Читать книгу Fame and Wuthering Heights - Эмили Бронте, Emily Bronte - Страница 23

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.)

A shadow fell across Chrissie’s sun-lounger. ‘Can I help you, ma’am? Is there anything you need?’ The exquisite specimen who’d waited on her earlier was back, biceps bulging through his dark blue linen shirt, perfectly straight teeth gleaming, blinding white against the mocha tan of his skin. Chrissie put him in his late twenties, and a classic ‘strug’. (Strug was short for ‘struggling actor’ and was the term used to describe all the film-star handsome staff in LA’s upscale hotels.)

‘I’d love another drink, please.’ She uncrossed then recrossed her legs in as inviting a manner as possible, sucking in her nonexistent stomach.

‘Of course,’ he smiled. ‘And is that all?’

Chrissie looked him up and down, like a farmer considering a fattened calf for slaughter. ‘For now.’

It was almost a month since Dorian had left for England, and longer than that since he and Chrissie had had sex. She had been so angry with him the last time he’d deigned to come home, she’d refused to share his bed. Under normal circumstances, she’d have distracted herself while he was away with one of the boys who worked in the grounds, or even a kid from the village. But ever since he’d caught her with Alexandru, Dorian had become crafty. She knew he had staff watching her, spying on her. Between the beady, resentful eyes of the servants following her everywhere, and Saskia’s ceaseless demands for attention – despite three full-time nannies, the little girl constantly moaned for her mommy – Chrissie had begun to feel more like a prisoner than ever. Linda’s phone call was like someone throwing a rope ladder into her tower. Chrissie had grabbed the chance to escape with both hands.

Needless to say, Dorian had bitched about it.

‘The Starlight Ball? Isn’t that, like, ten thousand bucks a ticket?’

‘Fifteen,’ Chrissie deadpanned. ‘So what? It’s for a good cause.’

Not as good a cause as our bank balance, thought Dorian. He also doubted very much whether Chrissie knew what cause the ball was raising money for. But he let it go.

‘If you want to get away, why don’t you come here? I miss you, honey.’

‘Yeah, right.’ Chrissie laughed bitterly. ‘That must be why you’ve made so many trips home.’

‘Come on,’ sighed Dorian. ‘We’ve been through this. I’m working.’

‘Exactly. Why would I want to fly to some shitty, rainy film set in the middle of nowhere so you can ignore me for a week while you focus on your all-important work?’

Dorian was silent. She had a point.

‘I don’t like Linda Greaves,’ he said eventually. ‘She’s a gold-digger.’

‘It’s LA,’ shrugged Chrissie. ‘If they threw out all the gold-diggers it’d be a ghost town. Anyway, you don’t have to like her. I like her. And I need a break.’

Tonight’s ball was at six, at the Regent Beverly Wilshire. Chrissie had bought her dress yesterday, at one of the boutiques on Robertson, a backless, knock-’em-dead D&G number in gunmetal grey sequins, to match her new six-inch Jonathan Kelsey stilettos. In an hour, she’d have one of the hotel’s drivers whisk her up to Ole Henriksen on Sunset to get her nails and eyebrows done, then it was back to Melrose for hair at Ken Paves and finally back to her suite to have Betty help her into the dress and do her make-up. When they lived in Holmby Hills, Chrissie had had beauty treatments daily. In Romania, a week could go by without her so much as washing her hair. What was the point, with no one there to see it?

In the new, acid-green Madison beach bag by her side, Chrissie’s cellphone started to ring. Lost in a particularly enjoyable sexual fantasy involving the strug waiter, a camera and a bottle of baby oil, she answered bad-temperedly.

‘This is Chrissie.’

‘Oh my God, honey. How are you? Are you okaaaay?’ Linda still tended towards the melodramatic in her phone manner, a hangover from her soap-star days.

‘I’m fine,’ said Chrissie, admiring the strug’s ass in his tight white shorts as he bent low to deliver a drink to another guest. ‘Grabbing some lunch before the spa at Sunset Plaza. Why wouldn’t I be?’

‘Oh my Gaaaaad!’ said Linda again. ‘You haven’t heard, have you?’

‘Heard what?’ asked Chrissie, still only half listening. Linda could open a sentence with that kind of drama and end it with a remark about the weather.

