The Country Escape (11 page)

He and Kiki might be white hot in publicity terms, but Dougie knew that his horses
wouldn’t eat if he didn’t land a decent part soon, and his debts were racking up big-time. Despite Abe’s confidence, the work offers had really dried up. Being passed over at the last minute for the big network series seemed to have sent a nervous tremor through the casting grapevine about Dougie, with the notion that he was better known for his off-screen romances than any on-screen one. Rumours
of the Nelson family ‘buying’ their beloved Kiki’s fiancé a role in an upcoming project didn’t help.

The post-Oscars publicity was the wrong sort: Dougie was seen as an opportunist and a chancer. Like all rumours with a seed of truth in them, it took root as thorns grew up in his path. After weeks of recalls and meetings, there was still nothing new on the horizon beyond the vague promise
of the joint project. All he currently had to keep the wolf from the door was an aftershave modelling contract, and a trendy French film company had optioned him early for a sexy cavalier role, which didn’t start filming until next year. He didn’t relish having to learn his part in French.

‘We needed something in the diary in to make you look good,’ Abe had explained. ‘You know how fickle
this town is. The Frenchies love you and they always secure talent early, which is great.’ He’d also been doing his research into Seth, he said.

‘I burned that bridge, and I had no intention of crossing it anyway.’

‘It’s the fucking Golden Gate, kid. It won’t burn so easy. You know how much money they’re offering? It’s big.’

Dougie groaned. ‘So they’ve approached you?’

‘I approached them.’ When Dougie howled in outrage, Abe bulldozed on, ‘I figure we can use this to our advantage, kid. You could do this thing while we’re waiting for Kiki’s project to come together. I think there’s a book in it, maybe a documentary, and a stack of publicity. It’ll take the heat off you and Kiki, too. You don’t want to lose her, Dougie.’

Dougie’s eyes narrowed. ‘I told
you I’m not interested in what Seth has to offer, so whatever you’ve said to them, forget it.’

‘They won’t discuss it with me.’ Abe sounded affronted. ‘I told them, “I’m the kid’s agent, it’s my
job
to know everything,” but they say it’s a restricted negotiation.’

Dougie remembered the electronic document he’d signed at the ice hotel guaranteeing confidentiality. He’d certainly said
nothing to Abe about the ‘marry her’ challenge. It all seemed too fantastical. His usual day job was much more down to earth. ‘Get me a role where I’m galloping around in full armour killing peasants,’ he told his agent, ‘and preferably
not
speaking French.’

‘Okay. I’ll see what I can do. If we get a better offer from one of the big players, we’ll lose the cavalier.’

Dougie, who
was being very cavalier right now, longed to do just that. He remained with Kiki largely on his agent’s advice, like a fading star struggling on in a bad soap opera that refuses to write him out. Such duplicity wasn’t his style – he would normally bring the pain to a swift end, either by walking out or, more likely, by behaving so badly that she would make a dramatic slammed-door exit. Their relationship
seemed constantly to be one hurled insult away from the end, and although the sex was still strangely, edgily sensational, it chipped away at his sense of fair play. But nobody played very fair in LA, as Dougie was learning. In his darker moments, he’d started wondering again if acting was really for him.

The confidence-knock of not finding work was not helped by Kiki starting filming the
studio scenes of a very racy thriller in which she was starring opposite a hotly tipped Glaswegian actor whose cachet was rising as fast as Dougie’s was falling. The edgy, craggy, working-class young Scot, beloved of critics and art-house directors, was the polar opposite of charming, blue-eyed, silver-spoon Dougie. He and Kiki bonded from the start, both devoted to their art, talking about their
characters for hours.

‘It’s okay, I’m not attracted to Finlay physically,’ Kiki assured Dougie, who secretly wished she was, giving him an excuse to walk.

Dougie knew his relationship was a time bomb and its detonation would kill his career if he didn’t do something to defuse it, but his default was to seek distraction rather than a solution. In the old days, he’d have got drunk
and got laid. His friends in Hollywood were expat Brits who loved to party, but Kiki disapproved of them, thinking they led him astray and lowered his ambitions, so they’d been pushed out of his life months ago. Now that his agent had Dougie under strict instructions to behave himself and keep his nose clean, rather than call up his drinking cronies, he called his old stunt contacts instead. Soon
he was back on a horse every day, training youngsters for a friend who ran one of the biggest teams in Hollywood. Having languished in idle luxury since Dougie had tried unsuccessfully to give him back, Zephyr moved to the stunt team’s yard too, and Dougie marvelled at his talent. He was among the most exciting horses he’d ever sat on, a big brave show-off of explosive power who lived to learn.

