Darling Sweetheart (24 page)

‘Mum…’

‘I had a dream about you a few weeks ago, Annalise. It wasn’t a very pleasant dream, but it is a central tenet of my faith that we should heed our dreams.’ Her mother grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her towards the temple, using the shotgun as a staff. ‘You appeared to me as a vision in your bedroom, but as an evil vision… you were cheeky! You answered your mother back! You refused to pay me rent!’

‘Mum, if that gun were to–’

‘Silence! Don’t you know that you are in a holy place? But now that you’re here, we must pray for your father’s soul; pray for his black, black soul. Then we’ll discuss your terms and conditions.’ She reached up with the gun and whacked a dangling skillet pan. ‘Money doesn’t grow on trees, you know! If you’re going to stay, you’ll have to pay! How much money did he leave you?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Balls! You were his favourite! He wouldn’t have died without giving you something!’

‘Mum, it was my seventeenth birthday last week – I spent it in the library, starving hungry, wrapped in a sleeping bag.’

‘You know, you’re just like him – always thinking of yourself; me, me, me, me, ME!’

‘Mum…’

‘No! You listen to me! Your father was a rotten bastard! As soon as he grew bored of anything, he threw it away! He always liked you, but he discarded me!’ And now she addressed the fountain, with its sharp glued shiny bits. ‘Discarded me! Discarded me! Repeat after me: discarded me! Repeat after me: DISCARDED ME!’

‘Mum, he was horrid to me too…’

But her mother smacked her on the back of the head. ‘Repeat after me: DISCARDED ME!’

Annalise broke free and sprinted for the arched door, whipped as she went by demon branches.

‘Hey!’ Her mother waved the gun. ‘Come back! Come back here or I’ll shoot you dead!’ But Annalise burst from the garden and ran for the house, so there was no way she could have heard her mother murmur as she lowered the weapon, ‘Silly girl. It isn’t loaded – do you think I have money to burn?’

Gulping down sobs, Annalise crashed through the kitchen and up the servants’ stairs, the ones she normally didn’t dare use because they creaked so awfully. She pelted around the gallery and along the top corridor, past doors, doors, doors. She ripped the last one open, dived inside and slammed it shut. The room had no furniture, otherwise she’d have wedged it shut with a chair. Most of the shelves were empty; all the valuable books had been sold. Some of the rest – paperbacks, stuff the auctioneers didn’t want – these had been stacked in the far corner, to form a waist-height wall. There was just enough room behind this paper edifice to spread a sleeping bag. Her few possessions were stashed on an empty shelf – a toothbrush, a hairbrush, a tube of toothpaste, a roll of toilet paper and a box of candles. She dived into the sleeping bag without taking her boots off and curled up, hugging Froggy tight.

‘Jesus!’ he snarled. ‘Now Mother has a gun!’

‘Shhh!’ Annalise admonished. ‘Please!’

‘No! What do I keep telling you? We need to talk about Mother! Firstly, there’s the risk of serious physical harm to our persons.’

‘Froggy, don’t!’

‘… then, there’s the genetic factor. If mother is batshit crazy – and I think on today’s evidence alone, we can safely say that mother is batshit crazy – then her condition could be hereditary, which means that you could be batshit crazy too!’

‘Shhhh!’ she hissed. ‘Be quiet!’

‘Don’t you shush me! The truth hurts! I mean, talking to a soft toy – do you think that’s normal?’

‘I meant shush, there’s someone coming!’

‘What?’

‘Listen!’

Froggy fell silent. Sure enough, a woman’s voice could be heard, far along the corridor. Doors opened then closed again.

‘I told you! Mother’s got a gun!’

‘Froggy, I’m frightened!’