‘Dorian. And that tramp Sabrina Leon. It’s all over E!, honey.’

Chrissie’s blood ran cold. She watched as the downy hairs on her forearm stood on end one by one, like tiny, frightened dominoes. ‘What is all over E!, exactly?’

She’d given Dorian a hard time about Sabrina last time he came home, but that was only because she was mad at him for leaving her again, and for enjoying his life while she couldn’t. Never for a moment did she actually believe he would cheat on her, with Sabrina Leon or any other woman. Dorian was so fucking faithful and devoted, he could make a puppy look disloyal.

‘Pictures, honey!’ panted Linda, who was now clearly enjoying herself. ‘Pictures of the two of them togeeeeether. They ran them in some British newspaper. Oh my God. Like, what are you gonna do? I’ve already had reporters calling my house. It’s crazy!’

‘Why would they be calling your house?’ asked Chrissie, realizing immediately after the question had passed her lips that there could only be one reason: Linda had tipped off the media that Chrissie would be coming by later, and that they’d be going to the ball together. Publicity-hungry bitch. But Linda wasn’t important now. She had to get to a TV.

‘Are you still coming tonight?’ The note of panic in Linda’s voice was unmistakable. Without Chrissie, she wouldn’t be the centre of attention in front of the whole of Beverly Hills society. And she’d look like an ass to all the TV stations she’d already spoken to.

‘Probably,’ said Chrissie. ‘Yes. I need to talk to Dorian.’ She hung up.

‘Here you go, ma’am. One fresh vodka lime soda. And was there anyth—’

‘No,’ Chrissie barked, downing the drink in one long gulp till the soda bubbles stung the back of her eyes. Suddenly the waiter’s bland, regular features and Ken-doll body had lost all their appeal. If Dorian really had cheated on her, if it were true, she would have nothing to live for. Not because she loved him. But because he loved her. Her famous husband’s devotion was the last remaining prop holding up the withered remains of her self-esteem. Without it, she’d be nothing: another scorned Hollywood ex-wife, replaced by a younger, more beautiful model. She’d be like Linda, only poorer. No one would invite her anywhere. All their friends would stick by Dorian and the new bimbo – that was simply the way it was. The only men who’d want to sleep with her would be strugs and plastic surgeons. No! She couldn’t bear it.

She forced herself to calm down, gathering up her things and hurrying inside. There was a TV in her room that played E! 24/7.

It’s not true. It can’t be true, she told herself. Not Dorian.

‘Cut!’ Dorian shook his head, disappointed. ‘Come on, Sabrina. Heathcliff’s betrayed you. You’re angry with him, you’re furious.’

‘I know,’ said Sabrina, smiling playfully up at Viorel. ‘This is me being angry. What do you want me to do? Hit him?’

‘I want you to quit smirking and play the goddamn scene,’ snapped Dorian. ‘And you can stop encouraging her,’ he added tersely to Viorel.

It was two weeks since his run-in with Sabrina at The Carpenter’s Arms, and since then her on-set behaviour had deteriorated sharply. She could still deliver a pitch-perfect Cathy when she chose to. The more he saw of Sabrina’s acting, the less Dorian doubted her innate ability. But she seemed more interested in flirting with Vio Hudson, or deliberately attempting to get under his skin, than in showing Dorian what she was capable of. The attention-seeking was both blatant and wearing.

The girl needs a father, Dorian found himself thinking, over and over again. Someone to draw her a line in the sand.

Before that idiot had come along that night outside the pub and provoked an argument, Dorian had felt as if he were finally getting closer to Sabrina. At her core she was still a frightened little girl, hungry for love and acceptance. Though she professed to loathe him, it hadn’t escaped his notice how quickly she became jealous whenever his attention was diverted elsewhere – helping Lizzie Bayer with a scene, for instance, or chatting with Tish Crewe once the cameras stopped rolling. Tish, in particular, seemed to bug Sabrina, perhaps because she was the one other female with whom Viorel Hudson spent significant time.

