Two days after Chrissie Rasmirez’s arrival on the Wuthering Heights set, Chuck MacNamee opened a book on who would be the first to snap and murder her with their bare hands. Rhys Williams had put his money on Lizzie Bayer, whom Chrissie had audibly refered to as ‘middle-aged’ on day one. But most of the cast had bet on Sabrina.
On a good day, Chrissie was merely distracting, interrupting Dorian mid-take to offer suggestions on how this or that actor might play the scene better, or how a certain camera angle ‘wasn’t working’. On a bad day, she would deliberately rile an already overwrought Sabrina, ordering her around as if she were the director, criticizing everything from Sabrina’s stance to her delivery to the way she wore her period dresses. (‘Amazing how that girl can manage to look like a slut in anything.’) She was only fractionally less overbearing with the rest of the cast, the one blatant exception being Viorel, for whom Chrissie quite plainly had the hots.
Off set, if possible, her behaviour was even worse. Used to being waited on hand and foot at the Schloss, Chrissie treated Tish like a maid, complaining about everything from the softness of her and Dorian’s towels to the creaking of the water pipes at night.
‘Can’t you get that fixed? How’s my husband supposed to be creative when our bedroom sounds like a sinking ship?’
When Tish pointed out that Dorian had made no complaints about the room until Chrissie arrived, Chrissie cut her off mid-sentence with a curt, ‘Well, he’s complaining now,’ before demanding a taxi be ordered to take her into town to collect her prescription allergy medicines. ‘This place is so dusty, I’m surprised you haven’t all asphyxiated.’
Her most abominable rudeness, however, was reserved for Mrs Drummond, whom she seemed to view as some sort of indentured slave. After one particularly grizzly incident, when Chrissie had tried to insist that Mrs D hand-wash her period-stained underwear (‘It’s La Perla. I’m not trusting it to that clapped-out old washing machine’) Dorian had taken her to one side and attempted to smooth the waters.
‘This is not our home, honey,’ he remonstrated gently.
‘Thank God!’ said Chrissie.
‘And it’s not a hotel either.’
‘For heaven’s sake, Dorian. You’ve paid for the location, haven’t you?’
‘Yes, of course. I’m just asking you to be sensitive, that’s all. You’ll be gone in a week, but the rest of us have to live and work together here for another month.’
‘Oh, I see,’ said Chrissie petulantly. ‘Counting the days till you can get rid of me already, are you?’
Dorian sighed. It was hopeless.
Sunday was a day off filming, the first in seventeen straight days, and a much-needed break for everyone. Half the crew decamped en masse to the pub in Loxley. The other half retreated to their trailers to watch downloaded American football or indulge in the backgammon craze that had swept the set over the last two weeks. (Viorel was in the lead, although Deborah Raynham was giving him a good run for his money.) Sabrina announced her intention of spending the entire day in bed. By noon, she appeared to have kept her word. No one had seen her. Rhys Evans and Lizzie Bayer, who’d recently started sleeping together (‘Any port in a storm,’ as Vio had wryly observed to Sabrina), left early to spend the day at Alton Towers. Jamie Duggan, officially the most boring man on set, had pleased everyone by taking himself off on a cultural tour of the local Saxon churches.
All of which meant that Mrs Drummond’s mouthwatering buffet lunch was attended by only a skeleton crew of five: Tish and Abel, Dorian and Chrissie, and Viorel.
‘This chicken pie’s yummy!’ Abel mumbled appreciatively, spraying pastry crumbs all over the table, his cheeks stuffed full like a chipmunk’s. ‘Canniavanothslice?’
‘No,’ said Tish. ‘You haven’t even finished what’s in your mouth yet, greedy grub.’
‘Let the kid eat,’ said Viorel contemptuously, sending his own plate of pie flying across the table like an ice-hockey puck in Abel’s direction. ‘He’s a growing boy.’
‘Cool!’ said Abel, catching the speeding plate and giving Vio a big thumbs-up sign before cramming the third slice into his mouth.
Dorian observed this little exchange with a growing feeling of unease. Something was up between Tish and Vio. Up until about a week ago, they’d been the best of friends. But now there was a tension you could have eaten with a spoon.
‘Use your knife and fork,’ said Tish to Abel, deliberately not challenging Viorel and giving him the fight he was so obviously spoiling for. I’ve got nothing to prove to him, she told herself angrily. Certainly not my love for my son. But somehow, ever since their run-in in the library, Viorel had an uncanny knack of making Tish feel as if she were on the back foot. It was infuriating.
‘I’ve always believed you should let young children eat whatever they like.’ Chrissie Rasmirez fluttered her eyelashes at Viorel. ‘That’s our policy with Saskia. Kids know what their bodies want instinctively.’
‘Exactly,’ said Viorel, with a triumphant glance at Tish.
Chrissie looked good today, he thought. Her frayed, white denim miniskirt and faded green T-shirt from Fred Segal showed off her tanned, fit body to perfection. More surprisingly, she looked relaxed, skin glowing, eyes lacking the telltale bags that her husband sported, symptoms of the stress and exhaustion involved in shooting a movie.
Tish also noticed how well Chrissie was looking. You’re beautiful, she thought. But there was still something hard-edged about her, something cold. Once again, Tish wondered how a man as warm and emotional as Dorian Rasmirez could have chosen such a bloodless woman to share his life with.
Spearing a gherkin on her fork and slipping it into her mouth suggestively, Chrissie’s green eyes locked onto Viorel’s lapis-blue ones. ‘I’m a big believer in listening to my body’s needs.’
‘So am I,’ Viorel grinned, revelling in the attention. He wasn’t particularly attracted to Chrissie. But since his run-in with Tish he’d been feeling a growing sense of frustration that increasingly needed an outlet. With Sabrina off limits, his options were slim. The flirtation with Chrissie was a welcome distraction. ‘I’m religious about it actually.’
Tish felt embarrassed for Dorian and wildly disapproving of Viorel. The flirting was shameless. But when she looked up she saw that Dorian hadn’t noticed anything. Eating mindlessly, eyes on his food, brow furrowed, he was clearly miles away, lost in worries of his own.
