Diary of a Painted Lady (13 page)

“Does it matter?”

She looked away from his intense gaze and bit her lip. “We are just missing our partners, that’s all.”

He took her by the shoulders, frowning. “You mean we’re just missing sex?”

“
Oui
,” she whispered.

He shook his head. “And the French have a reputation for being romantic. You think that’s all it is?”

“Yes, that’s just what it is, Dylan.”

“From the moment I saw you,” he said softly, “I felt drawn to you, Astrid. You felt it too.”

She put her hands to her cheeks. “I don’t know, Dylan,” she said. “I need time to think.”

“There you go again, thinking.” Dylan dropped his hands to his sides. “Well, when you decide you want me, you can let me know.”

He turned and left her. Crashing through the bushes, he emerged onto the lawn.

Thankfully, everyone remained in the rear courtyard and he ducked up to his room. He wasn’t in the mood to be sociable. The break up with Jessica had left him bruised, but already, this seemed much more than that.

He showered and changed and feeling better, joined the others around the barb-e-que.

“How did the interiors go?” Mike asked, the only member of the party who wasn’t involved in the movie business, but took a keen interest in it.

“Well, I think, thanks, Mike.”

“It’s interesting about the diary, being found after being lost for over a century. And the truth behind Russo’s murder. Makes for a great story. A great movie too.”

“One would hope,” Antony said, spearing a piece of marinated chicken on the verge of turning black.

“If the writers have their way, they’ll change it,” Dylan said, still annoyed at the constant altering of the script. He searched for Astrid. She was not in the group around the table. He saw her coming up the path dressed in a yellow sweater and tight white pants.

She came to stand beside them. Her lightly tanned skin glowed and her tawny eyes sparkled with good health. “I don’t eat meat thanks, Antony.” she said. “I’ll just have the salad.”

“You’re a great advertisement for vegetarianism,” Blake Romanski, one of the cameramen said, grinning appreciatively.

Dylan felt a twinge of jealousy and turned away, irritated with himself. He went to join the others at the table.

The party went late and the alcohol flowed. Antony put on music and a few couples began to dance on the grass. Dylan watched Blake Romanski swing Astrid around, his jaw tightening. He held out his hand to Jenny and they joined the dancers. Jenny was a great mover, and he tried to lose himself in the moment. He almost succeeded, until a slow dance came on.

Jenny slipped into his arms and they moved together with him conscious of Astrid clasped in Romanski’s arms.

Astrid said goodnight and went to her cabin. Wanting to go after her made Dylan horribly restless, and when Jenny settled beside him with a bottle of wine and two glasses, he welcomed the distraction.

Dylan fell onto his bed without putting on the light, realizing he’d drunk too much. He would feel it in the morning. While deliberating about getting up again to get undressed, the door opened and a woman slipped in.
Astrid!

He fumbled for the light switch.

“Hello sweetie,” Jenny said smiling.

Dylan raised himself on his elbows. “I’m sorry,” he said, grinning drunkenly. “Single bed.”

“We’ll make do.” She whisked off her top to reveal pert, apple-shaped breasts, then pulled off her jeans and panties. She stood naked in front of him baring her taut dancer’s body to his gaze. “What do you think?”

“Very nice, Jenny. But I don’t think this is a good idea.”

She came to trail her fingers over his chest. “Why not?”

“I’m a bit worse for alcohol.”

“As am I, but you’ll do, sweetie,” she said, as she undid his belt. She grabbed his trouser legs and pulled them off, then looked down at him. “Yum.”

She threw a leg over him and sat astride.

Dylan groaned helplessly knowing he’d regret it. “Don’t you believe in foreplay?” he asked with a laugh.

“We have had an entire evening of foreplay,” she said. “Look, you don’t need it and neither do I.”

Had he been flirting with her and did he invite this? Was he trying to slip back into his comfortable old ways as a protection against hurt? Jenny danced on top of him, expertly moving her pelvis. He groaned and grasped her hips to slow her down.

