‘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?’