Darling Sweetheart (16 page)

‘So what just went down between you and Tress?’

‘Pardon?’

‘You said you felt humiliated in real life and he looked like he’d bitten a shit sandwich.’

‘Oh. I didn’t notice.’

‘Why do you feel humiliated? Has somethin’ happened I should know about?’

‘Did you offer me a lift to be a gentleman or to give me the third degree?’

‘I just wanna know you’re okay.’

‘I’m okay.’

He grunted, looked off to the right and waved. One of his black Range Rovers rolled out of the trees. It followed them into a large clearing, where an assortment of hulking vehicles – catering trucks, horse boxes and honey-wagons – formed a wide semi-circle.
A crowd of medieval troops sat at picnic tables or on the grass, eating lunch.

‘So,’ he reprised, ‘how was your flight?’

‘Fine. Thanks again for lending me your plane.’

‘You didn’t stay in Bristol for very long.’

‘No, I didn’t.’

‘You wanna tell me about it?’

‘Not really, no.’

‘Levine said things didn’t go as planned, huh?’

‘No, they didn’t.’

‘Was your boyfriend really that pissed over a dumb newspaper story?’

‘That, ah, wasn’t the issue, no.’

‘Hey, I hope that guy isn’t treatin’ you mean, else I might have to fly over there and straighten out him myself!’

‘I don’t think that will be necessary. Can we please talk about something else apart from me?’ They had almost crossed the clearing, but he didn’t slow his horse. ‘Hey, the catering truck is over there…’

‘You wanna drink? Well, I wanna buy my princess a nice, cold beer in a proper café with proper tables. And I promise: no more questions.’ He headed for the main road. She laughed.

‘You’re mad!’

‘Mad about the girl, honey – mad about the girl.’

And so, like some sort of conquering hero with his rescued damsel, Emerson rode into Beynac, smiling and waving, as the Range Rover crawled behind them, hazard lights flashing. When they reached the main street, tourists flocked around them. People said things like,
‘C’est Harry Emerson, le movie-star!’
and
‘C’est qui la mademoiselle?’
They held cameras aloft, taking pictures. Emerson smiled and waved for them all. Annalise just smiled. It was amusing but deeply weird. Then, she saw three paparazzi run from Rue de l’Ancienne Poste. The throng was too thick to penetrate, so they climbed onto a parked car and pointed their
big zoom lenses. She tapped Emerson’s shoulder. ‘Harry! The paps!’

He guffawed. ‘Who cares about those guys?’

‘I do! I’ve got them camped on my bloody doorstep!’

‘They’re just parta the game, honey – parta the game.’ He unsheathed his sword and struck a pose. The paparazzi snapped like crazy. The mob cheered then a tussle broke out when a shopowner flew out of his premises and swung a broom at the photographers. Presumably, it was his car they were standing on. Emerson laughed all the more and spurred his horse towards the Chemin du Château. With a string of pursuers, they clattered their way upwards over the cobbles. Annalise looked behind; Emerson’s bodyguards had been forced to abandon their Range Rover and now pushed their way into the narrow funnel of the chemin, trying to elbow past the tourists.

Upwards they thundered, pedestrians diving out of their way, until Emerson finally halted the beast outside a café near the top of the hill. They dismounted and he tied the reins to a handrail, Western-style.

‘Beer, right?’

‘Poor boy.’ She patted the stallion’s flank. ‘We can’t just leave him here. What if he gets frightened and kicks someone, like a child?’

‘These fellas are trained for film sets. They can handle guns goin’ off around them, so I reckon he can deal with a few tourists. Anyway, my men will be here soon – they’ll look after him.’

He took her arm and steered her into the café, a busy terrace that seemed to float above the rooftops and the trees. A babble broke out as the waiter showed them to a free table. Annalise ordered a glass of beer for herself and a mineral water for Emerson before it occurred to her that they were both still in costume and had no way of paying.

‘Don’t worry,’ he basked in the attention, ‘my people will deal with it.’

A small boy with white-blond hair approached them and stared. His parents, all sunburn and Estuary English accents, chided him to return to his seat, but Emerson patted his head.

‘Hiya, little guy!’

‘Is your name Harry?’ the boy asked.

‘Hey kid – you got me.’

‘My daddy says you’re famous.’

‘Well you tell your daddy that I’m in town makin’ a movie and when it comes out, I hope he takes your mom to see it!’

‘Is that a real sword?’