‘What are your plans this afternoon?’ Chrissie asked Viorel. ‘My husband’s going to be working, as usual.’ She rolled her eyes.
Dorian glanced up. ‘What? Working? Not the whole afternoon I’m not, honey. I need to look at some of the rushes of Rhys’s scenes, that’s all. It shouldn’t take more than a couple of hours.’
‘Yeah, right, and pigs might fly,’ muttered Chrissie. ‘I thought maybe Viorel could give me a tour of the local countryside. Show me some of the sights.’
‘I’d love to.’ Vio smiled wickedly.
The air was so thick with innuendo, Tish almost felt like covering Abel’s ears. She certainly wished she could cover her own.
‘But I’m afraid I already have plans. I’m taking a young lady into Manchester. We thought we’d do a spot of shopping this afternoon, then grab dinner.’
‘A young lady? Who?’ Tish heard herself asking. She didn’t know why, but the idea that Vio might have scored himself a date seemed to rankle.
‘You know her, actually,’ said Vio nonchalantly. ‘Laura Harrington.’
‘Laura?’ Tish choked on her Perrier water, sending a stream of frothy bubbles shooting out of her nose. ‘The girl who came to babysit Abel the other night?’
‘That’s her.’ Vio smiled.
Last Thursday had been Mrs Drummond’s bridge night, and Tish had arranged dinner with an old schoolfriend. Laura was the teenage daughter of the local vicar, and had offered her babysitting services for eight pounds an hour. All Tish could remember about her was that she had terrible grammar, and that Abel had been wildly impressed with her ‘princess hair’. Clearly, he wasn’t the only one who’d noticed her charms.
‘But she’s a child!’ Tish looked at Vio, horrified.
‘She’s eighteen actually,’ said Vio. ‘And very mature for her age.’
‘Mature?’ Tish scoffed. ‘Please. She was carrying a Miley Cyrus backpack! She gave Abel two chocolate cream eggs in an egg cup for supper.’
‘Did she?’ Vio beamed. ‘I like her even more.’
‘He was sick all over his bed.’
‘Yes, well, happily I’m blessed with a strong stomach.’
Tish’s glare intensified.
‘It’s only dinner,’ said Viorel. ‘I’ll drop her back home afterwards.’
After what? thought Tish furiously. Boy, had she misjudged Viorel Hudson. Being a flirt was one thing, but using his celebrity to lure an innocent local girl into bed? He should be ashamed of himself.
Chrissie Rasmirez obviously felt the same way, if her epic pout was anything to go by.
‘Don’t worry, Mrs Rasmirez,’ Mrs Drummond piped up cheerfully. ‘I’ll have a word with Bill Connelly. Bill knows Derbyshire a lot better than Mr Hudson here. I’m sure he’d be happy to show you around until your husband’s free.’
Momentarily forgetting their mutual disapproval of one another, Tish and Vio locked eyes and smiled. Chrissie looked as if someone had just squirted lemon juice in her eyes.
‘Thank you,’ she said sourly. ‘I wouldn’t want to be any trouble.’
‘You should go, honey. Bill Connelly won’t mind,’ said Dorian, scoring himself no points with his wife whatsoever. ‘If the forecasters are right, we could be in for some heavy rain in the next few days. Maybe even enough to hold up shooting.’
‘Yay!’ said Abel, jumping down from the table and disloyally settling himself down in Viorel’s lap. ‘That means you can play with me more, right?’
As ever, Abel’s sunny, trusting little face brought out the lion in Viorel. He still couldn’t get his head around the fact that Tish was planning to drag the boy back to some ex-communist dump in a few short weeks. If he could, he’d have stuffed Abi in his suitcase and brought him back to America.
‘Of course.’ He ruffled Abel’s hair. ‘We can play computer games and eat Hula Hoops till our tongues fall off.’
Tish shot him a thunderous look. She was so easy to wind up, there was almost no sport to it.
Yesterday, Vio had walked in on a conversation between Tish and Mrs Drummond. Tish was droning on about her bloody charity work, again.
‘A lot of it’s about training the local staff on the ground,’ she was telling the housekeeper earnestly. ‘When we first came to the children’s hospital in Oradea, we saw seriously malnourished babies. The nurses were trying to spoon-feed them while they lay in their cots. Well, you can’t swallow lying down. It’s impossible. So that’s the sort of basic thing we teach them.’
‘I see, dear.’ Mrs Drummond nodded sagely. ‘That sounds marvellous.’
‘Except that it’s bollocks,’ drawled Viorel. ‘I know at least six girls in LA who can definitely swallow lying down. Perhaps I should send them out there, to train the kids?’
The look on Tish’s face had kept him smiling all night long.
Laura Harrington was a disappointment.
Notwithstanding her tender years, the vicar’s daughter had clearly been around the block a time or twenty. Having nixed the shopping plan (‘I can think of better things to do, can’t you?’), she’d taken Viorel out to a secluded part of Loxley’s idyllic ancient woodland, and slipped out of her clothes before he’d had time to blink. Indeed, her whole been-there-done-that, business-like approach to proceedings left Vio feeling deflated and – odd as it might seem in the circumstances – used.
Lying back, he closed his eyes and tried to enjoy the painting-by-numbers blow job that Laura was giving him. No doubt she would be cataloguing it in graphic detail on her Facebook page later – blow by blow, he thought, laughing quietly to himself. He tried to turn himself on by imagining it was Sabrina’s tongue darting around his cock, and not that of some chubby village slut with big tits and the IQ of a fossilized dog turd. But strangely, the Sabrina fantasy wasn’t working either. After weeks of denial, perhaps he’d come to associate her with frustration?
Laura looked up. His erection was still strong – a blow job was a blow job, after all – but she could sense his lack of enthusiasm. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘Nothing,’ he lied.
‘Would you rather just shag?’
Vio raised an eyebrow. And he’d thought Hollywood chicks were fast! ‘You don’t beat around the bush, do you?’
