Fame and Wuthering Heights. Emily Bronte

about keeping things low-key, not to mention obsessed with secrecy and having as few bodies as possible on the production. ‘Fewer people means less chance of leaks,’ he’d told Sabrina endlessly, like the world’s preachiest parrot. He’d only divulged the movie’s location to his actors forty-eight hours ago, expecting them to drop everything and get on a plane like a bunch of lemmings.

      ‘All set, ma’am.’ Billy’s gentle brogue was reassuring. ‘You sure you’re ready for this, now? D’you want me to go in front?’

      ‘No,’ said Sabrina, her dark eyes glinting with a combination of fear and excitement. ‘I can handle it.’

      As it turned out, she couldn’t.

      The arrivals hall was complete insanity. A zoo of photographers and reporters literally trampled people underfoot, knocking their cameras into mothers and children and elderly people in their desperation to get to Sabrina. Meanwhile, from all sides, reporters screamed out inflammatory questions, desperate to get a reaction that they could spin into a story.

      ‘Is it true you’ve come to Britain because no American director will work with you?’

      ‘Dorian Rasmirez is American, asshole,’ Sabrina shot back.

      ‘What were you in rehab for, Sabrina?’

      ‘Exhaustion.’

      ‘Are you an alcoholic?’

      ‘No. Are you a moron?’

      ‘Is it true you were being treated for sex addiction? How many men have you slept with?’

      ‘Six thousand. That’s why I was exhausted.’

      A few of the reporters did at least laugh at that.

      ‘Have you anything to say to the black community of this country, after your offensive remarks about slavery?’

      The press pack was moving in closer. Suddenly Sabrina felt panicked. There were no police, no security at all to protect her. Billy and Enrique were the only things standing between her and being torn to shreds, or at least that was how it felt. Her heart rate quickened and her palms began to sweat.

      ‘Fuck off,’ she snarled, edging closer to Enrique, who wrapped a tree-trunk-like arm around her tiny shoulders. A cacophony of cameras whirred into action: click click click.

      Meanwhile, Billy moved forward, using the luggage trolley as a defensive shield. ‘Give her some space please, guys.’ A seasoned professional, he knew that firm politeness worked a lot better than aggression in these circumstances, and wondered if Sabrina would ever learn to keep her mouth shut. The sad thing was that – for all her stupid outbursts – she wasn’t actually a bad kid. Just scared and insecure as hell, like most actresses.

      Finally, they made it outside the terminal building, where a blacked-out limo was waiting for them. Enrique bundled Sabrina inside, lifting her up one-handed and stuffing her into the back seat like a rag doll, simultaneously pushing back two photographers with his other hand. Sabrina put her head down between her knees and waited for all the banging and shouting to stop. Even once the car pulled away, with Billy in the front seat shouting ‘Go, go, go!’ at the driver like a marine heading into battle, she looked up to see grown men chasing after them like a pack of slavering hyenas, the flashes on their cameras hopelessly pop-pop-popping as the car gained speed.

      Only once they’d reached the motorway did Sabrina sit up and take a breath.

      ‘Well that was fucking crazy.’

      Billy turned around and gave her a disapproving look. ‘You shouldn’t have said anything, you know,’ he said. ‘They’ll use it against you.’

      ‘They were attacking me!’ protested Sabrina. ‘If you guys hadn’t been there they’d have torn me limb from fucking limb. You saw it.’

      ‘Yeah. We did. But whoever sees those pictures in tomorrow’s papers won’t have seen it. All they’ll see is you lashing out and swearing. Is it really that hard to put your head down and say nothing?’

      Yeah, thought Sabrina. It is. For me it is. I’ve always been a fighter. If I hadn’t fought back, I’d still be in Fresno, pumping some shit into my arm and getting molested by assholes who knew they could get away with it.

      Leaning against Enrique’s chest, she felt comforted by the size and smell of him. The awareness of his strength and closeness, combined with her own wildly pumping adrenaline, suddenly gave her a rush of desire. If only they were alone, she’d pull over somewhere and have him take her right there on the back seat. Screw all the fear and tension out of her head.

      But sadly they weren’t alone. They were with Billy who, as usual, was right. She shouldn’t have said anything to the reporters. This movie was her chance, her comeback, her lifeboat back to adulation. She’d already agreed to spend the entire summer holed up in Butt-Fuck Nowhere England with a director who clearly hated her and Vain-o-rel ‘you’re in my light’ Hudson as a co-star, for no pay. So the idea that she might have screwed things up for herself before she’d even reached the set filled her with frustration and dread.

      ‘How long till we get there?’ she asked morosely.

      ‘According to the sat-nav, three hours,’ said Billy. ‘Here.’ He threw a pillow into the back seat. ‘Put Mr Muscle down for five minutes and try and get some sleep.’

      ‘What do you think?’

      Viorel looked across Loxley’s deer park to the house in the distance. It was still early morning, and a low, dawn mist hung over the grass like a gossamer shroud. In the air he could smell scents at once deeply familiar and long forgotten – wood smoke, mown grass, rain, honeysuckle – smells of the English countryside. It felt bizarre to be standing here next to Dorian Rasmirez, of all people, with the director holding out his hand like a proud father, as if the exquisite Elizabethan manor were his home and not some movie location he’d rented by the hour.

      ‘I think it’s perfect,’ said Vio. ‘Quintessentially English. Merchant Ivory couldn’t have dreamed this place up.’

      He’d arrived from LA very late last night and gone straight to his room to crash. The housekeeper who’d shown him where he’d be sleeping was a real blast from his boarding-school past, a bossy, no-nonsense matron type who could not have been less impressed by Viorel’s movie-star status.

      ‘Clean towels are in the cupboard,’ she said brusquely. ‘Sheets are changed on Mondays, and if you want a cooked breakfast you need to be down by half-past eight.’ She was gone with a swish of her tartan dressing gown before Viorel had a chance to ask her her name, let alone where breakfast would be served, or whether she had such a thing as an alarm clock. As it turned out, he didn’t need one. After a fitful night’s sleep on a bed that seemed to have been fashioned out of a solid slab of granite, he woke before dawn to the sound of rooks cawing in the trees and had to pinch himself in order to remember that this was not in fact 1996, he was not in his bedroom in Martha Hudson’s Dorset rectory, and that his fabulous LA life, fame and success were not merely a beautiful dream from which he had just woken up.

      After a cold shower (no hot water till seven, he later learned), he pulled on a pair of vintage Levis and a blue silk Armani sweater and headed downstairs in search of the kitchen and a cup of coffee. Everyone else was asleep, so the house was quiet and gloomy. It took Vio a while to get his bearings. The place was enormous, a veritable maze of corridors, with servants’ staircases popping up in unexpected places and leading you into another section of the rabbit warren. Vio had been in hundreds of similar houses growing up: grand, old, down-at-heel. Hundreds of bedrooms, no bathrooms. Everyone living in the kitchen. But his memories of England had not been happy ones, and the familiarity of Loxley Hall made him more queasy than it did nostalgic.

      Once he found the kitchen, however, he perked up. It was cheerful and bright, with a large jug full of daffodils on the table and a child’s scribbled artwork Blu-tacked to the cupboards. There was real coffee in the fridge, and bacon, and someone had helpfully left a sliced white