‘Nominations for what? Shortest cinema release in history?’
‘I’m serious!’ said Sabrina. ‘We’re up for four Oscars, including Best Picture.’
Vio frowned. ‘That’s impossible.’
‘I know, that’s what I said,’ laughed Sabrina. ‘But you should call Ed Steiner if you don’t believe me. It’s all over the news too – just turn on the TV. Four nominations, that’s the second most after
Celeste
. And …’ she took a deep, dramatic breath, ‘I’m up for Best Actress.’
Viorel read the joy in Sabrina’s face. Turned up hopefully towards him, her wet hair still dripping, she was awaiting his approval, his praise, his love. With no make-up on, smelling of toothpaste and soap, she looked younger and more innocent than he had ever seen her. So trusting, wanting only to share her triumph with the man she loved. He felt his resolve crumbling to nothing, like a sandcastle in the rain.
‘That’s wonderful, baby.’ He hugged her tightly.
Coward, coward, coward.
Sabrina breathed into his chest. ‘I love you so much. Let’s go to bed.’
Dorian was dreaming the first time the phone rang.
He was standing on the bridge over the river at Loxley. It was pouring with rain. On one side of the bridge, Chrissie was playing hide and seek with Saskia, who was slipping down the bank towards the water. Dorian ran to try to save her, but found himself being pulled back to the other side of the bridge. Turning around to see who was pulling him, he saw it was Sabrina Leon. ‘What are you waiting for?’ she asked him.
She was wearing a white dress and smiling a strange, angelic smile. ‘Come back inside the house. It’s raining.’ Dorian looked up at Loxley Hall, and suddenly it began to crumble to the ground, bricks and masonry crashing down all around him like giant hailstones. Then he heard sirens wailing. The emergency services must be coming. The sirens grew louder and louder, shriller and shriller, dragging him groggily back to consciousness …
my phone.
Fumbling on the bedside table for his cellphone, by the time he picked it up it had stopped ringing. Heart racing, he slumped back against the pillow of his grimy motel room bed.
Stupid. I must have left it on last night by mistake.
He’d been drunkenly scrolling through his photos before bed, staring at pictures of his daughter. Since he’d fled LA two weeks ago, he’d made a point of keeping his phone switched off. Last night was the first time he’d looked at it in over a week, ignoring the hundred-plus missed calls and groaning mailbox and going straight to his media file.
Saskia, holding up her grey cat and yawning.
Saskia, laughing on a swing in a Santa Monica playground.
Saskia sleeping in the car, her chubby, baby’s head lolling to one side of her car seat, a picture of innocence and peace.
I’ve been a shitty father. I was never there for her. Harry Greene can’t do a worse job than I did.
The dark, depressing thoughts kept coming back, one after the other, like waves in a sea of pain.
After he’d broken the news to the cast and crew that a year’s hard work and commitment had been for nothing, Dorian had kept driving on up the coast, stopping only for gas and some basic supplies before he reached the skuzzy motel on the outskirts of Big Sur. A stunning stretch of the California coastline, just south of the quaint tourist town of Carmel, Big Sur was a popular romantic vacation spot for couples, or for artists or nature lovers seeking inspiration from the dramatic seascapes and majestic ancient redwood forests. The Sea View Motel was one of the rare ugly buildings to be found there, a low 1960s breezeblock box with dirty windows, set back from the road amongst some scrubby pines. But for Dorian it was perfect. Remote. Anonymous. Cheap. He had no idea how long he intended to stay, or what his future plans were. All he knew was he couldn’t be around people. Not yet. His family life was in tatters. His career was over. He was financially ruined. And yet none of these things haunted him as much as one bleak, unalterable fact.
Sabrina Leon was going to marry Viorel Hudson.
They’d shown up at the meeting at Dracula together, hand in hand, two poster children for youth and hope and romance. Sabrina was obviously disappointed, though she tried not to show it. Dorian saw the way she leaned into Viorel’s chest for support, how he had wrapped a comforting, possessive arm around her shoulders. Like a passer-by staring at a car crash, he couldn’t seem to tear his eyes away. But the pain was exquisite.
God only knew he didn’t
want
to be in love with Sabrina. It was ridiculous, a man of his age and a young girl like that. Of course she was in love with Hudson. Why on earth wouldn’t she be? If Dorian were half a man, he’d be happy for them.
The phone rang again, an irritating, insistent buzz like a trapped bumblebee demanding release. Dorian picked up.