In answer, Laura straddled him, barely giving him time to slip on a condom before she lowered her pale, freckled thighs over his hips and slipped his cock inside her. She rocked back and forth, her melonous breasts juddering like water balloons, eyes closed in concentration more than ecstasy. Lifting her up, Vio turned her around so he wouldn’t have to look at her mooncalf face. Closing his own eyes, he tried to focus on Laura’s oversized boobs and not the sizeable arse that came with them.
At least I’m pissing off Tish Crewe, he thought, increasing the pace of his thrusts as he tuned in to his anger. Before he realized it, he found himself fantasizing that it was Tish naked on all fours beneath him; Tish’s back arching in silent pleasure as he pushed deeper inside her; Tish’s breasts he was squeezing and kneading like two balls of softest dough. The fantasy repulsed and excited him in equal measure. Part of him wanted to stop, but Laura was clenching her muscles more tightly around him, bucking wildly in response to his own increased arousal, and he knew he was too far gone to turn back.
When he came it was Tish’s hair he was grabbing, pulling it painfully, wanting to hurt her as much as he wanted to satisfy her, wanting to punish her. But for what exactly? For taking Abel back to Romania, or for his own unhappy childhood? He didn’t know any more.
‘Ow! That hurts,’ Laura complained. ‘My hair. Let go of my hair!’
‘Sorry.’
Viorel released her, like a man coming out of a trance. He slumped back on the blanket feeling frustrated and dirty, aware that behind the confusingly erotic images of Tish, a different woman’s face hovered ghostlike in the background. He hated the idea that Martha Hudson could still get to him. That even now, after all his success, it was his adoptive mother who had moulded his relationships with women, sowing the seeds of self-destruction and distrust into his sexuality like a cancerous gene. He hadn’t contacted his mother since he came to England, nor had Martha made the remotest effort to contact him. But clearly his falling out with Tish, and the connection he felt with Abel, had raked over feelings in his subconscious that he would rather not have been reminded of. Feelings of loneliness, of abandonment and rage. What was that Philip Larkin poem? They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
Was Tish going to fuck Abi up, the way Martha had him?
‘Let’s eat.’ Laura’s grating voice broke the spell. ‘I’m famished. Where are you taking me?’
The thought of having to sit in a restaurant making small talk with this half-witted girl depressed Vio even further. But he supposed the least he owed her was a meal, and the alternative – heading straight back to Loxley Hall – was even less appealing.
‘Where would you like to go?’
‘Somewhere posh.’ The girl was unequivocal. ‘Harvester?’
It was late by the time Viorel got back to Loxley. In the clear night sky, a full moon bathed the house’s fairytale turrets in a gossamer haze of softest silver, with no sign of Dorian’s predicted storm clouds. With any luck, we’ll be shooting again tomorrow, thought Vio. I should get some kip. The few lights left on in the East Wing gave the house a warm, welcoming glow and, as he crunched across the gravel to the front door, Vio was surprised by how much affection he’d come to feel for the place. Behind him he heard the rushing of the River Derwent as it skipped and danced its way through the valley floor. Above him, trees swayed gently in the night breeze, the rustling of their leaves soothing and rhythmic, like waves lapping on a shore.
Part of me will be sad to leave, he admitted to himself. Sad to leave Loxley. Sad to leave Abel.
A couple of weeks ago, he realized with a pang, he would have added Tish Crewe’s name to the list of people he would miss. Was he being foolish, maintaining this feud? Perhaps he should try to build bridges. But then again, why should he be the one to make the first move?
Once inside, he closed the door gingerly behind him, hoping not to wake the sleeping household. He was halfway up the dark stairs when a figure in a dressing gown emerged from the shadows.
‘You’re late.’ Sabrina’s voice sounded low and throaty.
‘Jesus.’ Vio jumped. ‘You scared me.’
‘So how was the date with your teenage dream? Did you have fun?’
He sighed. ‘Since you ask, no, not really.’
‘But you fucked her anyway, I suppose.’
‘Come on, angel,’ said Vio placatingly. ‘Don’t be like that.’
‘Like what?’ snapped Sabrina. ‘Pissed, you mean? That you can go out and get laid while Rasmirez has me stuck here like frikkin’ Rapunzel, twiddling my thumbs?’
‘Is that all you were twiddling?’ Vio teased. But Sabrina was in no mood to see the funny side.
‘I’m serious. I need to get out of here. I’m climbing the walls.’
‘So go out.’
‘How?’ Sabrina laughed. ‘Dorian’s spies are everywhere. He’d eviscerate me, and the Countess Dracula would have my entrails for breakfast.’
‘Poor baby,’ said Vio, hugging her. ‘If it makes you feel any better, the sex with Laura was terrible.’
‘It doesn’t make me feel better,’ said Sabrina, pulling away and tying her robe more tightly around her waist like a knight fastening his armour. ‘I hope you sleep like shit.’ She stalked off, slamming her bedroom door behind her.
Wearily, Vio continued up the stairs.
‘You should be ashamed of yourself, you know.’
That was all he needed. What was Tish doing up? Judging by the look of withering disapproval on her face, he assumed she’d overheard him talking to Sabrina about Laura.
‘Give it a rest, Mother Teresa,’ he said crossly, trying to erase the mental picture he’d had a few hours ago of Tish naked and desirous beneath him. ‘We’re not all gunning for a sainthood.’
Tish said nothing. She didn’t have to.
The contemptuous look in her eyes said it all.
The following morning the whole house was woken by the rain. The storm that had seemed so invisible last night had arrived with a speed and force that shook the ancient glass in the windowpanes and battered the trees in the park till they were bent double. Water pounded against glass and stone relentlessly, a wild cacophony of drumbeats accompanying the tortured howling of the wind. It was the kind of dawn in which you almost expected to see Cathy Earnshaw’s ghost at the window, her wrists bloodied on the jagged, broken glass, tormenting her beloved Heathcliff.