To Dorian’s relief, the early signs of flirtation he’d noticed between Tish and Vio seemed to have melted away, and the two had formed a genuine friendship. After filming, Vio would often spend hours playing computer games with Tish’s little boy, Abel. Tish had learned that as long as she steered clear of contentious subjects, like Romania, which she loved and Viorel loathed, and Sabrina Leon, about whom their opinions were reversed, Viorel could be great company: warm, funny and intelligent. It pleased Dorian to watch the two of them together, bringing out the best in each other. Around Hudson, Tish was less serious, less old-before-her-time. And around Tish, now that the sexual tension was gone, Viorel seemed to grow up and step out of the shadow of his own ego. The truth was, Viorel had never had a real friend before, someone who wanted nothing from him, who enjoyed his company purely for its own sake. He loved it.

But Sabrina hated it. She never missed an opportunity to put Tish down, making fun of her accent, which Sabrina could mimic perfectly, and rolling her eyes affectedly whenever she passed by the set.

‘Take four,’ Dorian shouted into the wind. ‘Places.’

Viorel started back up the bank, to the spot where he entered the scene, but Sabrina grabbed his hand, pulling him back and talking at him animatedly, ignoring Dorian’s instruction. In a boned, lavender crinoline that showed off her spectacular breasts like two scoops of vanilla ice cream on a plate, and emphasized the tininess of her waist, she looked even more ravishingly beautiful than usual, flicking her hair back and laughing coquettishly at her dashing co-star. She’s mesmerizing, thought Dorian.

Last night, worried by the tight, club-of-two atmosphere developing between her and Viorel on set, Dorian had asked Vio outright whether they were lovers. He had denied it vociferously.

‘Absolutely not. We’re friends, but I would never cross that line. Not while we’re working, anyway.’

Something about his tone had made Dorian believe him. But watching the pair of them flirting outrageously now, he felt his doubts creeping back.

‘Sabrina!’ he said, irritated. She’s deliberately defying me. Knowing that she wanted him to lose his temper, Dorian struggled not to, but it was hard. He was growing mightily tired of Sabrina’s time-wasting games, and so were the rest of the crew. Chuck MacNamee had already complained to Dorian about her diva-ish antics and outright rudeness to his staff. The sun would set in an hour or so, and everyone wanted to call it a day. Scenes with Rhys and Lizzie were a dream by comparison. Dorian would have to take Sabrina aside again later, a thought that depressed him more than he cared to admit. It’s as if she gets off on conflict, on making me the bad guy.

‘Hello.’ Tish appeared at the top of the rise, with a large thermos flask in one hand and little Abel clasping the other. ‘We bought you all some soup. Mrs Drummond’s famous mulligatawny. You haven’t lived till you’ve tried it.’

Abel squealed with excitement like a puppy when he saw Viorel, rushing straight across the set into his arms like an affection-seeking missile. Vio lifted him onto his shoulders and walked back down the hill towards Tish.

‘For me?’ He nodded towards the thermos.

‘For all of you,’ said Tish, her cheeks reddening.

In plain white shorts and a striped Boden T-shirt, her make-up-free face flushed from the walk, she looked sweetly adorable, the proverbial breath of fresh air.

Sabrina flounced over, all breasts and fury, looking neither sweet nor adorable, but breathtakingly sexy. ‘Some of us are trying to work here, you know,’ she snapped at Tish.

Chuck MacNamee and his lighting crew laughed out loud.

‘Really? And which ones of us might that be, I wonder?’ Chuck’s stage whisper was audible to the whole set. To Sabrina’s intense irritation, the laughter spread.

‘OK. Take a break guys,’ said Dorian. ‘Five minutes.’

Sabrina stormed off in a huff, followed by Viorel, with a thoroughly overexcited Abel bouncing up and down on his shoulders. Dorian and Tish were left alone.

‘Any trouble today?’ he asked her. ‘At the gates?’

Since the piece in The Sun, Loxley’s location was no longer a secret, much to Dorian’s dismay. Protesters had started congregating outside the gates, waving placards demanding for Sabrina to be sent home and jeering at any traffic that went in or out. They were a pretty tame bunch all in all. Other than one incident with an egg thrown at Dorian’s car, there’d been no violence, and Sabrina herself had wisely not ventured out of the grounds. Though she resented Dorian’s stipulation that she not leave Loxley unaccompanied, especially as Viorel and the others were out every night at The Carpenter’s Arms, lapping up the attention of the adoring locals, even she could see that in the current climate it was probably in her best interests to lie low.

