Superstar (28 page)

Carrin nodded
and sighed. She had lost interest in the problem of the gore.
Mark's hostility hurt, and she had not experienced it so intensely
before. Harold sat on the chair next to hers. "Do you want to tell
me why you and Mark are fighting again?"

"No."

"Maybe I can
help."

She forced a
smile. "You can't."

Harold
nodded and stood up as Warren arrived to find out what was going
on. He had heard about the argument all the way over at the
refreshment tent. Harold pulled a face and headed for the make-up
tent, while Warren took over his seat. The producer did not
trespass upon her gloom, but sat in companionable silence, which
she much preferred.

Soon Mark
emerged from the tent, still scowling, arguing now with the
director. He punctuated his harsh statements with curt gestures,
clearly unhappy with something, but she could not hear what he was
saying. Harold tried to reason with him, making soothing gestures.
Mark turned at the edge of the staging area and made a short, final
remark before he swung away and marched to his marks. Warren sat
forward, looking worried.

"I don't like
this," he muttered.

"What's
wrong?"

"I don't know,
but Mark looks furious." He raised a hand and signalled to Harold,
who walked over. "What's wrong with Mark?"

The director
shot Carrin a glance. "He's angry."

"Should we
postpone the shoot?"

Harold
shrugged. "He wants to do it."

"It's
complicated. What if he makes a mistake?"

"We
re-shoot."

They swapped a
look, and Carrin wished she could read their minds. Harold patted
Warren on the shoulder.

"His timing's
always good. It'll be okay."

Harold went
back to his vantage point, and Carrin turned to Warren. "What's the
problem?"

Warren shook
his head. "Probably nothing. Harold's a bit worried about Mark
doing this scene in his present mood, that's all."

Carrin turned
to watch the scene, surprised to see Janice's stunt double taking
up her position in front of Mark. As she studied the layout, the
dangers became apparent. All the cameras were behind the
stuntwoman, focused on Mark. Beyond him was a ridge of rock. Carrin
looked at the script as Mark and the stuntwoman took up their
positions in a fighting crouch. Alarmed, she glanced up as action
was called. The stuntwoman bent and picked up a handful of sand,
throwing it in Mark's face. As he raised his hands and staggered
back, she kicked him in the chin. It did not make contact, of
course, but Mark jerked backwards as if struck, stumbled into the
ridge of rock and fell backwards over it.

Carrin and
Warren jumped up as shouts of dismay came from beyond the rocks. A
terrible fear clenched her gut, and she sprinted for the ridge,
Warren pounding behind her. Racing around the stone barrier, she
found Mark lying on the ground, a crowd of crew around him. A thick
foam cushion the size of a double mattress lay next to him, but he
had missed the soft landing.

"Mark!" Carrin
choked back a cry of anguish and tried to push her way to his side.
The safetymen who had been waiting for his landing were in her way,
and others tried to get to him, including a white-clad man who was
the location medic. All she could see clearly was Mark's ashen face
as he lay on his back; the rest was a blur.

"Mark!" Carrin
tried to elbow her way through the growing throng as cold dread
clutched her heart. More and more people gathered, and some shouted
for room and air. Carrin pounded on a back that blocked her way,
determined to reach his side. He looked so terribly vulnerable,
stretched out, his eyes closed. A pool of blood spread from under
his head. Someone grabbed her from behind and pulled her away. She
turned to fight them off, and discovered that it was Warren. He
held on to her when she tried to pull away.

"Stop it,
Carrin. You can't do anything except get in the way. Let the
professionals do their job."

She craned to
get a glimpse of Mark, but a wall of backs blocked her view. Warren
put an arm around her and urged her away.

"No, I must
see him, I have to see that he's all right," she said.

"Just wait
here with me, they'll let us know."

Carrin became
aware that tears ran down her face, her throat was tight, and a
pain in her chest made it hard to breathe. Allowing Warren to guide
her stumbling steps, she stared at the knot of people around Mark
as he led her to a chair and pushed her into it.

"He'll be all
right, won't he?" she asked.