Dorian Rasmirez certainly awoke tormented. Half of the set village had flooded, with trailers containing not only people but also valuable equipment sinking feet deep into the mud. Chrissie, who’d taken a sleeping pill after they made love last night, was dead to the world. But Dorian had pulled Wellington boots on over his pyjamas and headed out into the torrent shortly after four a.m., to help Chuck and the crew with the salvage effort. Rhys had helped out too, God bless him, and some of the extras, but it was still an uphill struggle. At six thirty, exhausted and soaked to the bone, Dorian crawled back to bed, but the pounding rain made it impossible to sleep. There was no way they could film in this, and it might last for days, a delay they could not begin to afford.
I’ll go to London, he thought. See if I can wrangle a third loan out of Coutts. At least that way I won’t waste the day. He’d assumed Chrissie would be delighted at the prospect of a trip up to town. She was due to fly back to Romania on Wednesday (it was two weeks since she’d last seen Saskia) and had been complaining ceaselessly that Dorian never made time for her, never took her anywhere, and that her visit had been a grave disappointment. But over breakfast she surprised him by turning down the chance of a London jaunt.
‘I can’t face going out in this weather,’ she moaned, carefully removing all traces of yolk from her boiled egg before eating it. ‘It’s too depressing. I’d rather stay here and read.’
‘Are you sure?’ asked Dorian, a little ashamed by how much his spirits lifted at the prospect of going alone, but knowing he’d get far more done. ‘I thought we could catch a matinée or something, after my meetings.’
‘I’m fine,’ said Chrissie. ‘I have a new novel. And I never get time to read when I have Saskia with me. Really. You go. I’ll stay.’
‘Can I stay home too?’ asked Abel, missing his mouth with a piece of Nutella-covered toast and smearing chocolate sauce across his cheek. He and his mother were also downstairs early, as was Viorel after a fitful night’s sleep. Abel was dressed for the weather in a plastic Togz rain-suit and rainbow-coloured boots, over which he’d thrown a chain-mail knight’s outfit complete with shield and visor. ‘Viorel can play knights with me. Or Dinosaur King.’
‘No,’ said Tish firmly. ‘You have a play date with Jack today. We’re leaving straight after breakfast.’
‘We can play when you get back,’ said Viorel, ignoring the disapproving looks he was getting from Tish. He regretted sleeping with Laura, but he didn’t need Tish to keep rubbing his nose in it.
‘Viorel doesn’t have time to play, I’m afraid, Abel,’ said Dorian, folding away his newspaper and looking at Vio. ‘You and Sabrina need to work on Cathy’s ghost scene. Friday’s effort was pitiful. As soon as this shitty weather lightens up, we’re re-shooting it.’
‘I’d be happy to,’ said Viorel, ‘although I can’t vouch for Sabrina’s willingness to rehearse with me. I’m afraid I’m not top of her Christmas-card list at the moment.’
‘Really?’ Chrissie visibly cheered up. She disliked Sabrina Leon intensely, just as she disliked all women who were better-looking than she was, and was jealous of her tight relationship with Vio. ‘Why’s that?’
‘I have no idea,’ said Vio, poker-faced.
Tish practically choked on her Earl Grey. ‘Come on, Abi,’ she said, hustling her son out of the room. ‘We need to make a move.’
Dorian looked at his watch. ‘Me too … I’ll try and make it home for dinner tonight,’ he said to Chrissie. ‘We’ll go out. Somewhere romantic.’
Chrissie smiled. ‘Sounds nice.’ She looked happier and more relaxed than Dorian had seen her all week. He hoped she was on the verge of forgiving him for the whole media storm about Sabrina.
I wonder if the bank will be equally understanding?
The weather was no better in London. But whereas in Derbyshire there was a certain romantic grandeur to the rain, in the city it was merely dirty and damp and depressing. Dorian sat in the back of a black cab, watching the raindrops chase each other down the windowpane, a game he’d played as a boy, fighting back his own dark thoughts.
What have I done? he brooded miserably, as they crawled along the Embankment. His meeting at Coutts had been a disaster. Not only were they not going to recommit more money to the movie, but they’d read him the riot act about his outstanding loan.
‘You’re four months behind on interest payments, Mr Rasmirez.’
Dorian did his best to rationalize this failure. ‘This is the movie business. It’s a long lead. Once the film’s wrapped and I hook a big studio partner, you’ll get all your interest and more.’
‘Ah, but will you find a studio prepared to back you?’ Hugh Mackenzie Crook, the Old Etonian head of the private banking team, fixed a beady eye on his errant client. ‘You promised us you’d keep Sabrina Leon under control. Recently, her press has been worse than ever. Ever since she set foot in this country, it’s been one gaffe after another, and now there are these rumours about the two of you—’
‘All nonsense,’ said Dorian. ‘Completely fabricated.’
‘Doesn’t matter. Those stories are toxic, as you well know. If Sabrina’s the star draw of your film, she needs to be a draw. Right now she’s a turn-off. People’ll pay not to see her.’
‘I disagree,’ said Dorian. ‘The reason they’re still running stories about her is that she still sells newspapers. She still sells.’
‘Yes, but the film business is different, is it not? No one shows up to see an actor they dislike.’
‘When you see the rushes, you’ll know why they’re gonna show up,’ insisted Dorian. ‘Sabrina’s magical on film. Believe me, she’ll blow you away.’
His confidence about Sabrina’s performance was the real deal. And not just Sabrina’s. Under his direction the whole cast, Rhys and Lizzie and Jamie, and of course the sensational Viorel, had delivered some of the best work of their careers. And Loxley had proved to be the perfect location, even more atmospheric and romantic and Gothically compelling in celluloid than it was in reality. He still had about a third of the film to shoot once he got to Romania. But he already knew that Wuthering Heights would be the critical triumph he’d dreamed of.
What he doubted was whether they could survive Sabrina’s bad press. He’d tried to control it, to control her. But the shit kept flying. The truth was, Hugh Mackenzie Crook was right. Dorian was by no means certain that moviegoers wouldn’t boycott his film, and big studios disliked risk. One more piece of negative PR, and his chances of hooking a white knight might well disappear completely.