Tish shook her head. ‘All quiet. I took some soup out there too, but they must all be at home, polishing their pickets.’

Sitting down on the bank, Dorian took a sip of the proffered soup. It was delicious, warm but not too spicy, the onion, curry and ginger melding miraculously in his mouth the way that only fresh, home-made ingredients ever seemed to. He thought disloyally how much better it was than his wife’s efforts, then found himself missing Chrissie with an unexpected pang.

‘Penny for them?’ said Tish. ‘You look like you’re miles away.’

‘Oh, not really,’ lied Dorian, forcing a smile. He didn’t know why, but he didn’t want to talk about home. ‘I’m a little stressed, I guess.’

‘Sabrina?’

Tish looked over to where Sabrina was standing. Viorel was playing with Abel, holding him by the feet and twirling him around while he squealed with laughter. You could see Sabrina’s pout from here.

‘Partly,’ admitted Dorian. ‘She’s been difficult today. But she’s not my only problem. It bothers me that people know where we are now. The location’s already been compromised. How long before other information gets out?’

Tish knew a little of Dorian’s strategy, to keep the details of Wuthering Heights a secret in order to tempt investors once filming was complete. She wasn’t sure she fully understood the logic, but presumably Dorian knew his own business and he seemed to feel that secrecy was vital. So much so that last week he’d arbitrarily got rid of all the TVs in the cast and crew’s quarters and banned newspapers from the set, figuring that the more cut off they were from the outside world, the less chance of damaging leaks. Unfortunately, he didn’t have the same powers of censorship when it came to Sabrina’s bad press.

‘The actual work is good. What we’ve shot so far,’ he told Tish. ‘I was looking at the rushes last night.’

‘There you go, then,’ said Tish encouragingly, wondering whether she should step in and tell Viorel to go easy on the twirling. Abel was still giggling but he’d turned a worrying shade of green. ‘That’s all that matters, isn’t it?’

‘I wish,’ said Dorian. ‘Sometimes I feel like King Cnut, trying to hold back the tide. Only Sabrina’s not so much a tide as a tsunami. I’ve never known an actress who can generate so much bad publicity out of thin air. Hopefully, things will get better once we get to Romania. If she plays me up there, I can lock her in the dungeon.’ He grinned.

In his jeans pocket, his cellphone rang.

‘That’s weird. I thought I turned it off.’ Pulling out the offending object, his heart gave a little jump. The screen flashed: Chrissie LA Cell.

Despite all the rows, Dorian had missed Chrissie this past month, and regretted the distance that had grown up between them. He knew that her current trip to LA had been intended at least in part to punish him for leaving her, playing on all his insecurities about her fidelity, not to mention her spending. So the fact that she was calling him, unsolicited, was an unexpected surprise. A thaw in the permafrost at last.

‘Honey! What’s goin’ on?’

Tish watched the way Dorian’s eyes lit up when he took the call. Then she watched the light die, replaced by abject panic.

‘What pictures?’ He spluttered. ‘I have no idea … Sabrina?’ His eyes widened. ‘That’s ridiculous! Trust me, honey, that is so far from the truth it’s hilarious … No, I didn’t mean it like that … no, Chrissie, I don’t think it’s funny. I am not bullshitting you! We’re totally isolated here, I haven’t seen anything.’

He held the phone away from his ear. Though no one could make out the words, Chrissie Rasmirez’s hysteria could be heard at forty paces.

Deborah Raynham whispered to the head cameraman, ‘Sounds like trouble in paradise.’

‘Poor Dorian,’ said the cameraman. ‘Surrounded by angry women everywhere he turns.’

Sabrina, who could smell a drama like a shark smelled blood, hurried over.

‘Who’s he talking to?’ she asked Tish imperiously.

‘His wife,’ said Tish curtly. ‘Not that it’s any of your business.’

‘At that volume I’d say it was everyone’s business,’ sneered Sabrina. ‘Oh dear oh dear. Has our saintly director been caught playing away? Who’s the unlucky girl?’

‘You are, apparently,’ said Chuck MacNamee.

‘What?’ The sneer died on Sabrina’s lips.

‘Sounds like someone’s run pictures of you and Dorian getting cosy. Who’s been a naughty girl, then?’