‘We’re gonna die! We tipped her over the edge by stealing her fecking Brussels sprouts and now she’s gonna find us and blow us both to Kingdom Come with that dmmwwmhh…’

‘Annalise clapped a hand over Froggy’s mouth as the library door opened. There was a short silence then the floor creaked. Annalise shut her eyes and screamed, thrashing violently. The wall of books collapsed, revealing her and Froggy wriggling around in the sleeping bag like an oversized, two-headed worm.

Annalise? Is that you?’

She opened her eyes. Sylvia Jardyce stood in the stripped-out library of Whin Abbey, her tiny feet buried beneath a heap of crumpled paperbacks. A man stood beside her, a much taller man, wearing a long, black raincoat.

‘Holy Christ!’ Froggy exclaimed. ‘It’s Batman and Robin!’

She opened her eyes. Two figures stood over her, one dressed in black. She tried to back away from them but couldn’t. She looked around. She wasn’t in the library at Whin Abbey; instead, she was lying on a white leather sofa.

‘Boss! She’s awake!’ Levine spoke over his shoulder. Frost also looked down at her, arms folded. Emerson appeared in her field of view, pushing between his employees.

‘Honey!’ He knelt. ‘Are you okay?’

‘Where…?’

‘Relax, you’re in my trailer – the doctor’s on his way.’

‘Doctor?’

‘You fainted!’

‘Did I?’

‘You gave me a helluva scare – my guys thought you’d been shot! Ain’t that right, Levine?’

‘Sure thing, H.E.’

‘Peter!’ Emerson growled over his shoulder in a much less soothing tone, ‘Where’s that fuckin’ quack? We bin waitin’ five whole minutes here!’

‘Five minutes? Is that how long I’ve been out?’

But her question went ignored as Frost and Levine moved farther apart to reveal Tress at the far side of the room, leaning against one of the highly polished cabinets with a deeply peeved expression. He snarled into his walkie-talkie, ‘David, I am in Emerson’s trailer. Where is the doctor? Hello, David? Come in David!’ There was no answer, only static. He banged the radio off the gleaming wood.

Annalise sat upright. ‘I don’t need a doctor, I’m… urgh…’ The room wobbled and she lay down again.

‘D’ya see?’ Emerson leapt up. ‘Goddamn! Our leadin’ lady could be dyin’ here! She could have a… a…
brain tumour
or
somethin’! I knew she shouldn’a done that crazy stunt!’

‘Harry, I’m just dizzy,’ she mumbled, ‘you know, that thing you sometimes get when you stand up too quickly?’

‘Happens to me all the time,’ Levine agreed. The others looked at him. He shrugged. ‘Ah’m jus’ sayin’…’

‘Roses,’ she remembered, ‘my trailer’s full of roses.’

‘Is that why you fainted?’ Emerson frowned. ‘You allergic or somethin’?’ He turned on Tress. ‘Did you put flowers in Miss Palatine’s trailer?’

‘No.’

He addressed Frost. ‘Did we?’

‘Negative, H.E.’

‘Goddamn!’ He turned to Annalise. ‘It’s that ex-boyfriend of yours! He’s tryin’ to crawl back up your ass! He wants to be your darlin’ sweetheart again!’

She jolted upright.
‘What
did you say?’

‘You were talkin’ in your sleep, somethin’ about a darlin’ sweetheart.’ Everyone stared at her. ‘Fact, you made some damn weird noises; a voice, kinda like in the
Exorcist.’

She felt like she’d been thrown off the castle ramparts.

‘What…what did I say?’

‘Oh, we couldn’t make it out, just the bit about a darlin’ sweetheart.’

‘Uh… I’m… uh… terribly sorry. I must be very tired.’

‘See!’ Emerson turned on Tress again. ‘Told ya!’ Tress did not respond, but his face darkened further. ‘I knew it! All this goofin’ around on horses and hangin’ off cliffs; shootin’ outdoors in the heat, day in, day out – kid, you need a break!’

‘But we have a film to make.’

‘Exactly! Which is why we’re off to London!’

‘What?’

