Fame (40 page)
‘It does?’
‘Of course!’
It was funny: a month ago Dorian could no more have pictured himself taking love-life advice from Sabrina than flying to the moon. But now he’d done as she suggested, booking a cosy table at a romantic restaurant in Bihor for tonight. Alone, away from the
Wuthering Heights
circus, Chrissie would have to talk to him, or scream at him, or give him
some
clue what he could do to put things right. It was only a matter of days now till filming wrapped for good. Then he could devote his attention to her wholeheartedly. But in the meantime, the situation had already deteriorated to a point where it was affecting Saskia.
Tonight’s going to break the deadlock. It has to.
The rest of the day’s filming went well. After a thirty-minute mermaid-break with Saskia, Dorian returned to the set refreshed for the final scenes and delighted by his actors’ performances, especially Sabrina’s. Anyone who’d written Sabrina Leon off as a major movie star after last year’s scandals – which was pretty much all the big Hollywood studios – was going to be eating their words when they saw the final cut of his movie.
Dorian fervently hoped that
Wuthering Heights
was going to be the film that saved them all. But for Sabrina it had been truly transformational. Directing her this afternoon, Dorian felt a deep glow of pride for whatever small part he might have played in helping her to grow, to become the actress and the woman she was truly capable of being. Viorel was increasingly becoming the bright centre of Sabrina’s universe, her love for him burning up the screen like lava. But it was still Dorian she turned to for counsel and support.
Dorian got back to the Schloss at seven and headed straight for his and Chrissie’s bedroom, praying she was at least out of bed as he climbed the grand stone staircase. These depression naps seemed to drain her of energy rather than revive her, and it always took her a good hour from waking up to get back into the swing of things. Dorian had booked Gianni’s, one of the few local restaurants Chrissie actually professed to like, for eight o’clock. He desperately wanted to make the reservation.
Opening the bedroom door, his spirits lifted. Chrissie was obviously up. The bed was made. More than that, the room looked spotlessly clean, with all her clothes put away and the heavy, velvet drapes drawn back, a sure sign that her mood had lifted. At her most depressed, she left mess everywhere and shuffled around in darkness like a mole. It was only when he opened the wardrobe to find a clean shirt and noticed that
all
Chrissie’s clothes were gone that the first misgivings began to creep up on him.
Maybe she just reorganized some things.
Trying not to panic, Dorian walked through into her private dressing room. It was totally bare. Around the room, closet doors stood open, like giant mouths laughing at him as they revealed their emptiness. In the centre of the room, a few forlorn pairs of sneakers were the only remaining inhabitants of Chrissie’s beloved ‘shoe island’. With all the jewel-coloured pairs of Jimmy Choos and Jonathan Kelseys gone, it looked painfully depleted, a peacock stripped of its feathers, a rainbow faded to lifeless grey.
Like our marriage,
thought Dorian bleakly.
He walked into Saskia’s bedroom like a zombie, already knowing what he would find there. With no toys or teddies, the pink-painted room looked stark, as if someone had died there and the staff had cleaned up afterwards with ruthless efficiency. A few hours ago, Saskia had been on set, in his arms. Now, in a single afternoon, all traces of Dorian’s family life had been brutally removed.
Pouff. Gone.
Without knowing how he got there, Dorian found himself downstairs in his study, staring at the phone on his desk. Propped up against it was a note, a single folded piece of paper with his name scrawled across it in Chrissie’s spidery, angry handwriting. Bracing himself, as if for a physical blow, he picked it up and opened it.
‘
I left this note here because this is where you always are – working. And because without a note, I doubt you’d even have noticed we’d gone. I’m moving back to LA and I’m taking Saskia with me. That’s all you need to know. Maybe I’ll see you there some time, next time you’re on business. Or maybe not. To be honest, I’m past caring. C.’
There was so much anger in those few lines. Clearly, the note had been designed to wound him, but reading it over and over, Dorian found he wasn’t so much hurt as saddened. How awful that Chrissie felt reduced to writing something so small, so mean-spirited. He knew he was numbed by the shock. Eventually, in a few hours, or perhaps days, the enormity of what had happened would probably hit home and he’d feel all the desperation and anguish and horror that he knew he ought to. But right now there was nothing but a still, quiet feeling of loss. He felt as if he were watching a poignant movie scene, but about somebody else.