Tish’s eyebrows shot up. Dorian and Sabrina? Surely not.

‘Don’t be preposterous,’ Sabrina snapped at Chuck. ‘I wouldn’t sleep with Dorian Rasmirez if he were the last man left on earth.’

‘Perhaps you’d better tell that to his wife?’ said Chuck, glancing over at Dorian. He’d stepped a few feet away from the set in the hope of some privacy, but his body language was clearly that of the condemned man pleading for his life.

‘Come out here, honey,’ he begged Chrissie. ‘Please. Come see for yourself. There’s nothing going on. Less than nothing. I know when those shots must have been taken. Some local idiot was giving Sabrina a hard time and I was saving her ass, as usual. Come on Christina. She can’t compare to you.’

Hearing these last words, and knowing that Chuck and the others had heard them too, Sabrina felt a jolt of annoyance. She’d seen pictures of Dorian’s wife. The woman was positively ancient.

‘I wonder if she’ll come out,’ said Chuck.

‘Who?’ Viorel had finally joined the throng, handing Abel back to his mother.

‘Frau Rasmirez,’ said Deborah Raynham. ‘She’s on the warpath, apparently. She seems to be under the impression that Dorian’s been having his wicked way with Sabrina.’

The crew giggled. Even Tish couldn’t resist a smile.

‘Come on. That’s ridiculous,’ said Vio.

‘Thank you,’ said Sabrina with feeling. At least someone was prepared to stick up for her.

‘What’s a “wicked way”?’ asked Abel. ‘Can I have one?’

‘All right, young man,’ said Tish briskly, sensing that the conversation might be about to turn distinctly X-rated. ‘Let’s get you back to the house.’

‘If Chrissie Rasmirez does fly over, we’re all gonna need hard hats,’ Chuck MacNamee warned, once Tish had gone. ‘That lady generates on-set tension faster than a wasp in the undershorts.’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ mused Sabrina. ‘Maybe if Dorian gets some action he’ll be less of an uptight asshole to work with. What do you think, darling?’ She snaked an arm around Viorel’s waist. ‘Do you think a good fuck might ease the tension around here?’

Vio felt a rush of blood to his groin. Sabrina would have been delighted if she knew how hard he was finding it, keeping to his vow of self-denial. Every day he wanted her more.

‘After we wrap,’ he said hoarsely, rubbing a hand against the small of her back.

‘Uh-uh.’ Sabrina shook her head, walking away in the direction of the wardrobe trailer. Dorian was still glued to the phone. Clearly, they weren’t going to do another take this evening. ‘If you leave it till the wrap party, I’ll turn you down.’

Vio laughed arrogantly. ‘No, you won’t.’

Sabrina quickened her pace, skipping away from him down the hill. ‘Watch me!’ she called back over her shoulder.

Later that night, Tish carried a sleeping Abel back to his bedroom. He’d wet the bed four times in the last two weeks, a regression that Tish could think of no explanation for. She’d started lifting him for a pee at ten o’clock until he got over it.

In a way, she was glad. She loved the feeling of his warm, sleep-heavy body in her arms, and the way he clung to her instinctively as she tucked him back into his bed. At Loxley, he slept in the same bed she’d used as a small child, a tiny continuity that somehow seemed poignant and meaningful to Tish. So much has changed since then, she thought, a little sadly. Soon, filming would be over. Dorian and the others would leave, first for Romania and then for Los Angeles and their ‘real’ lives. Tish would finish the repairs, install new tenants, and take Abel back to their real life, to Curcubeu and the children, to her apartment and disapproving Lydia, to Michel and Fleur …

‘Mummy?’ Abel’s voice brought her back to the present. He opened his eyes sleepily as Tish laid him back in his bed.

‘It’s late, darling,’ she whispered. ‘Go back to sleep.’

‘Mummy, next term it’s gonna be football and Viorel says I’m so excellent about football I could definitely definitely be on the team.’

‘Shhh, Abi,’ said Tish. ‘Next term we’ll be back home.’

A cloud of anxiety passed across Abel’s sweet, five-year-old face. ‘But Viorel said.’

‘I’m sure you’re very good at football,’ said Tish soothingly. ‘When we get back home you can play with Vasile and Radu and the other boys. Show them how great you are. Now go to sleep.’

