
She stopped talking. From behind Dorian’s familiar, bear-like form, the most divine-looking man Tish had ever seen in her life suddenly emerged like an apparition. A vision in blue, his floppy black hair gleaming like a raven’s feathers, he stood there, staring at her. Of course, no one could ever hope to compare with Michel, not in terms of the overall package. But it could not be denied that on looks alone – when it came to regularity of features, proportionality of limbs, or any other objective standard of male beauty one might care to put forward – this toffee-tanned, blue-eyed Adonis took some beating.
The Adonis smiled at her wolfishly.
‘I’m Viorel Hudson. You must be Tish Crewe.’
‘Hmmm?’ Tish seemed to have temporarily lost the power of speech.
‘A pleasure to meet you,’ said Viorel, delighted by the effect he seemed to be having on her. ‘You won’t mind if I don’t shake your hand.’
‘Hmmm?’ said Tish again. She seemed to have developed late-onset autism. ‘The soot,’ Vio explained.
‘Oh!’ Tish looked down at her ape-black hands. ‘Of course. Sorry.’
It was only at that moment that it occurred to her that she was, to all intents and purposes, naked. She blushed so violently she was surprised Viorel wasn’t scorched by the heat coming off her cheeks.
‘Here.’ Dorian stepped forward, wrapping his Barbour around her. ‘You must be freezing.’
‘Spoilsport,’ said Viorel. Dorian glared at him.
‘Thank you,’ said Tish gratefully. ‘My clothes are inside. Everything got so caked with coal dust, you see. I could hardly move, so I … I assumed … I didn’t think there’d be anyone up here so early.’
‘Please, don’t apologize on our account,’ said Viorel, who was starting to enjoy himself. It was hard to get a good look at the girl’s face through all the grime, but the combination of her gloriously displayed figure and all-too-evident embarrassment was seriously endearing. As was the fact that she’d got up at seven to pull a bird’s nest out of a chimney. Who did that?
After a few more stammered apologies, Tish bolted down the hill to the manor, pulling Dorian’s oversized jacket around her tiny frame like a shield as she ran. Still grinning like the Cheshire Cat, Vio opened his mouth to speak, but Dorian cut him off.
‘No,’ he said firmly.
‘What do you mean “no”? I never said anything.’
‘I mean “no”. Not with her.’
‘All right,’ said Vio, amused. ‘But, just out of curiosity … why not?’
‘Because she’s our hostess.’
‘So?’
‘So it will cause tension on my set,’ said Dorian. ‘And because she’s a nice girl who doesn’t need your bullshit. And because I say so,’ he added stubbornly. ‘There’s a village full of eager young women on the other side of those gates. If you have to get your rocks off, go do it with one of them.’
‘OK, boss,’ said Vio, still smiling. ‘Whatever you say.’
The next time Viorel saw Tish was at lunch. Mrs Drummond had laid on a welcome spread for the actors. Walking into Loxley’s impressive, wood-panelled dining room in jeans and a plain white T-shirt, her newly washed, still-damp hair tied back in a ponytail, Tish blushed scarlet when she saw Viorel standing there.
‘My, my,’ he teased, enjoying her discomfiture. ‘Don’t you scrub up well?’
‘Ignore him,’ said Dorian, introducing Tish to the rest of her temporary house guests. ‘Lunch looks spectacular, by the way. You shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble.’
The long mahogany refectory table had been set with white bone china and silverware, and a variety of estate-grown food laid out on large platters in the middle. There was a side of venison, fresh tomato and basil salad, a whole poached salmon and various vegetable dishes, including a mouthwatering stack of asparagus dripping in butter, which Mrs Drummond proudly informed everyone had been churned at Home Farm from Loxley cows.
‘The fish is out of this world.’ Rhys Evans, a stocky, curly haired Welshman with a reputation as a practical joker, tucked into the salmon with unconcealed delight.
‘It’s all delicious. Very generous of you, Miss Crewe,’ said Jamie Duggan, wiping a yellow stream of liquid butter off his chin. Jamie was better looking than Rhys, blond and regular featured, but Tish found herself thinking how utterly devoid he was of sex appeal. She tried to picture him as Edgar Linton, making love to Sabrina Leon’s Catherine Earnshaw. It wasn’t easy.
‘Please, call me Tish,’ she said. ‘And I’m afraid I can’t take credit for lunch. It’s entirely Mrs Drummond’s hard work.’