‘I’m afraid any further loan is out of the question until we receive our back interest on your outstanding debt,’ said the banker, closing his lever-arch file with a distinctly final click. ‘Good day, Mr Rasmirez.’
The taxi pulled up outside Rules restaurant, one of Dorian’s favourite places to eat when in London. The Coutts meeting had been brutal but mercifully swift. At least now he’d have time for a proper sit-down lunch.
In the cosy, candlelit atmosphere of the restaurant, settled into a squishy leather booth with a perfectly steamed steak and kidney pudding and a restorative glass of claret, Dorian felt his bedraggled spirits start to revive. OK, so he hadn’t secured any new money. But he had just enough left to finish the film in Romania, as long as he made a few cutbacks (and continued defaulting on his interest). And at least Hugh hadn’t actually recalled the original loan.
There were other things to be thankful for too. His marriage had survived the vicious tabloid rumours. Chrissie would go home in a few days. Hopefully then some of the tensions on set would ease. If they caught a break in the weather, Dorian would be flying out to join her in a couple of weeks. He was determined to do a better job as a husband when he got home. I’ll pay Chrissie more attention. And I’ll take up some of the slack with Saskia. Aside from a few unsatisfactory Skype calls, Dorian realized guiltily that he hadn’t laid eyes on his daughter in two months. She’s still only three, he told himself. I have time to put things right. To build a real bond with her, like the one Tish has with Abel.
Tish brought his thoughts back to Loxley and what was happening on set without him. He hoped Viorel and Sabrina were working and not wasting their creative energy on some silly squabble. In the early weeks of filming, the sexual tension between them had at least been creatively productive. But inevitably, as Sabrina’s frustration mounted, it had started to turn sour. On one level, Dorian instinctively revolted against the idea of Sabrina becoming another notch on Viorel Hudson’s bedpost. For all her tantrums and spoiled, selfish behaviour, there remained something incredibly childlike and vulnerable about the girl that brought out all his protective instincts.
His phone rang, earning him dagger looks from all the other diners – pompous elderly Brits to a man. ‘Sorry,’ said Dorian, getting up to take the call outside, acutely aware all of a sudden of the Americanness of his accent. On the street the rain was still lashing the pavement, making it hard to hear. He cupped the phone to his ear. ‘Hello?’
There was a crackle on the other end of the line, followed by some muttered cursing. At last he heard a familiar voice demand, ‘Can you hear me?’
It was Sabrina. She sounded agitated.
‘Yes, I can hear you. What’s up?’
‘I thought you said you could hear me? I already told you what’s up. I’m in a fucking police cell in Manchester, that’s what’s up. I need you to come pick me up.’
‘You’re what?’ Dorian exploded. ‘What the hell …? What happened, Sabrina? What are you even doing in Manchester in the first place?’
‘Look, I don’t have time to chat about it,’ Sabrina replied tersely. ‘This dickhead cop’s trying to get me off the phone.’ There was another muffled altercation. It sounded as if someone were physically trying to pull the receiver out of Sabrina’s hands. Occasional choice words cut through the crackle in Sabrina’s strident American voice. ‘Just get here, OK?’ she barked at Dorian. Before he could say anything further, the line went dead.
For a few seconds, Dorian stood in the rain, silently contemplating his options. If he raced up to Manchester, there was a chance he could sort out whatever mess Sabrina had got herself into before the press got wind of it.
Who am I kidding? he thought miserably. The local rag’s probably already there. Still, he had to try.
Racing back inside, dripping with water like a dog after a swim, he signalled for his bill. The waiter looked crestfallen.
‘No pudding, sir? Are you sure? One really shouldn’t go out into weather like this on a half-empty stomach.’
Dorian thought about the mountain of suet he’d just eaten and almost smiled.
Goddamn Sabrina.
Tish fastened Abel’s seatbelt with gritted teeth. Outside the car, icy rain was soaking the lower half of her body so her jeans clung to her legs like a wetsuit. Inside, Abel continued to bounce his newly won stegosaurus toy through her hair, simultaneously wriggling around on his booster seat so it was almost impossible to click the belt into its holster.
‘For God’s sake, Abi, stop!’ Tish snapped. It wasn’t often she lost her temper with him, but Abi’s behaviour today had been beyond trying. The planned day at Jack’s house had been a disaster. Jack’s mother, Monica, the yummiest mummy at the village school, was not the most involved of parents at the best of times. Today, she seemed to be even more in her own, self-absorbed little world than usual, dragging Tish off to look at her newly bought Fendi dresses while the two boys ran wild, having flour fights in the kitchen, almost setting fire to themselves in the drawing room, and finally coming to blows in a particularly testosterone-fuelled game of pirates played on Jack’s bunk beds. After that, Monica had placated both boys with Kit Kats and Cadbury’s Mini Rolls, adding sugary fuel to the fire, and plonked them down in front of Ben 10: Alien Force, a cartoon that never failed to transform Abel into a bloodthirsty little thug within about fifteen seconds. At home, Tish could have imposed order with a quiet word or, if push came to shove, by invoking the dreaded naughty carpet. But here, egged on by Jack and already resentful about being dragged away from Viorel, Abel’s behaviour got progressively worse. In the end, Tish had been forced to take him home hours early.
‘Do it one more time, Abi, and that dinosaur goes in the bin,’ she said, finally strapping him in and squelching around to the driver’s seat.
‘You’re mean,’ muttered Abel.
‘Probably,’ said Tish grimly, heading out of the village.
‘When we get home, I’m going to play with Viorel and not you.’
‘You’re not going to play with anyone, I’m afraid,’ said Tish. ‘You’re going to tidy up that playroom, and then you can help me and Mrs Drummond make some soup. What are you doing?’
‘I’m using “the force”,’ muttered Abel, ominously.
In the rearview mirror, Tish watched her son trying to strangle her with Darth Vader’s death grip, sweaty little fingers outstretched, eyes narrowed in malicious concentration. He seemed quite baffled that it wasn’t working.
Despite herself, Tish laughed aloud.
‘Come on, darling,’ she said. ‘Let’s not argue. How about you tidy up your toys, and then we’ll play Connect Four?’
