Kitabı oku: «Fame and Wuthering Heights», sayfa 4

Henry Crewe had died two years ago and Tish still missed him terribly. It was Henry’s death that had set off the chain of events leading to the current crisis. Amid much familial wailing and gnashing of teeth, Henry Crewe had broken Loxley’s four-hundred-year entailment and left the house lock, stock and barrel to his estranged wife Vivianna, Tish and Jago’s mother. This was partly a romantic gesture. Although Vivi had left him and their children the better part of two decades ago to start a new life in Italy, visiting England only rarely, she had never actually divorced Henry. To the bafflement of all his friends, not to mention his daughter, who felt Vivianna’s abandonment deeply, Henry maintained a nostalgic attachment to his wife that only seemed to intensify as the years passed. The Crewes remained on friendly terms, and Henry never gave up hope that one day Vivianna would see the light, tire of her stream of younger lovers, and return to the bosom of her family.

Needless to say, she never did. But changing the will had not solely been about Vivi. It had also been an attempt to mitigate Jago’s influence over Loxley’s future. The withdrawn, distant brother Tish remembered had grown up into a feckless, selfish and completely irresponsible young man. Blessed with good looks and a big enough trust fund never to have to earn a living, Jago Crewe partied away the years between eighteen and twenty-two in a narcotic-induced haze, eventually winding up depressed and seriously ill in a North London Hospital. It was after he had emerged from this self-styled breakdown that Jago had decided the time had come to change his life. He had shown no interest in ‘knuckling down’ at Loxley Hall, however. Pronouncing himself teetotal, Buddhist and a committed vegan, he had proceeded to disappear on a spiritual journey that had taken him around the world from Hawaii to Tahiti to Thailand (first class, naturally), spending family money like water as he tried out one spurious, navel-gazing cult after another.

Meanwhile, Henry’s health had been failing. Clearly, something had had to be done. And so it was that Henry had willed the house to Vivianna, intending that she would let it out for the remainder of her lifetime, perhaps to the National Trust, and leave it on her death to whichever of the children, or grandchildren, looked like the safest bet at the time.

Things had not worked out that way. Having failed to come home for his father’s funeral, or even send flowers, Jago showed up at Loxley two months later, announcing that he’d had a change of heart filial-duty-wise and had returned to claim his inheritance. Vivianna immediately made the house over to him (she never could say no to her darling boy) and retreated to her villa outside Rome, considering her duties to her former husband fully discharged and all well that had ended well.

Meanwhile, stuck out in Romania, Tish was concerned about the situation, but as a single mother with a full-time children’s home to run, had problems enough of her own. Besides, as the months passed and nothing disastrous happened at Loxley, she began to relax. Perhaps Jago really had grown out of his immature, selfish stage this time and was going to make a go of things on the estate? He was still only twenty-eight, after all. Plenty of time to turn over a new leaf.

Then she got the letter.

The letter was from Mrs Drummond, the Crewe family’s housekeeper of the last thirty-odd years and a surrogate mother to Tish and Jago. According to Mrs D, Jago had walked out of the house three weeks ago, announcing that he would not be returning as he intended to live out the remainder of his days as a contemplative hermit in the hills of Tibet. Mrs D, who’d heard it all countless times before, took this latest change of plans with her usual pinch of salt. But she’d been forced to view matters more seriously when Jago’s wastrel hippy friends, many of them drug addicts, had refused to leave Loxley after Jago’s departure. Worse, they had begun to cause serious damage.

‘I called the police,’ Mrs Drummond wrote to Tish, ‘but they say that as Jago invited them in, and has only been gone a matter of weeks, they have no power to evict them unless they hear from Jago directly. They won’t listen to me. But Letitia, they’ve been stealing. At least two of your father’s paintings are missing and I’m certain some of the silverware is gone. I’ve tried to reason with them, but they can actually be quite intimidating.’

That was the part that had really made up Tish’s mind. The thought of these drugged-out thugs scaring Mrs Drummond, the sweetest, most defenceless old woman in the world, brought out every protective instinct within her. She had to go back and sort out her brother’s mess. How could he have left Mrs D to cope with all of this alone? Whenever he deigned to return from his latest self-indulgent, soul-searching exercise, Tish was going to strangle him with her bare hands.

