All over Los Angeles, people were throwing lavish, glitzy parties to celebrate the Oscars. But everyone who was anyone knew that there were only three events that mattered. Madonna’s party. Vanity Fair’s. And the Governor’s Ball.
Winners of the big gongs usually put in an appearance at two of the three at least, with the Best Actor and Actress being the single most-coveted guests at each after-bash. This year that was Roger de Gray and Sabrina Leon, but as De Gray had already announced that he and his heavily pregnant wife would only be going to the Governor’s, the hysteria when Sabrina showed up at Vanity Fair’s was quite unsurpassed. It took security a full five minutes to help her get safely inside the Chateau Marmont through the throng of pre-approved press swarming her like locusts.
‘Sabrina! How do you feel?’
‘Have you spoken to Viorel?’
‘Did you know he wasn’t going to attend tonight?’
‘Has he offered his congratulations?’
Sabrina smiled at everyone, but inside she was irritated. Why won’t people stop talking about Viorel? I just won an Oscar, for God’s sake. Can’t tonight be about that?
‘It must be tough for you tonight, not having someone here to share your triumph with.’ The comment came from a spiky-haired brunette whom Sabrina recognized as a stringer from People magazine.
‘I have someone here,’ said Sabrina, sweeping past her into the hotel. ‘I have my friend, Dorian Rasmirez.’
Only she didn’t. Where was Dorian?
Celeste taking Best Picture would have been reason enough for Dorian to want to disappear and lick his wounds. But he’d seemed pretty stoical about it at the time, sitting calmly through Harry Greene’s gloating acceptance speech, politely accepting commiserations from the many friends who came up to him after the ceremony. He and Sabrina had left the theatre together, but somewhere in the melee of well-wishers and old friends, Sabrina found herself being swept away and the two of them had lost each other. In the end she’d gone on to the Vanity Fair party alone, hoping to find Dorian there. But as she scanned the sea of famous faces in the Chateau’s famous rose garden, she couldn’t see the only one she cared about.
‘Sabrina.’
She spun around. Tarik Tyler, looking older than Sabrina remembered him but with the same kind eyes and crooked smile, was right behind her. Sabrina hadn’t seen her old director in person in over two years, not since before the ungrateful ‘slave driver’ comment that had marked the beginning of her fall from grace.
‘Congratulations, kiddo.’ He smiled warmly. ‘And thanks for the mention in your speech. I appreciated that.’
Sabrina found herself momentarily lost for words. But eventually she found the right ones. ‘I’m so sorry, Tarik. Really.’
‘I know you are,’ he said, hugging her. Embarrassingly, Sabrina felt her eyes welling up with tears.
‘Hey, c’mon, are you kidding me?’ said Tarik. ‘You can’t cry tonight. This is your night, and you so deserve it.’
Sabrina shook her head. ‘I don’t deserve it.’ She held up her Oscar. ‘Dorian deserves this. He’s the one who gave me a chance when no one else would. If it hadn’t been for him …’ Her words tailed off.
Tarik Tyler looked at her for a long time. Sabrina remembered how he used to do this on set, stare at his actors as if looking for some sort of key, some clue in their faces that would unlock whatever emotion it was he was trying to get out of them. It was disconcerting then, but it was even more so now.
‘What?’ She laughed nervously. ‘Do I have spinach in my teeth or something?’
Tarik kept staring. Finally, he said, ‘Why don’t you just tell him?’
Sabrina frowned. She’d never been any good at riddles.
‘Just tell him that you love him.’
Sabrina sighed. ‘Sorry, Tarik, but you’re way off target. Viorel’s a part of my past and I’ll always love him for that. But it’s over. I’m not thinking about him, honestly.’
‘Nor am I,’ said Tarik. ‘I was talking about Dorian Rasmirez.’
Dorian sat on the bed in his hotel room, staring out at the lights of Beverly Hills, tears streaming down his face. He hated himself for feeling so depressed. There are people starving in this world, he told himself. Right now some poor bastard’s being told his cancer is terminal, and you’re sitting here crying because you didn’t win Best Picture? Because you lost some money and you can’t live in a castle any more? What the fuck is wrong with you?
What he didn’t want to admit to himself, but what he knew deep down, was that he wasn’t crying because he hadn’t won Best Picture. Nor even because Harry Greene had, and had been so loathsomely triumphant and graceless about it. In fact, Dorian realized with absolute clarity as he walked out of the Kodak Theatre that he didn’t give a rat’s ass about Harry Greene, or about Chrissie, who’d called his cell twice in the last hour offering what sounded like genuinely heartfelt commiserations. He hoped she’d see the light about Greene eventually. Maybe then they could become friends. For Saskia’s sake, that had to be a good thing. He tried to picture his daughter’s sweet, smiling face, but not even that could lift him out of his despair. The only person who could do that was a few miles across town, hopefully having the best night of her life.