‘Go away.’
‘So you’re alive, then.’ David Finkelstein sounded more annoyed than relieved. ‘Where the
hell
have you
been,
D? I’ve been trying to reach you for more than a week.’
‘I’m sorry David. I don’t want to talk to anyone,’ said Dorian, and hung up.
Before he could switch the phone off, it rang again.
‘I mean it,’ said Dorian, getting angrier now. His hangover was starting to kick in after last night’s solitary downing of a bottle and a half of Cabernet. It was still early – at least, he thought it was early – and he wanted to go back to sleep. ‘Leave me alone.’
‘
Wuthering Heights
got a Best Picture nomination from the Academy,’ Dorian’s manager blurted out, before he got hung up on again. The line went deathly quiet.
‘Dorian? Are you still there?’
‘I’m here,’ said Dorian.
‘Well, aren’t you gonna say something? This is the Oscars, man. This is the big one. You got four nominations. Sabrina’s up for Best Actress.’
The mention of Sabrina’s name seemed to rouse Dorian from his stupor.
‘Have you spoken to her?’
‘Jesus, D, no, I haven’t spoken to her. She’s not my client. You are. I’ve been
trying
to speak to you. Surprise, surprise, Sony suddenly want to talk to you.’
‘I have nothing to say to those bastards,’ said Dorian with feeling.
‘Be that as it may, you need to get your ass back to town. Every media outlet this side of the fucking moon wants an interview.’
‘OK,’ said Dorian. ‘I’ll call you back.’
‘No, D, wait! Don’t hang up!’ begged David. But it was too late. The line was already dead.
Throwing back the bedclothes, Dorian dropped his phone back on the bedside table and staggered unsteadily across the room to open the blinds. Glaring sunshine poured in through the window. He winced.
Shit.
It must be noon at least. How long had he been asleep? He turned on the coffee machine next to the unused television set, and opened a packet of Oreo cookies, mindlessly chomping through them as his mind slowly lurched back to life.
The Oscars. Four nominations. Best Picture.
It was a fantasy. The kind of stuff that Hollywood dreams were made of, but that never actually
happened
in Hollywood. At least not to him. He’d been saved by some mysterious guardian angel, right at the very moment when he’d stopped believing. He ought to be ecstatic. Giddy with happiness. Instead he felt … what? He felt nothing. Blank.
Maybe I’m losing it. Maybe I need some psychological help.
The coffee was brewed. Dorian poured a cup and drank it, black and strong, the bitter liquid reviving him even as it burned his tongue and throat.
He had to go back. To make a statement. A Best Picture nomination meant he would have to talk to the press, to travel, to promote the film until the soles of his feet ached and his voice was hoarse. Although quite how he was going to pay for a PR tour he had no idea. Sony almost certainly wouldn’t fund it, Harry Greene would see to that. Not that Dorian would have taken a cent of Mike Hartz’s money, even if it were offered.
More importantly, an Oscar nomination meant he could no longer hibernate and lick his wounds. He would have to see Sabrina again. With Viorel. To stand next to the pair of them and smile while they proclaimed their love to the world, hand in hand on Oscar night, looking on like an avuncular cupid, the man who’d brought Hollywood’s new golden couple together. Suddenly, embarrassingly, Dorian’s eyes welled with tears.
Get a grip
, he told himself angrily.
You’re Sabrina’s director and her friend. Nothing more.
He would go back to LA, congratulate Sabrina, master his emotions and pretend to be happy. But inside, Dorian wondered whether he would ever be truly happy again.
Sabrina sat down at the corner table at Mastro’s, aware that every eye in the upstairs restaurant had followed her as she walked across the room. Perhaps she shouldn’t feel so gratified by the adulation. But then again, it wasn’t every day one got nominated for an Oscar. Why shouldn’t she enjoy it?
After a blissful afternoon spent making love to Viorel – as always, sex had been a virtuoso performance, with Vio as lost and intoxicated in the moment as she was – she’d driven over to Ed Steiner’s office on the Wilshire and Beverly Glen and given a press conference. The last time Sabrina had faced the press in her agent’s office, she’d been grudgingly delivering a pre-scripted mea culpa to a sea of hostile, bloodthirsty faces. This time, the love in the room was so thick she could have eaten it with a spoon.
How did it feel to be back on top in her career? Was she surprised by the nomination, given the movie’s very limited release? Had she spoken to Dorian Rasmirez, or the rest of her co-stars?