Parking her exhausted Fiat in front of the graffiti-covered tower block she called home, Tish bolted up the staircase two steps at a time. Her flat was on the sixth floor, but the lift had long since broken, so she and Abel got regular workouts dragging their groceries and schoolbags up and down the stairs. Tish was still fumbling in her bag for her keys, trying to catch her breath, when the front door opened. Lydia, Abel’s heavy-set Romanian nanny, glowered disapprovingly in the doorway.

‘You’re late.’

With her fat, butcher’s arms, old-fashioned striped apron, and steel-grey hair cut in a blunt, unforgiving fringe, Lydia had the body of an ex-shot-putter and the face of a Gestapo wardress. She had never liked her English boss, whom she considered flighty and appallingly laissez-faire as a mother. However, she was devoted to little Abel, who in turn was very fond of her, which was why Tish had never fired her. That and the fact that Lydia was prepared to work long, often erratic hours for laughably low pay.

‘I know, I’m sorry. There was a bit of a crisis at Curcubeu.’ Tish forced her way past the nanny’s giant frame into the hallway, dropping her bag on the floor. ‘Abel! Where are you, darling? Mummy’s home!’

‘He sleeping,’ said Lydia frostily. ‘He waited long time for you. Very upset in his bath time, but now is OK. Sleeping.’

Tish looked suitably guilty. She couldn’t have cared less what old iron-pants thought of her, but she hated letting Abel down. Had he really been unhappy at bath time, or was Lydia just twisting the knife?

The old woman pulled on her coat, a thick, frankly filthy sheepskin, and a pair of brightly coloured knitted gloves. ‘He need his sleep,’ she told Tish sternly. ‘Don’t waking him.’ And with this commandment she shuffled out of the flat, shaking her head and muttering darkly to herself in Romanian as the door closed behind her.

Silly cow, thought Tish, making a beeline for her son’s bedroom. Inside, the low glow from Abel’s Makka Pakka night-light helped her find her way to his bed. Pulling up a chair, Tish rested a hand on the warm, gently heaving Thomas the Tank Engine duvet and felt the pressures of the day evaporate. My life’s under there, she thought. I love him so much. Loxley and Mrs Drummond, the children’s home, even her terrible, unrequited love for Michel: they all faded into insignificance when Tish gazed down at her sleeping son. Gently peeling back the bedclothes, she stroked his soft mop of jet-black curls and bent to kiss the warm, silken skin of his rounded, still-baby-like cheek. It was hard to believe that this was the same malnourished, sore-covered baby she’d first laid eyes on in a maternity hospital outside Bucharest four years ago. Today, Abel was as healthy and chubby and rambunctious as any other little boy his age. Much more handsome of course, thought Tish proudly. It had been a long and arduous struggle to adopt him formally, even though Abel had lived with her since he was thirteen months old, and Tish was the only mother he’d ever known. Tish’s one regret was that her beloved father, Henry, had never got to meet his grandson. Abi’s paperwork had taken years to complete, and Henry had been too frail and sick to travel. Abel’s passport was finally granted a month after Henry’s funeral, a bitter irony for poor Tish.

Now, though, she’d have a chance to take Abel home. To show him England and Loxley and Mrs Drummond, and introduce him to his adopted culture and family. Better late than never.

Will he love it as much as I did? she wondered. If he does, will it be hard for him to come back?

This was something that hadn’t occurred to her before, and it worried her. Because, of course, she would have to come back. Her whole life was in Romania now. We’ll be gone a month or so at most, she told herself. Carl can hold the fort here while I throw these vandals out of Loxley and find some suitable tenants. Then it’ll be back to business as usual.

She would tell Abel it was a holiday. It would be a holiday for him. For her, it was more complicated. Part of her was longing to see Loxley again, although after Mrs D’s letter she dreaded the state she might find it in. But another part felt desolate at the prospect of leaving Michel, even for a few weeks. Before he died, Henry Crewe had implored his daughter to settle down and get married. ‘Find a good man,’ Henry told Tish. ‘A kind man. Someone who can make you truly happy.’

That’s the problem, Daddy, she thought sadly. I’ve already found him. All I have to do now is get him to love me back.

CHAPTER FIVE

Striding past the waiting paparazzi, ignoring the catcalls and boos from the gaggle of kids on the sidewalk, Sabrina Leon slipped into Il Pastaio on Beverly Drive feeling like a million dollars. In black skinny Balenciaga trousers and a figure-hugging black silk vest from Twenty8Twelve, accessorized with a vintage DVF leopard-print scarf and her trademark oversized Prada sunglasses, she looked every inch the star. After two long months climbing the walls at Revivals, it felt good to be back in the action. OK, so most of the attention she’d gotten had been negative. But at least it was attention. Given time – and another hit movie under her belt – Sabrina felt sure she could turn the tide. Just as long as I’m not forgotten. Hatred’s cool. It’s indifference that scares me.