Viorel watched Tish as she chatted to everyone in the room, playing the interested hostess like the well-brought-up lady of the manor that she was. She swapped Scottish reeling stories with Duggan, a dreadful, pompous bore in Vio’s opinion, smiling at all his weak jokes, and tried valiantly to engage Lizzie Bayer in conversation, not easy given that the girl had the attention span of a concussed goldfish. Vio had tried to chat Lizzie up himself in LA after the read-through. Classically pretty in a large-breasted, Scandinavian, FHM sort of way, she’d looked as if she’d be worth having a crack at. But looks could be deceiving. In fact, Lizzie Bayer had about as much spark as a decomposing kipper. All she wanted to talk about was her deathly dull TV show and its ratings.
‘Variety named me as one of NBC’s “faces to watch” this year,’ she had told Vio for the third time, preening vacantly in the Veyron’s rearview mirror.
Really? thought Vio. I’d have named you one of their ‘faces to slap’. Talk about self-obsessed. In the movie, Lizzie was to play Isabella, the trophy wife who Heathcliff relentlessly abuses and humiliates. Viorel was looking forward to it already.
Looking round the room at his cast-mates, Vio swiftly decided that Rhys was by far the best of the bunch – funny in a cheeky-chappie, naughty-glint-in-his-eye sort of way that gave Vio hope that he might become a mate. He was flirting with Tish outrageously but quite hopelessly, each elaborate compliment flying over the girl’s head like so much wasted shrapnel.
Aware of Viorel’s eyes boring into her, Tish was starting to feel unpleasantly hot. The effort of not returning his stare was giving her a headache and making it hard to concentrate on what Rhys Evans was saying. It was relief when the phone in the hallway rang and she was summoned away to take the call.
Two minutes later she returned to the table looking white.
‘Is everything all right?’ asked Dorian.
‘It’s my son,’ said Tish, her voice a monotone. ‘He’s had an accident at school. They’ve called the local GP. Apparently, he’s concussed.’
‘Oh my God. What happened?’
‘He fell out of a tree. He and another boy were playing Alvin and the Chipmunks or something … the doctor says he’s fine, but he’s been asking for me. I have to get down there right away.’
‘Of course,’ said Dorian. ‘Do you want me to drive you?’
Tish looked at him blankly for a moment, lost in her own anxiety. She was sure she’d read somewhere that people often seemed fine after a head injury but then haemorrhaged and died hours later.
‘Tish?’
‘Hmm? Oh, no, thank you. I’m fine to drive.’
‘Are you sure?’ Dorian looked concerned.
‘Positive. Excuse me,’ she said to the room at large, running out at a jog.
Tish was already in the car and starting the engine by the time Viorel caught up with her. He opened the driver’s door. ‘Scooch over.’
‘What?’ Tish looked flustered.
‘I’m driving.’
‘But—’
‘It wasn’t a question,’ said Vio firmly, nudging her over to the passenger side. ‘I’m driving. You need to focus on your son.’
By the time they got to St Agnes’s primary school, Abel had got over his teary, ‘I want my mum’ stage and was thoroughly enjoying being the centre of attention.
‘I nearly died,’ he told Tish cheerfully, pointing proudly to the cold compress strapped to his forehead with Dennis the Menace bandages. ‘If I’d died, Michael would have had to go to prison until he was a hundred years old.’
‘No I wouldn’t,’ said Michael, without glancing up from his colouring-in. ‘It was a accident, wasn’t it, Miss Bayham? No one goes to prison for a accident.’
Miss Bayham assured Tish that it had indeed been an accident, and that Dr Rogers had said there was no need to get Abel’s head X-rayed.
‘I’ll drive you to A and E, just in case,’ said Vio. He couldn’t take his eyes off Abel. The kid looks exactly like me.
‘Who’s he?’ asked Abel, noticing the dark-haired man staring at him as Tish carried him across the playground. ‘Is he a taxi driver?’
Tish looked embarrassed but Viorel laughed. Dorian was right: the kid was seriously cute.
‘I’m Viorel,’ he said, offering Abel his hand to shake. ‘I’m a friend of your mother’s.’
‘Viorel who? I’ve never seen you before.’
Vio grinned. ‘Viorel Hudson. Why, how many Viorels do you know?’
‘Two,’ said Abel, ‘at my old school.’
Vio’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Really? Where was your old school?’
‘Romania,’ said Abel.
Vio felt the hairs on his arms stand on end. No wonder he looks so like me. And nothing like his mother. I wonder if he’s adopted?
