Эмили Бронте – Fame and Wuthering Heights (страница 11)

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.