Ed Steiner, her manager, waddled up to the maître d’. ‘We’re joining the Rasmirez party for lunch. Table eight, twelve thirty.’

‘Follow me, sir. You’re actually the first to arrive.’

He looks even fatter than usual, thought Sabrina, watching Ed attempt to weave between the other diners to get to the coveted table eight, the best in the house. Nervous too, she thought, clocking the rivers of sweat streaming down his forehead and the twitchy, rabbit-in-the-headlamps look in his beady agent’s eyes. He’d better not start fawning all over Rasmirez like we’re some kind of fucking charity case.

In fact, over the last two weeks, Ed Steiner had moved mountains trying to convince Dorian Rasmirez of his client’s softer side. ‘She’s edgy, I’ll grant you, and yes, she can be difficult. But you have to remember where she came from. Sabrina’s childhood was like a Hammer Horror. Seriously. Her mom tried to sell her when she was two. Actually sell her. For a drug debt.’

Rasmirez was sympathetic. He was a kind man. But he couldn’t afford to take on somebody else’s problems, or let them spill over onto the rest of his cast. Ed had sworn blind that Sabrina had changed, that she’d learned her lesson. He just prayed she didn’t undo all of his good work today.

Early signs weren’t good. Coiling her long legs beneath her seat, ignoring the No Smoking signs, Sabrina lit up a Marlboro red. ‘He’s late,’ she drawled, deliberately blowing smoke in the direction of the most disapproving-looking diners. ‘If he’s not here in five minutes, we’re leaving.’

Reaching across the table, Ed removed the cigarette from Sabrina’s mouth, stubbing it out in a plant pot by his side.

‘Stop being infantile. The man only flew in from Europe a couple of hours ago. With his schedule, you’re lucky he’s seeing you at all.’

Serena laughed bitterly. ‘Oh, yeah. I’m soooo lucky. When I’m giving him a year of my time, for free, the tightfisted son of a bitch. You watch. He’ll probably ask me to pay for lunch.’

She knew she was being childish. In part this was to try to hide her own nerves. Today’s meeting was important. Rasmirez had cast her, the contract was signed; but he could easily wriggle out of it if he met her and had a change of heart. On the other hand, Sabrina was savvy enough to know that Hollywood was all about bravado. The moment she started acting like a failure, like she was washed up and flailing and desperate for the lifeline Rasmirez was throwing her, was the moment she knew she would sink without trace. What was Jack Nicholson’s mantra? Never explain, never apologize. Ed had already apologized for her, so that ship had sailed. But Sabrina was determined to undo the damage by projecting nothing but A-list star quality to Rasmirez today. She did not appreciate being kept waiting.

Listening to Sabrina bitch about everything from the menu to the air-conditioning to the glare from the restaurant windows, Ed Steiner felt his self-control tanks running dangerously low. Just as he was about to lose his temper, a visibly tired and dishevelled Dorian Rasmirez walked in and was led over to join them.

‘Sorry I’m late.’ He addressed himself to Ed, who had stood up to greet him, and not to Sabrina, who hadn’t. ‘Complete craziness at my office. I’ve been out of town for three weeks, so I’m sure you can imagine. Have you ordered?’

Ed shook his head. ‘We only just got here ourselves.’

‘Oh, good,’ said Dorian, who couldn’t see Sabrina’s furious glare behind her enormous dark glasses. He glanced round for a waitress, who materialized instantly. ‘Hi there. We’ll have three green salads to start, please, and just bring us a selection of main dishes, whatever the chef recommends. Hope that’s OK with you.’ He turned back to Ed. ‘I’m on a really tight schedule today and we’ve got a lot of ground to cover.’

‘Of course,’ said Ed. ‘We’re grateful you could fit us in. Aren’t we Sabrina?’

Slowly, with a melodramatic flourish worthy of Zsa Zsa Gabor, or a young Joan Collins, Sabrina removed her sunglasses, folded them neatly and laid them down on the table. She looked at Dorian Rasmirez, her eyes crawling over his face with disdain. It was the sort of look an empress might give to an unkempt page boy. Who the hell did he think he was, showing up late then ordering food without even asking her what she’d like? Presumptuous jerk. She turned to a passing waiter. ‘I’ll have a sour apple martini please, not too much sugar. And the lobster. And I’d like to see the menu again, please. I haven’t quite made up my mind about an appetizer. You can cancel the earlier order.’

