Darling Sweetheart (6 page)

‘Where?’

‘In the hills above Saint-Christophe.’

‘That so? Get ready for my close-up; I wanna make a call. Levine!’ He stepped off his earthen mound and waved at the crane truck, where his bodyguard waited in the shade. ‘Get me Frost on your cell!’ He strode out of earshot towards the heaving warriors, mobile phone clutched to his ear, sheathed sword bouncing off his leg. No one had told the army to stop fighting.
Annalise walked quickly across the castle keep to her trailer. She still felt queasy from the wine and cigarettes – and from the entire bottle of mouthwash she had gargled on waking. Walking into work, she had cursed her sore head and lack of professionalism. Then, in make-up, Tress had informed her that the re-staging of the aborted shot would end in an embrace and a kiss, and she had almost thrown a sickie. For five awful minutes, she had weighed up whether, at the cost of a small fortune, to hold up shooting for another day or to risk Emerson tasting wine and tobacco from her mouth. What if he stuck the tongue in, as leading men were wont to do? However, she had summoned her nerve – and then a runner, to hightail it down to the village in search of extra-strong mints.

Now, with the scene over, she was mightily relieved. Emerson’s kissing was rather like his hugging – apparently intimate but by sensation light and even withdrawn. And he hadn’t remarked on her breath. Tress, thank Christ, had been happy with one take.

But when she opened her trailer door, she nearly gagged. The pent-up perfume of the white roses hit her like a scented wall – she’d forgotten all about them. She recoiled, slammed the door and looked around to see whether anyone was watching. The keep was empty. She went into the wardrobe marquee and found Olivia.

‘Hey. I need to borrow some gloves, really thick ones. And a scarf. And would you have any bin bags?’

The assistant fetched a pair of gauntlets from a suit of armour.

‘Are these thick enough for you?’

‘Perfect!’ She held her hands out and Olivia pushed them on. They were big and awkward, but when she flexed her fingers, they worked.

‘And here’s a silk scarf you can borrow…’

‘Be a darling and tie it around my face, would you?’ She knelt
with her back to Olivia, who complied.

‘You’re playing a joke on someone, is that it?’

‘No, I need to tidy my trailer.’ She stood again. With Roselaine’s dress, the gauntlets and a scarf concealing the bottom half of her face, she looked unusual to say the least. ‘Bin bag?’

She returned to her trailer, took a deep breath, then stormed around inside, stuffing the white roses into the plastic bin liner. Petals rained around her, but she bagged all the flowers before bursting outside again. She sat heavily on her trailer steps, gulping air through the scarf and remembering.

‘For my rose – for my little baby rose.’

She opened her eyes. Darling Sweetheart sat on the edge of her bed, wearing his white suit with a yellow shirt called lemon and a purple neck-thing, a cravat. He took off his glasses and his brown eyes looked bigger and sadder. His black hair was brushed back and he smelled of his spicy aftershave, Jovan Musk. It was orange and he kept lots in Mummy’s bathroom. He smiled at her. There was a white rose in a thin vase on her bedside table. She screamed.

‘You’re home!’ She leapt from under her covers and threw herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck.

‘Woah!’ He pretended to fall backwards and put on his princess voice, ‘A monster! Help! I’m being eaten by a monster!’

‘Rarrrr!’ she roared and sat on his chest. He reached up and tickled under her arms and she laughed so much she couldn’t breathe. She wriggled away but he hunched his shoulders, made claws of his hands and did a big baddy voice.

‘I’m going to eat you, little girl! I’m going to gobble you up!’

She screamed and pulled the covers over her head but nothing happened. So she pulled the covers away again and shouted, ‘Boo!’ but Darling Sweetheart was gone. She looked around, afraid. Perhaps she had been dreaming, but the rose was still in
its vase. Wondering where he was, she got out of bed and sniffed it; it was very sweet.

‘Raaaaahhh!’ A hairy hand shot from under the bed and grabbed her ankle. She shrieked and dropped the vase. It bounced on the carpet and the rose fell out. ‘Gotcha! I gotcha!’ She howled and kicked but he pulled her beneath the bed, where she snuggled up, giggling. He lay on his side, looking at her. He kissed her nose.

‘It’s good to see you, Schnopple-kopf. Sorry I’ve been gone for so long.’

‘It’s okay, Darling Sweetheart,’ she patted his cheek, ‘I’m not cross. You’re a good boy, because you came back to me again.’