He picked up the phone, then put it down again.
Who am I calling?
Obviously, he ought to do something. His wife had left him and taken their child. It was a situation that called for action of some sort on his part. Crisis management. But when he stopped to think about it, Dorian realized he actually had no idea what to do. In an accident, you called an ambulance; after a crime, the police. But what did you do when somebody upped sticks and walked away with twenty years of your life, then left you a note that basically told you to go fuck yourself?
‘Are you OK?’
Sabrina appeared in the doorway. In dark green Bermuda shorts and a sleeveless vest, with her long hair scraped up into a messy bun, she looked young and happy and in love. Just seeing her made Dorian’s heart ache. It was so long since Chrissie had looked like that.
‘I’m fine.’
Sabrina had been about to head into town herself for a drink with Viorel when she’d happened to pass by Dorian’s study. Seeing him staring into space, she was concerned.
‘Are you sure? You look as if the world’s just ended.’
Dorian thought:
Part of it just has.
‘Chrissie’s left me,’ he said blankly. ‘She’s taken Saskia back to LA.’
Sabrina grimaced. ‘God, Dorian. I’m so sorry.’
‘But not surprised?’
She shrugged. ‘Are you?’
Dorian thought about it. ‘I guess not. A little. I don’t know. I thought we might have made it to the end of the shoot. We’re almost wrapped.’ He ran a hand through his hair, suddenly aware of how incredibly tired he was.
‘Maybe she just needs a little space,’ said Sabrina, trying to sound optimistic. ‘She’s probably trying to make a statement, to teach you a lesson or something. She’ll be back.’
‘Sure.’ Dorian smiled. ‘She’ll be back.’
But neither of them really believed it.
The final weeks of shooting at Dorian Rasmirez’s Romanian Schloss seemed to rush by at the speed of light. So much had happened since they’d left England. Dorian’s marriage appeared to have finally snapped. Sabrina had broken off her engagement to Jago. And of course, she and Vio had now plunged headlong into an intense relationship, igniting a spark that had transformed their on-screen chemistry, and consequently the whole feel of the movie. Yet, in a very real sense, it felt like yesterday when they’d arrived in Transylvania. By the time everyone had come to terms with the grandeur of Dorian’s castle and the breathtaking majesty of the Carpathian Mountains, filming was done and it was time to go home.
As a result, there was a certain air of unreality about the wrap party.
Was this really the end?
This was intensified by the fact that most of the actors, including Lizzie and Rhys, had finished their scenes weeks ago, so it was only a hardcore group of Sabrina and Vio, Dorian, Chuck, and a skeleton gaggle of crew and extras, who’d gathered in the grand Victorian summerhouse for the traditional toasts and farewells. Some of the Schloss staff had rocked up to swell the numbers, making it even more of a motley crew.
The summerhouse itself looked and smelled incredible. The Greek Revivalist building had been filled with white lilies and freesias, and the artwork from the huge back wall had been temporarily removed to make space for a full-size movie screen on which images from the long summer of shooting were being projected. In the middle of the room, two long trestle tables had been placed end to end, laden with delicious salads, meats and desserts, and some of the best wine from the Rasmirez cellars, and around the edges of the oval room, white sofas strewn with silk cushions and throws provided comfortable retreats for those who wanted to talk in private.
Chuck MacNamee, who’d worked with Dorian on every film he’d made since
Love and Regrets
, kicked off the speeches with an emotional tribute to his mentor.
‘As we all know, some of the most beautiful art in history has been forged through pain. This shoot hasn’t been easy, the last couple of weeks especially. But Dorian, what you’ve achieved here is something truly incredible.’ His eyes welled up with tears. ‘You’re awesome, man.’
Chuck’s been at the Mojitos already
, thought Dorian, not without affection, trying to look appreciative as the speech rambled on. He
was
proud of the film. It still needed to be edited, of course – the difference between a good movie and a great one often rested on what was left on the cutting-room floor – but he had no doubts that
Wuthering Heights
would be the crowning achievement of his career. As long as he could sew up a distribution deal and get the thing financed, of course, but with work of this quality that shouldn’t be hard.
