Читать книгу Exclusive!: Hollywood Life or Royal Wife? / Marriage Scandal, Showbiz Baby! / Sex, Lies and a Security Tape - Jackie Braun, Fiona Hood-Stewart, Fiona Hood-Stewart - Страница 8

SHE HATED EVERY MINUTE of it: the hype, the flashbulbs everywhere she went, the ever-present expectations…

And now they wanted her to be on show yet again.

Victoria Woodward sighed. How she wished that the wretched movie, of which she’d unwittingly become the star, had not ended up as a contender to win the Cannes Film Festival.

But it was too late for regrets. Too late to wish herself back in the security and anonymity of Hetherington, the English village where she’d resided all her life, where everything was predictable and simple. To think she’d used to consider it boring, had longed for change and excitement. As though granting her wish, fate had changed her life overnight, swooping her into a Hollywood whirlwind of parties, private jets, paparazzi, and the not-so-easy-position of being dogged at every step by the press and the curious.

Now, as she exited the airport at Nice, another batch of eager reporters lay in wait.

‘For goodness’ sake, smile,’ Anne Murphy, her agent, hissed. ‘Ed’ll have a fit if he sees more pictures of you sulking.’ She pulled Victoria forward and hurried her out of the terminal. Immediately the press rushed upon them.

‘Is it true you may win the Palme d’ Or, Miss Woodward?’ A reporter poked a microphone aggressively under her nose.

‘Do you have a boyfriend, Miss Woodward? Is it true that you and Peter Simmons are dating?’

Victoria experienced that familiar and frightening tightening of her throat, followed by a paralysing rigidity that made it almost impossible to speak or move. Fear gripped her gut. She turned in panic to Anne.

‘Get me out of here,’ she muttered, her long blonde hair swinging wildly, her grey eyes glazed.

‘The car’s right there.’ Anne held her elbow and manoeuvred her expertly through the crowd.

Two burly young men in grey suits and designer sunglasses kept the spectators at bay as they forged a path to the limo that represented her safe haven. Forcing one foot in front of the other, Victoria managed a brief smile, then plunged inside the vehicle, curling up in the corner, ignoring the eager faces pressed against the windows, the camera lenses seeking one last shot of her before the car glided off into traffic.

‘Victoria, you’re just going to have to get used to this,’ Anne said sternly. Anne was short and sandy-haired, and the thirty-five-year-old New Yorker’s tone spelled efficiency.

‘I simply hate it,’ Victoria whispered, stretching her long slim legs out before her. ‘I think I must be claustrophobic or something.’

‘Well, this is hardly the moment to make earth-shattering discoveries,’ Anne replied tartly, sending her a significant look. ‘You’re on show, honey; that’s what they’re paying several million bucks for.’

‘I thought that was for playing Xanthia in the movie,’ Victoria said crossly, hair curtaining her face as she dropped her chin on her chest.

‘Now, grow up, Vic. You know perfectly well that was just the beginning. I really don’t understand what you’re complaining about. Anybody else would be delighted to have reached stardom in such a short time.’

‘I loathe it.’

‘And I give up,’ Anne exclaimed, rolling her eyes, wishing Ed Banes, the director, had chosen someone else for the role. For, although the girl was a natural, she had been nothing but trouble from the word go. Anne had warned Ed and the others that it wasn’t going to be a smooth ride. But had they listened? No. And as usual she was left to clean up. She liked Victoria a lot—thought she was a sweet, sensitive kid and a great actress. But that wasn’t enough. If she wasn’t disposed to do the PR, and put up with the media, it was just no damn good.

Glancing sideways at her charge, Anne decided to let Victoria be until they got to the Carlton Hotel in Cannes. She leaned back against the leather seat and flipped through the Festival programme.

