Forget Me Knot (34 page)

Abby, who until now had been keen to give the impression that she was unfazed by the prospect of a famous movie star in her midst, suddenly found it impossible to contain her curiosity. Even Soph, who could speak with great eloquence on how the deification of celebrities was
taking over from religion as the opiate of the people, had set her alarm for six A.M. in order to be at the shop for Ms. Wallace’s arrival.

Tripping over themselves with excitement and barely avoiding a collision with a particularly blubbery and irritable lighting man, who had lost a lead, the two women made their way over to the window.

“That’s her,” Martin pointed, “getting out of the black cab.”

“What, no limo?” Abby remarked, taking in the tall blonde woman in jeans and Ugg boots. From a distance, at least, she looked perfectly ordinary.

“She doesn’t go in for all that stuff. She—and I’m quoting from
Hello! here
—
famously eschews the trappings of celebrity
.”

“Not sure I’d
eschew
them,” Soph said. “I’d love some of her trappings. Not that I don’t have trappings of my own. I do. It’s just that mine are the wrong kind. I was born with the wrong kind of trappings.”

As Lucinda got nearer, Abby’s eyes focused on the star’s greasy, scraped-back hair. “My guess is she also eschews hair-washing.”

Martin shrugged. “Why bother, when there’s a hair and makeup artist waiting?” He paused. “You know, that powder-blue coat she’s wearing is so perfect for her coloring. Makes her skin look like cream satin.”

“Yeah, yeah, and her farts smell of gardenias,” Soph said, clearly deciding it was time Martin stopped stargazing and got a grip.

“I will have you know,” Martin said, full of indignation, “that the divine Ms. W does not fart!”

“Course she doesn’t,” Soph came back. “Famous movie
stars come minus a digestive tract and, like the Queen, they give birth sidesaddle.”

At this point, Dan joined them, looking flustered. Somehow a camera lens had gotten scratched and he had been outside on his mobile, frantically trying to organize the rental of a replacement. This wasn’t easy at seven-thirty in the morning, but he’d finally found a facilities house that was open and they were biking over a new lens. “Should be here in twenty minutes or so. Then we can get going.” He looked at his watch. “Where’s our star? She should have been here half an hour ago.”

The door opened.

“Dan, I am so sorry,” Lucinda gushed, with a voice that you could have poured on a waffle. “Please forgive me. Hope I haven’t held things up too much.” Despite the scraped-back hair, lack of makeup and what turned out to be rather grubby jeans, Lucinda Wallace had made a movie-star entrance. This was partly due to her beauty. On close inspection her eyes were perfect almonds, their soft gray-blue setting off her pale caramel (albeit unwashed) locks. Her plump, girlish cheeks had a rose blush that gave her face an old-fashioned prettiness and innocence. She reminded Abby of a Jane Austen heroine: a Dashwood sister in Ugg boots. There was also something about the way she held herself that contributed to her entrance. Her height— Abby was guessing five nine or ten—gave her considerable presence. She stood erect and confident, owning the space around her. Nobody was left in any doubt that the world was Lucinda’s stage and that her place was resolutely in the center.

She greeted Dan with a double kiss and then proceeded to remove some lint from his lapel. “That’s better,” she
soothed, smoothing the fabric. Abby felt a sudden surge of adrenaline and wasn’t sure why.

Dan performed the introductions.

“Abby,” Lucinda cooed, almond eyes lit up, hand outstretched, “I have heard so much about you from Dan. I just know we’re going to be great friends.”

“I’m sure we will.” Abby smiled.

Lucinda shook hands with Soph next, leaving Martin hovering in the background, still desperate to be introduced. In the end he couldn’t wait any longer. “Miss Wallace—”

“Oh, Cinders, please. It’s what all my friends call me.”

Soph let out a snort at this. Nobody seemed to hear apart from Abby, who gave her friend a discreet but firm dig in the ribs.

“May I say,” Martin went on, sounding like Uriah Heep with performance anxiety, “that you are… I mean, I am… my greatest fan and I’ve seen all your films. It’s such a pleasure for you to be here in our little shop, and if there’s anything at all I can do to make your life more comfortable … anything. Just name it.”

“Think of him as a veritable Buttons,” Soph murmured. Abby’s elbow made contact with her friend’s rib cage a second time.

“Thank you,” Lucinda said, removing her coat. She looked round for somewhere to put it. When
Buttons
—who appeared to be lost in a reverie, which may or may not have involved him single-handedly rescuing the Divine Miss W from a raging inferno—failed to take it from her, she handed the coat to Abby.

