Superstar (9 page)

Carrin spent
the flight immersed in memories, burning his image into her mind
forever. His every glance and touch were precious to her now, and
she relived them in the safe sanctuary of her imagination, where
reality did not intrude. Her dreams made the long flight more
bearable, even though she had again neglected to bring a book to
read. When the woman in the neighbouring seat tried to strike up a
conversation, Carrin barely heard her prattle, and after a while
she desisted, clearly put off by Carrin’s preoccupied air.

The sweltering
African heat met her when she stepped out at Durban Airport, and
she passed through the building without seeing it. Collecting her
bag, she walked out of the sliding doors. Paul smiled and gave her
a peck on the cheek, taking her bag.

"Welcome
back."

"Thanks."

"Have a good
time?"

She nodded.
"Yes, it was fun."

"Good."

Paul slung her
suitcase into the back of the truck and climbed in, starting the
engine as she settled beside him. As they rattled along the
freeway, he told her how many calves had been born on the farm,
which were heifers, and which cows were milking well. One was lame,
and he detailed the problem. The horses were fine, the weeds were
lush, and her dog had howled every night that she had been gone.
Carrin wanted to cry.

As they bumped
up the rutted track, she spotted her mother hanging up washing,
Julia lounging in a hammock nearby. Her dog rushed to meet her, and
she fended off his muddy greeting. Paul parked the truck and strode
off in the direction of the cowshed. Her mother waved, her mouth
full of clothes’ pegs, and Julia glared. Carrin carried her case to
her cottage and unlocked the door. In the sanctuary of her bedroom,
she flung herself down on the bed and stared numbly at the ceiling.
Well, that was that. It was over, her dream destroyed, her life
back to what it had always been; drab, hard and cheerless. She
almost wished that she had not met him, and she definitely wished
that she had not found out the truth about him. Too late now, the
damage was done, and her dreams would never be the same again. She
still wanted to cry, but that was not something that she did
easily. The trip seemed like a dream now, as if she had not left at
all, but had just woken up from it a moment ago.

At dinner, she
told her family a short, unadorned version of the story of her
trip. Julia made some snide remarks, but no one asked about her
screenplay, and she was glad in a way. It was unlikely that it
would come to anything any way.

For the next
week, she threw herself into the farm work that had accumulated in
her absence. Mark Lord seemed like someone from a fairy tale that
she had briefly lived. Her time with him played over and over in
her mind like an endless reel of film. She cut weeds until blisters
formed on her hands, put plasters on them and cut some more. A
tractor was beyond her family's means, and the weeds grew at an
astonishing rate. Her days were grey and colourless, her life a
dull slog of work and sleep with little to relieve it. During the
second week, she worked on the screenplay, but her concentration
was poor. It took almost a month before she decided that it was
ready, and she posted it, placing its fate in the lap of the gods.
It would not be accepted, she was sure of it.

The summer
rains watered the burgeoning weeds, and pools bred a plague of
mosquitoes. A late calf brought the last cow into milk, and last
year's bullocks, put out to pasture to fatten for slaughter, were
ready to be rounded up. Carrin took long rides to brood in the
bush. Time passed slowly, despite the amount of farm work, or
perhaps because of it.

As autumn
approached, the son of a neighbouring farmer asked her out, and she
refused. Her collection of Mark Lord sketches increased. She had
drawn him from every conceivable angle at least three times now.
She watched his old films and tried to revive her dreams, but they
remained elusive. Paul borrowed a tractor and cut the fields, then
the hay had to be gathered. Carrin and Paul did most of it, with
the help of a few labourers. The hay rake made fresh blisters on
her callused palms, different from the ones the slasher had
caused.

The winter
winds had started when the letter arrived. It came in a plain white
envelope with her address typed on it. Carrin stared at it,
convinced that it was not from Mark. Opening it, she pulled out a
letter from a film studio, which she read with incredulous delight.
They were pleased, they wrote, to inform her that her screenplay
had been accepted, and a contract was enclosed, which she must sign
and send back. The contract was full of fine print, but she did not
bother to read it.