They were still negotiating when they arrived at Loxley, but as soon as Mrs D came out with a tray of home-made shortbread biscuits, the tension evaporated. ‘We’ll tidy up the toys together,’ she whispered conspiratorially, leading him off to the playroom. ‘I’ll race you.’
Exhausted and soaked to the bone, Tish followed them inside, heading straight for her room and a change of clothes. When she reached the landing, she heard the first noise. It sounded like a muffled scream. Heading down the corridor, she turned the corner to see one of her father’s favourite Victorian lamps had been knocked off a side table. All the bedroom doors were open. A few feet further on, a broken vase lay between discarded articles of clothing.
Oh my God, thought Tish. We’ve been burgled. In the middle of the day!
A second scream, not muffled this time but audibly a woman in distress, rang out from the direction of Dorian and Chrissie’s bedroom.
And the burglar’s still here.
Arming herself with the fallen lamp (its heavy resin base would make a perfect blunt instrument), Tish ran towards the screams, adrenaline pumping.
‘I’ve called the police!’ she shouted. ‘Whoever you are you can get the hell out of here, now!’
She burst into the bedroom and froze. It was hard to tell who was the more shocked: Tish, Viorel or Chrissie Rasmirez. Chrissie was naked and spread-eagled at the foot of the four-poster bed, with both arms tied to the wooden posts with what looked like ripped pieces of shirt – Dorian’s shirt, unless Tish’s eyes deceived her, which at this point she could only pray that they did. Chrissie’s body looked even thinner naked and with arms outstretched, her breasts an insipid pair of fried eggs spread across jutting ribs, her hip bones grotesquely prominent.
Viorel was also naked but, lying flat on his back on the bed, he was mostly concealed by Chrissie. Unfortunately for all of them, Chrissie’s enthusiastic bucking and yelping had only stopped when she registered Tish’s presence, a full three seconds after Tish had in fact walked into the room. Three seconds that would be burned in Tish’s memory for the rest of her life.
‘You’re back early.’ Viorel’s languid, arrogant voice was the first to break the silence. If he was embarrassed, or guilty, he didn’t show it. ‘I would say “this isn’t what it looks like”, but I’ll admit I’m hard pressed to come up with an alter native explanation. Would you buy “experimental yoga”?’
But Tish was in no mood for banter. She turned and fled, unable to bear the sight of the pair of them a second longer. She felt sick, physically sick, and violated, as if Viorel had deliberately lured her into his obscene little peep show. Sitting down on the bed, she put her head between her knees, willing the nausea to pass.
There was a knock on the door.
‘Go away,’ said Tish.
‘Can’t, I’m afraid.’ Viorel, who’d got dressed back into his black jeans and James Perse sapphire-blue shirt stood sheepishly in the doorway. ‘We need to talk.’
‘No, we don’t.’ Tish could still barely bring herself to look at him.
‘We do,’ said Vio. ‘I need to know what you’re planning to do. Are you going to tell Dorian?’
Incredible, thought Tish. Even now, all he cares about is saving his own skin.
‘I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m going to do.’
Ever since their stupid falling-out about Abel and her plans to take him back to Romania, Tish had clung to her anger, convincing herself that her feelings hadn’t been hurt by the loss of Viorel’s friendship. Now she realized fully just how much she’d been deceiving herself. It was Viorel who had made her forget Michel. OK, so nothing romantic had developed between them. But his affection, the way he looked at her, sought out her company and advice; all that had restored Tish’s self-confidence. She missed the person she’d believed Vio Hudson to be. She missed her friend, the one who had brought her back to life.
Viorel closed the door behind him and took a seat on a Liberty-print armchair in the corner. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Don’t drag it out. Are you going to spill the beans to Rasmirez or not?’
Tish turned on him furiously. Unable to handle her own hurt feelings, she focused on Dorian’s. ‘How could you? You know how much Dorian loves her.’
‘What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him,’ said Viorel.
‘And that’s an excuse, is it? You aren’t even attracted to her.’
‘Aren’t I?’
‘Well, are you?’
Viorel ran a hand guiltily through his hair. ‘All right, no. Not really.’
‘So why?’ asked Tish. She was embarrassed to find that her voice was shaking.
‘I don’t know.’
A hundred possible answers to Tish’s question played in Viorel’s head, but none of them sounded good.
Because she was there.
Because I was bored.
Because I have to prove that every woman in the world wants me, to prove my mother wrong.
Because I’m an asshole.
He knew his own inadequacies. But Tish Crewe seemed to have the power to make him feel them in a way that no one else did.
‘Look. Dorian’s a good man,’ he said. ‘Please don’t tell him. He’d be destroyed by it if he knew and he doesn’t deserve that.’
‘I know he doesn’t bloody deserve it,’ snapped Tish. ‘You’ve put me in an impossible position.’
‘Funny,’ Vio quipped. ‘Mrs Rasmirez was saying the same thing a few minutes ago.’
‘This isn’t funny! Don’t you have any shame? Any moral code at all?’
Vio bridled. He knew he was in the wrong, and he hated to have Tish think so badly of him. Despite everything, he cared about her good opinion, probably more than he ought to. But he reacted instinctively against her preachiness. She sounded so like his mother sometimes, it was unnerving.
He stood up. ‘I didn’t come here for a lecture. I’d like to know what you’re going to do. So would Chrissie. That way at least we can be prepared.’
‘I don’t care what you and Chrissie would like,’ said Tish indignantly. ‘You make me sick, the pair of you.’ Her wet jeans clung to her thighs like a poultice. She shivered. ‘However, as it happens, I’m not going to tell Dorian.’
‘Thank you,’ said Viorel grudgingly.
‘Don’t you dare thank me,’ said Tish. ‘I’m not doing it for you. Or that bitch of a wife of his. I’m doing it for him.’
Vio scanned her face, trying to read the range of emotions there. The rage was clearly visible, flashing in her eyes like a lightning storm. But there was something else too. Sadness. Disappointment. Pain.