Sometime, in the early morning, Jenny left him to his thoughts. The only kiss she’d given him was a peck on the cheek. She was not the woman he wanted and he knew that she wished for nothing more from him than perhaps a casual return bout in London. He turned on his side and tried to get a few hours’ sleep. In the morning, he had the long drive back to London.

When the alarm sounded, Dylan crawled heavy-eyed and jaded from his bed. He showered and dressed. Throwing his few possessions into his backpack, he went to thank Antony and Mike.

He found Antony frying bacon and eggs. The smell made Dylan’s stomach roil. “Not too good this morning?” Antony said with a laugh.

“I’m convinced if I tilt my head my left eye will fall out,” Dylan said weakly with a hand to his forehead.

“Mike and I heard you. Jenny’s very noisy isn’t she?”

Shame and remorse added to Dylan’s discomfort. He knew it didn’t bother Antony one bit, but he didn’t want to return to that old life. He wanted something else. Maybe he was just growing up. “Has everyone left?”

Antony handed him a cup of tea, a ray of sunlight slanting through the window setting fire to a diamond on his pinkie finger. “Do you mean Astrid?”

The man could read him like a book; there was no point in denying it. “Yes.”

“I thought you two were getting it on yesterday. You lot are hard to figure out.”

Dylan laughed to spite himself.

“She came to say goodbye.” Antony slid the eggs and bacon onto a plate. “Didn’t look too happy. I don’t know if she’s left yet. Eggs?”

Dylan swallowed. “No, thanks. I’ll just take an orange, if I may.” He wondered if Astrid had heard about last night. He reached out to shake Antony’s hand. “Thanks for the weekend. Great place you have here. A little bit of heaven.”

When he reached his bike, he found Astrid packing the boot of the red sports car.

“Jenny tells me you had a good night,” she said without lifting her gaze. “You found what you were seeking then.”

Angry at his weakness, Dylan tried to force his tired brain to come up with some justification for his actions, but there was none. “Astrid —”

“Have a safe trip back.” She climbed into the car and turned the ignition key. The powerful engine sprung to life.

“Take it easy in that car,” Dylan called.

Astrid’s car disappeared in a cloud of dust and he thumped the bike seat with his fist. “Fool,” he muttered. “Damned, bloody fool.”

***

Astrid rose at four o’clock, showered and went over her lines for the day’s shooting. She had two scenes with Dylan. The first an interior, the other took place in the studio’s back lot.

She and Dylan hadn’t seen each other since Cornwall. Astrid wasn’t sure if she’d been avoiding him, or he her. She’d been disappointed in him, even though Jenny had bragged to her that he had a reputation for being hard to get, and was a bit drunk when she’d seduced him. It wasn’t any business of hers who he slept with. Hadn’t she led him to believe she wasn’t interested? If she’d expected the caveman treatment, him banging on her door and sweeping her off to his lair, he wasn’t that sort of man. He’d rush to protect his woman, but he wouldn’t behave like a brute toward her. She realized with a start that she wasn’t just fighting the attraction, she was trying to resist liking him, maybe even falling in love with him. And she worried that she was losing the battle.

Philippe continued to ring her every night around eleven, checking up to see if she was alone. They talked around the state of their relationship, never actually putting into words that it was over. When she hung up the guilty feelings always returned, despite having little to be guilty about–unless her thoughts counted.

The next interior scene worried her. She had to strip to a sheer chemise, it came close to baring all and she always found nudity difficult. Before Dylan’s gaze, it would prove doubly so.

She tried to calm her nerves, chastising herself. Kissing him shouldn’t produce such anxiety, it was unprofessional. She smiled remembering his reaction at the lake. It might be harder for him. Didn’t Olivia de Havilland give Errol Flynn all sorts of trouble during the making of Robin Hood? She just couldn’t get that kiss right, and he had to adjust his tights. She giggled, and was almost tempted to pay him back for sleeping with Jenny, but for the fact that she might enjoy it too much.

At five, she saw the hire car arrive and flew down the stairs, tying a scarf around her hair.

