‘Do what?’ asked Dorian, quietly.
Sabrina’s answer was unequivocal.
‘Escape. I act for the same reason I drink. And fuck around and shoot my mouth off at airports. I act to escape.’
It told Dorian everything he needed to know. As a kid, Sabrina was escaping from others, from the grim reality of her life. Now she was escaping from herself, from the fears that still so evidently drove her.
She’s so like Cathy
, he thought.
Part of her wants to fit in, to be accepted and loved. But another part of her wants to escape, to be wild and passionate and free. I was right to cast her.
‘Come on,’ he said gently. ‘I’ll drive you home.’
They walked out to Viorel’s car, Sabrina swaying like a ship in the breeze in her Manolos, fumbling in her Hermès Birkin bag for the keys. ‘They’re definitely in here somewhere,’ she kept muttering to Dorian. At some point in the last two hours, the sky had grown dark, and the throng of drinkers crowding the beer garden had thinned to a die-hard trickle. Dorian was gazing upwards, marvelling at the clearness of the starry sky, and wondering if his darling Chrissie was admiring the same view in Transylvania, when a belligerent young man approached them.
‘Oy. You!’ He was talking to Sabrina, but she was too preoccupied in her car-key search to notice him. This seemed to enrage the man more. ‘Oy, bitch. I’m talking to you. Are you deaf or something?’
Dorian stepped forward. ‘Hey.’ He put a hand on the man’s shoulders. ‘Easy.’
The guy was shorter than Dorian, and slightly built, but he was young and fit and had an air of aggression about him that made Dorian wary. His hair was cut army-short and he wore drainpipe jeans and a shiny red Manchester United football shirt, from which his tattooed forearms protruded like two white, freckly twigs.
‘Easy?’ he snarled, shrugging off Dorian’s hand. ‘D’you know who she is, mate? She’s a fucking racist. Don’t you read the papers?’
The man looked like such an unlikely champion of Great Britain’s black community that Dorian assumed he was simply drunk and looking for trouble. Unfortunately, by this time, Sabrina had realized what was happening, and appeared quite happy to oblige him.
‘Excuse me,’ she said haughtily, brushing past him to hand the Mercedes keys to Dorian. ‘You’re in our way.’
‘Don’t you push me, you cow!’ The man lunged forward. Without thinking, Dorian grabbed him by the shirt. He spun around and threw a punch, narrowly missing Dorian’s left eye.
‘Get in the car,’ Dorian told Sabrina, still struggling to keep his would-be opponent at arm’s length.
‘Why?’ said Sabrina defiantly. ‘You think I’m scared of this pathetic little prick?’
‘You what?’ The man turned around again, his face like fury. Sabrina was on the passenger side of the car now, but a couple of strides and the man would be within striking distance. ‘
I’m
a prick? You think you own the whole fucking world, don’t you? We don’t want scum like you in this country. You make me sick.’
‘Sabrina!’ Dorian shouted. ‘
Get
in the
car
! NOW!’
Sabrina did as she was told, but not before hissing ‘asshole’ at the tattooed man, forcing Dorian once again to have to grab him and manhandle him down the lane before running back and scrambling into the driver’s seat himself. He hit central locking and started the engine. As they drove away, he could see a furious red-shirted figure sprinting after them, hurling obscenities.
He turned to Sabrina, who seemed blissfully unconcerned in the passenger seat.
‘For God’s sake,’ he snapped. ‘Why do you engage them? Can’t you see it only makes things worse?’
‘Oh, so this is
my
fault now?’ said Sabrina. Dorian noticed that her features had reset themselves to their default position of belligerent defiance. Was this what Saskia was going to be like when she got older?
‘You called him a prick.’
‘He was a prick.’
‘Maybe. But people are angry, Sabrina,’ Dorian said sternly. ‘You
must
take some responsibility for that. You’re in a position of great privilege, you lead a life most ordinary people can only dream of, and you’ve abused that privilege.’
‘Give me a fucking break,’ muttered Sabrina under her breath.
‘No,’ said Dorian hotly. ‘I will not give you a break. What do you think would have happened if I hadn’t been there just now to help you? To keep that man from attacking you.’
‘I’d have survived.’
‘Like hell you would.’
‘Well, if you hadn’t gone all Lord Capulet on my bodyguards yesterday, I would have had some protection.’
‘And if you would learn to walk away occasionally, you wouldn’t need it,’ said Dorian, exasperated. ‘That’s the last time you leave Loxley Hall unaccompanied.’
‘
What?