Dressed simply in a white Michael Stars T-shirt and Ksubi skinny jeans, with her long hair tied back in a ponytail and no accessories other than a smile that could have powered the whole of Los Angeles, Sabrina answered every question with patience and humility. ‘I know how lucky I am,’ she told the reporters. And she meant it. If happiness was wanting what you have, this evening Sabrina Leon was as truly happy as any human being on earth had ever been.
After her meet-the-press, she’d called Vio and arranged to meet for dinner at Mastro’s steakhouse, a popular celebrity haunt in downtown Beverly Hills and one of their favourite restaurants for its old-school atmosphere, Sinatra-themed piano bar and privacy-ensuring low lighting. He was already there when she arrived, sitting in a black blazer and blue Ralph Lauren shirt and fiddling absently with his napkin.
How exquisitely, ridiculously handsome he is
, thought Sabrina for the millionth time.
‘Hi,’ she beamed, leaning over to kiss him as she sat down. ‘Sorry I’m late. Things ran over a little at Ed’s.’
She started to tell him about the press conference, chattering away excitedly about who’d asked her what and what her responses had been. It was five full minutes before she realized he was no longer listening, but staring past her to the piano bar in the back.
‘Hey,’ she said, frowning. ‘Am I boring you?’
‘Hmm? Oh, no. Sorry. I was just—’
‘I know what you were just doing,’ said Sabrina reproachfully. Looking back over her shoulder she saw a pretty, elfin-faced blonde alone at the bar, directly in Viorel’s line of vision. ‘Do you know her? Is she an ex?’ She winced at the insecurity in her own voice. But really, it was a bit much for him to sit there ogling other women, tonight of all nights.
‘No,’ said Vio guiltily. ‘She reminded me of someone, that’s all.’
Given his past reputation, both their past reputations, ghosts of their former relationships inevitably popped up from time to time, especially in a town as small and gossip-ridden as Hollywood. Sabrina tried not to be jealous, but it was hard. She loved him so much.
‘Who?’ she asked, wishing she didn’t care so much. ‘Who does she remind you of that’s so distracting?’
God, I sound like a nag. Let it go. You don’t want a row tonight.
‘If you must know, she reminds me of Tish,’ said Vio.
‘Tish Crewe?’ Sabrina laughed, instantly relieved. So it wasn’t an old lover he was thinking about. Turning around, she studied the girl again. ‘You know, you’re right. She does have a look of her. God, Tish Crewe.’ She shook her head, turning back to Vio and sipping her sour apple martini thoughtfully. ‘She was a funny one. I wonder what she’s up to these days. Saving the world somewhere, no doubt, off adopting more kids, trying to outdo Angelina.’
‘I doubt it,’ said Vio curtly. But Sabrina didn’t notice his frosty tone.
‘Do you think she’s heard the Oscar news? I guess they’re not that interested in Merry Old England. Or Romania or wherever she is. Hey, I wonder if she’ll come to the Academy Awards?’
‘Why would she?’ said Vio crossly.
‘I don’t know,’ said Sabrina, looking slightly hurt. ‘Maybe Dorian’ll ask her. He’s single now, and he always did think the sun shone out of her ass. I bet she’d fall over herself to date him now his career’s on a roll again.’
‘Rubbish,’ said Vio. ‘Tish was never remotely interested in Rasmirez romantically. Besides, not everybody’s as obsessed with fame as you are.’
Sabrina’s eyes welled up with tears. ‘That’s not fair.’
Viorel looked away. He knew he was being an asshole, not to mention a hypocrite. He wasn’t exactly immune to a bit of camera-chasing himself. And Sabrina was only trying to make conversation. It wasn’t her fault he’d been too much of a coward to say no to sex this afternoon; or that he was furious at himself for enjoying it as much as he had.
‘Sorry,’ he muttered guiltily. ‘Can we talk about something else?’
‘Sure,’ said Sabrina, instantly forgiving now that the unexpected storm had passed. She hated it when they fought. It made her feel out of control in a way that terrified her. Pushing the fear aside, she munched away happily on rare fillet steak and shoestring fries, and did her best to steer the conversation away from
Wuthering Heights
and Oscar talk and onto the safer subject of Hollywood gossip, and who was reputedly fucking whom behind who’s back. But like a moth drawn back to the light, she soon found it impossible to avoid the subject of her nomination completely. By the time their key lime pie arrived for dessert, she’d moved on to the all-important matter of her dress.