Fame and Wuthering Heights

‘Yes, I do,’ muttered the old man with an air of hopelessness as he was dragged from his cosy corner and propelled towards the snug bar.

‘There now,’ said the landlady, ignoring him and turning back to Sabrina. ‘You make yourself comfortable. Dennis’ll be over with a menu in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.’

Feeling more awkward than she had since high school, Sabrina sat alone at her stolen table, cursing Vio Hudson. What the hell was she doing here? Grateful for the low lighting, she slunk back as far as possible into the corner and, a few moments later, hid herself behind the large, leather-bound menu. Deciding that as she was here, in a British pub, she ought at least to do the thing properly, she ordered steak and kidney pudding and chips. She was contractually forbidden to drink, but no one was here except for the locals, and they could barely see her in the gloom, never mind the contents of her glass, so she ordered a double vodka and tonic, following it swiftly with a second. By the time she’d finished that, and eaten the chips (she took one bite of the pudding and almost gagged), she found she was feeling less awkward and, for the first time since arriving in England, relaxed.

‘You’re that actress, aren’t you?’ A young girl having supper with her parents approached Sabrina’s table. She looked to be about eleven, with braces on her teeth, and wearing a low-cut pink top that revealed nothing at all but which she clearly thought of as teenage and cool. ‘Can I have your autograph?’

‘Of course,’ Sabrina beamed. She used to resent autograph hunters. In the States they were like locusts, they’d swarm you anywhere – at the doctor’s office; while you were on the phone. But she realized with a twinge of panic that this kid was the first person to ask for her autograph since before she went to Revivals, over four months ago now.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Michaela,’ said the girl shyly.

Running her pen across the back of the cardboard coaster, Sabrina felt a rush of pleasure like a heroin shot in the arm.

‘There you go, Michaela. It was a pleasure to meet you.’

The child skipped away happily, clutching her treasure. Sabrina was gazing after her, basking in her own magnanimity, when she felt a tap on her shoulder.

‘I sincerely hope that was a mineral water.’

Dorian Rasmirez was towering over her, holding her empty glass in his enormous, fat-fingered hand. He was wearing corduroy trousers and a chunky knit fisherman’s sweater, which only added to his already substantial bulk, and he was smiling, the first time Sabrina had ever seen him do so. He’s happy because he’s caught me out, she thought dully, but she was too tired to care. She felt like an exhausted salmon about to be eaten by a bear.

‘Of course,’ she lied, wearily. ‘Ask at the bar if you don’t believe me.’

‘I don’t believe you,’ said Dorian, pulling up a chair and sitting down opposite her. ‘Luckily for you, however, I don’t care. You’re entitled to a drink after today.’

Sabrina’s eyes narrowed. Was this a trick?

‘Why are you being nice to me?’

‘Would you rather I wasn’t?’

‘What are you doing here anyway?’ She eyed him suspiciously. ‘Did you follow me?’

Dorian laughed, a deep, throaty laugh that shook his whole chest and made people turn around to look at him. ‘I have better things to do with my evening. Like trying to undo the shit-storm you caused with your little impromptu press conference at Heathrow yesterday.’

‘Look, I’ve said I’m sorry,’ said Sabrina, who felt the beginnings of a migraine coming on herself.

‘Did you?’ Dorian raised an eyebrow. ‘I must have missed that.’

After three tense hours on the phone, pacifying everyone from the British Institite of Race Relations to the American Screen Actors Guild, he’d walked the forty minutes into Loxley village to try to clear his head. Stopping at the pub had been an afterthought, but he was glad he’d had it. The landlady waddled over. Dorian ordered a malt whisky for himself and ‘the same again’ for Sabrina, who instantly tensed.

‘For Christ’s sake, relax. If I didn’t fire you for this morning’s papers, I’m not going to fire you for having a drink. Just don’t make a habit of it.’

The drinks arrived. Dorian raised his glass. ‘To our movie.’

Cautiously, Sabrina did the same. ‘To Wuthering Heights.’ After a short pause, she added, ‘I’m not a racist, you know.’

‘I believe that,’ said Dorian, truthfully.

‘That’s why I didn’t want to apologize to Tarik Tyler. I know I should have. It made me look so much worse, not saying anything for so long. But it would have been like I was admitting I said something I never said, you know? Like I viewed people a certain way because of their colour. It’s bullshit. So what if his grandmother was a slave? My grandmother was a crack whore, but you don’t hear me banging on about it.’

After months on the wagon, the alcohol was quickly going to her head. Not only was she babbling, but she found herself staring at Dorian in a way she never would have if she’d been sober, examining his features closely for the first time. When he wasn’t scowling, or shouting, he was actually quite attractive in a rough-and-ready, Sean Penn kind of way. Of course he was old, and certainly not handsome in the way that Sabrina liked her men – no one was going to sign Rasmirez up to model Calvin Klein underwear any time soon, that was for damn sure. But there was definitely something about him.

‘So why are you here?’ she asked him.

‘Same reason as you. I had a shitty day, I needed a drink, and this is the only pub in town. Plus, a friend told me not to drink here, which of course made me curious to try it.’

‘A friend? You mean Tish Crewe?’ Sabrina asked archly.

‘Yes, as it happens.’

‘You like her, don’t you?’

‘I do,’ said Dorian, either missing the insinuation or choosing to ignore it. ‘I like you too, Sabrina.’

This was too much for Sabrina, especially delivered with such a straight face. She laughed so hard she choked on her drink, spraying vodka and tonic all down the front of her blouse and narrowly avoiding giving Dorian an impromptu shower.

‘Really?’ she spluttered, cleaning herself up with a napkin. ‘I’d love to see how you treat actresses you don’t like.’

‘I treat them exactly the same,’ said Dorian. ‘I’m not in the business of favouritism. If Viorel or Lizzie or Rhys had been all over The Sun this morning, I’d have yelled just as hard at them.’

Sabrina looked at him sceptically.

‘It’s true. You personalize everything, Sabrina. I’m not your enemy. If it’s an enemy you’re looking for, try the mirror.’

Sabrina opened her mouth to argue with him, but decided against it. She was too tipsy to defend herself properly, and anyway it made a nice change to be having a semi-civil conversation.

‘Tell me about yourself,’ said Dorian, taking a long slow sip of his whisky. It was delicious.

‘Tell you what?’ said Sabrina. ‘The sob story? Rags to riches? Doesn’t everybody know that already?’ She put on her best whiney, facetious voice: ‘I’m Sabrina Leon, and I’m from a bwoken home.’

Dorian just looked at her, arms folded. Waiting.

‘You really wanna know? OK fine.’ Sabrina jutted out her chin defiantly. ‘My mom was a heroin addict. Dad was a petty thief and general, all-round douche bag, or so I’m told. I never met him. I first got taken into care when I was eighteen months old.’

‘First? You went back to your parents?’

‘To my mom, twice. The first time she left me with “friends”, who tried to sell me to pay off a drug debt.’

‘Shit.’ Dorian had heard this story from Sabrina’s agent, but had assumed it was apocryphal.

‘The second time the neighbours called the cops after I almost died climbing out of a second-floor window. Mom’s boyfriend was hitting her round the head with a frying pan. I thought I was gonna be next.’

‘How old were you then?’

Sabrina took a sip of her drink. ‘Three.’