‘Of course, Ms Leon,’ muttered the waiter. ‘Right away.’

Dorian watched this little charade with a combination of irritation and amusement. So the stories are no exaggeration. She really is a little madam. So much for rehab having humbled her. No wonder her manager looked as if he was one Big Mac away from a fatal coronary. Working for Sabrina Leon had clearly driven him to the brink.

The rumours about Sabrina were true in other areas too. Dorian had worked with some of the most beautiful actresses in the world, but few of them could match the electricity that positively crackled out of this girl. Electricity was good. Attitude, on the other hand, was bad, and Dorian had no intention of standing for it.

Leaning forward over the table, so that his face was only inches from Sabrina’s, he said very quietly, ‘You have fifteen seconds to cancel that order.’

Sabrina refused to be intimidated. ‘Or what?’ she taunted.

‘Or you are off my movie,’ Dorian smiled sweetly. ‘Entirely your choice, of course. But I don’t work with prima donnas.’

‘Is that so?’ Sabrina stood up haughtily. ‘Well, it just so happens I don’t work with megalomaniacs. Goodbye, Mr Rasmirez.’

‘Goodbye, Miss Leon.’

Poor Ed Steiner was so panicked he looked as though he were about to spontaneously combust. ‘Hey, hey, come on now guys. Let’s cool things down, shall we? No need to get into the Cuban Missile Crisis before we’ve even been introduced.’ He put a restraining hand on Sabrina’s arm. ‘How about we start this again? Dorian Rasmirez, Sabrina Leon. Sabrina Leon, Dorian Rasmirez.’

Neither Sabrina nor Dorian moved a muscle. After a few, tense seconds, Sabrina caved first, grudgingly extending a hand. Dorian hesitated, then shook it.

‘Sit down please.’

Ed shot Sabrina a pleading look. She sat.

‘I’m a fair man, Miss Leon,’ said Dorian. ‘I have nothing against you personally. Nor do I have any interest whatsoever in your personal life.’

‘I should hope not,’ Sabrina bridled.

‘However, I should tell you that the moment your personal life intrudes on the set of my movie, or impacts my cast and crew in any way, you will be out of that door so fast you won’t know what hit you.’

Sabrina opened her mouth to speak but Dorian held up a hand for silence.

‘I’m not finished. You’re a good actress, Sabrina. You have potential to be a great actress. But you’re also spoiled, immature, and at times breathtakingly stupid.’

Sabrina bit her lower lip so hard she drew blood. Not since Sammy Levine the youth theatre director back in Fresno had anyone spoken to her like this. All around their table, diners were straining their ears to hear her being ticked off like a naughty schoolgirl. It was mortifying.

‘None of the major studios will touch you,’ said Dorian. ‘Nor will any of the independent producers worth their salt. You’re a liability.’

‘That’s bullshit,’ spat Sabrina, unable to contain herself any longer. ‘I got offers.’

Dorian laughed brutally. ‘Thank God you’re a better actress than you are a liar. You have nothing, Sabrina. You know it and I know it. As of today, you are nothing. Now, if you want to become something again in this town, in this business, in this life, you’d better start by learning some humility.’

Sabrina’s blood boiled, but she said nothing. Dorian continued.

‘I’ve taken a chance on you young lady, when nobody else would. That’s the reality. I don’t need you. You need me. Which means that for the next year, or as long as it takes to get this movie pitch perfect, you do exactly as I say. You get up when I tell you to get up. You work when I tell you to work. You speak when I tell you to speak, you shut up when I tell you to shut up, and you eat whatever I put on your fucking plate. Are we clear?’

Sabrina glared at him in silent rage. He was right. She did need him. But in that moment she hated him more than she had hated anybody since the stepbrother who’d abused her as a kid.

‘Are. We. Clear?’ Dorian repeated, raising his voice so the entire restaurant could hear him.

‘Yes.’ Sabrina nodded, her voice barely a whisper.

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you.’

‘Yes,’ she hissed. ‘We’re clear.’

‘Good.’ Dorian smiled broadly. ‘Now go ahead and cancel your order and we can get down to business.’

Nine hours later, Dorian pulled through the electric gates of his Holmby Hills mansion utterly exhausted. What a godawful day.