There was a dinner tonight. She supposed that would be another piece of work. A top fashion house was delivering Victoria’s dress this afternoon. God only knew what she would do if there was a mistake in the fitting. Anne checked the guest list. Several other stars would be present. That would make Victoria less conspicuous. A couple of heads of state would be there, a sprinkling of royalty, and some famous rock stars to help dilute things. She glanced at the table seating. Victoria was placed to the right of HRH Prince Rodolfo of Malvarina, the ruler of the tiny principality, an island not far off the coast of Italy.

Anne twiddled her pen a minute and thought about what the bankers had said regarding a change of residence for Victoria. Malvarina wasn’t a bad option—one of the more attractive tax havens, easy to access, and with great banking laws. She wondered whether to mention it, then took a look a Victoria’s closed face, grimaced and decided not to. Right now, all Victoria seemed to want was to return to this place—Hetherington, the small English village where she and her widowed mother had lived. It was all very cute, but not Anne’s style. Malvarina, on the other hand, was smooth and sophisticated. Some of the world’s richest and glitziest had moved there, seeking anonymity.

Hmmm. Anonymity. That might be just be the selling point, she reflected. After all, everyone in Malvarina was rich and famous. Another star would just blend in. Anne made a note on her Palm Pilot to mention the subject to Victoria at a suitable moment, then glanced at her watch. Time to make sure Victoria would brave the arrival at the Carlton and the inevitable pack of reporters awaiting them without a scene.

IN HER HUGE SUITE over looking the Croisette and the Mediterranean, Victoria sank down on the king-size bed and let out a sigh. She didn’t want it to be this way, wished that everything could be as she’d imagined it would be when she’d been discovered and offered the role—before she’d rushed into all of this, so excited and thinking of nothing but the opportunity to act. She’d always wanted to be an actress and now, at only twenty, she’d been offered the break of a lifetime. So why was it so hard to do the other thing? Most people wanted to be famous, to be in the limelight, to be a star, seek fame and fortune. But to her the publicity and pressure were insurmountable obstacles that she found increasingly hard to deal with.

Time to take one of her pills, she realised, getting up and moving towards the bathroom. As she did so she remembered just how she’d discovered Dr Richard Browne, the man who kept her sane.

It had happened one night at a huge Hollywood dinner, when she’d slipped into the bathroom and leaned against the basin, closing her eyes and feeling desperate. The girl washing her hands at the next basin had looked across at her curiously.

‘You okay?’ she’d asked.

‘Fine,’ Victoria had answered, mustering a smile.

‘You sure?’ The girl had grimaced. ‘I guess you’re finding it hard to deal with all the crap. I used to be like that too. I ended up at a shrink. And thank God I did. It saved my life, man.’ She dried her hands on a towel and dropped it in the basket next to the sink.

‘Did he help you? The shrink, I mean?’

‘Sure he helped me,’ the girl had answered, laughing sympathetically. ‘It was like I’d turned a corner. He gave me some medication that really did the trick.’

‘That sounds wonderful,’ Victoria had replied, her voice filled with longing. What she wouldn’t have done for some assistance.

‘Hey, if you want I can give you his number. He’s really cool. Have a pen?’

‘Yes. Here.’ Victoria had rummaged in her evening purse and produced a pen and an old paper napkin, which she’d handed to her bathroom companion. Moments later she’d slipped the napkin back in her bag, determined to give the doctor a ring on the morrow.

‘You’ll like him. He’s very experienced in treating people in the movie business who are suffering from stress. He’ll have you feeling great in no time.’

And the girl had proved to be right. Dr Richard Browne had immediately understood her problem and had written out a prescription for a substantial supply of small capsules. He’d said they’d make her feel better very quickly, and she was to call his office when she needed more. They had, and she did—even though it was expensive. Not that money was in any way an impediment any longer. It seemed to flow in from every quarter

Now, for a long moment, Victoria hesitated, one of the capsules placed on her palm. Deep inside, she knew she shouldn’t be relying on drugs. She had never enquired of the doctor what they contained. But if lots of actors took them they couldn’t be harmful, she figured, eyeing the medication for a moment. Then, knowing she had to go back out there and face the crowd, a wave of panic overwhelmed her and she popped it in her mouth before she could change her mind.

