Fame and Wuthering Heights. Emily Bronte

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      Sabrina, who was still fruitlessly trying to bring her BlackBerry Pearl to life, was about to say ‘no’. They were very different actors. Viorel seemed to want constant reassurance and ad hoc rehearsals, whereas she preferred the adrenaline rush of jumping blind into the first take. But, in the interests of their newfound friendship, she relented.

      ‘OK,’ she said, wincing as her hair was pinned tightly into her bonnet. ‘Hit me.’

      As they ran through the scene, Vio felt the tension he’d been carrying around since the read-through drain out of him like pus from a lanced boil. Sabrina had shown promise at the read-through, but she’d been flustered, no doubt by Dorian’s bullying, and the dynamic between the two of them had never fully gelled. This was Wuthering Heights. The love–hate relationship between Cathy and Heathcliff was not just the most important part of the movie. It was the movie. Viorel knew that Sabrina’s performance could make or break his own, and that her reputation for making scenes difficult for her opposing actors was horrific. So it was wonderful, miraculous to hear how far she’d come since that day in LA, how much she had to give him. Her voice, her attitude, that precarious combination of arrogance and naiveté – it was Brontë’s Cathy to a tee. Vio responded in kind, finding a depth to his Heathcliff that he knew he hadn’t reached before, that he knew he couldn’t reach without Sabrina to help him.

      Sabrina was happy too, aware of the chemistry between them. So much rested on this job, she’d found it hard to think of it as anything other than that: a job, an ordeal that had to be gone through in order for her to win her life back. Now, for the first time in a long time, she remembered what it was she loved about acting. The escape. The release. The passion.

      The door to the trailer flew open. Dorian Rasmirez loomed in the doorway with a face like fury, waving the morning copy of The Sun like a weapon.

      ‘What the fuck do you think you are playing at?’ he roared at Sabrina, so loudly she felt as if her hair were being blown back, the way it did when baddies yelled in a cartoon. Her pulse raced unpleasantly as the fear welled up within her, but outwardly she managed to keep her cool.

      ‘I take it that’s a rhetorical question?’

      ‘You fucking idiot,’ said Dorian, opening the paper to page four and shaking it in front of Sabrina’s nose. When she read the headline, her stomach lurched.

      ‘RACE ROW ACTRESS TELLS BRITAIN’S BLACKS TO F*** OFF.’

      Beneath the bold, black lettering they’d run a picture of her at Heathrow yesterday looking glamorous and starry, walking beside a mountain of Louis Vuitton luggage. Her face was set in a hard, uncompromising attitude that Sabrina remembered as fear, but that in print looked horribly like arrogance.

      ‘Read it,’ commanded Dorian. ‘Read it out loud.’

      Sabrina took a deep breath. ‘Controversial Hollywood actress Sabrina Leon, the woman at the centre of a bitter Hollywood dispute after branding African American director Tarik Tyler a “slave driver”, yesterday astonished Britons by making a second ugly slur, this time against our own black community. When asked by our reporter if she had any message for black people in Britain who may have been offended by her original remarks, Miss Leon, who is in this country to film a remake of the British classic Wuthering Heights, replied that they could “f*** off”.’

      ‘That’s not true,’ said Sabrina, lowering the paper. ‘I never said that.’ There was a silence you could have cut with a knife. Then she added, ‘I mean, I did tell the guy to fuck off. The reporter.’

      ‘Jesus.’ Dorian shook his head in disbelief. ‘Why? Why did you say anything?’

      ‘Because he was crowding me!’ said Sabrina. ‘The whole pack of them. It was intimidating.’ She looked to Viorel for support. ‘You know what it’s like, right? It’s frightening.’

      Vio nodded, but Dorian was having none of it.

      ‘Read the copy, Sabrina. They’ve got quotes from a whole bunch of witnesses, all of whom apparently heard you insult the entire black population of this country.’

      ‘Well, the witnesses are lying!’ Sabrina shot back. ‘I was talking about him, the reporter. I told him to fuck off, not anybody else. Why would I? You think I want to reopen this can of worms? You know, if you hadn’t been so damn high-handed and sent them away, you could have asked my bodyguards. They were there. They’ll tell you.’

      ‘Oh, great,’ snarled Dorian. ‘And are they gonna tell the ten million people who read this over breakfast this morning?’ He snatched the paper back from her. ‘All you had to do was keep your mouth shut.’ Turning on his heel, he stormed back out, slamming the trailer door behind him so loudly that everyone jumped.

      For a moment, Sabrina just stood there, stock-still. Vio saw the tears in her eyes, saw the struggle as she fought to contain them. Then, after a few seconds, she sat back down in the make-up chair, her face as blank and unreadable as an empty screen.

      ‘You OK?’ he asked her.

      ‘I’m fine,’ she said briskly. Turning to Maureen, she asked: ‘How much longer?’

      ‘Not long, lovie. Five minutes, tops.’

      Chuck MacNamee knocked on the door. ‘Ready on set when you are, Mo.’

      ‘Come on,’ said Sabrina to Viorel. ‘Let’s finish reading through the scene. Your line, I think. From “Does it really matter, Catherine?”’

      You’re a good little actress, thought Vio. But he could see how scared Sabrina was. He hoped Dorian would ease up a bit once they started filming.

      Dorian didn’t.

      The morning shoot was long and gruelling. It was a hot day, a good ten degrees warmer than it had been the day before, and by eleven Sabrina was roasting in her heavy meringue of a dress. But Rasmirez didn’t seem to care, keeping her standing for hours under the glare of the lights, refusing her a chance to sit down or grab a glass of water, and rolling his eyes when Sabrina insisted on a break after three straight hours on set.

      ‘Either I go to the bathroom, or I pee right here on the ground,’ she said defiantly.

      ‘Go,’ Dorian growled. ‘You have two minutes.’

      ‘Come on,’ said Viorel, once she was out of earshot. ‘Give her a break. My horse is getting better treatment.’

      Dorian glanced across at Heathcliff’s skewbald pony, contentedly gorging itself on a bucket of oats behind camera two. ‘Yeah, well. Your horse hasn’t single-handedly alienated the entire British press.’

      ‘It’s her first day,’ said Vio.

      ‘And she’s already fucked up.’

      ‘It was a mistake.’

      ‘Yes it was. A big one. Look,’ said Dorian, sensing Vio’s disapproval, ‘she has to learn. Actions have consequences. Of course the press were hounding her. What did she expect? Of course they were pushing her, trying to get her to lose her temper. That’s what they do. But that’s all the more reason to keep a lid on it. If people are trying to trip her up, if they want to think the worst of СКАЧАТЬ