“So why
are
you late?” Dan asked her good-humoredly.

“Night job ran over. Couldn’t get away. There was so much cleaning up to do this morning and I didn’t have time
to go home, shower and change. Hence the filthy jeans and ghastly hair, I’m afraid.”

Dan turned to the others. “Cinders volunteers at a homeless shelter.”

“Oh, only a couple of nights a week,” she said, with an expression that Abby took for genuine modesty and diffidence but Soph would later describe as “bloomin’ self-righteous and smug, if you ask me.”

“You must be totally exhausted,” Martin said, snapping out of his daydream and hurriedly relieving Abby of Lucinda’s coat. “Why don’t I get you some coffee?”

“That’s very sweet of you,” Cinders purred, “but I’ll be fine. I find I don’t need stimulants. I get such a buzz from charity work. I’ll be on a high all day. Helping the underprivileged does that. It seems to boost my energy levels rather than deplete them.”

“Funny you should say that,” Martin said. “The same thing happens to me.”

Soph started laughing. “What, you get a high when you dump your old clothes outside the Oxfam shop?”

“Yes, actually, I do,” he said, indignant at her challenge.

“I feel it’s so very important to give something back,” Lucinda pronounced, turning to Abby. “Do you volunteer, Abby?”

“Er… um, not really,” Abby said, suddenly feeling guilty, not to say intimidated by this beautiful, talented, hugely successful woman who also found time to give to others less fortunate. “I’m so busy building up the business, I don’t have time.”

“Oh, I’m sure you could make time,” Cinders said. “Letting go of the need to control, that’s the secret. You have to learn to delegate. It is so freeing.”

“Really?” Abby replied, her lips forming a thin smile. Her guilt had suddenly turned to irritation. She felt the need to change the subject. “Anybody hungry?”

Soph said thanks but she had to get to work, and Dan said he’d picked up a bacon and egg sandwich on the way over.

“Actually, I missed breakfast,” Cinders said. “I could manage
un petit quelque chose
.”

Martin offered to go out and fetch whatever she wanted. Then he remembered he had this morning’s orders to deliver. Abby felt she had little choice but to volunteer. “Why don’t I go?” she said.

“Oh, darling, would you?” Cinders gushed. “That is so kind. So, what places are good round here?”

Abby explained that there was
Paul
, the excellent French patisserie, as well as a greasy spoon a couple of blocks away or an organic place a bit farther down the road.

“Sweetie, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, do you think you could get the menus from all three and then I can decide?”

“I guess,” Abby said, looking out the window and noticing the heavy clouds that had formed.

She’d made it halfway down the road when it started pouring. She cursed herself for not bothering to bring an umbrella. She got menus from Paul and Simply Organic. Not surprisingly, Stefanos at the greasy spoon hooted at her request for a menu. “You want bloodeey menu, you go to bloodeey Savoy.”

Abby arrived back at the shop, her hair soaking and plastered to her head. By now, Lucinda’s romantic lead, Ed MacIntosh, had arrived and was chatting to one of the film crew. The thirty-something actor had made his name on
the stage but as yet was unknown in the film world. With his dark chocolate eyes and magnificent jaw that gave every impression of having been carved to order, he had what Abby’s mother would have described as matinee-idol good looks.

“Gay,” the voice whispered directly into her ear. It was Martin on his way out, his arms cradling half a dozen bunches of flowers. “He’s seeing an interior-designer friend of Ichiro’s.” Suddenly Martin’s eyes were on Abby’s hair. “It’s a look, I guess, but I’m not sure it’s quite you.” Then he winked at her and was gone.

Abby introduced herself to Ed MacIntosh, who, on seeing the rain dripping down her face, reached into his pocket and handed her a freshly ironed hand-kerchief. Then he said how grateful everybody was that she had been prepared to lend them Fabulous Flowers. “Dan’s on such a tight budget. I don’t know what he would have done without you.”

“Oh, it’s my pleasure. So far I’m rather enjoying it.”

“Quick word of advice,” Ed said, lowering his voice. “Cinders has this knack of getting people to run round after her. If she tries it on you, just make up an excuse and refuse. Once she has a willing slave, she doesn’t let go.”

“Oh, I’m far too busy to start running round after her,” Abby said, shoving the menus into her jacket pocket.

Just then, Cinders appeared on the stairs leading down from the flat.

“Oh, darling, there you are. I wondered what had happened to you. Did you manage to get the menus?”