When she opened the door, still checking her bag for essentials, she looked up to find Alistair McNaught standing on the doorstep.

“I thought I’d escort you this morning,” he said.

“But we aren’t working together.”

“I know, I just wanted to see your pretty face.”

Astrid frowned. “Is that the company car?”

“No.”

“Well, I’ll wait for it, Alistair, if you don’t mind.”

His pale green eyes stared at her. “I cancelled it.”

“You had no right to do that,” she said angrily.

He flushed. “You’re not very gracious, lass, are you?”

“Alistair, I have to concentrate on my work. You’re an actor, you know that.”

He shuffled his big feet. “Aye. I promise to be quiet.”

Astrid shrugged and climbed into the car. He really was the most annoying man. Worse, she found him oddly repellent. It made her feel mean and she turned to give him a quick smile of apology.

When the car turned into the gates at Pinewood Studios, she put away the lines she’d been studying just to avoid talking to him. “Thank you for the gesture, Alistair,” she said, coolly polite. “It was entirely unnecessary.”

He merely nodded. Astrid suppressed a shudder. She couldn’t tell what he might be thinking behind that blank stare. She hoped he wouldn’t turn up on the set during her shoot. A word in Laurence’s ear would ensure he was not admitted.

The driver opened the door and she climbed out relieved, and headed for makeup, putting the incident behind her. It wouldn’t do to mention it to Dylan.

She sat for almost two hours in makeup and then an hour was spent in wardrobe. She emerged the personification of a Victorian lady, with her hair piled up and wearing a pink and garnet satin gown beaded and trimmed with Chantilly lace, which did wonders for a woman’s figure. The low square neckline barely skimmed her nipples; she was tightly corseted and gently padded behind into an extreme hour-glass shape. She had a tiny waist, but could hardly breathe and couldn’t imagine how Victorian women bore it.  she counted the steps to reach her spot, marked by a cross on the floor.

A crowd stood around the set, an elegant recreation of a Victorian dining room. The lights had been dimmed, and candelabra threw flickering shadows over the burgundy-striped, papered walls and the polished table. It had been laid with sparkling silverware and crystal glassware. A fire crackled in the grate of the elaborate carved marble fireplace. There were paintings all around the walls, antiques on pedestals, urns of flowers and rose-silk curtains draped across the window. Laurence called for a softer spot on her face. The makeup lady, Connie, rushed over to touch up Astrid’s face, the heat from the lights already destroying her handiwork.

“Now in this scene ...,” Laurence Gilbray began. “This is what Gina is feeling ....” Astrid barely listened. She had worked hard to understand the character’s motivation. She thought she knew what Gina might feel in this moment far better than Gilbray. But when Dylan entered, dressed in the dark evening suit of a Victorian gentleman, a white cravat at his throat, her mind went blank. All notions of teasing him fled.

Gina hit her mark. She fought to regain her composure as the director rehearsed them. Then, all the lights dimmed to candle strength, except the spot lighting her face. From across the table, Dylan became Blair. She was Gina. They went into their banter sparking off each other. After only one take, Gilbray called a wrap and the crew applauded.

At her request, the set was closed for the bedroom scene. Only the director, the camera crew and wardrobe remained. Astrid returned from wardrobe wearing just a pink lace chemise and black stockings under her robe. Makeup and the hairdresser fussed around her, curling her hair with tongs and adding finishing touches to her makeup.

She avoided Dylan’s gaze and listened to Gilbray’s direction, as butterflies battered around in her stomach.

Dylan left the room.

Her assistant removed her robe and darted away.

“Places, everyone. Quiet on the set. Take one.”

The clapperboard began the scene. Astrid stood beside the satin-covered four-poster bed in the sumptuous bedroom

“Rolling, and action,” Gilbray called. The door opened and Dylan entered. His burning blue gaze traveled hungrily over her body. He leaned back against the closed door and watched her. As the scene progressed, she took a deep breath and flirtatiously rolled down a stocking, aware that her nervousness was real.