Fame (43 page)
Tonight, dressed in a pale green Chloé gypsy skirt and flowing silk blouson top from Chanel, she breezed out of Cecconi’s a few paces ahead of Viorel, looking ravishingly angelic as she handed the valet their ticket. The clicking of cameras was deafening and, despite the restaurant security’s best efforts, a number of photographers broke ranks and ran towards Sabrina, pushing and shoving each other violently in their eagerness to get the closest shot. Sabrina looked panicked.
‘Hey. HEY!’ Viorel came forward, pulling Sabrina towards him and shielding her with his body. ‘Back off,’ he said angrily. ‘This is out of line, guys. You’re way too close. Leave her alone.’
It was a terrific image, Vio playing knight in shining armour in vintage Levis and a dark blue Turnbull & Asser shirt, the quintessential Englishman-in-LA look, his dark, brooding good looks heightened by his anger. And Sabrina was in shot too, clinging to him for protection like a baby bird nestling under its mother’s wing.
Fucking adorable.
Pop pop pop
went the flashbulbs. Vio was tempted to lash out and punch one of the paps but, knowing how much mileage they’d get out of him losing his temper, he restrained himself. Happily, his Bugatti arrived seconds later. With the help of security he was able to bundle Sabrina safely into it before driving away at speed, scattering photographers like dead leaves as he roared off along Melrose towards Santa Monica Boulevard.
‘You OK?’ he asked Sabrina, once they’d finally shaken off the last of the stragglers.
‘I’m fine.’ She reached across and laid her hand over his as it rested on the gear stick. It was incredible how physical contact with him, however minimal, instantly calmed her. She could feel her pulse slowing and the adrenaline from their run-in with the paparazzi ebbing like a receding tide. Soon they’d be home, cocooned from the world in their private Venice fortress. Sabrina still owned her house in the Hollywood Hills, but had spent only two nights there since they got back to LA, and had come to think of Viorel’s apartment on Navy as ‘their’ place. Last weekend they’d spent a blissful Sunday pottering around the furniture stores on Beverly and Robertson, picking out a new bed. Sabrina had never been the jealous type before, but with Viorel she found she couldn’t stand the thought of making love in a bed where he’d been with other women.
‘I know it’s superstitious and crazy,’ she told him, ‘but I want a fresh start. I want everything to be perfect from now on, you know?’
Viorel did know. And it worried him. Love affairs were rarely perfect.
He
certainly wasn’t perfect. With every passing day, Sabrina’s expectations seemed to rise and rise like flood-waters at the levee. He tried hard to shake the feeling that eventually the flood would overwhelm him. That the intensity of Sabrina’s love would drown him. He tried to find the words to express any of this to Sabrina, but every time he looked at her loving, trusting face, his nerve failed him. They bought the new bed.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ said Sabrina, as they arrived at their underground garage and the door swung open to welcome them. ‘What are we gonna do about Christmas?’
‘Do we have to “do” something about it?’ asked Vio, parking and switching off the engine. ‘Last time I heard, you couldn’t stop Christmas from coming. Some guy called the Grinch tried once, but apparently it came all the same.’
‘Ha ha, very funny,’ said Sabrina. They stepped into the elevator. Seconds later they were in the apartment. ‘I meant are we gonna stay here, are we gonna go away some place?’ She kicked off her shoes. ‘Cabo’s real romantic at Christmastime, but part of me thinks we should stay home and do the whole shebang, you know? We can get a tree, we can bake pecan pies …’
We, we, we
, thought Vio. ‘It’s not even Halloween yet, sweetheart.’ Sinking down on the couch he reached for the TV remote. ‘Let’s see how we feel. Keep it spontaneous.’
‘OK,’ said Sabrina. She tried to sound unconcerned, but Vio could hear the disappointment in her voice. ‘Sorry. It’s just, I never really had a proper Christmas before.’
Vio put down the remote. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Well,’ Sabrina sat down next to him, ‘I mean, obviously I
had
Christmas. But the last few years I spent it with Camille and Sean, looped out of my mind.’
‘Oh.’ Vio frowned. Sabrina’s vacuous hangers-on had called her ceaselessly the first week they got back to LA, to the point where Vio had had to persuade her to ditch her old phone and get a new number. The last thing she needed was those parasites back in her life.
‘And before that I was always filming somewhere,’ said Sabrina.
‘On Christmas Day?’
‘Sure. I made sure I was working Christmas Day.’