‘Your home town! We got news this morning that they’ve finished the sets at Shepperton, so while you were flaked out there, I was tellin’ Peter we should take a break from all this outdoor
stuff and do some nice, relaxin’ interiors.’

‘But we still have loads to do here! London isn’t scheduled until next month!’

‘That,’ Tress snarled from the far side of the room, ‘is what I’ve been trying to tell your co-star. This is an eighty-million-dollar production and we must observe the schedules.’

‘Schedules!’ Emerson flung his head back and his arms wide, as if remonstrating with some heavenly authority. ‘Do ya think I got where I am today by consultin’ fuckin’ schedules? There
is
no schedule for what we need to achieve here! We gotta set this movie on fire! Is the love there, Annalise?’ He banged his fist off his chest. ‘Can you and me do
passion?’

‘Err…’

‘Right answer! Peter, organise a team for London! We’re gonna spend a coupla weeks gettin’ up close and personal! Just bring who you need; everyone else can stay here and shoot battle shit ’til we’re done. Levine!’ he barked. ‘Get the car! Frost! Call the jet! Annalise! You’re comin’ with me – right here, right now! Goddamn, people!’ His voice rose to a crescendo, ‘I have such a hard-on for this movie!’

Outside, as Frost and Levine practically bundled Annalise into the back of a jeep, a van with blue flashing lights pulled into the keep. Two men wearing white uniforms leapt out of it, one carrying a holdall.

‘Docteur!’
he announced.
‘Ou sont les urgences?’

‘Guys, you’re just in time!’ Emerson laughed. ‘Give this man a very strong sedative,’ he jerked his thumb at the thunder-faced Tress, ‘then extract the bug from his ass!’ Cackling, he leapt aboard the jeep and it sped away, followed by another.

As they neared Emerson’s castle, it became apparent that something was happening in the village of Saint-Christophe. The single street was full of cars – an unprecedented sight – and many of the normally invisible locals stood in their doorways, arms
folded, staring up at the castle gates where a crowd of paparazzi waited, much bigger than the pack that had staked out Annalise’s flat.

‘Hey,’ Emerson’s buoyancy did not seem the least bit punctured, ‘looks like we’re pullin’ out just in time! Wonder how they found us?’

‘Yeah,’ Frost concurred flatly. ‘I wonder.’ Levine took a long look at them in his rear-view mirror.

‘Let’s have a bitta fun here.’ Emerson grinned. ‘Judy – get out. Collect our passports and stuff and meet us at the plane. Levine – you ready for some drivin’?’

‘Ready if you are.’

The car stopped at the castle gates. Frost slid out and walked back to the support jeep. Annalise was seated on the side closest to the photographers; just as she opened her mouth to ask Frost to bring her a change of clothes, Emerson leaned across and opened her window to a fusillade of white, flashing light. She tried to avert her face but he pressed close against her and yelled, ‘Guys! Guess what? You’re just in time to say goodbye! We’re off to a secret location to get married! Catch us if you can!’ The glass whirred shut and the car shot off. Whooping and bouncing around like an overgrown child, Emerson watched out the rear window as the photographers dived for their vehicles. Feeling more than slightly ill, Annalise held on tight as Levine drove at a frightening pace.

When they landed at Heathrow, Frost had two suitably paramilitary-looking people-carriers waiting – black, of course. But Annalise was still wearing Roselaine’s tatty dress and leather slippers. Surrounded by runway lights and the massive, moving tail-fins of airliners, she felt as if she were Roselaine herself, rudely jolted from the twelfth century to the twenty-first. Everything was wrong – the journey was wrong, jet planes were wrong, London was all wrong. She didn’t speak on the way into town,
overwhelmed by the dense, fast-moving traffic and the infinitely illuminated office buildings. Eventually, they rounded Marble Arch and pulled up outside the Dorchester Hotel. Chattering, everyone got out except her; she huddled into the back seat.