Heart
pounding, she turned to the final page and read the sum offered.
Her eyes scanned it several times before the enormity of the figure
registered. She gasped, and the room spun. They were offering a
million dollars. Carrin stared at it. A million dollars! When it
was converted to the local currency, she would be a
multi-millionairess. Would she accept it? Would she ever! She
hugged the contract and jumped for joy. Her hard life was over. She
could buy a house. The interest would be enough to live on
comfortably. It was a dream come true, and even if it did not
include Mark Lord, it was still unbelievably wonderful.

Clutching the
contract, she ran to the farmhouse to tell her mother. Mrs York was
disbelieving at first, but the contract convinced her. She summoned
Paul, who joined in the celebration. They opened a bottle of cheap
wine and sat around the kitchen table. Julia looked miffed, but
already cast coy smiles at Carrin.

Carrin did not
bother to read the fine print. She found a pen and signed it, then
tucked it into an envelope and wrote the address that they had
given her on it. That afternoon she posted it, her heart singing
with joy. For the next week, she could hardly stop smiling.
Everyone told her what she should spend the money on. Paul wanted a
tractor, Mrs York wanted to pay the bond, and Julia waved fashion
magazines under Carrin's nose.

When the
cheque arrived, boldly printed with the unbelievable sum of a
million dollars, the celebrations started afresh. The members of
her family took turns to hold it, to convince themselves that it
was real. Paul asserted that it must be deposited in the bank
before she lost it, and offered to take her to town. She opened an
account, and the manager gaped at the cheque. The staff plied her
with coffee and cakes, and the effusive manager presented her with
a chequebook. Paul took her straight to a farm machinery shop and
pointed out his dream tractor. Carrin bought it. She settled the
bond and drove the truck home so that Paul could bring his precious
tractor. That night, her mother cooked a feast, and Carrin fell
into bed happy and tired.

Over the next
week, she went house hunting, and found a smallholding not far from
her mother's farm. Carrin paid cash, unable to believe her luck.
She filled it with new furniture, and Julia, now her best friend,
took her shopping for new clothes, padding her own wardrobe at the
same time. Carrin moved into her new house, installing her horses
in the stables and her dog on the rug before the fireplace.

Once the
initial excitement was over, Carrin had time to reflect. Her bank
balance was more than healthy. Two labourers ran the smallholding
and tended the horses. What more could she want? Mark Lord's fine
features intruded, and she thrust them aside. No. She was content.
Why spoil it with impossible dreams? Two months had passed since
she had received the cheque, and she was happy. Was she? Of course
she was. She bought a smart new car and enjoyed driving it. She
went out for lunch at restaurants and even took a short holiday at
the coast. Alone. Perhaps she should go overseas? A trip to
Disneyland. Carrin sat in a cane chair on her veranda and
contemplated the fading calluses on her hands. Perhaps she should
write another screenplay?

A week later,
the second bombshell fell. A letter from the film studio advised
her that her film would be going into production the following
month, and she was needed on the set to make changes to the script.
It gave an address in Hollywood. Carrin almost panicked. That meant
returning to America. It meant seeing him again... Just when she
had settled into her new house, content with her new life. Content?
Well, it was as good as it was going to get. There was no escaping
the commitment that she had made when she had sold the screenplay,
however. It was in the contract; she had no choice.

With a mixture
of excited anticipation and dread, she purchased a ticket to
Hollywood. Armed with her chequebook and the many credit cards that
she had been given, she went on a mammoth shopping spree without
the benefit of Julia's advice. This time she was not going to look
like a farm girl. She bought elegant clothes, striving for the
loveliness and poise that she had acquired in the dress that Mark
had loaned her. Nothing quite matched it, but she was far more
confident. She still enjoyed wearing jeans and T-shirts, only now
they were designer jeans and expensive T-shirts.

At last she
was ready, and boarded the aeroplane first class, disguised in dark
glasses, like a celebrity. This time she fitted in with the rest of
the well-dressed passengers. The studio's sleek white limousine
collected her at the airport and took her to a five star hotel. She
dined alone in her room that night, and the following morning the
limousine waited to take her to the studio.

