Fame and Wuthering Heights. Emily Bronte

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      ‘OK. Take a break guys,’ said Dorian. ‘Five minutes.’

      Sabrina stormed off in a huff, followed by Viorel, with a thoroughly overexcited Abel bouncing up and down on his shoulders. Dorian and Tish were left alone.

      ‘Any trouble today?’ he asked her. ‘At the gates?’

      Since the piece in The Sun, Loxley’s location was no longer a secret, much to Dorian’s dismay. Protesters had started congregating outside the gates, waving placards demanding for Sabrina to be sent home and jeering at any traffic that went in or out. They were a pretty tame bunch all in all. Other than one incident with an egg thrown at Dorian’s car, there’d been no violence, and Sabrina herself had wisely not ventured out of the grounds. Though she resented Dorian’s stipulation that she not leave Loxley unaccompanied, especially as Viorel and the others were out every night at The Carpenter’s Arms, lapping up the attention of the adoring locals, even she could see that in the current climate it was probably in her best interests to lie low.

      Tish shook her head. ‘All quiet. I took some soup out there too, but they must all be at home, polishing their pickets.’

      Sitting down on the bank, Dorian took a sip of the proffered soup. It was delicious, warm but not too spicy, the onion, curry and ginger melding miraculously in his mouth the way that only fresh, home-made ingredients ever seemed to. He thought disloyally how much better it was than his wife’s efforts, then found himself missing Chrissie with an unexpected pang.

      ‘Penny for them?’ said Tish. ‘You look like you’re miles away.’

      ‘Oh, not really,’ lied Dorian, forcing a smile. He didn’t know why, but he didn’t want to talk about home. ‘I’m a little stressed, I guess.’

      ‘Sabrina?’

      Tish looked over to where Sabrina was standing. Viorel was playing with Abel, holding him by the feet and twirling him around while he squealed with laughter. You could see Sabrina’s pout from here.

      ‘Partly,’ admitted Dorian. ‘She’s been difficult today. But she’s not my only problem. It bothers me that people know where we are now. The location’s already been compromised. How long before other information gets out?’

      Tish knew a little of Dorian’s strategy, to keep the details of Wuthering Heights a secret in order to tempt investors once filming was complete. She wasn’t sure she fully understood the logic, but presumably Dorian knew his own business and he seemed to feel that secrecy was vital. So much so that last week he’d arbitrarily got rid of all the TVs in the cast and crew’s quarters and banned newspapers from the set, figuring that the more cut off they were from the outside world, the less chance of damaging leaks. Unfortunately, he didn’t have the same powers of censorship when it came to Sabrina’s bad press.

      ‘The actual work is good. What we’ve shot so far,’ he told Tish. ‘I was looking at the rushes last night.’

      ‘There you go, then,’ said Tish encouragingly, wondering whether she should step in and tell Viorel to go easy on the twirling. Abel was still giggling but he’d turned a worrying shade of green. ‘That’s all that matters, isn’t it?’

      ‘I wish,’ said Dorian. ‘Sometimes I feel like King Cnut, trying to hold back the tide. Only Sabrina’s not so much a tide as a tsunami. I’ve never known an actress who can generate so much bad publicity out of thin air. Hopefully, things will get better once we get to Romania. If she plays me up there, I can lock her in the dungeon.’ He grinned.

      In his jeans pocket, his cellphone rang.

      ‘That’s weird. I thought I turned it off.’ Pulling out the offending object, his heart gave a little jump. The screen flashed: Chrissie LA Cell.

      Despite all the rows, Dorian had missed Chrissie this past month, and regretted the distance that had grown up between them. He knew that her current trip to LA had been intended at least in part to punish him for leaving her, playing on all his insecurities about her fidelity, not to mention her spending. So the fact that she was calling him, unsolicited, was an unexpected surprise. A thaw in the permafrost at last.

      ‘Honey! What’s goin’ on?’

      Tish watched the way Dorian’s eyes lit up when he took the call. Then she watched the light die, replaced by abject panic.

      ‘What pictures?’ He spluttered. ‘I have no idea … Sabrina?’ His eyes widened. ‘That’s ridiculous! Trust me, honey, that is so far from the truth it’s hilarious … No, I didn’t mean it like that … no, Chrissie, I don’t think it’s funny. I am not bullshitting you! We’re totally isolated here, I haven’t seen anything.’

      He held the phone away from his ear. Though no one could make out the words, Chrissie Rasmirez’s hysteria could be heard at forty paces.

      Deborah Raynham whispered to the head cameraman, ‘Sounds like trouble in paradise.’

      ‘Poor Dorian,’ said the cameraman. ‘Surrounded by angry women everywhere he turns.’

      Sabrina, who could smell a drama like a shark smelled blood, hurried over.

      ‘Who’s he talking to?’ she asked Tish imperiously.

      ‘His wife,’ said Tish curtly. ‘Not that it’s any of your business.’

      ‘At that volume I’d say it was everyone’s business,’ sneered Sabrina. ‘Oh dear oh dear. Has our saintly director been caught playing away? Who’s the unlucky girl?’

      ‘You are, apparently,’ said Chuck MacNamee.

      ‘What?’ The sneer died on Sabrina’s lips.

      ‘Sounds like someone’s run pictures of you and Dorian getting cosy. Who’s been a naughty girl, then?’

      Tish’s eyebrows shot up. Dorian and Sabrina? Surely not.

      ‘Don’t be preposterous,’ Sabrina snapped at Chuck. ‘I wouldn’t sleep with Dorian Rasmirez if he were the last man left on earth.’

      ‘Perhaps you’d better tell that to his wife?’ said Chuck, glancing over at Dorian. He’d stepped a few feet away from the set in the hope of some privacy, but his body language was clearly that of the condemned man pleading for his life.

      ‘Come out here, honey,’ he begged Chrissie. ‘Please. Come see for yourself. There’s nothing going on. Less than nothing. I know when those shots must have been taken. Some local idiot was giving Sabrina a hard time and I was saving her ass, as usual. Come on Christina. She can’t compare to you.’

      Hearing these last words, and knowing that Chuck and the others had heard them too, Sabrina felt a jolt of annoyance. She’d seen pictures of Dorian’s wife. The woman was positively ancient.

      ‘I wonder if she’ll come out,’ said Chuck.

      ‘Who?’ Viorel had finally joined the throng, handing Abel back to his mother.

      ‘Frau Rasmirez,’ said Deborah Raynham. ‘She’s on the warpath, apparently. She seems to be under the impression that Dorian’s been having his wicked way with Sabrina.’

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