Fame and Wuthering Heights. Emily Bronte

      ‘Is he adopted?’

      It was a very direct question from a total stranger, but, for some reason, Tish found it didn’t bother her. Something about Dorian’s manner, so respectful and gentle and not at all what she’d expected, put her at ease.

      ‘He is, yes.’

      ‘From Romania?’

      Tish looked taken aback. ‘I’m impressed you could tell. Most people say he sounds Italian.’

      Dorian shrugged. ‘I spend a lot of time in Romania, so I know the accent well.’

      ‘You’re joking?’ Few Americans outside the charity world had even heard of Romania, let alone spent time there. ‘How come?’

      Dorian grimaced. ‘It’s kind of a long story.’

      ‘Sorry,’ said Tish, misinterpreting his facial expression as boredom. ‘Listen to me, wittering on about nothing when you’ve travelled halfway across the world to get here. Please, follow me. I’ll show you to your room.’

      The rest of the afternoon passed in a whirlwind of activity. Tish struggled to get through Abel’s normal routine of weekend homework, supper and bath, while all through the house and grounds strange men and women tramped around with cameras and light meters and sound machines, politely but completely disrupting everything. Occasionally, Rainbow’s apologetic face would pop up at a window, assuring Tish that they were ‘nearly done’ and should be out of her hair ‘momentarily’, only to be distracted by Chuck MacNamee and Deborah Raynham arguing loudly behind her. Meanwhile, Mrs Johns from the village shop was still hanging around as dusk fell, in the hope of bumping into Viorel Hudson or Sabrina Leon, despite being told repeatedly by both Mrs Drummond and the crew that no actors were expected till the following Tuesday. It wasn’t until after Abel was in bed at eight, and Mrs Drummond had finished complaining for the umpteenth time about the house being like ‘Piccadilly Circus’ that Dorian Rasmirez reappeared, having not been seen since lunchtime.

      Tish was in the kitchen, reheating yesterday’s kedgeree, when he walked in.

      ‘Hi there.’

      Tish spun around. He’d changed out of the jeans and sweater he’d been wearing earlier into what Tish could only presume was an American’s idea of English country attire: green corduroy trousers, with matching green shirt, waistcoat and sports jacket, all topped off with a green-and-brown tweed flat cap. In one arm he held a Barbour jacket that still had the label attached, and in the other a pair of (green) Hunter wellies. Kermit the Frog goes stalking, thought Tish, stifling the urge to giggle.

      ‘You wouldn’t have a pair of scissors I could borrow, would you?’ Dorian gestured to the label on his coat. ‘Figured I might need this tomorrow. We’ll be doing test shots up at the farm all day. It’s beautiful up there by the way. You have an amazing property.’

      ‘Thanks.’ Tish opened a drawer and handed him some kitchen scissors. She contemplated explaining that Loxley wasn’t really her property at all, but then decided that a potted history of Jago’s various self-serving disappearing acts would only confuse things.

      Dorian snipped off the tag and slipped the jacket on. ‘How do I look?’

      Ridiculous, thought Tish, trying to think of a response she could say out loud. Eventually, she came up with, ‘Warm.’

      ‘Not really me, huh?’ Dorian smiled sheepishly, taking it off. ‘No offence, but is it supposed to smell like that?’

      Tish turned around. ‘Shit!’ She’d forgotten all about the kedgeree on the hob. A mini-mushroom cloud of black, fishy smoke now hovered ominously over the frying pan. Pulling it off the heat with one hand and opening the window with the other, she looked down at the sticky blackened mess. ‘Oh well. Beans on toast, I suppose.’

      ‘I’ve got a better idea,’ said Dorian. ‘Why don’t I take you to that quaint little public house I saw on my way up here? It’s the least I can do after all your hospitality. The Woodmen or something, I think it was called.’

      ‘The Carpenter’s Arms?’ said Tish. ‘We can’t go there.’

      ‘Why not?’

      ‘Because the minute anyone hears an American accent and sees you with me, you’ll be mobbed. I don’t think you quite appreciate just how little goes on in Loxley. Your film is the most exciting thing that’s happened here since the Norman invasion.’

      ‘Well, where then?’ said Dorian. ‘I’m starving. And, no offence, but I’m not sure how much faith I have in your cooking skills.’

      Tish frowned but did not defend the indefensible. ‘Fine,’ she said, grabbing her car keys from the hook above the Aga. ‘I’ll ask Mrs D to watch Abel. Follow me.’

      The King’s Arms in Fittleton was about ten miles from Loxley, a low-beamed, cosy village pub with squashy dog-eared sofas and a log fire that was constantly burning, even on summer evenings.

      ‘This is cute,’ said Dorian, nabbing an open table close to the fire. A few of the locals glanced round in mild curiosity when they heard his accent, but they soon resumed their interest in the tense game of darts going on to the left of the bar.

      ‘I haven’t been here in years,’ said Tish, ‘but the food’s supposed to be good.’ Dorian noticed that she pronounced the word ‘yars’. In movies he’d always found the upper-class British accent grating, but on Tish’s lips it was oddly charming and seemed quite unaffected. She ordered a fish pie from the blackboard. Dorian went for the moules marinières, and insisted on an expensive bottle of Sauvignon Blanc for the two of them. He ought to be exhausted. Starting with Chrissie’s five a.m. rant this morning, it had been a hell of a day. But for some reason he felt excited and revived. Both Loxley and Tish had been a pleasant surprise.

      ‘So. Tell me about your family,’ he asked. ‘You live in that incredible house on your own?’

      ‘I’m not on my own,’ said Tish, sipping her wine, which was delicious and tasted of gooseberries. ‘I have Abel and Mrs Drummond. And now all of you lot. It’s a veritable commune up there.’ She explained that she spent most of her time in Romania, and gave him the condensed version of her mother’s bohemian life in Rome and Jago’s latest Tibetan adventure.

      ‘A cave? He lives in a cave?’ Dorian cocked his head to one side.

      He’s attractive, thought Tish. Not handsome, like Michel, but sort of joli-laid. An American Gerard Depardieu.

      ‘Would you care to elaborate?’

      ‘I’m not sure I can, much,’ said Tish. ‘My brother’s choices have never made a lot of sense to me. But you know, running an estate is hard work. I’m afraid that “incredible house” I live in has an incredible appetite for money. You wouldn’t believe how much it costs to run.’

      ‘Oh, you’d be surprised,’ said Dorian, biting a chunk out of the warm bread the waitress had left on the table. He gave Tish a brief potted history of his own Romanian background, and how he’d come to inherit the long-lost family Schloss. Tish noticed the way his eyes lit up when he spoke about the castle and its treasures, and the way the light faded when he mentioned his wife, and how hard Chrissie had found the transition to life in Transylvania.

      ‘She’s an actress, you know, so she has that temperament.’

      Tish didn’t know, but nodded understandingly anyway.

      ‘There’s a part of her that still craves excitement and adventure,’ explained Dorian. ‘The Schloss is indescribably beautiful, but it can be lonely, especially when I’m away and Chrissie’s on her own with Saskia.’

      ‘Saskia?’

      ‘Our daughter.’ Dorian picked up the last remaining mussel from his bowl and sucked it out of its shell. ‘She’s three.’

      Tish thought