After lunch with Sabrina, he’d had back-to-back meetings with his manager, his accountant, and Milla Haines, his casting director on Wuthering Heights. He’d hoped that would be a short meeting, but Milla wanted to run through an agonizingly long list of possibles for the role of Hareton Earnshaw.

‘What about Sam Worthington?’ suggested Dorian.

Milla attempted an eyebrow raise, not easy with a forehead-full of Fraxel. ‘You can’t begin to afford him.’

Stick thin, perfectly groomed and of indeterminate age thanks to decades of surgical tinkering, Milla Haines was about as sexually alluring as a bag of nails. She was, however, a first-rate casting director, not to mention a straight talker. Dorian respected her.

‘Chris Pine?’ he asked hopefully.

‘If you wanted a solid second-tier-er, you shouldn’t have blown the budget on Hudson,’ said Milla.

‘That was money well spent,’ said Dorian firmly. ‘Viorel Hudson is Heathcliff. I couldn’t have done the film without him.’

‘You wouldn’t have had to,’ said Milla. ‘We’d have got him for half what you paid. Next time, let me do the negotiating.’

Dorian rubbed his eyes tiredly. ‘Let’s see the rest of the list.’

Years ago he used to find the early days of pre-production some of the most exciting, satisfying parts of his job, feeling his vision grow into reality beneath his hands, like a potter at the wheel. The screenwriter Thom Taylor once said that in Hollywood, ‘The deal is the sex; the movie is the cigarette.’ Dorian wouldn’t necessarily go that far, but it was true that the deals, plural – pulling together everything from funding to distribution to merchandising – was what made a movie real. Every waitress in town had an idea for a film, a dream that had brought them to this most brutal of towns. Being a producer as well as a director, you got to make your dreams come true.

This time, however, the excitement had been replaced by unadulterated anxiety. How the hell was Dorian – was anyone – supposed to be creative with so much financial pressure? He knew Milla Haines was right. He had overpaid for Viorel. What Milla didn’t know was that only two million of Hudson’s salary was being paid out of the official production budget. The other three million Dorian would have to find out of his own pocket. After the disastrous Sixteen Nights, he needed to blow the box-office roof off with Wuthering Heights. If he didn’t, he’d be ruined. It was that simple. He’d lose Chrissie. He’d lose the Schloss.

He tried not to think of how happy that would make Harry Greene. Twisted, delusional bastard. But it wasn’t going to happen. He’d been burned on Sixteen Nights, the movie Greene had helped bury, but with Wuthering Heights, Dorian had a new strategy.

Step one was to shroud the production in secrecy, to generate as much buzz and curiosity as possible. He was shooting the whole thing on location, far away from the Hollywood gossip machine. (Assuming they ever found a damn location. So far the expensive scouting firm he’d hired to find them somewhere in England had come up with sweet FA.) All the sets would be strictly closed. Everyone connected with the movie – cast, crew, even the accountancy staff – had been made to sign watertight confidentiality clauses and any actor or crew member who said so much as ‘good morning’ to a member of the press would be summarily fired.

Step two was to wait until all the creative work was done and shooting was almost wrapped, and then go looking for studio investment and a shit-hot distribution deal. By then, if the work was good, and it would be good, excitement about the film should be at its peak.

We’ll be fine, Dorian told himself. But his nerves persisted.

Parking his hired Prius out front (he’d had to sell the Bentley last year, a small contribution to the Schloss’s first winter heating bill), he staggered through the front door to the welcoming sound of a beeping burglar alarm. Dropping his bags he punched in the code to turn it off and almost went flying on the stack of unopened mail spilling all over the entryway floor like an oil slick.

‘Jesus Christ,’ he muttered, reaching for the light switch. Nothing happened. The bulb must have blown. A musty smell of dust and stale air assaulted his nostrils. No one had been here for almost a month and it showed. Dorian realized sadly that the tile-hung, Spanish-style estate no longer felt like home. He wondered if anywhere would ever feel like home again, then chided himself for being so maudlin. He was dog-tired, that was all. He needed to get into a hot shower, call Chrissie and collapse into bed.

The phone rang.

‘Rasmirez,’ he answered crossly. Who the fuck could be calling him at this time of night?

‘Wow, man, you sound like shit.’

Dorian grinned. ‘Thanks, Emil. I feel like it.’