Abby caught Ed’s expression. He was rolling his eyes. “Too late. I’m telling you—you have to watch her. She’ll have you filling her bath with ass’s milk next.”

She offered him an embarrassed smile.

“Would you mind bringing the menus up to the flat?” Cinders continued. As part of her business arrangement with Dan, Abby had agreed to allow her living room to be turned into a makeshift dressing room. Clearly Cinders had wasted no time moving in.

“Sweetie, you look like a drowned rat,” Cinders said as they walked into the flat. “This is all my fault, sending you out. You’ll catch pneumonia. Now, then, we must find you a towel and dry you off. Where do you keep them?”

Abby said not to worry, but Lucinda insisted she direct her to the linen closet.

She returned a few moments later. “Sorry, darling, I could only find this.” She was holding an ancient, frayed tea towel.

Abby took it from her. She could feel water trickling down her neck toward her shoulder blades. “The towels are on the next shelf up,” she said, making her way to the linen closet.

“Sorry, didn’t think to look.”

When Abby came back into the living room, her head was wrapped in a towel turban.

“Now, then, what do you recommend?” Cinders said, perusing the menus. “I could manage a jambon and salad baguette. Or the smoked chicken sounds nice. Tell you what, why don’t we get both? And I’d like a jasmine tea. Oh, and could you get me some wheat-grass juice from the organic place? I loathe the stuff, but it’s supposed to be so cleansing. Look, I’d offer to go and fetch everything, but I must have a shower before the hair and makeup people arrive.”

Abby knew she should probably heed Ed’s warning, but
she didn’t want to make a fuss or cause any ill feeling. Since the rain had eased off, she quickly blow-dried her hair and went back out.

When she returned, Lucinda was out of the shower and was sitting on the sofa, wearing Abby’s beloved jade silk kimono. “Found this hanging in the bathroom. Hope you don’t mind.”

“No, not at all.” Actually, Abby did mind. She minded rather a lot. She adored the kimono, not so much because it had been a birthday present from Toby but because it made her feel wondrously glamorous whenever she put it on. Now Lucinda was wearing it. Not only did it make her look glamorous in a way that Abby could only dream of, but she had clearly put it on immediately after spraying herself with deodorant, and now the underarms were covered in white marks.

On seeing the two baguettes, Lucinda’s face fell. “Oh, darling, I’m not sure there’s enough here. It just occurred to me that when the hair and makeup people finally get here, they are bound to be starving. And one has to feed the troops, I always feel. I know it’s a dreadful bore, but you couldn’t possibly go back, could you, and get some more supplies?”

This time Abby stood her ground. “Actually, Cinders, I can’t. I’ve got stacks of invoices to do, not to mention umpteen calls to make. I really must make a start. I’m sure the
troops
can take care of themselves.” She went over to the kitchen and picked up her mobile and her laptop. “If you need me, I’ll be working in the bedroom.”

Lucinda didn’t appear angry at being refused, just taken aback. It occurred to Abby that it wasn’t often that people dared to say no to the Divine Miss W.

No sooner had Abby settled herself on the bed, propped up by pillows, than the phone rang. It was Soph.

“So, what do you think of our Cinders? Talk about a self-obsessed luvvie.”

“I know, but at least there’s no marcrobiotic chef or trainer in tow. And, so far, she hasn’t asked me to put rose petals down the loo.”

“Give her time. I don’t get it. She’s an actress, for Chrissake—a performer, a court jester. These actors are all the same. They acquire a bit of fame and they expect to be treated like blinkin’ gods. And the media plays along, running round after them, taking their opinions seriously. I mean, who cares what bloody actors think about the state of the world? I certainly don’t…”

AFTER AN
hour or so spent typing invoices and sending e-mails, Abby decided to make a cup of coffee. As she opened the door into the living room, she saw Dan and Cinders huddled together at one end of the sofa. The star’s arm was draped round his neck. Her head was resting on his shoulder. Abby was aware of her heart rate picking up and her stomach muscles tightening. Cinders was still in the kimono but looking even more stunning. The hair and makeup artists had clearly come and gone, leaving her with smoldering, smoky eyes and lustrous, meticulously turned curls that tumbled down her back. Abby almost expected her to announce that she was “ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille.” A script, from which they were both reading, lay open on Dan’s lap. “Oh, darling, please don’t make me say that,” Cinders pleaded. “In real life, when a man asks a woman for a date, no woman actually replies, ‘I’d like
that.’ And yet it’s a phrase practically every screenwriter uses.”