He shook his
head. "I don't know. That's a five foot drop onto stone, and he
must have hit his head."

"Oh, god," she
sobbed, "It's my fault. I upset him."

"It was an
accident. He missed his marks, that's all."

"Why wasn't a
stunt man used?"

Warren
grimaced. "Harold wanted a close up as he went over the rocks. Mark
agreed to do it."

"It was too
dangerous!"

"It shouldn't
have been. If he'd landed on the cushion he'd have been fine. There
were five guys there to catch him, too. Someone slipped up, not
only Mark."

Harold came
over, looking grave. "They're taking him to hospital. He has a
nasty cut on the back of his head, and he's still unconscious."

"Is he going
to be all right?" she demanded.

"We don't know
yet. It doesn't look too serious. We'll know when he wakes up."

Shouts came
from the crowd, and it parted to allow a stretcher through. Mark
lay on it, a thick foam collar around his neck, and a drip already
in his arm. Four men carried the stretcher, while another trotted
beside it, holding the drip. The medic followed with his bag.
Carrin jumped up and ran to the stretcher. Mark's pallor, and the
way he lay so still alarmed her. She joined the procession at his
side, desperate for some sign that he was not too badly hurt. They
reached the ambulance, and he was loaded aboard, the medic climbing
in beside him. Carrin climbed up, and he turned to her.

"Sorry, miss,
you'll have to wait here."

Carrin opened
her mouth to protest when Warren spoke from behind her.

"It's okay,
let her in."

The medic
moved aside, and Carrin slipped in beside Mark, sitting next to his
head. An oxygen mask covered his nose and mouth, misting as he
breathed. Fresh tears ran down her face as she stared at his face,
as peaceful as one asleep, only he was not. The back doors slammed
and the siren wailed as the ambulance moved over the bumpy road
that led to the highway. The paramedic attached a heart monitor,
which began a reassuringly steady beep.

Carrin became
aware that Warren sat beside her, his face grey with worry. He
attempted to smile, but it was more of a grimace. Turning back to
Mark, she stroked the hair from his brow, longing to wipe the sand
and fake blood from his skin. She ran her fingers over his brows,
wishing that he would wake up, open his eyes and give her that
slight, famous smile. The feelings bottled up within her screamed
for release. She wanted to weep, but the paramedic watched her
sourly.

Instead, she
took his hand and held it, folding the long fingers around hers,
their warmth reassuring. He was going to be all right, she told
herself, he had to be. He could not leave her now, not when she had
only just found him. It did not matter that he would never know how
she felt, she just wanted to be near him as much as possible. She
wanted to write more movies for him, and share a close and loving
friendship that the bitterness of a failed affair would never
spoil. She wanted to stand by him through thick and thin, share his
joys and despairs, and help him to deal with the world. Even when
she returned to Africa, she would carry him in her heart, see him
in his movies and write to him. She would come for holidays on his
ranch and ride the golden palomino he had given her over the
rippling grass at his side.

This was a
dream that could come true, unlike the one in which he loved her,
and that possibility comforted her. She would always have his love
in her dreams, and his friendship in reality. What more could she
wish for? So long as he didn't leave her now, she would be happy.
She squeezed his hand, willing him to live, to get better. She was
startled when his fingers closed slightly, an almost imperceptible
movement, and her eyes flew to his face. He still looked asleep,
long dark lashes fanned against his pale skin. Had she imagined it?
She squeezed his hand again, and again she got the answering
pressure. Tears of joy burnt her eyes. He knew she was there, even
though he was unconscious. Somehow, he knew. It was as if he was
trying to comfort her, send her a message of hope. She bowed her
head and laid her cheek against his hand, smiling through her
tears.