‘What the
hell
are you doin’?’

Annalise jolted back to the present. Holly Spader stood before her, arms folded. Guiltily, she stuffed the bin bag full of roses underneath the trailer steps then tried to remove the scarf from her face, but that proved impossible with the gauntlets on so she jammed one hand between her legs and tugged. The metal glove fell off with a clunk and she de-masked herself with her freed hand. Spader stared, her eyes illegible behind mirrored sunglasses.

‘Holly… what’s up?’

‘What’s up is I come to hear about your red-hot date, but instead I find Darth fuckin’ Vader.’

‘Sorry. I was daydreaming.’

‘Yeah. So?’ ‘So.?’

‘So spill your guts, honey!’

‘Oh, there’s not much to tell. I went up to his place, had a spot of dinner and was home again before midnight.’

‘Okay. We’ll try that again, but this time with a little more detail.’

‘Umm… he’s got a very nice house and an awful lot of people working for him.’

Spader yanked off her sunglasses, joined her hands and raised her eyes as if in prayer. ‘Staff,’ she breathed, ‘he has
staff.
How I would
love
a man with staff! Did you get him on his own?’

‘For some of the time, yes.’

‘So?’

‘So…?’

‘So did he try anything?’

‘No! Why would he do that?’

Spader chewed her sunglasses. Her teeth, Annalise noticed, were identical to Emerson’s. Perhaps they attended the same Beverly Hills dentist.

‘You know, I’ve heard that about him…’

‘What?’

‘That he’s a bit light in his sneakers.’

‘He wasn’t wearing sneakers.’

Spader moaned, ‘Jesus help me… it means he may not love the lay-dees, comprende?’

‘Oh. I’m sure whatever he does in private is entirely his own business.’

‘Yeah. His and the rest of the world’s, honey.’

‘Well, I didn’t see any beautiful young boys running around with their shirts unbuttoned, if that’s what you’re asking.’

‘The rumours could be bullshit. Anyway, we’ll know he likes you if he asks you out again within forty-eight hours. I sure hope he doesn’t. I have scenes comin’ up with him in a few weeks, and I am gonna make that man want a piece of Holly so bad!’ She gyrated her hips and pretended to lap-dance Annalise, who could not help laughing. Just then, a male runner jogged into the keep to call Annalise for her close-ups. His expression made the two girls laugh all the more.

The little roadster roared along the country road, sun gleaming off its chrome trim and burgundy nose. Annalise let her hair blow in the wind. Tress drove, sitting beside her on the narrow
bench. They were closer together than in a normal car and the sensation of speed was more visceral. She smelled oil, leather and the simmering fragrance of the countryside all around. Tress had insisted on giving her a lift to the evening location and she was glad she had accepted, not least because the vigorous, alfresco nature of the ride precluded conversation.

They approached a hilltop village that seemed, like everywhere else in the Dordogne, transposed from fantasy. Tress pulled in beside a café. He killed the engine and the heat enveloped them immediately. Across the street, kittens played in the shadow of a war monument.

They had the terrace to themselves, along with a view over the ochre fields and dark green trees of the valley, crushed into uncertainty by the weight of the afternoon sun. Purple-flowered clematis, a trained vine and a pitcher of sour, home-made lemonade conspired to keep them cool. Tress lit an unfiltered Gitane.

‘Thank you for last night.’

‘Hmm?’ For the first time in weeks, her mind had been blissfully bereft of thought.

‘Last night – I am very grateful.’

‘Oh,’ she shook her head, ‘forget it. I would hate to lose Sergio as much as you; he’s a great artist.’

‘Art.’ Tress licked his lips. She noticed how thick they were, like chunks of liver. ‘Not much room for art in this film.’ She didn’t respond. Almost luminous in the shade, his pale-blue eyes scanned her. ‘Do you think Emerson was serious about sacking Sergio, or was he just trying to impress you with that phone call?’

‘I don’t know,’ she shrugged, not wanting to discuss the subject.

‘Try to guess.’

‘Why would Emerson feel the need to impress
me
?’

‘By humiliating me, he shows you who is top dog.’

‘You should just forget about it.’

He gave an odd smile. ‘Ah. But I cannot forget about it.’

‘Peter, last night was so bonkers, by the time Emerson rang you, anything seemed possible.’

‘What is bonkers?’

‘Oh. It means weird, messed up.’