Riding was Dougie’s solace. He relished his hours in the saddle in the dusty cool of the indoor arena or out in the sun. He had no desire to act Hamlet on Broadway, he reminded himself, as he sharpened his old skills. He just wanted to be a great performer, and if that meant jumping through hoops, he’d far rather do it on a horse. Unsuccessful auditions were demoralizing, but he had only
to put his foot in a stirrup to lift his heart. And it was great to have a few dollars in his pocket from work riding, however tiny a drop they were in his sea of debt.

Kiki was not impressed. Despite grudgingly admitting that a tanned, sober and driven Dougie was better than having him loaf around the condo waiting for the phone to ring, she insisted that he’d never get another movie role
if he stopped auditioning. He must also take those acting classes, she urged. She talked about co-star Finlay’s amazing talent, which took her breath away. ‘
He
’s Stanislavski-trained, baby.’

‘I’m Klosters ski-trained,’ Dougie said idly. ‘Do you want to fuck him?’

‘Of course not!’ Her blue eyes were huge and hurt. ‘What makes you say that?’

He knew he was getting nastier, but
her constant digs about his acting stripped him of his
joie de vivre
.

After a depressing second reading for a sci-fi thriller in which he would say three lines before being disembowelled by something that looked like a sink plunger, Dougie finally received a call from Dollar asking if he would like to reconsider the job in England in the light of his agent’s interest, which ‘incidentally
breaks a legally binding confidentiality contract forbidding you to discuss our meeting with anybody’.

Stalking towards his cab, he snarled, ‘I will not be bullied. I will not be blackmailed. I will not be bribed. I will not be b –’ he struggled to think of a fourth B word ‘– bloody bollocking badgered, okay?’ He clambered in.

‘Is that one of the new restaurants off Wilshire, buddy?’
asked his driver.

‘Spoken like a true huntsman,’ Dollar purred in his ear, but there was a slight edge to her monotone now. ‘I apologize if you feel my methods are too forthright. Seth has also suggested that perhaps I was a little over-zealous, but this is my pet project and I believe that you are uniquely positioned to take it on. You will not regret it. The offer remains open.’

Dougie watched the city slide by as he headed out towards Burbank, a haze of stark lines, glittering windows and grey asphalt veins, a few dusty trees lining the sidewalks, like pallbearers to the polluted skies. The irony was, he would love nothing more than to escape to the British countryside right now.

When Dougie’s father called him to bark questions about work, wealth and health –
a monthly check-up he always peppered with enticing hunting reports – Dougie was scorched with homesickness. Vaughan wanted a favour: a successful expatriate sitcom star with whom he’d been at Oxford wanted a medieval-themed dragon-slaying display for his teenage daughter’s birthday. Having known Dougie since he was a boy, he’d asked for him to perform personally. ‘Knows you’re an amazing talent in
the saddle.’

Abe advised against it: ‘We don’t want you to be seen as a pantomime artist, kid.’

But Dougie, who had never been a snob about what work he took – when he’d run the stunt team in England he’d been as happy to perform at the county shows as the high-budget advertising shoots – was looking forward to riding into battle in full armour again, albeit on a perfectly striped
Bel Air lawn. He would take Zephyr, he decided, eschewing his friend’s offer of more experienced stunt horses, although he accepted the help of two of the team’s Mexican stunt riders to take some of the youngsters he’d been training that would benefit from the day out. His decision to ignore Abe’s advice predictably caused another flaming row with Kiki, who was setting aside the entire day to beautify
herself for a big industry celebration that same evening: ‘You promised you’d come to the Du Ponts’ party with me!’

‘I’ll be through in plenty of time for that.’

‘It’s beneath you doing trick-riding gigs like this!’

‘Why? It’s fun, and it’s just a teenager’s birthday party, for God’s sake. I’m hardly going to bump into Spielberg.’

‘How do you think it makes me look?
My fiancé’s a children’s party entertainer now!’