‘My long name is Abel Henry Gunning Crewe,’ said Abel, abruptly changing the subject. ‘What’s your favourite dinosaur?’
‘Therizinosaurus,’ said Vio, not missing a beat. ‘What’s yours?’
Abel looked at Tish, wide-eyed with admiration. Most grown-ups were embarrassingly ignorant on the giant reptiles of the Mesozoic Era. Mummy’s new friend was cool.
‘Mine’s Ceratosaurus, but in a tie with Fukuisaurus. My mum likes T-Rex, but that’s just because it’s the only one she knows.’ He rolled his eyes.
Vio nodded in sympathy. ‘That’s girls for you.’
‘Tell me about it.’
In the car on the way to the hospital, Tish told Vio, ‘You’re good with children.’
He smiled. ‘You sound surprised.’
She shrugged. ‘I suppose I am, a little.’
‘Why? Because I’m an actor?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe, yes.’
Lifting his hand off the gear stick, Vio rested it casually on Tish’s leg. ‘Don’t judge a book by its cover, Miss Crewe. I’m actually good with all sorts of things.’ Slowly, infinitesimally slowly, he began stroking the ball of his thumb up and down the fabric of her jeans.
It was a definite come-on. Tish felt a rush of blood to her groin that she hadn’t experienced since Michel. Oh Lord, she thought. He’s incredibly sexy. But he’s a film star. Do I really want to be another notch on his bedpost?
‘I’m sure you are.’ Gently she removed his hand.
‘But …? I’m sensing there’s a “but”.’
‘But I’m afraid I’m off romance at the moment,’ said Tish. ‘Sorry.’
‘Ah, yes. The frog doctor,’ said Vio dismissively. ‘Dorian mentioned it.’
Tish looked mortified. When she’d spoken to Dorian about Michel, she’d assumed it was in confidence.
‘Oh come on, lighten up,’ said Vio, seeing her face fall. ‘For one thing he’s French. You can’t possibly want to date a Frenchman.’
‘Oh, really?’
‘Yes, really. And for another he’s an idiot. Any man who let you slip through his fingers is, by definition, an idiot.’
Tish softened slightly. ‘You’ve got all the chat, haven’t you, Mr Hudson?’
‘I try,’ Vio grinned.
The hospital trip took forever. As predicted, Abel was fine, as evidenced by his ceaseless chatter in the waiting room and quizzing of each doctor who examined him on the minutiae of Ben 10: Alien Force. By the time they left, Viorel’s jet lag was starting to kick in, so Tish offered to drive them back to Loxley.
Abel talked for fifteen more minutes in the back seat before finally running out of steam and falling asleep, his little dark head slumped against the window. Tish thought Vio was asleep too, when he suddenly yawned loudly beside her.
‘So what happened?’ he asked her. ‘With your French doctor?’
Tish sighed. She might as well tell him. Perhaps saying it out loud would help? ‘He met someone else.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Vio.
He sounded sincere. Tish thought, He’s a nice man. A flirt and a player and everything I don’t need in my life. But a nice man, nonetheless.
‘Is that why you left Romania? Abel mentioned he used to go to school there.’
‘No, no,’ said Tish. ‘It was nothing like that.’ She filled him in briefly on her life in Oradea. Her work with the orphans, how she’d come to adopt Abel and the PG-rated, synopsis version of her doomed affair with Dr Michel Henri. Finally, she told him about Jago and the squatters who had forced her home to Loxley.
Viorel thought, This is quite a woman. It was a lot of life and responsibility to have packed into twenty-seven years.
‘So you’re really off men then, are you?’ he asked her. ‘You’re sure about that? No dating at all?’
‘For now I am,’ said Tish. ‘But it’s nice to be asked. Thank you.’
‘My pleasure.’
‘And thank you, for today. With Abel I mean.’
‘He’s terrific,’ enthused Vio, then suddenly shouted, ‘Jesus H. Christ!’
Tish jumped out of her skin. Out of nowhere a recklessly speeding limousine flew around the corner and came within a hair’s-breadth of hitting them. Only thanks to Tish’s quick reactions were they able to swerve onto the grass verge and avoid a smash.
‘What the fuck was that?’ asked Vio as she slammed on the brakes. ‘Are you OK?’
‘I think so.’ Tish was still shaking. She turned to the back seat. ‘Abi darling, are you all right?’
Wide awake again after all the commotion, Abel stared after the long black car as it disappeared into the distance. ‘That was so cool!’ he declared breathlessly ‘How fast do you think it was going, Vio? As fast as a jet?’
