Superstar (3 page)

Rummaging in
the pile of underwear, she found a pair of black tights. They could
be worn on their own, but she had always considered that too
revealing, and usually wore a long shirt over them. She pulled out
a black sleeveless T-shirt. Well, it would have to do. An
embroidered sash around the waist, a few accessories, and she would
be reasonably well dressed. The only black shoes she possessed were
a pair of plimsolls, so she put them on. The skirt was long, and
the black tights were visible through it, but she thought the
combination was interesting.

Using
her hairbrush with vigour, she slicked back her hair. She
considered her meagre armoury of make-up, which consisted of
eyeliner, mascara, powder and eye shadow. No use in plastering it
on, he had already seen her without any, and nothing could be worse
than that, except maybe being overdone. Seven o'clock approached,
so she applied the make-up sparingly. The end result was not bad;
it brightened her features and made her eyes look larger. A touch
of pink lipstick, and she was ready.

Helen
waited at the bottom of the stairs, and her scathing look spoke
volumes as Carrin reached her. Carrin glared at the maid, who
turned and led the way down a hall to the side of the main entrance
hall. Helen wore a little more make up than before, a deep red
lipstick that complemented her creamy skin and ink-black hair. With
a contemptuous smile, she threw open the double wooden doors to a
massive lounge with a dining room next to it, visible through an
archway.

A crowd
stood by a polished oak bar or sat on the luxurious cream leather
sofas, drinking and talking. Most turned at her entrance, and she
spotted Mark Lord by the bar, his presence like a beacon. He was
still clad in the black and grey outfit he had worn earlier. A
stunningly lovely red-head clad in a sleek white evening dress of
watered silk with a sequin-studded top clung to his arm. She was
the same supermodel Carrin had seen him with in the paparazzi
magazine. The sultry beauty leant over and spoke in Mark’s ear, but
he remained expressionless. She had to lean over, because she was
at least two inches taller than Mark Lord.

As she
crossed the room towards her host, Carrin knew she was distinctly
dowdy amongst so many well-dressed celebrities, much like a
farmyard rooster in a flock of peacocks. The women's dresses were
straight out of fashion magazines, and any one of them must have
cost more than her mother's farm made in a year, maybe two. In
fact, one woman wore enough diamonds to buy the smallholding twice
over. Raising her chin, she approached the bar. Mark came to meet
her, offering her a barstool. She perched on it as the waiter asked
what she would drink, and he handed her the shandy she
requested.

Mark turned to the supermodel beside him.
"Jenna, I'd like
you to meet my house guest, Carrin York. Carrin, this is Jenna
Morden."

Carrin smiled.
"Pleased to meet you."

Jenna
returned her smile coldly. "Likewise, I'm sure."

Mark
Lord indicated someone behind Carrin, and she turned to face a
blond, blue-eyed man with classical good looks and the build of a
Greek god barely hidden by a lightweight suit. He grinned,
revealing even white teeth, as Mark Lord introduced him as Simon
Grey. Carrin smiled, a little overwhelmed. Simon Grey was another
superstar who always appeared in lead roles, a famous heartthrob
adored by millions of women. She shook his hand, then Mark Lord led
her away to meet the rest of his guests. They were all famous,
mostly actors, and a couple of singers, even most of the wives or
girlfriends were famous, as well as beautiful.

Money marries money, Carrin thought wryly, or fame marries
fame. After the introductions were over, Mark Lord returned to
Jenna’s side, and Simon Grey sat beside Carrin. Evidently she had
been partnered with him for the evening. He chatted about himself,
a shallow conversation with which she soon grew bored. For all his
good looks and charm, Simon Grey did not interest her in the least.
Instead, her eyes were drawn to Mark, to whose arm Jenna
clung.
Forget it,
Carrin berated herself,
you don't have a chance, idiot.