’ Sabrina exploded. ‘You can’t do that! I’m not your fucking prisoner.’
After all the shit Dorian had had to deal with on Sabrina’s behalf today, not to mention just saving her ass from Mr Man United, this was the last straw. Slamming on the brakes, he skidded to a halt just outside Loxley’s gates, leaned across Sabrina and opened the passenger door.
‘You’re right. You’re not my prisoner. If you want to walk, walk.’
‘What?’
‘Now’s your chance. Go back to LA and see if you can find someone else prepared to work with you. Go on. Go!’
The two of them sat glaring at one another in the darkness. For a few awful seconds, Dorian thought Sabrina was going to call his bluff and get out of the car. When she didn’t, he was relieved, but it was a relief tinged with regret. He could tell just by looking at her that she had completely shut down again. He’d lost her. All the progress they’d made this evening had been for nothing. Reaching across her again, he pulled the door closed. Sabrina shrank back against her seat, as if his arm were a rattlesnake about to sting her.
They drove on.
So much for the entente cordiale.
When she finally got back to her room, Sabrina slammed the door and sat down on the bed, shaking with anger.
What the fuck?
She felt betrayed, humiliated. Rasmirez had tricked her, playing ‘good cop’ so she’d open up to him, which stupidly,
stupidly
she had, then putting his preachy, you-do-as-I-say hat back on the minute they got in the car. As if it were
her
fault some yob had attacked her! And what was she supposed to do, sit there and take it while guys threatened and harassed her, accusing her of things she’d never done?
Angrily, she kicked off her shoes and pulled off her clothes, flinging them in a heap at the foot of the bed. There was a knock at the door. Sabrina ignored it.
Rasmirez, come to deliver round two of his lecture. Well he can kiss my ass.
A second knock was louder and more insistent. Furiously, Sabrina walked over and opened the door in her underwear, lips curled and nostrils flared in defiance. ‘What now?’
Vio stood in the hallway in sweatpants and a T-shirt, admiring Sabrina’s semi-naked body for the second time that day. Her bra and panties were both made of sheer lace, so he could see the faint pink outline of her nipples and the dark border of neatly trimmed fuzz between her legs. He smiled appreciatively. ‘Hi.’
Following his eyes downwards, Sabrina blushed. ‘Sorry. I thought you were Rasmirez.’
Viorel’s eyebrow shot up. ‘That’s how you’d open the door to Dorian?’
Realizing belatedly how it must look, Sabrina blushed even harder. ‘Jesus, no! I mean, it’s not like that. Nothing like that. I thought you were in bed, that’s all. Sick.’
‘I was. I heard the door slam. Thought I’d check if you were OK.’
‘I’m fine.’
Indeed you are
, thought Vio with a sigh. Three paracetamols and a few hours’ sleep had done little to take the edge off his migraine, but the sight of Sabrina’s deliciously voluptuous body appeared to be working wonders. Locking on to his lust like a missile finding its target, Sabrina stood on tiptoes and reached her arms around his neck.
‘D’you wanna come in?’
She pressed her lips to his and felt her libido release like an opened dam, all the anger and frustration of her evening with Dorian flooding out of her. Clearly, Vio felt it too, kissing her back passionately, his tongue hungrily darting between her lips, his hands warm and rough as they roamed over her skin. They staggered inside, locked together, and fell back onto the bed. Sabrina closed her eyes and inhaled the scent of him, a heady combination of aftershave, sweat and a faintly minty smell of mouthwash. She could feel his rock-hard erection beneath his sweat pants –
at last, some good news! –
and slipped a hand beneath his waistband, coiling her fingers slowly around his dick, one by one.
Vio groaned. Then, with every last fibre of his willpower, he removed her hand, pulling it back up to his mouth and kissing it. ‘We can’t.’
Sabrina looked at him, surprised. ‘What do you mean? Sure we can.’
Vio sat up and ran a hand through his hair. He frowned, annoyed at himself. ‘No. We can’t.
I
can’t.’ He shook his head, like a dog drying itself off after a swim, as if he could somehow physically ‘shake off’ his desire for her.
Sabrina pouted. ‘You don’t want me?’
‘Of course I do,’ said Vio truthfully. ‘You’re so fucking sexy it hurts.’
Mollified slightly, Sabrina gave him a quizzical look. ‘So what’s the problem?’
‘You’re my co-star,’ said Vio. ‘I never get intimate with co-stars. Not till after we wrap, anyway. It’s a policy.’