‘You think Emerson is weird?’

‘He’s very… intense. But I don’t think he’s stupid; far from it.’

‘I let you into a little secret. Mr Emerson and me, I do not think we like each other very much. I think he is a very big movie star who wants to save a sagging career.’

‘Flagging. The word is flagging.’

‘Yes. This makes him dangerous.’

‘I’m not sure I follow…’ she lied.

‘He must always get what he wants, but what he wants will not always be good for this film.’

‘Yesterday, you said we should try to keep the gods happy.’

‘I think Emerson is a fickle god.’

‘Then why did you accept this job?’

‘Why did
you
accept this job?’

‘Because it was the biggest part I’d ever been offered… and I liked the script.’

‘But why do you think Emerson hired you? I mean you in particular?’

Mentally, she pictured Emerson saying he was a big fan of her father’s.

‘Because… he’d seen my work and liked it?’

‘Perhaps that is one reason, yes.’ Tress pulled on his cigarette. ‘At first, I thought that also; that he had seen my work and liked it. But after yesterday, I am thinking. Why is he the only big star amongst us? Most of the cast and crew are European – respected, but unknown. Why would that be, on such a big Hollywood production?’

‘Because he wants a certain feel to the film?’

‘Perhaps. But he can also be the boss – he has no competition.’

‘So he can do things like demand changes in the middle of shooting scenes?’

‘Now you understand! There is no one to control him!’

‘It’s his film.’

‘I disagree. It is
our
film. This is not a good way to work.’

‘Peter, back-room politics are not my thing.’

‘I’m not politicking.’

‘Then what are you doing?’

‘I’m saying that together we must control Harry Emerson.’

‘That
is
politicking.’

‘Sorry, I do not always find the good word. We must steer him, like my car.’

‘You’re the director.’

‘Ah, but he likes you!’

She sighed. ‘You’re not the only person who seems to think that.’

‘Because it is true, I can tell.’

‘Peter…’ she felt extremely uneasy, ‘I’m here to work. The thing I care most about right now is getting Roselaine right.’

‘The camera is very happy with you.’

She shook her head. ‘I’m not happy with me.’

He smiled. ‘As Laurence Olivier said to Dustin Hoffman on the set of
Marathon Man
, “My dear boy, why don’t you just act?”’

‘Peter, I mean it. I’m not there with my part yet.’

He took her hand. His fingers were surprisingly rough, as if he were a builder or a gardener. ‘Then we must help one other, you and I. You will help me with Emerson, and I will help you with Roselaine, yes?’

She nodded, unconvinced, but his tone softened.

‘You know, the camera loves you very much.’ His pale eyes penetrated hers and she wanted to pull her hand away but didn’t. ‘I hope this will be the first of many films we make together.’

‘That’s, uh, nice of you to say so…’

‘In Sweden, I have a farm in the forest. It is very beautiful there. Some day, you will see it.’

Annalise remembered reading that, in Sweden, Tress also had a wife and two kids.

Roselaine de Trenceval stared into the campfire. She hugged her legs, chin perched on her knees, her sorrow underlit by flames. Bernard de Vaux stretched on the ground beside her.

‘I cannot do this,’ she announced. ‘I cannot fall in love with you.’

‘Why not? I’m already in love with you.’

‘It is not the way I have chosen.’

‘It’s not the way I have chosen either. I came here to rape and pillage, remember?’ She glared at him. ‘I’m sorry, but you know what I mean.’

‘No I don’t know what you mean. Killing my people, burning them like pigs – that is not a joke.’

‘No, I suppose it’s not.’

‘So why are you here? Why do your crusaders come from the north to attack a peace-loving people? What have we ever done to you?’

‘You have riches, you have land and the pope in Rome has denounced you as heretics. For your average French nobleman, that’s two reasons more than he needs.’

‘You murder and steal in the name of God!’

‘That’s pretty much the way the world works, yes.’

She returned her gaze to the fire. ‘We should not be together.’

‘Yet here we are… together.’ He reached out to touch her, but she shrugged him off, so he picked up a stick and poked it at the flames.

‘To leave this life,’ she murmured, ‘I must remain pure.’

‘If you want to leave this life,’ he pointed his smouldering
stick at the trees, ‘you go back to that army waiting outside your father’s castle and tell them who you really are. They’ll show you how much they value your precious purity before they burn you in front of his walls. They would want him to hear your screams.’