Fame and Wuthering Heights

Two days after Chrissie Rasmirez’s arrival on the Wuthering Heights set, Chuck MacNamee opened a book on who would be the first to snap and murder her with their bare hands. Rhys Williams had put his money on Lizzie Bayer, whom Chrissie had audibly refered to as ‘middle-aged’ on day one. But most of the cast had bet on Sabrina.

On a good day, Chrissie was merely distracting, interrupting Dorian mid-take to offer suggestions on how this or that actor might play the scene better, or how a certain camera angle ‘wasn’t working’. On a bad day, she would deliberately rile an already overwrought Sabrina, ordering her around as if she were the director, criticizing everything from Sabrina’s stance to her delivery to the way she wore her period dresses. (‘Amazing how that girl can manage to look like a slut in anything.’) She was only fractionally less overbearing with the rest of the cast, the one blatant exception being Viorel, for whom Chrissie quite plainly had the hots.

Off set, if possible, her behaviour was even worse. Used to being waited on hand and foot at the Schloss, Chrissie treated Tish like a maid, complaining about everything from the softness of her and Dorian’s towels to the creaking of the water pipes at night.

‘Can’t you get that fixed? How’s my husband supposed to be creative when our bedroom sounds like a sinking ship?’

When Tish pointed out that Dorian had made no complaints about the room until Chrissie arrived, Chrissie cut her off mid-sentence with a curt, ‘Well, he’s complaining now,’ before demanding a taxi be ordered to take her into town to collect her prescription allergy medicines. ‘This place is so dusty, I’m surprised you haven’t all asphyxiated.’

Her most abominable rudeness, however, was reserved for Mrs Drummond, whom she seemed to view as some sort of indentured slave. After one particularly grizzly incident, when Chrissie had tried to insist that Mrs D hand-wash her period-stained underwear (‘It’s La Perla. I’m not trusting it to that clapped-out old washing machine’) Dorian had taken her to one side and attempted to smooth the waters.

‘This is not our home, honey,’ he remonstrated gently.

‘Thank God!’ said Chrissie.

‘And it’s not a hotel either.’

‘For heaven’s sake, Dorian. You’ve paid for the location, haven’t you?’

‘Yes, of course. I’m just asking you to be sensitive, that’s all. You’ll be gone in a week, but the rest of us have to live and work together here for another month.’

‘Oh, I see,’ said Chrissie petulantly. ‘Counting the days till you can get rid of me already, are you?’

Dorian sighed. It was hopeless.

Sunday was a day off filming, the first in seventeen straight days, and a much-needed break for everyone. Half the crew decamped en masse to the pub in Loxley. The other half retreated to their trailers to watch downloaded American football or indulge in the backgammon craze that had swept the set over the last two weeks. (Viorel was in the lead, although Deborah Raynham was giving him a good run for his money.) Sabrina announced her intention of spending the entire day in bed. By noon, she appeared to have kept her word. No one had seen her. Rhys Evans and Lizzie Bayer, who’d recently started sleeping together (‘Any port in a storm,’ as Vio had wryly observed to Sabrina), left early to spend the day at Alton Towers. Jamie Duggan, officially the most boring man on set, had pleased everyone by taking himself off on a cultural tour of the local Saxon churches.

All of which meant that Mrs Drummond’s mouthwatering buffet lunch was attended by only a skeleton crew of five: Tish and Abel, Dorian and Chrissie, and Viorel.

‘This chicken pie’s yummy!’ Abel mumbled appreciatively, spraying pastry crumbs all over the table, his cheeks stuffed full like a chipmunk’s. ‘Canniavanothslice?’

‘No,’ said Tish. ‘You haven’t even finished what’s in your mouth yet, greedy grub.’

‘Let the kid eat,’ said Viorel contemptuously, sending his own plate of pie flying across the table like an ice-hockey puck in Abel’s direction. ‘He’s a growing boy.’

‘Cool!’ said Abel, catching the speeding plate and giving Vio a big thumbs-up sign before cramming the third slice into his mouth.

Dorian observed this little exchange with a growing feeling of unease. Something was up between Tish and Vio. Up until about a week ago, they’d been the best of friends. But now there was a tension you could have eaten with a spoon.

‘Use your knife and fork,’ said Tish to Abel, deliberately not challenging Viorel and giving him the fight he was so obviously spoiling for. I’ve got nothing to prove to him, she told herself angrily. Certainly not my love for my son. But somehow, ever since their run-in in the library, Viorel had an uncanny knack of making Tish feel as if she were on the back foot. It was infuriating.