‘C’mon, honey,’ he laughed, ‘I just gotta take you shoppin’ in the mornin’ – we’ll hit Harrods. You look a mess in that old dress.’

‘Why have we stopped here?’

‘’Cos we gotta buncha suites booked – c’mon! We gotta busy day tomorrow – spotta shoppin’, then we gotta getta the studio.’

‘But… I thought you had a flat in Mayfair? I mean, this
is
Mayfair…’

‘Is it? Hell, I always stay at the Dorchester! They know how to treat a guy right! Last time Babs Streisand stayed here, the staff were told not to look her in the eye! And guess what? They didn’t! Now that’s what I call service!’

‘I want to go home.’

‘You wanna what?’

‘I want to stay at my house in Greenwich.’

He looked dubious, as if unwilling to allow her.

‘But I was hopin’ you’d stay here with me. Nice private dinner, hang out, relax… but,’ he added hurriedly, ‘you got your own suite; I ain’t tryin’ to be funny.’

She forced herself to smile, leaned out of the car, squeezed his hand and kissed him on the cheek. He looked taken aback but not displeased. She was conscious of Frost, the bodyguards and the hotel porters watching them from the hotel steps.

‘Listen,’ she gave him her best sultry whisper, ‘we’ll spend as many nights as you want in the Dorchester, after we…’ she pecked his cheek again, ‘…you know, when we don’t need separate suites.’

‘Okay, kiddo,’ his voice was husky, ‘whatever you say. Bernstein!’ he called the bodyguard back to the car. ‘Drive Miss Palatine to wherever she’s goin’.’

‘Don’t be silly, I’ll take a cab.’

‘No way. C’mon, Bernstein, chop chop! See you at Shepperton tomorrow lunch-time, okay? You and me, we got work to do!’

As the car moved off down Park Lane, she felt afraid, as if something really bad was about to happen. She felt worse than before any audition or any first day of filming. The car sat-nav had a synthetic female voice. It told Bernstein where to go, and she slid down into her seat, as if hiding from baleful, all-seeing eyes.

In the hotel lift, Levine pressed a button and the door slid shut. Emerson shook his head.

‘Goddamn,’ he asked aloud, ‘what kinda woman turns down a suite at the Dorchester and a shoppin’ trip to Harrods?’

Frost’s gaze remained fixed on the ascending floor numbers.

It was only when she reached Maze Hill that Annalise remembered she had no key, mobile phone or money. Luckily, she kept an emergency key under a plant pot at the side of the house, so she bade Bernstein goodnight – he immediately drove off – and, after a bit of stumbling around in the shadows, let herself in. Her home was typical of that part of Greenwich: brown-brick Edwardian, with a simple façade consisting of a white-painted porch, a large window on the ground floor and two smaller ones above. Inside, it was generous for someone who lived alone, but not obscenely so. The ground floor was open-plan, with a lounge at the front and a kitchen at the rear. There were three upstairs bedrooms: hers, a spare that had never, in her time, been used and a third that she had converted into an office. She turned on the downstairs lights, revealing a bland space, painted in whites and creams, with understated modern furniture. The walls were bereft of pictures, the shelves empty of knick-knacks. She had never redecorated – the previous owners had been slavish minimalists,
which suited her fine. She caught her reflection in the old full-length mirror that hung on the living-room wall. A keyhole in the wooden frame betrayed its previous life as a wardrobe door; it was one of the few sentimental items she kept on display. Her dress and leather slippers showed off her legs and arms to good effect; she’d lost weight and was brown from the French sunshine her hair was untidy but rich around her shoulders. She should have been pleased, but tonight, her image made her feel even more disconnected, as if she were a ghost, visiting a former life. She felt a sudden urge to run away… but where to? Back to France? Back to the twelfth century? She fetched a glass, a corkscrew and a bottle of wine from the kitchen and extinguished the lights. As she did, a black people-carrier slid past the front window. It was Bernstein, looking for a place to park. She fled upstairs.