What Dorian doubted was whether he still cared. He’d made this film, at least in part, for Chrissie. To get them out of debt and back on track, so he wouldn’t have to be working constantly, so he could spend more time with her, and give her all the things she wanted: the shopping trips to Paris, the vacations, the $20,000-a-head parties. Now Chrissie was gone, his marriage in tatters, did any of it really matter any more?
Mercifully, Chuck’s speech was at an end. Glasses were refilled, Dorian mumbled a few words of thanks and, a few minutes later, Sabrina got to her feet. She and Viorel had spent the early part of the evening coiled up on a love seat in the corner, like an impossibly lithe and glamorous two-headed snake. Looking fresh and radiant as ever, her dewy, lightly tanned skin glowing beneath a simple grey silk maxi-dress, and her still-wet hair clinging to her shoulders and neck like tendrils of mahogany seaweed, Sabrina positively glowed with contentment and belonging.
‘I’d also like to say a few, short words,’ she began. ‘Firstly, I wanna apologize to all of you if I was, you know, a little edgy when we first began shooting.’
‘Edgy?’ yelled one of the sound guys, to general laughter. ‘You were a fucking razor blade.’
A few weeks ago, Sabrina would have shot the man down with a suitably pithy comeback, but now she took it on the chin.
‘OK, OK, I get it. I was difficult. But that brings me on to the second thing I wanted to say. Which is thank you – to all of you, but especially to this man,’ she pointed at Dorian. ‘This man, who I was unforgivably rude to in a restaurant in Beverly Hills a year ago, but who offered me a lifeline anyway; this man who pulled me out of the flames, who gave me not just one chance but a whole bunch of chances when nobody else would.’
Dorian found he had to tear his eyes up from the ground and force himself to look at her. Since Chrissie left, merely looking at Sabrina’s face could bring him close to tears. It was pathetic.
Am I really gonna become one of those misanthropic old assholes who can’t bear to be around happy people?
he asked himself sternly.
Get a grip. This is Sabrina. You care about this girl. Be excited for her.
‘I hope, in the end, I’ve made you proud as Cathy,’ Sabrina went on, beaming at him. ‘Thank you. For everything.’
Skipping over to the trestle table where Dorian was sitting, she leaned down and kissed him, throwing her arms around his neck and hugging him tightly. It was unexpected. People were clapping and cheering. Dorian hugged her back awkwardly, stroking her back the way one might pet a dog.
‘I mean it,’ she whispered in his ear. ‘You’ve changed my life. I won’t ever know how to repay you.’
‘Not at all,’ said Dorian, finding his voice at last. ‘You’ve worked hard, Sabrina. You’ve earned this. I’ve as much reason to be grateful as you do.’
Leaving Sabrina and Dorian to their mutual love-fest, Viorel chatted to one of the make-up girls. He was glad Sabrina seemed to have brought Dorian out of himself, stopped him from sitting there staring blankly into space like the ghost at the feast. When Chrissie did her disappearing act, Vio had confidently expected her to spill the beans about their night together at Loxley. As LA therapists were fond of saying, hurt people hurt people, and this was exactly the sort of information that a disgruntled wife on the brink of divorce might throw in her husband’s face. When it hadn’t happened he’d been relieved, but he still felt terrible, watching the effect Chrissie’s departure had had on poor Dorian. It reminded him yet again what a good man Rasmirez was.
A better man than me.
Yet again, Viorel found himself battling the strange feeling of dissatisfaction that had overshadowed his time in LA. It was really starting to bother him.
This should be the happiest time of my life. The movie’s terrific, I just got a huge payday, I dodged a bullet with Rasmirez’s wife and Sabrina’s in love with me. Better still, tomorrow I finally get to go home.
‘We’ get to go home.
Perhaps that was the problem, or part of it. Sabrina kept talking about their future as if it were an acknowledged fact. Which, by osmosis and a lack of action on Vio’s part, it now pretty much was. ‘They’ were going home to LA. ‘They’ couldn’t wait to go to Sushi Roku, to party together at Hyde, to go hiking up in Rustic Canyon, to celebrate Sabrina’s birthday at Cecconi’s. So far, Sabrina hadn’t specifically brought up the idea of their living together. But she talked about Venice and Viorel’s place there with an ease and familiarity that sounded distinctly proprietorial. Was he going to lose his fortress? If he let Sabrina in, it wouldn’t be a fortress any more. It would be a home, their home.
Is that what I want?