‘But …’

‘Good footballers need their sleep.’

After a bit more negotiation, she settled him down and tiptoed out of the room, closing the door behind her. It was time to have a little chat with Viorel.

She found him in the library, whisky in hand, flipping through her father’s collection of Romantic poetry.

‘Can I have a word?’

Viorel snapped shut the leather-bound copy of Wordsworth’s Intimations of Immortality. ‘Of course.’ Tish was wearing a faded pair of Snoopy pyjamas and a man’s dressing gown riddled with holes. She had her hair tied up in a bun and, as she came closer, she smelled strongly of toothpaste and talcum powder. ‘You look like you’re ready for bed. What brings you down here so late?’

‘It’s Abel,’ said Tish. ‘He’s wet the bed again. I think he’s starting to feel anxious about the future.’

‘He is,’ said Vio seriously, leaning back against the corner of Henry’s desk. ‘I meant to talk to you about it actually.’

‘The important thing is not to confuse him,’ said Tish. ‘I know you meant well, but you really mustn’t put ideas into his head about staying at Loxley. Once you lot all leave, Abel and I will be going home.’

Viorel frowned. ‘Isn’t this home?’

‘Romania is where our life is,’ said Tish. ‘My work. Abi’s cultural heritage.’

Vio stiffened. His own mother used to bang on about his ‘cultural heritage’ all the time. Martha Hudson never tired of reminding him how lucky he was to have been adopted, and how important it was that he become a doctor and return to Romania one day, to ‘give back’. He hated it.

‘Don’t you think you’re being a little selfish?’

Now it was Tish’s turn to stiffen. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘I mean, you’ve adopted the kid. You’ve brought him here to England, shown him how the other half live, put him in a village school where he’s happy as a clam. And now you want to uproot him again, take him back to that hellhole of a country, just because you like playing Florence Nightingale? I don’t think you’re seeing this from Abel’s perspective.’

Tish struggled to control her anger. ‘With respect, Viorel, I think I know my own son a little better than you do.’

‘Then you know he wants to stay at Loxley,’ said Vio stubbornly. ‘More than anything.’

‘He’s five,’ said Tish, as authoritatively as possible for someone wearing a pair of Snoopy pyjamas. ‘He also wants to live in an underwater kingdom and eat chocolate buttons for every meal. That doesn’t mean it’s a good idea.’

‘Now you’re just being facetious,’ snapped Vio. The whisky was fuelling his temper. That, and his own memories of growing up with a mother who put her charitable work before the interests of her own son. He tried to remind himself that Tish wasn’t Martha Hudson. And that Abel wasn’t him. But the thought of the little boy being torn away from all he held dear made Viorel’s blood boil.

‘I’m his mother,’ said Tish. ‘I know what’s best for him.’

‘What’s best for you, you mean,’ muttered Viorel.

Tish had no idea where this sudden hostility was coming from. Certainly, she’d done nothing to deserve it. There was a meanness to Viorel tonight, a self-righteous arrogance that she had never seen before. Thank God, I never fell for him, she thought with a shiver.

‘I’m sorry you feel that way,’ she said frostily. ‘But I’m not here to debate. Abel is my son, and I am telling you not to upset him any further with this nonsense. Understood?’

‘Fine.’ Turning away from her, Viorel poured himself another whisky and reopened his book. He felt angry, but also helpless on Abel’s behalf. What right did Tish have to let her own Mother Teresa fantasy blight the boy’s life? It was a powerlessness that Viorel Hudson hadn’t felt since boarding school. It frightened him.

Walking back upstairs to bed, Tish also felt shaken by their encounter. How dare Viorel question my parenting! What the hell does he know about it, or about our life in Romania? Judgemental wanker.

She tried to focus on her anger. But a small, questioning voice in her head made it difficult.

Am I being selfish? Am I putting myself before Abel?

She hoped not. Wuthering Heights had been Loxley Hall’s saviour. Tish was glad she’d come back and let them make the film. But the sooner they left and life got back to normal, the better. For all of them.

Outside the Regent Beverly Wilshire, a legion of paparazzi lay in wait for the glamorous attendees of tonight’s Starlight Ball, like a shoal of piranhas scenting blood.

