Darling Sweetheart

by Stephen Price

  ‘That’s not going to happen. Your castle is finished. I know Simon de Montfort – he will not relent. But if you listen to me, you can still escape with your lives.’

  ‘This is my home and I do not intend to leave it.’

  Roselaine took his arm. ‘Father, if you love me as a daughter you will listen to him! Escape is our only option!’

  The comte touched her face. ‘You speak of love, my child – but there are many different kinds of love.’

  ‘I am a child no longer.’ She held her head high, but her face threatened tears. Her father smiled.

  ‘You are still my child, Roselaine. You will always be that. But in this crusader’s eyes, you are a woman.’

  ‘What do you want of me, Father? Tell me, and I will obey you without question.’

  ‘Roselaine…’ Bernard started forward, but again, the comte raised his hand.

  ‘Young man – you saved my most treasured possession, and for that I am deeply grateful.’

  ‘ Yes, Sir.’

  ‘But a man is not much of a man if he would abandon his faith so lightly, let alone his fellow-warriors.’

  Bernard shook his head. ‘This crusade… it is done in the name of God, but I cannot believe that God wants so much blood. The things I have seen… things I never imagined that men could do to men, let alone to women, to the elderly… to infant children. I could not stand by while these things were done to your daughter.’

  ‘But why save her and not someone else? Why not an infant, a deserving mother, a holy man?’

  ‘Because…’ he faltered and looked to Roselaine.

  ‘Could it be,’ the comte continued slyly, ‘that you treasure her as much as I?’

  ‘Father–’ Roselaine tried to interrupt, but Bernard dropped to one knee and held his sword by its blade, offering the hilt to the comte.

  ‘As God is my witness, I promise that I will always protect your daughter, with all my strength, for the rest of my days.’

  The comte smiled. ‘That is all a father ever wants to hear. Now, you say you can rescue me from my castle – how many can escape, do you think?’

  ‘Eight, maybe ten. Any more and we risk discovery, then all would perish. A small group, travelling fast – that is our only hope.’

  ‘Very well then, this is my decision: taking sanctuary amongst us is William Belibaste, the greatest and holiest of all our Perfect. You will bring William, Roselaine and a handful of others whom I will select to the fortress of Montaillou, high in the mountains.’

  ‘But Father! What about you?’

  ‘I will stay with my people, child, and defend them to my last drop of blood.’

  Her eyes filled. ‘Then I will stay with you!’

  ‘No, Roselaine – that is not what I want of you. You said you would obey me without question; in this matter, you must.’

  She took his hands, raised them to her face and cried on them. ‘But I cannot leave you, Papa – my heart will be broken!’

  ‘Your heart is young and it will heal. My heart is old, and it will embrace death gladly, if my daughter and my faith may yet survive this darkness. How strange it is that one of our enemy should also bring our only hope of survival.’

  ‘But Papa, I don’t want you to die… I don’t want you to die!’

  Still holding his hands, she collapsed, her grief painful to behold. Bernard stayed half-kneeling beside her, face set with grim determination. Roselaine’s back racked with piteous sobs. The comte looked down at her for quite some time.

  ‘And… cut!’ Peter Tress dashed into the light cocooning the actors, hands clasped together, his expression ecstatic. ‘That was marvellous! Marvellous! Now we are really making a movie, eh Harry?’

  ‘Hell, she almost has me cryin’ – great actin’, kiddo.’ He squeezed Annalise’s shoulder as he stood, but her body still shook and she kept her face buried in McKendry’s hands.

  ‘I don’t think she is just acting.’ Creakily, McKendry lowered himself to Annalise’s level. ‘There there, dearie, there there…’ Emerson and Tress looked awkwardly around at the assembled crew. ‘Not the most private places, film sets,’ McKendry soothed. Then he hissed at Tress, ‘For Chrissakes, make yourself useful and help us up!’ Emerson and Tress jumped forward together and lifted the pair to their feet. With an arm around her shoulder, the old man guided Annalise away from the set and into the annexe.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she squeaked, ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…’

  ‘My dear, you really must shake this dreadful habit of apologising after every scene, especially when you’ve stolen it.’ He steered her to a wooden bench and they sat together. Her face was red, eyes bleary, nose runny. ‘Dug deep for a memory, did we?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Look, I think it’s my turn to apologise. What I said about your father the day before yesterday, it was a bit… insensitive.’

  Her eyes filled with tears again. ‘I don’t know why I’m suddenly thinking about him so much. It’s been eight whole years!’

  ‘My brother was killed in the Second World War; that was so long ago, but not a day goes by that I don’t think about him. The dead are always with us, Annalise. The dead are always with us.’

  ‘Hey kiddo!’ Emerson burst into the annexe. ‘You okay?’

  ‘I’m fine, thanks.’

  ‘That was some performance! I guess comin’ to work on a pony did the trick, huh? You wanna grab a coffee?’

  ‘Actually, I think I’ll just rest in my trailer, if that’s all right with you. Thanks, Robin.’ She hugged the elderly actor, then stood. ‘You’re so kind to me.’

  ‘If I was forty years younger and straight, I’d be sweeping you off your feet!’

  Emerson gave an embarrassed cough as, still sniffling, Annalise stepped past him.