‘It was going much too fast,’ muttered Viorel. ‘Ridiculous on a little country road. We could have been killed.’
‘As fast as a rocket?’ asked Abel. ‘How about a jet-pack? Hey look! It’s coming back.’
To Tish and Vio’s astonishment, they saw that the car was indeed coming back, marginally more slowly this time. Perhaps the driver had realized he’d run them off the road and was coming back to check that they were OK. As the limo came closer, it slowed down and stopped. Tish wound down her window, composing her features into what she hoped was a sternly disapproving attitude, and waited for the other driver’s grovelling apology.
Instead, it was the rear passenger window that opened. The woman’s face was almost entirely obscured behind giant sunglasses, but her voice was imperious. ‘Loxley Hall,’ she barked. ‘I don’t suppose you know where the fuck it is?’
Tish was livid. ‘Do you have any idea what speed you were doing just now? You actually forced me off the road! If I hadn’t swerved, you might have killed us.’
‘But you did swerve, didn’t you?’ The American accent was clearer this time, as was the arrogance. ‘Now do you know where this house is or not? I haven’t got all day.’
Viorel leaned forward. He’d have recognized that voice anywhere.
‘Sabrina?’
‘Vio. Thank God.’ Sabrina took off her sunglasses and smiled at him sweetly. Tish looked at the slanting, feline eyes, high cheekbones and wide lips that had made Sabrina Leon a star and temporarily forgot her indignation. Her beauty was disabling, like a stun gun. What was it Dorian had said? ‘When you look like that, no one ever says no to you.’
‘I take it you know the way to this godforsaken location?’ Sabrina purred at Viorel. ‘We’ve been driving around for hours. I’m losing my mind.’
‘Sure.’ Viorel’s earlier anger seemed to have melted away like an ice lolly in the sunshine. ‘Tish and I are on our way back there now. Why don’t you follow us?’
‘Was that a princess?’ asked Abel to Tish’s irritation as she backed onto the road. ‘She’s really pretty. And she’s got a cool car. With cool windows.’
‘That is not a princess,’ snapped Tish. ‘That is a very rude woman. And you wouldn’t think her car was so cool if it had hit us. Why didn’t you say something?’ she added crossly to Viorel. ‘She shouldn’t be on the roads.’
Viorel clocked Tish’s angry, tense expression and thought: She’s jealous. How endearing. She didn’t like me being nice to Sabrina. ‘I’ll have a word with the driver later,’ he said soothingly.
He hadn’t been looking forward to this shoot. He’d already spent far too much of his life in the English countryside, and had always found it deadly dull. But perhaps Derbyshire would be the exception?
There was hope in the Hope Valley after all.
‘No! No way. They’re not going to a fucking hotel.’
An hour later and Sabrina Leon’s screams could be heard the length and breadth of Loxley Hall.
‘Well they’re not staying here, Sabrina.’ Dorian Rasmirez’s voice was ten decibels lower but every bit as firm. ‘I told you before. No entourage.’
‘Entourage?’ Sabrina’s yelling shot up an octave. ‘In what alternative fucking universe are they an entourage? They’re my bodyguards. I need them for protection. How are they gonna protect me if they’re in a hotel?’
‘They aren’t, because this is bullshit,’ said Dorian. ‘Self-important bullshit. No one else brought bodyguards. What do you need protection from?’
‘The press!’ shrieked Sabrina. ‘Who do you think? You should have seen them at Heathrow, like a pack of fucking hyenas.’
‘Perhaps you should try being polite to them?’ said Dorian. ‘They’re always very respectful to me.’
‘They’re not interested in you,’ said Sabrina bluntly. ‘No one else brought bodyguards because no one else sells newspapers the way I do, OK? It’s that simple.’
Dorian was unmoved. ‘You can shout all you like. Those neanderthals are not staying on this set and that is my final word on the subject.’
‘Fine. Then I’ll check into a hotel with them.’
‘No you will not. You will stay here. You’re under contract.’
At that point both the decibel level and the language got so bad that Tish had to abandon Abel’s bedtime story and come downstairs to confront them. ‘I’m sorry, but I have a small boy sleeping upstairs. If you can’t have a civil conversation, please go and shout at each other somewhere else.’
‘Sorry,’ said Dorian sheepishly. ‘I forgot you guys were home.’
Abel, looking more adorable than ever in his white cotton Peter Rabbit pyjamas, appeared on the staircase behind his mother. ‘Guess what?’ he said brightly to Dorian.