There was a
jerk as the ambulance stopped, the doors banged open, and a bustle
of people invaded her quiet world with him. They rolled the
stretcher out, and she tried to stay with it, clinging to it, but
Warren pulled her away. Doctors and nurses surrounded the
crash-cart as it was rushed into the hospital, running beside it. A
doctor shone a light into Mark's eyes, another cut away his shirt.
They snapped questions at the paramedic, who reeled off a list of
symptoms and treatments already administered. Carrin hurried after
them, towing Warren. She heard Mark's name mentioned, and the
doctors swapped worried looks. Orderlies and nurses turned to stare
at the passing crash-cart and its contents, and a buzz of
excitement spread.

The crash-cart
bashed open the double doors at the end of the corridor, and the
crowd of doctors and nurses vanished through them. Carrin would
have followed, but a nurse blocked her way.

"Sorry miss,
you'll have to wait here."

Warren pulled
her away, guiding her to a waiting room where she sank into a soft
chair. Her legs shook, and her stomach was a tight knot. Warren
brought some coffee, and she clutched the warm Styrofoam cup and
stared blankly ahead, her mind numb with worry. The image of Mark
so still on the stretcher as these strangers handled him haunted
her. His lack of consciousness had not diminished his charisma at
all, but the spark of life was gone, leaving behind an empty,
breathing shell. Yet he had held her hand in the ambulance, giving
her a sign from the other side of the darkness that had claimed
him. She longed to be with him to hold his hand and help him fight
his way back to consciousness.

Jumping up,
she paced, and Warren watched her with worried eyes. What were they
doing to him? Why did they have to keep her away from his side? He
needed her now. A screech of tyres outside, and banging doors, made
her glance out of the window. A TV news van was parked askew before
the hospital doors, and a crew carrying cameras and sound booms,
led by a woman with a microphone, raced into the hospital. Another
van pulled up, as a second crew descended on the hospital.

Warren looked
at her. "The vultures are gathering."

She glared at
him, hating the insinuation.

He glanced
away. "Sorry. Bad choice of words."

Carrin sipped the boiling coffee and winced. How long had
he been in there now? Ten minutes? Half an hour?
Time had no
meaning; it dragged by on leaden feet. Two limousines pulled up
outside, and Harold and Janice got out of one. The other disgorged
two men whom she recognised as the art director and the director of
photography. News teams that bristled with microphones and shouted
unintelligible questions surrounded them. Hospital security men
fought to extricate the hapless directors and actress. More media
arrived; the paparazzi in taxis, radio and TV news crews in
brightly painted vans. How had they found out so fast?
Already they had
started to broadcast. Anchor-men and women stood on the hospital
steps and jabbered into microphones, clasping their ears as they
received instructions and updates from distant bosses.

Harold strode
into the waiting room, looking tired and harassed. Janice clung to
his arm, trying her best to appear grieving and tearful, but unable
to hide a hint of malice in her eyes. The other two directors were
hot on his heels. He looked at Warren, who shook his head.

"No news
yet."

Carrin shot
Janice an angry look, then turned to Harold. "Did you find out how
it happened?"

Harold sank
into a chair, shaking Janice off. "I've just fired about ten
people. There was a mess up with the marks and the cushion. The
stunt co-ordinator's gone; he was in charge of it. Mark was on his
marks; the cushion and safety men were in the wrong place."

"How could
they make such a stupid mistake?" Warren demanded.

Harold shook
his head. "It was a miscalculation. The ground on the far side of
the rocks is three feet lower than in front of them. The safety
team thought that Mark would roll to the left, but he went to the
right because of the angle of the rocks and the stuntwoman is right
handed. They were only out by a foot or so, but it was enough."

Janice dabbed
her eyes with a handkerchief, and Warren shot her a scornful
glance. The art director went for coffee, bringing back enough for
the other three.

Warren
muttered, "We should have used a stunt man for the fall."

Harold nodded.
"I wish we had now. I wanted a shot of him going over the rocks,
without breaking the flow of movement. Mark's done more dangerous
stuff before. It didn't require any special skills, or it shouldn't
have."

"I hope you
got your shot," Carrin said, glaring at Harold. She was immensely
relieved that her argument with Mark had not caused the accident.
His mood had not caused him to stray from his marks, or make a
mistake.

Harold nodded.
"If Mark's all right we'll use it."