Vio looked puzzled. ‘Why?’
Sabrina shrugged. ‘I kinda always had a bad time with Christmas. When I was a kid, in Fresno, the Christmases in the children’s home were so sad. The staff would make an effort, give you presents and all. But it was so fake, everybody trying real hard to act like a family, when in reality nobody there gave a shit whether you lived or died.’
‘How do you know they didn’t give a shit?’ asked Viorel gently.
‘How did you know your mother didn’t give a shit about
you
?’ asked Sabrina. ‘You’re a kid. You just know.’
Vio nodded understandingly. He couldn’t argue with that.
‘Plus, in my case, my “house father”, the guy at the home who was kind of in charge of me, snuck into my room on Christmas Eve when I was twelve and tried to put his dick in my mouth. So that was like, you know, “Merry Christmas!”’ She laughed, rolling her eyes, but Vio could see the pain underneath, the scar this bastard had left behind him. ‘That kind of finished things off for me.’
‘Poor baby.’ He pulled her closer, slipping his hands beneath her silk Chanel blouse, stroking the bare skin on her back.
How could anybody treat a twelve-year-old kid like that?
he thought bitterly.
No wonder she’s been so fucked up.
As always when he touched her, Sabrina’s response was instant, her back arching and her pupils dilating. She kissed him greedily, pulling his face closer with her hands, opening her mouth as she pressed her soft lips against his hard ones and wriggling out of her skirt like a snake shedding its skin. Within a few seconds she was naked in his arms, a smooth, caramel-limbed, exotic creature offering herself up to him completely.
No man could resist this
, Vio told himself. Sabrina’s desire was a huge aphrodisiac, but at the same time it could be so powerful, so overwhelming that at times Vio felt out of his depth, like a leaf being dragged along in a fast-flowing current. Many women had wanted him, but Sabrina seemed to need him in a way he’d never experienced before. As if by their physical union she was somehow sucking the life force out of him, feeding from his desire for her like a mosquito gorging on blood. He wanted to pull back, to slow things down, to distance himself. But how could he when she was so ridiculously desirable, a complete virtuoso between the sheets? Not to mention the fact that, in the last few days especially, she’d started opening up to him about her childhood and the horrific experiences that had shaped her life. Sabrina Leon, who never showed vulnerability – to anyone.
She trusts me
, thought Vio.
If I break that trust, I’m as bad as every other asshole who’s abused her or let her down.
He desperately did not want to be another ‘bad man’ on Sabrina’s lifelong list of losers and users.
Sabrina undid his belt buckle one-handed and straddled him on the couch, the palest pink nipples of her magnificent breasts on a tantalizing level with his mouth, brushing his lips with a feather-light touch, then pulling away as he opened his mouth to try to kiss them. Viorel groaned with pleasure, unbuttoning his Levis and releasing his rock-hard erection.
‘Tell me you love me,’ Sabrina whispered. She was leaning forward so her long dark hair hung over him like a silken curtain. He could smell the desire on her skin, feel the longing in the quiver of her breasts as she breathed.
‘I love you,’ said Vio, slowly easing himself inside her. And in that instant, feeling Sabrina’s muscles tighten around him and hearing her gasp in pleasure, he did. Running his tongue across her breasts and his hands down her naked back, it was as if his whole body had become an instrument of worship. Because she
was
a goddess. Physically, sexually, she was perfection. They moved together like a single, frenzied animal, grabbing at one another’s bodies like two monkeys grasping for purchase in the trees, but ultimately tumbling to the ground, locked in combat. Slipping off the couch onto the floor, Vio rolled on top of Sabrina, pinning her down, their fingers entwined. He tried to stop himself coming, but it was like an exhausted salmon battling its way against the fast-flowing river. He might be on top, but sexually, as ever, it was Sabrina who was in control. With a shudder of ecstasy, he exploded into her, every nerve in his body alive with pleasure.
Afterwards, still slumped on top of her, it took him a full minute to recover sufficiently to speak. ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered in her ear. ‘That was way too fast.’
‘It was perfect,’ sighed Sabrina contentedly. She loved it when Vio couldn’t control himself. Every orgasm was a victory, a bond tightened, a bolt locked. Nothing gave her more pleasure than knowing that he wanted her.