‘What?’ said Dorian, ignoring Sabrina and focusing all his attention on the boy.
‘I nearly died today.’
‘Did you, now?’
Abel nodded solemnly. ‘Uh-huh. Twice.’
‘Don’t exaggerate, Abel,’ said Tish.
‘I’m not!’ Abel insisted. ‘Once when Michael pushed me out of the apple tree, and once when that lady tried to crash into our car.’ He pointed at Sabrina.
Dorian’s eyes narrowed. ‘Is this true?’
‘No!’ said Sabrina.
‘Yes,’ said Tish simultaneously. ‘She ran us off the road. Or at least her driver did.’
‘That’s crap,’ said Sabrina. ‘She was driving like an old lady. We passed her and she panicked. Tell him, Viorel.’
‘Oh no. Don’t look at me.’ Walking down the stairs, Viorel stopped behind Abel, scooping the boy up into his arms.
‘Hello, Abel Henry Gunning Crewe.’ He beamed.
‘Hello, Viorel Hudson.’ Abel beamed back.
Sabrina said what everyone was thinking. ‘Holy crap, you two look alike.’
‘Language!’ hissed Tish. But she was really annoyed with herself for feeling so flustered now that Viorel had turned up. He’d changed out of the jeans and sweater he’d been wearing earlier into a pair of white linen Paul Smith trousers and an open-necked Gucci shirt in racing green that made his eyes positively glow. This is ridiculous, thought Tish, as another rush of blood made its way towards her cheeks. If he’s going to be living under my roof for the next two months, I’m going to have to stop blushing like a schoolgirl every time we’re in the same room.
‘Look,’ snapped Sabrina, irritated that for a full minute attention had been diverted from herself. ‘I don’t have time for this. I’m tired and I need to get this shit resolved about my security guys so I can get some rest.’
‘It’s resolved,’ said Dorian. ‘They go. You stay.’
Sensing things were about to kick off again, Viorel stepped in, snaking one arm around Sabrina’s waist and lifting her suitcase with the other. ‘You must be shattered, darling,’ he said smoothly. ‘Tish has already shown me where your room is. Let me take you up.’
‘I’ll help!’ said Abel, leaping onto Sabrina’s Louis Vuitton trunk like a squirrel monkey. ‘I’ve got super-strong muscles. Look.’ He flexed his nonexistent biceps at Viorel.
‘I don’t think so.’ Tish stepped forward to retrieve her son. ‘You’ve had enough injuries for one day.’
‘But I want to,’ Abel moaned. ‘I want to help the lady who tried to run me over with her car.’
Viorel roared with laughter.
‘For God’s sake,’ said Sabrina, ‘I did not try to run him over.’
‘I didn’t mind,’ Abel assured her. ‘It was a really cool car. You’re very pretty.’
Even Sabrina had to be charmed by that. ‘Thank you. Abel, is it?’
‘Abel Henry Gunning Crewe.’
‘Well, thank you, Abel. But I think you’d better go upstairs now. Your mommy looks mad.’
Doesn’t she just? thought Vio mischievously. Tish was a gorgeous girl, and sweet with it, but he knew which side his bread was buttered. Rasmirez had warned him off in so many words, and heartbroken chicks were usually more trouble than they were worth anyway. Not as much trouble as Sabrina Leon, perhaps, but then Vio had already decided he wasn’t going to screw Sabrina. As Terence Dee, the agent who discovered him, had once memorably said about the perils of sleeping with one’s co-stars: ‘Even dogs don’t shit where they eat.’ If eight weeks of celibacy proved too much, Vio would simply have to take Dorian’s advice and get his rocks off with a local girl.
Pity.
A few hours later, Tish collapsed into bed exhausted. What a day it had been! From her crack-of-dawn expedition up the Home Farm chimney and mortifying first encounter with Viorel Hudson, to Abel’s hospital trip and their near-death run-in with Sabrina Leon, the arrival of the actors seemed to have raised the stress levels at Loxley by a factor of about a hundred.
Viorel’s flirting was flattering. But Tish was a sensible girl. Men like him were in it for the chase, for the game. As soon as one slept with them, they lost interest and were off to the next girl. Even Sabrina’s arrival today had turned Hudson’s head, like a dog suddenly seeing a squirrel.
I have enough drama in my life without all that nonsense, Tish told herself, turning out her bedside lamp. Especially after Michel.
And that was when she realized.
Today was the first day in over a year when she had not thought about Dr. Michel Henri once.