Minutes later, it felt as though a black cloud had lifted. Suddenly she was relaxed and able to cope. But she’d have to take another one before she could face the dinner tonight.

Did Anne know that she helped herself with meds? Victoria wondered. She didn’t think so. She’d been very careful not to let on. Anne disapproved of anything that might tarnish Victoria’s reputation. So Victoria kept quiet about it, figuring that as long as no one found out it was okay. What mattered was that with the help of the meds she was able to produce the result they wanted. Surely that was what mattered?

She moved to the window and looked down at the people wandering up and down the promenade: the star-gazers, the groupies, the wannabe actors and actresses, trying to attract the attention of the press and the movers and shakers of the film industry. For a moment she felt a rush of shame. What wouldn’t those people out there give to be in her place? She had it all, yet she hated it. Not the actual making of the movie, she reflected—that she’d really enjoyed, even though the schedule had been relentlessly demanding. It had been wonderful, the film set her natural habitat. And when at last she’d seen the final rushes she’d been enchanted. It was the hype she couldn’t handle.

A knock on the door made her turn sharply. It was all about to begin again. An afternoon programme of activities: interviews, the hairdresser, the make-up artist, a photo shoot. She swallowed. She had to face it.

‘Come in,’ she said brightly, plastering on a smile.

‘How are you feeling, Vic?’ Anne eyed her closely.

‘Fine, thanks. Ready to roll.’

‘Good.’ Anne looked relieved. ‘Then let’s get going. The press are assembled in the main conference room, but we’ll fix your make-up and hair first. Marci’s got your outfit ready.’

Victoria nodded. She would do it. Could do it. Was determined to get through it, and maybe learn to hate it a bit less…She slipped her hand in the pocket of her designer jacket and was reassured by the feel of the extra capsule she’d slipped in as a precaution. Tossing her hair back, she went through the different expressions she’d practised in front of the mirror. Her masks, as she liked to think of them.

Soon they were making their descent in the lift, with Anne delivering last-minute orders on her mobile. The lift doors opened onto the main lobby and it all began again…

‘OKAY,’ ANNE SAID several hours later as they made their way to the Presidential Suite, where Ed was holding a cocktail party, ‘you did great.’

Victoria rolled her eyes. ‘There’s still tonight to get through. I’m dreading it already.’

‘It’ll be fine. Everybody who’s anybody will be at the dinner—it’s an A-list event.’

‘How reassuring,’ she said dryly. ‘Do I have to go?’ she muttered, knowing the answer and lifting the skirt of her gauze embroidered gown to negotiate the stairs. Behind her two private detectives followed her every move, never taking their eyes off the one-hundred-and-fifty-thousand-pound diamond necklace and earrings that a top jeweller had lent her for the night.

‘I guess that’s a joke, right?’ Anne queried, her brows shooting up.

Victoria made a face. ‘I suppose.’ She shrugged, and glanced at her bejewelled evening purse to make sure it was securely shut. She could always go to the loo and pop a ‘lifesaver’, as she liked to think of them, if things got sticky.

‘Okay. Remember—be polite and charming and you’ll do just fine. This is your big chance, Victoria—don’t blow it,’ Anne admonished. ‘And, by the way, our financial people want to talk to you about moving residence for tax reasons. Have you heard of a place called Malvarina?’

Victoria frowned. ‘It’s some island somewhere in the Mediterranean, isn’t it?’ she said, still treading carefully so as not to step on the hem of her dress.

‘Yes. And it happens to be a great tax haven too. In fact, tonight you’re seated next to—’

But Anne’s next words were lost as Ed’s large bald figure appeared in the doorway of the Presidential Suite and he swooped Victoria away on his arm. Oh, well, Anne thought to herself. She’d done her best.

She stopped, checked out the room, heard the buzz of voices, high-pitched laughter and the clink of expensive crystal. Victoria would do okay, she assured herself, and with that thought she set out to chat up the reporters who were trying to get exclusives with her charge.