Fame and Wuthering Heights. Emily Bronte

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      ‘Pictures, honey!’ panted Linda, who was now clearly enjoying herself. ‘Pictures of the two of them togeeeeether. They ran them in some British newspaper. Oh my God. Like, what are you gonna do? I’ve already had reporters calling my house. It’s crazy!’

      ‘Why would they be calling your house?’ asked Chrissie, realizing immediately after the question had passed her lips that there could only be one reason: Linda had tipped off the media that Chrissie would be coming by later, and that they’d be going to the ball together. Publicity-hungry bitch. But Linda wasn’t important now. She had to get to a TV.

      ‘Are you still coming tonight?’ The note of panic in Linda’s voice was unmistakable. Without Chrissie, she wouldn’t be the centre of attention in front of the whole of Beverly Hills society. And she’d look like an ass to all the TV stations she’d already spoken to.

      ‘Probably,’ said Chrissie. ‘Yes. I need to talk to Dorian.’ She hung up.

      ‘Here you go, ma’am. One fresh vodka lime soda. And was there anyth—’

      ‘No,’ Chrissie barked, downing the drink in one long gulp till the soda bubbles stung the back of her eyes. Suddenly the waiter’s bland, regular features and Ken-doll body had lost all their appeal. If Dorian really had cheated on her, if it were true, she would have nothing to live for. Not because she loved him. But because he loved her. Her famous husband’s devotion was the last remaining prop holding up the withered remains of her self-esteem. Without it, she’d be nothing: another scorned Hollywood ex-wife, replaced by a younger, more beautiful model. She’d be like Linda, only poorer. No one would invite her anywhere. All their friends would stick by Dorian and the new bimbo – that was simply the way it was. The only men who’d want to sleep with her would be strugs and plastic surgeons. No! She couldn’t bear it.

      She forced herself to calm down, gathering up her things and hurrying inside. There was a TV in her room that played E! 24/7.

      It’s not true. It can’t be true, she told herself. Not Dorian.

      ‘Cut!’ Dorian shook his head, disappointed. ‘Come on, Sabrina. Heathcliff’s betrayed you. You’re angry with him, you’re furious.’

      ‘I know,’ said Sabrina, smiling playfully up at Viorel. ‘This is me being angry. What do you want me to do? Hit him?’

      ‘I want you to quit smirking and play the goddamn scene,’ snapped Dorian. ‘And you can stop encouraging her,’ he added tersely to Viorel.

      It was two weeks since his run-in with Sabrina at The Carpenter’s Arms, and since then her on-set behaviour had deteriorated sharply. She could still deliver a pitch-perfect Cathy when she chose to. The more he saw of Sabrina’s acting, the less Dorian doubted her innate ability. But she seemed more interested in flirting with Vio Hudson, or deliberately attempting to get under his skin, than in showing Dorian what she was capable of. The attention-seeking was both blatant and wearing.

      The girl needs a father, Dorian found himself thinking, over and over again. Someone to draw her a line in the sand.

      Before that idiot had come along that night outside the pub and provoked an argument, Dorian had felt as if he were finally getting closer to Sabrina. At her core she was still a frightened little girl, hungry for love and acceptance. Though she professed to loathe him, it hadn’t escaped his notice how quickly she became jealous whenever his attention was diverted elsewhere – helping Lizzie Bayer with a scene, for instance, or chatting with Tish Crewe once the cameras stopped rolling. Tish, in particular, seemed to bug Sabrina, perhaps because she was the one other female with whom Viorel Hudson spent significant time.

      To Dorian’s relief, the early signs of flirtation he’d noticed between Tish and Vio seemed to have melted away, and the two had formed a genuine friendship. After filming, Vio would often spend hours playing computer games with Tish’s little boy, Abel. Tish had learned that as long as she steered clear of contentious subjects, like Romania, which she loved and Viorel loathed, and Sabrina Leon, about whom their opinions were reversed, Viorel could be great company: warm, funny and intelligent. It pleased Dorian to watch the two of them together, bringing out the best in each other. Around Hudson, Tish was less serious, less old-before-her-time. And around Tish, now that the sexual tension was gone, Viorel seemed to grow up and step out of the shadow of his own ego. The truth was, Viorel had never had a real friend before, someone who wanted nothing from him, who enjoyed his company purely for its own sake. He loved it.

      But Sabrina hated it. She never missed an opportunity to put Tish down, making fun of her accent, which Sabrina could mimic perfectly, and rolling her eyes affectedly whenever she passed by the set.

      ‘Take four,’ Dorian shouted into the wind. ‘Places.’

      Viorel started back up the bank, to the spot where he entered the scene, but Sabrina grabbed his hand, pulling him back and talking at him animatedly, ignoring Dorian’s instruction. In a boned, lavender crinoline that showed off her spectacular breasts like two scoops of vanilla ice cream on a plate, and emphasized the tininess of her waist, she looked even more ravishingly beautiful than usual, flicking her hair back and laughing coquettishly at her dashing co-star. She’s mesmerizing, thought Dorian.

      Last night, worried by the tight, club-of-two atmosphere developing between her and Viorel on set, Dorian had asked Vio outright whether they were lovers. He had denied it vociferously.

      ‘Absolutely not. We’re friends, but I would never cross that line. Not while we’re working, anyway.’

      Something about his tone had made Dorian believe him. But watching the pair of them flirting outrageously now, he felt his doubts creeping back.

      ‘Sabrina!’ he said, irritated. She’s deliberately defying me. Knowing that she wanted him to lose his temper, Dorian struggled not to, but it was hard. He was growing mightily tired of Sabrina’s time-wasting games, and so were the rest of the crew. Chuck MacNamee had already complained to Dorian about her diva-ish antics and outright rudeness to his staff. The sun would set in an hour or so, and everyone wanted to call it a day. Scenes with Rhys and Lizzie were a dream by comparison. Dorian would have to take Sabrina aside again later, a thought that depressed him more than he cared to admit. It’s as if she gets off on conflict, on making me the bad guy.

      ‘Hello.’ Tish appeared at the top of the rise, with a large thermos flask in one hand and little Abel clasping the other. ‘We bought you all some soup. Mrs Drummond’s famous mulligatawny. You haven’t lived till you’ve tried it.’

      Abel squealed with excitement like a puppy when he saw Viorel, rushing straight across the set into his arms like an affection-seeking missile. Vio lifted him onto his shoulders and walked back down the hill towards Tish.

      ‘For me?’ He nodded towards the thermos.

      ‘For all of you,’ said Tish, her cheeks reddening.

      In plain white shorts and a striped Boden T-shirt, her make-up-free face flushed from the walk, she looked sweetly adorable, the proverbial breath of fresh air.

      Sabrina flounced over, all breasts and fury, looking neither sweet nor adorable, but breathtakingly sexy. ‘Some of us are trying to work here, you know,’ she snapped at Tish.

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