‘I’m sorry,’ he mumbled. And he was. He wished he could be the man she wanted him to be. But not everyone found self-sacrifice as easy as Tish seemed to.
Turning her back on him, Tish gazed out of the window at the rain falling in grey sheets over Loxley’s park. She was horrified to find herself fighting back tears. ‘Just get out.’
Sabrina Leon stared at the concrete ceiling above her head and tried to stay angry. If she didn’t stay angry, she’d start crying. And if she started crying, she wouldn’t be able to stop.
Why do these things always happen to me? Why?
After a fitful night’s sleep tormented by dreams of Viorel having sex with the fat babysitter, she’d woken up to the sound of battering rain against her windowpane. Real Wuthering Heights weather, but clearly they weren’t going to be able to shoot in such a downpour. Equally clearly, Sabrina knew that if she didn’t do something to engage Viorel’s sexual attention and make him jealous soon, she was in danger of losing every shred of power in their relationship. She was Sabrina fucking Leon, for God’s sake, the most lusted-after woman in the world. And here she was, tolerating being rejected in favour of a local teenage moron.
With Dorian distracted in London, she’d never have a better opportunity to defy her house arrest and slip away for a little fun. It wasn’t as if she intended anything too drastic. She’d wear shades and a headscarf under her raincoat and head into the city incognito. Then, after a little shopping, she’d lose the disguise, hit one of the local bars or clubs and flirt up a storm. Someone would inevitably photograph her with a good-looking man, just as they always did in LA. Tongues would start wagging and, with any luck, Viorel self-satisfied Hudson would be forced to sit up and take notice.
It should have been so simple. But of course, it wasn’t. Despite her best efforts at concealment, she was recognized within a few minutes of arriving at Harvey Nichols in Exchange Square. An angry Tarik Tyler fan confronted her in the lingerie department (Sabrina was stocking up on her favourite Elle Macpherson bras, which were like gold dust in the States). Sabrina defended herself robustly, but within minutes the woman had been joined by a number of other shoppers, some of whom began to get physical, jostling and heckling and blocking Sabrina’s path when she tried to leave. Eventually, to Sabrina’s great relief, security arrived. But instead of rushing to her aid, they proceeded to try to escort her out of the store! As if she’d been the one making threats and causing trouble! As soon as the guard laid a hand on her arm, Sabrina lashed out instinctively, kicking and biting at him like a wildcat, demanding that he let her go.
After that, the rest was a blur. There were many more guards, and the crowd of hecklers swelled as people came to join in the action from other floors and departments. Eventually, the police arrived, and were even less sympathetic to Sabrina’s plight than the store staff had been, bundling her into a van as if she were some sort of drug dealer, and now locking her up in this cold, windowless six-by-eight-foot cell.
‘It’s for your own good,’ the staff sergeant told Sabrina. ‘If we held you in one of the open cells, someone’d have a pop at you. And if we give you a window, there’ll be a camera lens pressed against it before you can say “How’s your father”.’
Sabrina had no idea why she might want to say ‘How’s your father’, or even what such an expression might mean. What she did know was that she had committed no crime, had not been charged, and therefore had every right to demand immediate release, something she did vocally, repeatedly and in increasingly colourful language, until a superintendent arrived, told her she could make one phone call, but that if a single further obscenity passed her lips in his station he would remove the phone and send her straight back to her cell to ‘cool off’. Which, during her short but heated exchange with Dorian, he duly did.
That had been more than five long hours ago. It was evening now, and still no sign of Dorian riding to her rescue. Lying on her bunk, with nothing to do but brood, Sabrina’s emotions seesawed from anger – at the crowd for attacking her; at Dorian for not getting off his ass and sorting this mess out; at fate for putting her, yet again, in such a hideous position through no fault of her own – to fear, depression and ultimately panic. Perhaps she had to face it. Perhaps her career, her reputation, would never be saved. Perhaps the moviegoing public, in their fickleness and cruelty, would never forgive her. She thought about Ed Steiner, the manager with whom she had battled for so many months back in LA. She could hear Ed’s voice now: ‘I’m not asking you, Sabrina. I’m telling you. You have to take this part. Rasmirez just offered you a lifeline. It’s your last chance.’
But Ed was wrong. Coming to England to play Cathy had not been Sabrina’s last chance. That had already been and gone, so swiftly she hadn’t even registered its passing. No one was going to give her a chance now, no matter how hard she tried, or worked or prayed. Not back home. Not here in this depressing, rainy little island, crawling with gutter press like a pelt full of lice.
There was a commotion outside the door. Voices, a clanking of metal. A bolt being drawn back. Sabrina sat up hopefully. Dorian?
‘Come with me.’
No. It was only the staff sergeant.
Despite herself, Sabrina’s stomach lurched unpleasantly with fear. She hadn’t been in a police cell since her Fresno days, and it was not an experience she’d ever hoped to repeat. They were obviously going to charge her, with disturbing the peace, or affray, or some such archaic bullshit. They must be taking her to an interview room to make it official. Of course, she’d get off in the end. She hadn’t done anything. But by then it wouldn’t matter. A criminal charge would be the final nail in her career coffin, not to mention the death knell for Wuthering Heights. She’d fucked things up for herself, for Vio, for Dorian. It was all so unfair.
The sergeant was leading her down some stairs at the rear of the station, past what looked like the interview rooms. At the bottom was a long corridor with a fire door at the end. It almost looked like some sort of service entrance.
‘What’s this?’ asked Sabrina. ‘Aren’t you going to charge me?’
The sergeant turned and looked at her. ‘No, love. You’re going home.’ He smiled, and suddenly Sabrina felt her eyes welling up with tears. She could have stood anything in that moment apart from someone being kind to her. He opened the fire door. On the other side was an enclosed courtyard. An unmarked Nissan Altima was waiting, its engine idling. The windows were darkened. The front passenger door swung open.
‘Get in.’