In the back of Linda Greaves’s chauffeur-driven Bentley Continental, Chrissie Rasmirez positively throbbed with excitement. It was a long time, years, since she’d been the object of so much media attention. Of course, she was used to having her picture taken. As the wife of a Hollywood winner, she’d been snapped on Dorian’s arm at countless awards ceremonies and exclusive industry parties. But always as an appendage, a plus one. Tonight, she told herself, I’m the star. It’s me they’ve come to see, not Dorian.

The fact that they were here because of Dorian’s alleged infidelity did slightly take the edge off her triumph. But only slightly. For one thing, after speaking to her husband today and hearing the utter desperation in his voice, Chrissie was certain that Dorian hadn’t, in fact, cheated. He wasn’t going to leave her, for Sabrina Leon or anybody else. For another thing, if there was one role that Chrissie knew how to play to perfection, it was the role of the victim, the wronged wife stoically standing by her man. Make that wronged, drop-dead gorgeous wife. Her backless Dolce & Gabbana number looked even hotter on her tonight than it had in the store. Or perhaps it was Chrissie herself who was hotter, flushed with pleasure at so much unsuspected attention?

‘You OK, honey?’ asked Linda as they pulled up outside the hotel. ‘You’re sure you wanna do this?’

Chrissie looked at her friend, and felt her confidence swell still further. In a red Valentino sheath, with half of Siberia’s annual diamond output round her neck, Linda looked rich, glamorous and old. Too much Fraxel had frozen her once-beautiful face into a bland, featureless mask. Her hair was too blonde, her tits too big and her smile too desperate. She was the perfect date.

‘I don’t want to do it,’ Chrissie lied, arranging her face into an expression of fragile vulnerability. ‘I have to. I can’t let malicious gossip ruin my marriage.’

The popping of flashbulbs and calls of ‘Chrissie! Chrissie!’ as she stepped out of the car were almost enough to give her a small orgasm on the spot. Clasping Linda’s hand, head down in a perfect Princess Diana pose, she walked slowly into the building, making sure the photographers got plenty of time to catch her sexy back-view before disappearing inside.

Tonight, she decided, was going to be a lot of fun. And it was. Friends old and new flocked around her, drawn to the drama like junkies to a dealer.

‘Of course it isn’t true,’ Chrissie repeated to all of them, with practised, sorrowful dignity. ‘Dorian’s tried to act like a father to that troubled girl. He’s too generous for his own good. Everyone knows Sabrina Leon’s addicted to the press. It wouldn’t surprise me if she’d planted the story herself.’

‘Aren’t you mad?’

Cue modest, forgiving head-tilt. ‘I try not to waste energy on anger. Not when I have so much to be thankful for.’

By the time dinner came around and they all sat down for the auction, Chrissie was thoroughly enjoying herself. She’d had just enough glasses of champagne to loosen her up, been flirted with by at least two men who were better-looking than Dorian and another three who were richer, and she’d seen on the table plans that she’d be sitting next to Keanu Reeves, on whom she’d always had a mini-crush.

‘Hello, Mrs Rasmirez. You’re quite the belle of the ball tonight.’

Through her semi-drunken haze, it took Chrissie a few moments to recognize the immaculately dressed, handsome blond man who’d sat down beside her. Not until he’d kissed her hand and chivalrously pulled out her chair did it come to her.

‘Harry Greene.’ She giggled coquettishly. ‘I don’t think I’m allowed to talk to you.’

‘Says who? Dorian?’ Ignoring the dirty looks from his fellow guests, Greene pulled a cigarette out of a vintage silver case and lit it. ‘Don’t tell me you’re the kind of girl who takes orders from her husband. I couldn’t bear the disillusionment.’

‘It’s not a question of taking orders. It’s a question of loyalty,’ said Chrissie. ‘And that’s somebody else’s seat.’

‘Not any more it isn’t. I’m afraid I wanted you all to myself, so I told Keanu he was moving.’ Harry waved across the room to table nine, and a familiar dark-haired man waved back. Chrissie was torn between annoyance and gratification. She’d been looking forward to flirting with Keanu, but it was flattering that Harry Greene had singled her out, and sexy that he had the power to tell major movie stars where they could and couldn’t sit. Chrissie had always been turned on by power.