He’d felt guilty ducking out of the after-parties. Having officially accepted both the Governor’s Ball and Vanity Fair, he ought to have been there, to support Sabrina if nothing else. He knew that his not showing up made him look like a sore loser, and the thought bothered him. No doubt the media would crucify him in his absence, just as they had poor Viorel, who’d been found guilty of cowardice for not showing up tonight but would no doubt have been hung, drawn and quartered for insensitivity if he had.
But a man had to know his own limits. Dorian didn’t know if he could hide his emotions tonight, if he could act happy around Sabrina. And if I can’t be happy around her, I have no right to be there. This is her moment, not mine.
‘Room service.’
A knock on the door brought him back to reality. The service at The Peninsula really was excellent. Dorian had only ordered the bourbon a couple of minutes ago and already someone was at his door.
‘Coming.’
Kicking off his shoes and dropping his crumpled jacket on the bed, he shuffled across the room. ‘That was quick. I …’
He caught his breath.
Leaning against the doorframe, her beautiful body curved like a Greek statue and her head tilted shyly to one side, Sabrina looked more perfect than she did in his dreams.
‘Can I come in?’
‘No.’
She frowned. ‘No? It was kind of a rhetorical question. Why not?’
‘Because,’ Dorian looked at his watch, ‘it’s only eleven fifteen. You should be at the Governor’s Ball, enjoying yourself.’
Sabrina shrugged. ‘So should you.’
Dorian shifted awkwardly from foot to foot. ‘I wasn’t in the party mood.’
‘Anyway, I did enjoy myself. You should have seen Chrissie’s face when Harry Greene stuck his tongue down Carey Esposito’s throat on the dance floor.’
‘No!’ Dorian gasped. ‘Really? Jeez. I feel bad for her.’
‘Why?’ Sabrina pushed past him into the bedroom. ‘She treated you like shit.’ But she hadn’t come here to talk about Chrissie Rasmirez. Kicking off her own shoes, she hitched up her dress and stepped out onto the balcony. Not knowing what else to do, Dorian followed her.
‘You know,’ said Sabrina wistfully. ‘When I saw Viorel’s empty chair tonight, I felt sad.’
‘I know,’ said Dorian, automatically. ‘I understand.’ But inside, his heart sank. Oh God. She wants to talk about Hudson. She’s gonna start crying and telling me how she’ll never get over him, and I’ll have to stand here and listen and comfort her.
‘I felt sad because it was over.’
‘That’s normal, sweetheart,’ said Dorian. ‘These things take time.’
‘No.’ Sabrina spun around to face him. ‘You don’t understand. I felt sad because it was over, and I realized that what we had wasn’t love after all. It never had been.’ Unsure as to how to respond to this, or whether he’d even heard her correctly, Dorian said nothing. ‘Oh, it was obsession and need and a lot of other things,’ Sabrina went on. ‘Attraction, I guess. But it wasn’t love. Guess who I saw tonight?’
The abrupt change in subject threw Dorian off guard. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘Tarik Tyler.’
‘Ooo.’ Dorian looked anxious. ‘How’d that go?’
‘Actually,’ said Sabrina, her sombre expression evaporating suddenly as she broke into a dazzling, full-faced smile, ‘it was very enlightening. He made me see something I should have seen a long time ago.’ Leaning forward, she put both hands on Dorian’s cheeks, gently cupping his face, and kissed him full on the lips.
Dorian tried not to respond, telling himself sternly all the reasons why he shouldn’t. Sabrina was drunk. She was confused about Viorel. She was high on the night’s events and not thinking clearly. Unfortunately, neither his lips nor his groin seemed to want to listen to reason. It was like telling the wave not to hit the shore or the moon not to rise. Pulling her so close, he kissed her back with such passion and force that Sabrina had to reach out for the balcony rail for support.
‘I love you,’ he said helplessly, when at last they broke for air.
‘That’s a coincidence,’ grinned Sabrina. ‘I love you too.’
Scooping her up into his arms, Dorian walked back into the bedroom, laying her down on the bed. Slowly, desperate to savour every second of the miracle, he pulled himself up on his elbows till his face was above hers. Peeling down the red silk of her dress, he pressed his lips to the smooth skin just above her breasts and closed his eyes, breathing in the scent of her, the glory and the magic. When he looked up, his eyes met hers, and he knew for certain that he would never, ever let her go again.
‘So, does the offer still stand?’ she whispered.
‘Offer? What offer?’
‘You know. The one you made at the hospital. The “till death do us part” one.’
Harry Greene was welcome to his little gold statuette. In fact, he was welcome to every Oscar and every box-office record in the world. Dorian had just won the only prize that mattered. ‘Oh yes,’ he told Sabrina softly. ‘That offer definitely still stands.’