Emil Santander, Dorian’s long-time friend and real-estate agent, sounded as upbeat and ebullient as ever. Emil and Dorian had been at film school together many moons ago, but their directorial careers had taken wildly different trajectories. Undaunted by his failure to become the new James Cameron, Emil had quit the business ten years ago, studied for his real-estate licence, and not looked back since, making a good, if unspectacular living selling the homes of his more successful classmates. He was just that kind of guy: upbeat, optimistic, uncomplicated. A dust-yourself-off-and-start-again-er. Dorian envied him.

‘It’s late, man,’ Dorian yawned. ‘I’m wiped out. Is this important or can I call you in the morning?’

‘It’s important,’ said Emil. ‘And, it’s good news.’

‘I could use some of that,’ said Dorian, wryly.

‘I got you a great offer!’

‘Oh.’ Dorian exhaled. This was unexpected. When he first left for Romania a year ago, he’d asked Emil to ‘keep his ear out’ for a potential buyer for the Holmby Hills house. But having heard nothing back, he’d forgotten all about that conversation. If Chrissie had the slightest suspicion he was even thinking of selling the place, she’d have sliced his balls off with a rusty penknife. As much as she had always bitched and moaned about LA, she adored their house, and had spent a not-so-small fortune renovating and decorating it to her exact specifications. But the reality was, if Dorian could achieve a good enough price for it, he would have to sell. At the rate the Schloss was eating money, not to mention his production debts, there was no way they could afford to run such a huge house in absentia.

‘Jeez,’ grumbled Emil. ‘Don’t overwhelm me with enthusiasm, will you?’

‘Sorry,’ said Dorian. ‘I’m just … how great, exactly?’

Part of him hoped the offer would be low enough to reject. Then he wouldn’t have to broach the subject of a sale with Chrissie, who was already spoiling for the next fight. But another, more rational part prayed it would be high enough to cover his debt on Viorel Hudson’s salary.

‘Pretty great actually,’ said Emil, unable to keep the triumph out of his voice. ‘About eight and half million bucks’ worth of great.’

Dorian quickly did the math. Eight five, minus four million mortgage, minus the lien he’d raised two years ago when Sixteen Days was going under, minus the excess on Hudson’s fee … he would break even, with a few hundred grand left over for a modest apartment in Santa Monica, somewhere to crash when he was working. Good news indeed.

‘That’s awesome, Emil. Thank you.’

‘You’re welcome. Now just to be clear, is that “Thank you, I accept the offer”? Because I’m bringing the paperwork round first thing tomorrow morning for you to sign. The buyers want to meet you.’

Dorian’s heart sank. ‘Tomorrow? Oh, jeez man, I’m flat out tomorrow. Can we do it later in the week?’

‘Helloo?’ said Emil. ‘Are you hearing me here, D? I just got you eight point five for a house that you and I both know is worth six on a good day. These guys are big fans of your work and they wanna meet you. Tomorrow.’

Dorian groaned. ‘OK.’

‘They’d also like to move in by the end of the week. I told them that shouldn’t be a problem.’

Fifteen minutes later, too tired to shower, Dorian lay back on his bed fully clothed. Feeling sleep start to creep over him, he quickly grabbed the phone and punched out his Romanian home number. He wouldn’t tell Chrissie about the house sale tonight. He couldn’t face the fireworks. He just wanted to hear her voice and to say good night. To tell her he loved her. And Saskia, of course.

The phone rang and rang … no answer.

That’s weird, thought Dorian. It was early morning over there, before six, but Chrissie was usually up at this time. She was fanatical about her sunrise yoga. He hung up and tried the line again, forcing images of Chrissie writhing naked in Alexandru’s arms out of his mind.

Still no answer. She must have gone out earlier than usual. Or maybe she’s in the shower already. Can’t hear the phone. I’ll try again in a few minutes.

He closed his eyes, just for a second. A movie reel of images danced through his brain.

Sabrina Leon, that beautiful, truculent child, her feline eyes glinting murderously at him across the table at Il Pastaio.

Chrissie, moaning with pleasure in some nameless lover’s bed.

Emil Santander handing him wodges of hundred-dollar bills, but as soon as the notes touched his hands they crumbled into dust, staining his fingertips ash-grey.

Harry Greene laughing.

At last the anxiety dreams faded and Dorian saw a house: grey, imposing, bleak, its shuttered windows being mercilessly lashed by rain. He recognized it instantly as the Wuthering Heights of his boyhood imagination. It was a forbidding building, cold and aloof, and yet to Dorian there was something wonderfully comforting about it, and about the lulling swoosh, swoosh sound of the rain as it fell, enveloping everything in a cool, grey shroud.

He was asleep, the phone still clasped in his hand.