‘I’ve always believed you should let young children eat whatever they like.’ Chrissie Rasmirez fluttered her eyelashes at Viorel. ‘That’s our policy with Saskia. Kids know what their bodies want instinctively.’

‘Exactly,’ said Viorel, with a triumphant glance at Tish.

Chrissie looked good today, he thought. Her frayed, white denim miniskirt and faded green T-shirt from Fred Segal showed off her tanned, fit body to perfection. More surprisingly, she looked relaxed, skin glowing, eyes lacking the telltale bags that her husband sported, symptoms of the stress and exhaustion involved in shooting a movie.

Tish also noticed how well Chrissie was looking. You’re beautiful, she thought. But there was still something hard-edged about her, something cold. Once again, Tish wondered how a man as warm and emotional as Dorian Rasmirez could have chosen such a bloodless woman to share his life with.

Spearing a gherkin on her fork and slipping it into her mouth suggestively, Chrissie’s green eyes locked onto Viorel’s lapis-blue ones. ‘I’m a big believer in listening to my body’s needs.’

‘So am I,’ Viorel grinned, revelling in the attention. He wasn’t particularly attracted to Chrissie. But since his run-in with Tish he’d been feeling a growing sense of frustration that increasingly needed an outlet. With Sabrina off limits, his options were slim. The flirtation with Chrissie was a welcome distraction. ‘I’m religious about it actually.’

Tish felt embarrassed for Dorian and wildly disapproving of Viorel. The flirting was shameless. But when she looked up she saw that Dorian hadn’t noticed anything. Eating mindlessly, eyes on his food, brow furrowed, he was clearly miles away, lost in worries of his own.

‘What are your plans this afternoon?’ Chrissie asked Viorel. ‘My husband’s going to be working, as usual.’ She rolled her eyes.

Dorian glanced up. ‘What? Working? Not the whole afternoon I’m not, honey. I need to look at some of the rushes of Rhys’s scenes, that’s all. It shouldn’t take more than a couple of hours.’

‘Yeah, right, and pigs might fly,’ muttered Chrissie. ‘I thought maybe Viorel could give me a tour of the local countryside. Show me some of the sights.’

‘I’d love to.’ Vio smiled wickedly.

The air was so thick with innuendo, Tish almost felt like covering Abel’s ears. She certainly wished she could cover her own.

‘But I’m afraid I already have plans. I’m taking a young lady into Manchester. We thought we’d do a spot of shopping this afternoon, then grab dinner.’

‘A young lady? Who?’ Tish heard herself asking. She didn’t know why, but the idea that Vio might have scored himself a date seemed to rankle.

‘You know her, actually,’ said Vio nonchalantly. ‘Laura Harrington.’

‘Laura?’ Tish choked on her Perrier water, sending a stream of frothy bubbles shooting out of her nose. ‘The girl who came to babysit Abel the other night?’

‘That’s her.’ Vio smiled.

Last Thursday had been Mrs Drummond’s bridge night, and Tish had arranged dinner with an old schoolfriend. Laura was the teenage daughter of the local vicar, and had offered her babysitting services for eight pounds an hour. All Tish could remember about her was that she had terrible grammar, and that Abel had been wildly impressed with her ‘princess hair’. Clearly, he wasn’t the only one who’d noticed her charms.

‘But she’s a child!’ Tish looked at Vio, horrified.

‘She’s eighteen actually,’ said Vio. ‘And very mature for her age.’

‘Mature?’ Tish scoffed. ‘Please. She was carrying a Miley Cyrus backpack! She gave Abel two chocolate cream eggs in an egg cup for supper.’

‘Did she?’ Vio beamed. ‘I like her even more.’

‘He was sick all over his bed.’

‘Yes, well, happily I’m blessed with a strong stomach.’

Tish’s glare intensified.

‘It’s only dinner,’ said Viorel. ‘I’ll drop her back home afterwards.’

After what? thought Tish furiously. Boy, had she misjudged Viorel Hudson. Being a flirt was one thing, but using his celebrity to lure an innocent local girl into bed? He should be ashamed of himself.

Chrissie Rasmirez obviously felt the same way, if her epic pout was anything to go by.

‘Don’t worry, Mrs Rasmirez,’ Mrs Drummond piped up cheerfully. ‘I’ll have a word with Bill Connelly. Bill knows Derbyshire a lot better than Mr Hudson here. I’m sure he’d be happy to show you around until your husband’s free.’