It was strange, this feeling Vio gave her. Their sex life was so explosive because it was a respite from fear. Her fear. When they were fucking, Sabrina knew she had him, that Vio Hudson was utterly, irrevocably hers. But at every other time – at dinner, on set, with his friends, while he slept – she doubted it. As a result, she found herself living in a permanent state of tension. Rationally, the experience was unpleasant. Sabrina needed the relationship like an addict needed heroin but, like most addictions, it brought her more pain than pleasure. Sometimes she hankered after the early days of filming
Wuthering Heights
at Loxley Hall, before they’d gotten together, and before Jago; the days of fun, easy flirtation. How long ago that all seemed now. For a moment, she wished Dorian Rasmirez were here with his father hat on, to guide her through these uncharted waters with Vio. But perhaps even Dorian couldn’t help her now?
I’m in love. I guess this is what it’s supposed to feel like.
‘So what do you think then?’ Rolling onto her side as Vio eased out of her, she propped herself up on her elbow so they were face to face. ‘Christmas here? Together?’
Reaching out, Vio stroked her cheek tenderly. ‘Sure. Sounds like a plan.’
He smiled, banishing the sinking feeling deep in the pit of his stomach.
There was no way out.
Dorian Rasmirez gazed sadly out of the restaurant window and thought,
I have to get out of this funk.
It was late December, a few days after Christmas, and Santa Monica was still decked out in its festive finery. The store windows glittered with bright, enticing displays of toys and candy, and Montana Avenue was lit with snowflake-shaped streetlights and flashing red-and-white candy canes. The post-Christmas sales had already started, and even though it was 7 p.m. and already dark, the pavement outside Luigi’s was still busy with bargain hunters.
Normally, just being at Luigi’s was enough to put Dorian in a good mood. A modest, low-key Italian place on Montana and Seventh, it was one of his favourite LA restaurants. The Cioppino in front of him now smelled mouthwateringly good, wafts of saffron and white wine and garlic floating up from his bowl. But he couldn’t seem to enjoy it. Not with tomorrow’s marriage counselling session hanging over him like a brooding thundercloud.
He’d been in LA for three weeks now, and with every passing day his depression had deepened. This was despite the fact that, last week, he’d finally pulled it off and signed a lucrative funding-and-distribution deal with Sony Pictures. His strategy, of building up the hype around
Wuthering Heights
by keeping it under wraps, could not have worked out more perfectly, with Sony and Paramount ending up bidding against each other to take a slice of the movie. The deal was large enough to pay off all Dorian’s immediate debts. More importantly, it meant that
Wuthering Heights
definitely wouldn’t suffer the same fate as
Sixteen Nights
, and sink into acclaimed but unwatched oblivion. Sony would promote it and would make sure it found its way into theatres all over the world. They’d also promised to set a good chunk of change aside for an Oscar campaign, putting Dorian head to head with Harry Greene’s
Celeste,
the year’s other big-budget period movie. This was the White Knight deal he’d been praying for every night since he signed Viorel Hudson’s first pay cheque. But had it come too late to help him work things out with Chrissie?
At the moment, it sure seemed that way. Dorian had flown to LA to see his wife and spend some time with his daughter over the holidays. But a reconciliation now felt further off than ever. Christmas Day itself was a disaster. They’d agreed to spend the day together, at Chrissie’s rented place in Brentwood Park, to try to keep things as normal as possible for Saskia. But in fact it was anything other than normal. Dorian and Chrissie had not been together under one roof since Chrissie had walked out four months earlier, and both of them were tense. Feeling guilty about Saskia, Chrissie had gone over the top with the decorations, shipping in a tree that wouldn’t have looked out of place in the Rockefeller Center and weighing it down with enough lights and tinsel to deck out a small Midwestern town.
‘Jesus!’ said Dorian, arriving at nine a.m. with sacks of presents under his arms. ‘Eat your heart out, Charlie Brown. That’s the biggest Christmas tree I’ve ever seen.’ He meant it as a compliment, but Chrissie immediately took offence, assuming it was just another of his barbed criticisms of her spending and lifestyle.
She shook her head bitterly. ‘Incredible. You even resent paying for your daughter to have a decent Christmas.’ And things pretty much spiralled downhill from there. As usual, Dorian couldn’t put a foot right. Saskia, overtired and picking up on the tension between her parents, behaved dreadfully, crying at the slightest thing, breaking the expensive, hand-made doll’s house Dorian had bought her in under an hour, and finally eating so many candies at lunch that she threw up all over Chrissie’s new, white-mink-trimmed Ralph Lauren sweater.