‘You’re kidding?’ Sabrina looked astonished. She tried to think if she’d
ever
had a co-star she hadn’t fucked. No one came to mind. ‘Why on earth not?’
Viorel shrugged. ‘It’s distracting. It affects the dynamic on camera.’
‘But we’re lovers on camera,’ said Sabrina. ‘Shouldn’t that help?’
‘Frustrated lovers,’ Vio corrected. ‘Unrequited lovers. Heathcliff sleeps with Isabella, remember? Not Cathy.’
‘Oh. So you’d rather fuck Lizzie, you mean?’
Vio shuddered. ‘No. Good God no. Look, it’s not just the professional thing. You know as well as I do, on-set romances can get complicated. Someone always ends up wanting more.’
‘Not me,’ said Sabrina, truthfully.
‘I’m not good at monogamy, even in short bursts.’
‘Perfect. Me neither.’
Vio hesitated. He didn’t doubt that sex with Sabrina would be fantastic. Certainly, there was no one else at Loxley he had the remotest interest in sleeping with, other than Tish Crewe, whom he wasn’t allowed near. None of the make-up or prop girls were even vaguely attractive; the one camera girl, Deborah, looked like a librarian and Lizzie Bayer was borderline retarded. But he knew that the instant they slept together, his relationship with Sabrina would change irrevocably. Whatever she said now, she would end up wanting more from him than he knew how to give. Women always wanted more. It was embedded in their DNA.
‘I should get back to bed.’
Sabrina hesitated. She had zero experience of sexual rejection.
What did one do in these situations?
On the one hand it was agonizingly frustrating to have to sleep alone tonight. But on the other hand, the prospect of a challenge was novel and exciting. Viorel Hudson had thrown down the gauntlet.
Policy, indeed!
She would seduce him eventually, of that she had no doubt. And how satisfying it would be when she finally got to watch that vaunted willpower of his crumble.
‘Fine.’ She smiled sweetly, unhooking her bra and letting it fall into her lap, cupping her magnificent breasts admiringly, as if she’d never seen them before. ‘I’ll see you bright and early tomorrow then. Be a darling and turn the light off on your way out, would you?’
It was all Vio could do not to whimper. He walked to the door and turned off the light.
‘Goodnight, Miss Leon.’
‘Goodnight, Mr Hudson,’ Sabrina whispered. ‘Sweet dreams.’
Chrissie Rasmirez stretched out her lithe legs on the sun-lounger and sighed contentedly, glancing around for the handsome waiter she’d seen earlier. She was at the rooftop pool of the chic SLS Hotel in downtown Beverly Hills. It was almost noon, the June sun was blazing down, scorching its way through Chrissie’s Lancaster factor-30 sun cream and, just as soon as she got her second vodka lime and soda, all would be right with the world.
She’d flown out to LA two days ago to spend five gloriously childfree days in town, shopping, catching up with friends, and of course doing her bit for charity. Linda, a girlfriend from
Rumors
days, had invited Chrissie to the Starlight Ball, an impossibly ritzy fundraiser and the closest thing that Beverly Hills’ ladies-who-lunch got to the Oscars.
‘The economy’s so bad, our ticket sales are way down this year,’ Linda complained to Chrissie over the phone last week. ‘We need you, honey.’ At the time, Chrissie had been elbow-deep in playdough, helping Saskia make yet another princess castle for her collection of plastic dogs, and quietly losing the will to live. It was a hundred degrees in Bihor, with a hundred per cent humidity, but of course Chrissie wasn’t allowed to sell off any of their mountains of antique silverware to pay for air-conditioning.
‘It’s not ours to sell,’ Dorian repeated for the umpteenth time on one of his rare calls from his movie set in England. ‘And, even if it were, they wouldn’t let us install air-con, not in a historic building like ours.’
What was the point of living like a queen when you spent your days cooped up in a stifling playroom, sweating like a pig? Especially when one’s friends on the other side of the world ‘needed’ one, and for such a worthy cause too.
Linda had offered Chrissie a room in her ‘little guesthouse,’ actually a mini-Versailles at the southern end of her palatial estate off Benedict Canyon, but Chrissie preferred to stay at a hotel. It gave her more freedom, plus she didn’t want anyone to think she was in need of Linda’s charity. (After a few short years of acting, Linda Greaves had married well and divorced even better, retiring into alimony-funded luxury at the grand old age of thirty-four. She was generous with her money, in the manner of people who have never had to earn it, but she
did
enjoy lording it over her less fortunate friends; those scraping by on their last few million, like Chrissie.)