Emerson half-unsheathed his weapon and ran a thumb along its edge. ‘It looks real, but they don’t give me a sharp one in case I cut myself. But I’ll tell you what,’ he re-sheathed the sword, undid his belt then buckled the whole assemblage over the little boy’s chest and shoulder, who nearly folded under its weight. ‘Why don’t you keep it?’ The child’s mouth hung open.

‘Adam!’ his mother scolded. ‘Give it back!’

‘Don’t you worry, lady, they got plenty more where this came from.’

The woman blushed. ‘I used to be a huge fan of your films,’ she nodded at her husband, who looked like a computer programmer, ‘before I married Dick.’

‘Well, you’re gonna love this new one. It’s gonna be huge, thanks to my beautiful co-star here, Annalise Palatine.’ Annalise blushed.

‘Hey,’ Dick piped up, ‘aren’t you David Palatine’s daughter? Oh my God! Fanshawe and Grovel! I grew up with that stuff!’

‘Then, Sir,’ Emerson answered for her in a Fanshawe accent, ‘you have the most excellent taste!’ He patted the gawping child again and reverted to his own voice. ‘Y’all enjoy your holiday folks, and don’t go cuttin’ any heads off with that sword, y’hear?’ He turned his shoulder, making it clear that the exchange, friendly as it had been, was now irrevocably over. The other guests still stared, but Emerson now fixed his eyes firmly on
Annalise. They glittered. Their drinks arrived.

‘What?’ he asked, his voice low.

‘What…?’

‘You’re lookin’ at me funny.’

‘You’re looking at
me
funny.’

‘Hey. I promised you a nice, cold beer in a café with proper tables. You gonna let it go warm?’ She sipped her drink, relishing the sour shock of it. ‘So tell me – what’s eatin’ ya today?’

‘You also promised no questions.’

‘I lied.’

‘I’m… a bit preoccupied, I suppose.’

‘That was some performance you gave back there.’

‘Thanks.’

‘So – the movie’s fine, we got nice drinks in a nice café and everyone wants to be us. What’s the problem?’

She groaned. ‘Harry… you play the big movie star with all your bodyguards in their spy thriller jeeps…’

He grinned. ‘Damn right!’

‘I know this is all just a bit of fun for you, but…’

‘But…?’

‘… you’re going to think I’m a whingeing cow…’

‘Whassamatter?’

She sighed. ‘Tomorrow’s papers – I can see them now: “Emerson Whisks His English Rose Away on a Frigging Horse”.’

He smacked his forehead. ‘Gee, I forgot! Your boyfriend – I guess this time he really will be pissed, huh?’

‘Jimmy Lockhart can take a running jump, for all I care.’

‘Oh. It’s like that, huh?’

‘Yes, it’s like that.’

He pouted but also seemed pleased. ‘Foolish guy, dumpin’ ya over somethin’ as stupid as a newspaper headline.’

‘It was the other way round, actually – I’ve dumped him.’

‘Why?’

All sorts of horrid images flooded her head. ‘I’d rather not talk about it. But this hassle from the press isn’t helping – do you have any idea what I had to do to get to work this morning? I had to climb off my balcony to escape through my neighbour’s back garden! Those photographers have set up permanent camp in my street.’

His face fell. ‘You climbed off a balcony?’

She nodded. ‘At six o’clock this morning.’

‘You coulda hurt yourself!’

‘It’s not very high but that’s not my point. The point is, how am I supposed to feel like a twelfth-century woman if–’

‘Listen,’ he interrupted, ‘we gotta do somethin’! I agree; your security is becomin’ a major problem. Levine said you were rushed in your boyfriend’s hotel.’

‘My ex-boyfriend’s hotel.’

‘Whatever. How about this: if he’s no longer a consideration–’

‘He’s not.’

‘–then why don’t you come and stay with me?’
‘What
?’

He touched her hand. ‘No matter what you think of ’em, Levine and the guys ain’t just for show. What could be safer than a castle, with all my security keepin’ the press off your back?’

‘But if I move in with you, then they can print what they like! We’ll be having babies next!’

‘And would that be such a bad thing?’ She opened her mouth to answer, but no sound came out. He grinned. ‘You got that funny look again.’

‘HARRY!’

‘I mean it! You should stay with me.’

‘But what will everyone
think
?’

‘To hell with what everyone thinks!’ he cried. The entire café openly earwigged, utterly agog. ‘I ain’t makin’ a pass at you! Stay a few days, until we can sort somethin’ out! I worry about you,
kiddo! Don’t forget – I’m a producer on this movie and if anythin’ happened to you, we’d be in serious shit! I got a lotta dollars tied up in this thing and I wanna protect my investment!’