Hovering
maids served a four-course dinner, each course more delicious than
the last. After the third course, Carrin could eat no more. She had
never seen so much food in all her life, or so much waste. Simon
Grey, seated beside her, got into a conversation with the ageing
actor on the other side of her, and they conversed across her,
apparently oblivious to her presence. Twice, she looked up to find
Mark watching her, a slight frown tugging at his brows. Most of the
time, Jenna Morden kept his attention, whispering an intimate
conversation for his ears only, forcing him to lean close to hear
her.

Carrin was
glad of that; it gave her a chance to stare at him without his
noticing, and she studied him. While the other guests picked at
each course and left most of it, Carrin polished off everything
that was put before her, until the fourth course, by which time she
was so full she could only toy with it.

Another
problem had reared its ugly head by then, namely, she could no
longer keep her eyes open. Each time she forced her eyelids apart,
they stubbornly crept down again, and once the nodding of her head
jerked her awake. Afraid that she would fall asleep and end up face
down in her dessert, she leant back. A maid took Carrin's plate
away, and she sipped her glass of wine. That only made it worse;
wine always made her sleepy. The drone of conversation faded to a
faraway hum, and her eyes closed. A touch on her shoulder jerked
her awake, and she looked up. Mark stood over her, and Jenna eyed
her sourly from the far end of the table.

Dazedly
she stood as he said, "Excuse us, but I'm afraid Miss York's tired.
She only arrived today, and there's a seven hour time difference
between here and Africa."

The
guests murmured in sympathy as he led Carrin away, gripping her
elbow. His warm, gentle touch sent shivers through her. He took her
as far as the doors, where Helen stood.

"Take Miss
York to her room, and see that she doesn't fall asleep on the way,"
he instructed.

Helen nodded,
her eyes soft as they rested on him.

Carrin muttered, "Good night," and followed the maid back
to her room, where she flung herself on the bed.
How
embarrassing.
She did not have much time for self-recrimination, for her
eyes slammed shut and sleep claimed her.

Carrin awoke
in the same position in which she had fallen asleep; sprawled
across the bed, her eyes gummy and her mouth tasting like a cow
shed floor. Climbing stiffly off the bed, she tottered to the
bathroom and showered. Helen brought breakfast, but the sight of
food turned Carrin's stomach. Her watch told her that it was eleven
o'clock.

"Where's Mr
Lord?" she asked.

"Playing
tennis with Simon Grey."

"I see."
Carrin sipped her orange juice. "When will he be back?"

"When they've
finished." Helen turned and glided out, leaving Carrin with the
unwanted breakfast tray. She ate as much as she could, then donned
her swimming costume and sarong and set off to find the cool pool.
It was at the side of the house, and far larger than the heated one
at the back. After swimming a few lengths, she emerged refreshed
and revitalised. Returning to her room, she changed into jeans and
a T-shirt and settled down on the bed to draw. Now that she had
studied Mark Lord in real life, she could sketch him with far more
accuracy. A couple of hours later, a knock at the door made her
shove her drawings under the pillow before inviting the person
in.

Mark
entered, looking devastating in a white casual suit. His dark eyes
flitted around the room. "If you're not busy, we could discuss your
screenplay now."

Carrin nodded.
"Of course."

As she dug in
her suitcase, he leant against the doorframe. "You know, you can
phone home if you want."

She glanced
up. "How do you know I haven't?"

"All calls are
logged in a computer downstairs."

"I see. Well,
I've been busy."

His brows
rose. "Writing?"

"Drawing."

"So you're an
artist too. May I see?"

Her blood
turned cold. "No, I'd rather you didn't. They're just doodles."

"Won't your
family be expecting you to call?"

"Not really."
Finding the screenplay, she straightened. "Here it is."

He pushed
himself away from the doorframe. "Good, let's go to my study."

Mark led her
down the hall, his gait lithe and gliding, which
she had not noticed in his films. In his villainous roles, he
usually swaggered. Once she had seen him cast in a romantic role,
and thought that it suited him, although it had been rather too
sexual for her taste. Entering a book-lined room, he indicated a
chair before a gleaming mahogany desk.

