Fame and Wuthering Heights

‘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.’

The crew giggled. Even Tish couldn’t resist a smile.

‘Come on. That’s ridiculous,’ said Vio.

‘Thank you,’ said Sabrina with feeling. At least someone was prepared to stick up for her.

‘What’s a “wicked way”?’ asked Abel. ‘Can I have one?’

‘All right, young man,’ said Tish briskly, sensing that the conversation might be about to turn distinctly X-rated. ‘Let’s get you back to the house.’

‘If Chrissie Rasmirez does fly over, we’re all gonna need hard hats,’ Chuck MacNamee warned, once Tish had gone. ‘That lady generates on-set tension faster than a wasp in the undershorts.’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ mused Sabrina. ‘Maybe if Dorian gets some action he’ll be less of an uptight asshole to work with. What do you think, darling?’ She snaked an arm around Viorel’s waist. ‘Do you think a good fuck might ease the tension around here?’

Vio felt a rush of blood to his groin. Sabrina would have been delighted if she knew how hard he was finding it, keeping to his vow of self-denial. Every day he wanted her more.

‘After we wrap,’ he said hoarsely, rubbing a hand against the small of her back.

‘Uh-uh.’ Sabrina shook her head, walking away in the direction of the wardrobe trailer. Dorian was still glued to the phone. Clearly, they weren’t going to do another take this evening. ‘If you leave it till the wrap party, I’ll turn you down.’

Vio laughed arrogantly. ‘No, you won’t.’

Sabrina quickened her pace, skipping away from him down the hill. ‘Watch me!’ she called back over her shoulder.

Later that night, Tish carried a sleeping Abel back to his bedroom. He’d wet the bed four times in the last two weeks, a regression that Tish could think of no explanation for. She’d started lifting him for a pee at ten o’clock until he got over it.

In a way, she was glad. She loved the feeling of his warm, sleep-heavy body in her arms, and the way he clung to her instinctively as she tucked him back into his bed. At Loxley, he slept in the same bed she’d used as a small child, a tiny continuity that somehow seemed poignant and meaningful to Tish. So much has changed since then, she thought, a little sadly. Soon, filming would be over. Dorian and the others would leave, first for Romania and then for Los Angeles and their ‘real’ lives. Tish would finish the repairs, install new tenants, and take Abel back to their real life, to Curcubeu and the children, to her apartment and disapproving Lydia, to Michel and Fleur …

‘Mummy?’ Abel’s voice brought her back to the present. He opened his eyes sleepily as Tish laid him back in his bed.

‘It’s late, darling,’ she whispered. ‘Go back to sleep.’

‘Mummy, next term it’s gonna be football and Viorel says I’m so excellent about football I could definitely definitely be on the team.’

‘Shhh, Abi,’ said Tish. ‘Next term we’ll be back home.’

A cloud of anxiety passed across Abel’s sweet, five-year-old face. ‘But Viorel said.’

‘I’m sure you’re very good at football,’ said Tish soothingly. ‘When we get back home you can play with Vasile and Radu and the other boys. Show them how great you are. Now go to sleep.’

‘But …’

‘Good footballers need their sleep.’

After a bit more negotiation, she settled him down and tiptoed out of the room, closing the door behind her. It was time to have a little chat with Viorel.

She found him in the library, whisky in hand, flipping through her father’s collection of Romantic poetry.

‘Can I have a word?’

Viorel snapped shut the leather-bound copy of Wordsworth’s Intimations of Immortality. ‘Of course.’ Tish was wearing a faded pair of Snoopy pyjamas and a man’s dressing gown riddled with holes. She had her hair tied up in a bun and, as she came closer, she smelled strongly of toothpaste and talcum powder. ‘You look like you’re ready for bed. What brings you down here so late?’

‘It’s Abel,’ said Tish. ‘He’s wet the bed again. I think he’s starting to feel anxious about the future.’

‘He is,’ said Vio seriously, leaning back against the corner of Henry’s desk. ‘I meant to talk to you about it actually.’

‘The important thing is not to confuse him,’ said Tish. ‘I know you meant well, but you really mustn’t put ideas into his head about staying at Loxley. Once you lot all leave, Abel and I will be going home.’

Viorel frowned. ‘Isn’t this home?’

‘Romania is where our life is,’ said Tish. ‘My work. Abi’s cultural heritage.’

Vio stiffened. His own mother used to bang on about his ‘cultural heritage’ all the time. Martha Hudson never tired of reminding him how lucky he was to have been adopted, and how important it was that he become a doctor and return to Romania one day, to ‘give back’. He hated it.

‘Don’t you think you’re being a little selfish?’

Now it was Tish’s turn to stiffen. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘I mean, you’ve adopted the kid. You’ve brought him here to England, shown him how the other half live, put him in a village school where he’s happy as a clam. And now you want to uproot him again, take him back to that hellhole of a country, just because you like playing Florence Nightingale? I don’t think you’re seeing this from Abel’s perspective.’

Tish struggled to control her anger. ‘With respect, Viorel, I think I know my own son a little better than you do.’

‘Then you know he wants to stay at Loxley,’ said Vio stubbornly. ‘More than anything.’

‘He’s five,’ said Tish, as authoritatively as possible for someone wearing a pair of Snoopy pyjamas. ‘He also wants to live in an underwater kingdom and eat chocolate buttons for every meal. That doesn’t mean it’s a good idea.’

‘Now you’re just being facetious,’ snapped Vio. The whisky was fuelling his temper. That, and his own memories of growing up with a mother who put her charitable work before the interests of her own son. He tried to remind himself that Tish wasn’t Martha Hudson. And that Abel wasn’t him. But the thought of the little boy being torn away from all he held dear made Viorel’s blood boil.

‘I’m his mother,’ said Tish. ‘I know what’s best for him.’

‘What’s best for you, you mean,’ muttered Viorel.

Tish had no idea where this sudden hostility was coming from. Certainly, she’d done nothing to deserve it. There was a meanness to Viorel tonight, a self-righteous arrogance that she had never seen before. Thank God, I never fell for him, she thought with a shiver.

‘I’m sorry you feel that way,’ she said frostily. ‘But I’m not here to debate. Abel is my son, and I am telling you not to upset him any further with this nonsense. Understood?’

‘Fine.’ Turning away from her, Viorel poured himself another whisky and reopened his book. He felt angry, but also helpless on Abel’s behalf. What right did Tish have to let her own Mother Teresa fantasy blight the boy’s life? It was a powerlessness that Viorel Hudson hadn’t felt since boarding school. It frightened him.