There
she met the producer and director, neither of whom was well known,
although the director's name sounded vaguely familiar. Warren
Banner, the producer, showed her around the set. He was a
nondescript man in his mid-forties with a shy smile and eager grey
eyes, whose thinning brown hair was cropped short. The film was not
being shot in sequence, he explained. The first shoot was from the
middle of the movie, a scene involving a great deal of stunt work
and pyrotechnics. She admired the set, which was close to what she
had imagined. In this scene, the hero, played, of course, by Mark
Lord, would be in a car chase with some of his fellow criminals. He
was a hit man hired to kill an assassin from an opposing mafia
family, whose target was the don who had raised him as a son. His
target was a woman, and he was supposed to kill her before she
could do her job. He was unable to, however, at first because she
was skilful, then because he grew to admire her, which would turn
into love.

The director,
Harold Morten, explained how he planned to shoot the scene, most of
which she agreed with. A stout man whom she estimated to be in his
early fifties, Harold affected a superior air, at times harassed,
and his pale blue eyes did not miss a thing. His greying hair and
clipped goatee lent him a sophisticated appearance that was at odds
with his jolly personality. She made a few suggestions, and he
promised to consider them. Carrin watched the first few takes of
the scene, wondering where Mark was. The cast consisted entirely of
stunt men and women; evidently he was not required. The set was a
deserted street corner where two speeding cars would collide. The
stunt men and woman would then leap out and engage in a running
battle. Several times the scene went wrong and had to be
re-shot.

While the
shooting was in progress, Warren Banner asked her to make some
changes to the screenplay, where her ideas did not fit the reality
of camera angles and lighting. While they were discussing it, a
commotion made Carrin look up with a mixture of hope and
trepidation. A beautiful woman strode onto the set, shrugging off
the few fans who always hung around outside like a horse brushes
away flies. Her large brown eyes flashed fire as she approached
Warren Banner. The charisma that radiated from her amazed Carrin;
she made everyone else seem grey and insignificant. Her long
chestnut hair framed a face whose creamy skin seemed to glow, and
her professional make up enhanced her almond-shaped eyes and
near-perfect features. Her clothes looked like they came straight
out of a fashion magazine, and brought back memories of Mark's film
star friends. Carrin recognised her as Janice Sharner, a well-known
star. Janice strode up to Warren Banner.

"Warren,
you've got to do something about those people outside, they're a
nuisance."

Warren bobbed
and smiled. "We will, Janice. I'd like you to meet Carrin York, the
writer."

Janice glanced
at Carrin. "How do you do. Warren, where's Mark?"

"Er, he's not
here. He's not in this scene. We're shooting your scene tomorrow,
hopefully."

"Hopefully!"
She glared at him. "What sort of schedule is that? If I've got to
be here, I'm not hanging around waiting."

Warren seemed
to shrink. "Well you know how it is. It all depends on how well
this scene goes."

"Oh, get it
right Warren! Where's Harold?"

"Directing."

"I know that."
She looked around, spotting Harold. "Ah, there he is."

Janice marched
off, and Warren watched her go before turning back to Carrin.
"Isn't she lovely?"

Carrin smiled.
"To look at, yes. She isn't quite what I had in mind, though."

"Well, she's
got the part." He shrugged.

"She's a
bit too feminine for a hit woman, don't you think?"

"Ah, but
once wardrobe and make up are through with her, she'll look like a
hit woman, don't worry."

Carrin nodded.
"At least she's not too tall."

Warren
chuckled. "We couldn't cast anyone tall next to Mark Lord, could
we? Harold wanted Amber Pearl, but she's over six foot tall."

Warren went
off chortling, and Carrin took her copy of the screenplay back to
the hotel to work on it. For the next week, Carrin worked with
Harold, giving advice, usually when asked. He seemed to value her
opinion, and on several occasions scenes were changed to match her
vision of the story. Sets were altered, and the timing of scenes
varied according to her ideas. Janice Sharner mostly ignored her,
even when she changed one of the actress' scenes. The instructions
came from the director, and Janice acted as if Carrin did not
exist. That did not bother Carrin; she enjoyed the experience, even
though it was confusing shooting the scenes out of sequence. Some
were only partial scenes, to be combined later.