She looked around, embarrassed. ‘Right now your investment feels a bit overwhelmed.’

‘Come and stay. For both our sakes.’

‘I’ll tell you what; drop me home and I promise to think about it. I’d like a nap before Peter wants us back.’

He shrugged and looked disappointed. They made to leave, but when they reached the doorway, she saw that three of Emerson’s bodyguards were wrestling with a scrum of paparazzi, whilst the Chemin du Château was hopelessly blocked with tourists. Camera flashes went off. The tethered stallion pondered the commotion with equine calm. Emerson tapped one of his men on the shoulder.

‘Where’s my transport?’

‘Top of the hill, Sir.’

‘I want you to take personal care of that horse, fella.’

‘Yessir.’

He took her by the arm and together they climbed the remaining hairpins to just below the château, where Levine waited with another Range Rover. Emerson ordered him to drive to Annalise’s apartment, but as they turned into her street, they saw that the rank of paparazzi outside her door had more than doubled. Thuggish-looking figures ran at the jeep in a storm of camera flashes. Levine reversed as Annalise shook her head.

‘This is insane… maybe I should book into that hotel in Sarlat.’

Emerson snorted. ‘They’d hunt you down before nightfall.’

‘Okay, okay – I accept your kind offer, but only for a day or two until production gets something else sorted. We are not, repeat not, living together, okay?’

He grinned, reached forward and patted Levine on the shoulder. ‘Home, Grovel, what-ho!’

Bang!

The noise woke her. Bang! She heard it again. Then she heard screaming. It was Darling Sweetheart.

‘Shut up! All of you, shut up! I command you to shut UP!’

She lifted Froggy and went to the window. It was very early; Darling Sweetheart was outside on the grass. He wore only his pyjama bottoms and his glasses and he was pointing a gun at the trees. Bang! Crows flew around, cawing and screeching.

‘You bloody bastards! I’m trying to sleep! I command you to shut up!’

She ran into the upper hallway, along the gallery, down the stone stairs, across the black-and-white tiles, through the open front door and into the porch. Darling Sweetheart’s new red car was parked in front of it. The driveway stones were sore on her feet, but she crossed them quickly and got to the grass, which was wet but soft to run on. Darling Sweetheart pointed his gun again.

‘Don’t kill them!’ she called. ‘Don’t kill them!’

‘Kill them? I’ll fucking murder them! Just as I was getting to sleep…
just
as I was finally getting to sleep, these feathered hooligans start with their noise! And they won’t shut up, so they will die, die, die!’ BANG! The noise of the gun up close was really scary so she hugged Froggy. Darling Sweetheart looked at her. His eyes were red behind his glasses and he was wobbly. ‘Annalise, what are you doing out in the garden at six o’clock in the bloody morning?’ She opened her mouth to answer, but he looked behind her and yelled. ‘Hey! HEY! Think you’re smart, do you? Think you’re bloody clever?’ She turned around and saw that one of the crows was on top of his car. He pointed his gun at it. BANG! The crow flew away, but the window of the car smashed and there were holes in the door with smoke coming from them. ‘No! No!’ He threw the gun down and ran to the car but forgot the stones would be spiky on his bare feet so he jumped and swore. ‘My Ferrari!’ he howled. ‘My fucking
Ferrari!’ He knelt and slapped the car and started to cry. Annalise felt sick in her tummy. She walked across the stones. With her free hand, she touched his shoulder. It was all hairy, with black hairs. Maybe that was why Darling Sweetheart could be warm outside without his pyjama top, because, like Froggy, he had fur. ‘Ohhhh!’ he moaned. He grabbed the bottom of her nightie and blew his nose into it.

‘Ughhh! Yuck!’

‘I’m sorry, Schnopple-kopf,’ he sniffed. ‘I’m sorry you should see me like this.’

‘You put snotters on my nightie! And you tried to kill the crows!’ He stood up and lifted her, still sniffling.

‘They deserve punishment; you don’t.’

He carried her towards the walled garden but nearly fell. She felt frightened until he sat on the bench by the fountain and put her on his knee. The roses had turned brown, but some white petals lay on the path.

‘Why are you so cross? Because you shot your car?’

‘Look, your dad’s just a bit hassled, okay?’

‘What is hassled?’

‘Hassled is when people make you do stuff you don’t want to do.’

‘Sometimes people make me do stuff I don’t want to do.’

‘Like what?’

‘I don’t want to go to school.’

‘Yeah,’ he sighed, ‘you hate school and your dad hates making films.’