Dorian’s voice sounded neutral. At least he’s not yelling, thought Sabrina. Not yet, anyway. She got into the car and closed the door. Immediately, double electric gates in the rear wall opened, and they drove slowly out into the night. All the press were outside the front of the station, so they escaped without incident. It took Dorian fifteen minutes to navigate his way out of the city and onto the motorway, fifteen minutes in which neither he nor Sabrina spoke a single word. For Sabrina, the silence was torture, her mind running through every possible scenario:
She’d be fired.
She’d be sued.
She’d be fired and sued.
She wasn’t sure whether her unauthorized jaunt to Manchester was officially a breach of contract or not. But it was certainly a breach of trust, Dorian’s trust. As always when she felt guilty, Sabrina came out fighting.
‘You took your time,’ she complained as they eased into the slow lane of the M6.
Dorian kept his eyes on the road.
‘I sweated it for five hours in that stinking cell.’
Silence.
‘Not that I expect you to give a shit about me; about my false imprisonment, my being assaulted, any of that.’ Sabrina flicked back her long dark hair dismissively. ‘But I figured the media attention might have persuaded you to put your fucking foot down and get me outta there. Wrong again. What were you doing? Let me guess. Shopping with your lovely wife?’
‘Are you finished?’ said Dorian quietly.
‘I guess.’ Sabrina, who’d been expecting an immediate firestorm, suddenly felt stupid and chastened.
‘Good,’ said Dorian. ‘Firstly, for what it’s worth, I agree with you. You should never have been held. From what the police told me, you were clearly the innocent party.’
Sabrina was so shocked she was speechless.
‘Of course, you should never have been in Manchester in the first place. You know you’re not supposed to leave the set.’ Sabrina opened her mouth to protest, but Dorian gave her a look and she swiftly shut it. ‘But I understand your frustration, cooped up in that house for so long.’
‘You do?’
‘Of course.’ Dorian smiled at her astonished face. ‘I know things between you and Viorel have been … tense. I’m not an ogre, you know, Sabrina. I do have some inkling of the pressures you’re under.’
‘Do you?’ Sabrina raised a sceptical eyebrow.
‘Believe it or not,’ said Dorian, ‘I’ve been trying to protect you from them. To protect you from situations like this.’
‘Protect your investment, you mean. Your precious movie,’ said Sabrina, horrified by her own hostility, but apparently unable to stop herself lashing out. It was as though she had some bizarre form of Tourette’s, a voice in her head telling her to self-destruct.
‘No,’ said Dorian quietly. ‘That’s not what I mean at all.’
Sabrina looked across at him, suddenly aware of how physically close they were in the confined space of the car. Dorian was so big that he seemed stooped in the driver’s seat, and his knees appeared to be in constant danger of bashing against the underside of the dashboard. He looked tired too, she noticed, the grey hairs at his temples in keeping with the heavy bags under his eyes, and though he’d shaved for today’s meetings, there was no disguising the pallor of his skin, despite weeks spent filming outside.
He needs someone to take care of him, thought Sabrina. Someone other than that whingeing harridan of a wife.
The combination of the darkness outside and the torrential rain slamming against the windscreen and roof heightened the sense of being in a cocoon: warm, insulated and safe, together. Impulsively, Sabrina reached across and stroked Dorian’s cheek.
It was a small, tender gesture, but the sexual jolt it sent through both of them could have rebooted the national grid. Dorian reached up to remove her hand but found himself gripping it tightly, his fingers entwining themselves with hers. Suddenly it was hard to breathe, let alone drive. He pulled over onto the hard shoulder and turned to face her.
‘Sabrina,’ he began falteringly, barely trusting himself to speak. ‘I … we can’t.’
She leaned forward and kissed him full on the mouth. Not a long kiss, but passionate and hungry, a taste of the wildness inside her. Dorian kissed her back, but it was he who pulled away first.
‘We can’t,’ he said again. ‘Really.’
He said it so gently and with such kindness, Sabrina found herself nodding in agreement. ‘I know. Of course we can’t. You’re right.’
Outwardly, she sounded calm. But inside she was still in shock, horrified by how much she’d wanted him in that moment. Still, she told herself, it was just a moment. An animalistic connection that flared up for a second between them and was gone.
‘I don’t know what I was thinking.’
‘Nor do I.’ said Dorian. ‘A gorgeous young woman like you oughtn’t to be wasting your time with a stuck-in-the-mud old man like me. You could have anyone you wanted.’
‘You’re not old.’ Sabrina laughed, relieved that the tension had been broken. ‘And besides, I can’t have any man I want. I can’t have Vio.’
After that it all came spilling out: her increasing longing for Viorel, her frustration at his rejection, her anger and despair about his screwing around, knowing she had no option but to sit by and watch.
‘I came to Manchester to make him jealous,’ she admitted, shaking her head with embarrassment. ‘Pathetic, isn’t it?’
Dorian put a reassuring arm around her shoulder. ‘Not pathetic,’ he assured her. ‘Not the smartest move in the world, perhaps – I dread to think what the papers are gonna do to us in the morning – but not pathetic.’
‘Oh God, the papers,’ groaned Sabrina. ‘I’ve fucked it up for all of us. Again.’
‘Yes, well. It’s not an ideal state of affairs,’ admitted Dorian.
Sabrina eyed him suspiciously. ‘How come you’re being so calm about it?’
‘I’m like a swan,’ Dorian grinned. ‘I look serene, but under the waterline my feet are paddling like crazy. Look, the truth is there are some golden rules in movie-making. And one of them is, if the director panics, the ship goes down. Studios want to see confidence. One sign of weakness and you’re finished.’
Sabrina remembered how desperate she’d been to act confident in front of Dorian the first time they’d met, terrified that if he saw how much she needed it he’d take the part away. How embarrassingly cocky she’d been at that lunch in Beverly Hills.
‘Thanks for bailing me out,’ she said meekly.
‘You’re welcome. Shall we get going?’
Sabrina nodded and Dorian turned on the ignition.
Easing back into the sluggish traffic, he said, ‘I do love my wife, you know.’
‘Of course you do,’ said Sabrina. ‘I never doubted it for a second.’
Who’s he trying to convince? she wondered silently. Me or himself?