"Have a seat,
Miss York."

"Please call
me Carrin."

He nodded.
"Okay, and you can drop the 'Mr Lord', too."

Mark s
ettled opposite and steepled his hands. She fumbled with
the manuscript and put it on the desk before she dropped it. She
outlined the plot, gazing at his profile while he stared into
space. When she finished, he swung to face her, and she looked
away.

"I like it.
It's original. Perhaps too original."

"How can it be
too original?"

"Well,
producers like to back a sure thing; that's why there are so many
sequels. Once a formula has proven itself, they like to use it as
many times as they can, until the audiences are so thoroughly bored
with the theme that they no longer go to watch it."

Carrin fiddled
with her manuscript. "You've never made a sequel."

"I refuse to.
That's why I don't make many movies. Producers don't like an actor
who refuses to make sequels, because it's very difficult to use
another actor for the same part."

"But all
the films you've been in are good."

A faint
smile curled his lips. "I've made a few duds, which you probably
haven't seen."

"So you'd be
willing to play the lead?"

"I'll have to
read the screenplay, but I like the plot."

Carrin pushed
the manuscript towards him. "And then you'll get a studio to make
it?"

Mark
studied her, shaking his head. "I can't get a studio to
make it; I'm not a producer. I can show it to a producer and tell
him that I'd like to do it, which might persuade them to make it.
But if they don't like it, there's nothing I can do."

She nodded.
"That's good enough."

He leant
forward, his eyes intense. "You know, if all your work is this
good, you'll make it eventually. Sometimes it takes years to make a
name for yourself, but if you keep trying you'll get there. Don't
give up."

She looked
down at the manuscript, embarrassed. "I don't want to give up, but
unfortunately I have to earn a living. I can't carry on like this
indefinitely. You've given me some hope, and I'm grateful for that.
Perhaps this will be my break."

"I hope so. I
know what you're going through; I've been there. Leave the
manuscript with me, and I'll read it when I have time."

Aware that she
was being dismissed, Carrin stood up, and Mark rose to face her.
"Tea will be served on the patio at four, if you'd care to join
me."

"Thank
you."

As
Carrin walked back to her room, her stomach’s rumbles made her
wonder what had happened to lunch. Entering the suite, she received
a shock. Helen stood beside the bed, perusing the drawings Carrin
had hidden under her pillow. She marched up to the maid.

"How dare you
go through my things?"

Helen sneered,
"So, you have designs on Mark, don't you? How pathetic. Do you
really think he'd give you a second glance?"

"Just because
I like to draw him doesn't mean any more than that."

She
laughed. "Nice try, but obviously you're infatuated with him." She
tossed the drawings on the bed. "Take some advice, and forget about
him. He'll only break your heart. If Jenna Morden can't land him,
do you really think that you can?"

Carrin
bristled. "I'm not trying to land him."

"Sure you're
not." Helen sauntered to the door, where she turned for a parting
shot. "He might take you to bed for a change of pace, but after
that he'll drop you like a hot potato."

Carrin stared
at the doorway for a long time after Helen left. The worst part was
that she was probably right. Carrin picked up her sketches and
leafed through them, studying his proud narrow nose and strong jaw.
His piercing eyes had a hint of contempt in their depths. She
almost wished that she had not come, for as long as he had only
lived in her dreams, he had done exactly what she wanted. He had
been an ideal partner; a dream lover whose undying love for her
made her hard life so much easier to deal with.

Now she
had seen the distant politeness that he accorded her and the
beautiful women who vied for his attention. Would she ever be able
to revive him in her dreams, or would harsh reality intrude every
time she strived to escape into her imaginary world? She shoved the
drawings into her suitcase. A glance at the clock told her that it
was almost four o'clock, and she went down to the side patio to
meet Mark. At the doors, she stopped. Simon Grey's voice came from
the patio, raised in anger.

"Damn it,
you're just toying with her. How can you be so cruel?"