The row raged on, finally ending up in bed where he did things no children’s party entertainer should know and which thrilled Kiki but left him exhausted the following day, as he loaded horses into the float to drive to Beverly Hills.

Even tired and bloody-minded, the fast-riding knight in shining armour was a knock-out. Dougie might
have no ambition to perform the Bard onstage, but in an open field he had just as much charisma as any Shakespearean hero. With Zephyr as his charger, near-mythical in his beauty, he delighted the crowd with his jousting skills, knocking one of his Mexican assistants unceremoniously out of the saddle many times before slaying the other who was Roman-riding the two Iberian horses in a vast tent-like
dragon’s costume. Their host gave him a hefty tip so that Dougie could afford to bung his co-riders fat bonuses afterwards, apologizing for the bruises. In return, when they got back to the barn, the Mexicans offered to wash and bed down the horses then clean the tack so that he could rush off for his date with Kiki.

‘She breathe fire if you late, huh?’ laughed one.

‘Always handy
for lighting a cigar.’ He gave them a James Bond quip, knowing they’d love it and fall about.

Before leaving, he gave Zephyr a pat and blew softly on his muzzle. ‘I take it back about gift horses.’ He kissed the animal’s nose. ‘You are God-given, mate.’

Kiki was waiting at the condo, already dressed and styled, tissues flapping from her neckline like an exotic insect’s wings.
‘You’re late! The car will be here in five minutes! Go change!’

‘You look beautiful, darling.’ Grinning, still high from the day, Dougie sauntered to the shower, knowing this was a challenge for which he was more than a match.

By the time the car rolled up outside, he was in full tux, coolly tugging his white cuffs in line with the black ones. Floppy-haired, clean-shaven and only
mildly damp beneath the starched dress shirt, he was scented with Safari rather than the awful aftershave he was supposed to be promoting, although he would hint that that was what it was if anybody asked. He looked every inch the immaculate, if rather naughty, English gent. ‘Ready, darling?’

Kiki’s pale eyes darkened as she looked him over, blinking in surprise, partly that he had performed
the transformation too fast for her to criticize, and partly because he looked so good. ‘You’ll do. Let’s go.’

They were attending the fortieth wedding anniversary of her current movie’s elderly executive producer, Harry Du Pont, an Oscar-winning Hollywood giant who had one of the longest-serving industry marriages. All who knew him were well aware that his sexual taste was under eighteen,
dark-skinned and male, but tonight was all about red, sparkling glamour.

‘Oh, look, Finlay’s already here!’ Kiki said, with carefully modulated surprise as soon as they’d made it pass the press pack.

‘Let’s go and say hi.’ Dougie took her arm, surprised to find her dragging her feet.

The Glaswegian actor was a dark, kilted shadow at the main bar, radiating closed set desires.
He clearly hadn’t brought a date, and his eyes tracked Kiki from the moment she walked in. She couldn’t look at him at all.

He’s in love with her, Dougie realized hollowly. That’s more than I am.

As the party wore on, Kiki and her co-star moved in different groups but Finlay watched her like a hawk. Dougie supposed he could charitably assume it was a method-actor research thing,
given the script demanded that his character was obsessed with hers, as well as demanding they spent most of the movie naked, gasping, beautifully backlit and connected at the groin with modesty pouches artfully hidden. Dougie’s skin had always been a lot thicker than his head, and he guessed that ignoring the dagger looks Finlay was now shooting at him was the most gentlemanly strategy. As he escorted
Kiki around Hollywood royalty, his smile and charm stayed on show in a repeating loop while his mind wandered. He was in play as bodyguard fiancé tonight: Kiki needed a show of strength to back Finlay off. That made him tetchier than ever.

‘Hey, you’re Kiki’s English lord.’ A delighted crew member bounded up. ‘We’re all dying to meet you! I’m Erin. Do you
really
have a title?’

Kiki
had boasted about something he always underplayed. ‘I was born an Honourable, but given my father will almost certainly cut me out of his will, that probably makes me a dishonourable.’ He trotted out the stock line with a modest smile and held out his hand. ‘Dougie Everett.’

‘OHMYGOD, you sound like Hugh Grant. Is that put on?’

‘Trust me, he sounds like that twenty-four/seven.’ Kiki
smirked, her pet bounder performing as she wanted. ‘Excuse me, I must just ask Beano about tomorrow’s call times.’