‘You know, your husband’s a fool.’ Harry leaned back in his seat, languidly blowing smoke rings into the air. ‘Fooling around with Sabrina Leon when he has a woman like you at home.’

‘He hasn’t been fooling around with her,’ said Chrissie stiffly. ‘It’s just the tabloids, stirring up trouble.’

Harry raised a perfectly groomed eyebrow, but said nothing.

Chrissie looked irritated. ‘I trust my husband.’

‘Is that why you’re flying out to his set next week?’ Harry asked wryly. ‘Because you trust him so much?’

Chrissie cocked her head to one side, curious. ‘How did you know I was going to the set?’

‘I know a lot of things,’ said Harry. He took another deep, satisfying lungful of nicotine and looked at her appraisingly, the way a trainer might examine a racehorse. Locking eyes with her he said: ‘If you were my wife, I wouldn’t let you out of my sight.’

Chrissie felt a rush of pleasure course through her. Of course, she knew that Harry Greene had it in for Dorian, and that he was probably flirting with her so outrageously to settle some kind of score. She’d never entirely understood Harry’s beef with her husband – something about his ex-wife and a screenplay – but she knew he had damaged Dorian professionally. Not that she gave a shit about Dorian’s precious career. No, what Chrissie cared about was the look of pure lust in Harry Greene’s eyes. That was something that could not be faked.

This is what I’ve missed, she thought, stuck out in Romania, running after Saskia all day like the hired bloody help. I’ve missed being adored.

‘Sure you would.’ She played along. ‘You’re all the same, you directors. You’re workaholics.’

‘It’s true I love my work,’ admitted Harry, leaning in closer. ‘But not as much as I’d love spreading your legs and licking you till you come and come and come.’

Chrissie gasped. ‘You can’t say things like that!’ But she was so turned on, she felt her eyelids getting heavy and her lips instinctively beginning to part.

‘I can say whatever I like,’ said Harry.

Chrissie squirmed helplessly as his hand began caressing her thigh under the table.

‘I can do whatever I like. I’m a god in this town, sweetheart. I don’t have to run around with a begging bowl every time I want to get a movie made, like your husband. You know what I heard?’ His hand was creeping higher.

‘What?’ Chrissie breathed heavily, so aroused now she felt as if she’d been hypnotized.

‘I heard all this bad press swirling around Sabrina Leon is killing interest in his movie. Withering Heights, they’re calling it.’ He laughed, stubbing out his cigarette. ‘The film’s dying on the vine.’

‘That’s not true,’ said Chrissie, trying to block out the sensations in her groin and focus on what Harry was saying. ‘If you must know he’s had a lot of early interest from the big studios.’

‘Like who?’ Harry tried to keep his voice casual.

‘Like Paramount,’ said Chrissie smugly, ‘among others.’

‘And what “others” might those be?’ asked Harry.

Chrissie opened her mouth to tell him, when something made her hesitate. It was as if the hypnotist had suddenly clicked his fingers and awoken her from the trance. I’m being played, she thought, furiously. He’s not interested in me. He’s just pumping me for info on the damn movie. Removing Greene’s hand from her thigh, she cleared her throat. ‘Nice try,’ she said tersely. ‘But if you want information about my husband’s business, you’re going to have to fish for it elsewhere.’

Turning her back on him, she engaged the man on her other side in conversation, and proceeded to ignore Harry Greene for the rest of the night. Irritatingly unfazed, Harry focused his attentions on the pretty blonde to his right, ‘helping’ her to bid for a number of items at the charity auction, including a delicate Fred Leighton emerald necklace that Chrissie coveted wildly and a six-night stay at the Post Ranch Inn, which just happened to be Chrissie’s favourite hotel in the entire world.

They didn’t speak again until they were leaving. Reunited with an out-of-her-mind-drunk Linda Greaves, Chrissie was waiting at the coat check for her borrowed vintage mink when she felt someone come up behind her and slip a hand around her waist.

‘You’re right,’ Harry whispered in her ear. ‘I did want information. But I wanted you more.’

Before Chrissie had a chance to say anything, he planted a kiss on the back of her neck that made every hair on her body stand on end.

‘Next time,’ he murmured, and disappeared into the night with the blonde trailing in his wake.