  She felt sorrowful and foolish in equal measure as she crossed the castle keep, but lodged in her chest was a bright splinter of pride that, at last, she was doing well in front of the cameras. McKendry had been right: she had not just been acting – but did that matter? She placed her hand on her trailer door then stopped. What would she do if it were filled with white roses? She took a deep breath and pushed it open. No flowers – she released her breath – only the syrupy smell of formica in the afternoon heat. The trailer had air-conditioning, but she refused to use it on environmental grounds. She opened a window to admit some air then noticed a courier’s package on the coffee table. It had a London postmark and its label said ‘PRIORITY SERVICE: SAME DAY DELIVERY’. She recognised the bubble-like handwriting of her agent’s secretary.

  ‘Conrad,’ she murmured, ‘what is it now?’

  The package contained several folded sheets of newspaper and two envelopes, of which she opened the larger first. The letter was typed, as opposed to word-processed. Making his secretary use a manual typewriter instead of a computer was another of Loach’s fogeyish pretensions. It was dated that same day and read:

  Dearest A,

  I take it from your reaction to my well-intentioned advice that this sudden rush of publicity is as much a surprise to you as it is to me, so terribly sorry if I irked you. However, I feel duty-bound to send you the latest batch, most of it hot off this morning’s press. You do look winsome with Emerson on that horse. There’s quite a frenzy on here; I won’t bore you with the details, but the tabloids are offering big bucks for an exclusive interview while Nibs here denies everything. If I’m wrong about that, please don’t drop this letter off a cliff, just advise what you want me to do. I’m telling them that you’re out of telephone contact, which I suppose is technically the truth, but watch out, as they’ll probably send teams of hacks to your location.

  Call me soon as we’re now hearing from America – I’m pleasantly surprised to discover that they still read newspapers there. Enjoy the clippings. (Are you SURE you haven’t hired a publicist? Is Emerson using HIS publicist, perhaps? It’s all right, I won’t be offended, but I think I should know.)

  Als
o enclosed is a note from your boyfriend, who popped by here yesterday looking rather frazzled but was MOST insistent that I pass this on to you – maybe he can’t get through to your phone either?

  Yours as ever,

  Conrad

  P.S.: Call. Some of those Tinseltown offers are very tempting. We have big decisions to make.

  Reluctantly, she opened the second envelope. It contained a single piece of paper, torn from a notebook. In red biro was Jimmy’s affected popstar scrawl – she knew his natural handwriting was actually quite neat. All it said was: ‘Told you I was a wanker. Watch this space, xxJ.’

  She felt sad holding something of Jimmy’s, even this pathetic scribble that didn’t say sorry, much less acknowledge the awfulness of what he’d done. She didn’t cry, because she was too disgusted, but her sadness was for the Jimmy she thought she’d known until she’d walked into that hotel room. And she felt guilty, terribly guilty, for not telling anyone what she’d seen. But the only consequence she could foresee was even more pressure from the press, so she squeezed the note up and flung it in a wastepaper basket like the dirty thing it was.

  Feeling sick, she turned to the newspaper cuttings. She couldn’t focus on the details – all that leapt out were the pictures of her and Emerson on the black stallion and words like ‘love’, ‘girlfriend’ and ‘wedding bells’. One page, a download from a French newspaper, demanded to know: ‘ANNALISE PALATINE – QUI EST ELLE?’.

  Who, indeed?

  BANG!

  A crash snapped her out of her reverie. Darling Sweetheart, shooting crows.

  BANG! BANG!

  No – her trailer door. Someone was hammering on her trailer door. Still holding the clippings, she opened it.

  ‘Yo, bitch! WhadtheFUCK do ya call THIS?’

  It was Holly Spader, holding up a newspaper with that ubiquitous picture. ‘Emerson est amoureux d’actrice Anglaise’.

  ‘Holly. Um, hello.’

  Spader’s voice was a bitter parody, ‘“Oooh, there’s not much to tell! Me and Harry-boy jus’ had a liddle spot of dinner! Nothin’ happened!” Yeah, nothin’ happened ’cept you guys are in LOVE!’

  Annalise could barely manage a whisper. ‘We are not in love.’

  ‘Well HELLO! The newspapers say you are! The internet says you are! And my daddy says it’s all over town about you and Emerson!’

  ‘Look, you have no right to call me a–’

  ‘What? A lyin’, sneakin’, man-stealin’ bitch?’

  ‘Holly, you’re completely out of–’

  ‘Annalise, who is this?’ Emerson walked up, as if from nowhere. Annalise jumped – distracted by Spader, she hadn’t noticed his approach. None of his bodyguards was as around, the usual harbingers of his proximity. No Frost, no Talbot, no fawning runners; even in costume, there was something odd about seeing him alone like this.

  ‘Who is this?’ he enquired again, ‘and why is she callin’ you a bitch?’

  If Annalise was surprised, then Spader nearly shat herself. Her expression went into spasm, before exploding into a smile that ate her face.

  ‘Harry, this is Holly Spader. Holly, Harry Emerson.’

  ‘Oh hi!’ Spader leapt four inches off the ground, clapping her hands together. ‘Hi, hi, hi, hi, hi, hi! I’m a HUGE fan of your work!’

  ‘Yeah, but who are you?’

  Spader babbled, ‘I have a part in your movie that I’m so much looking forward to and my father is Brandon Spader, Deputy Vice President of Corporate Development at Universal!’

  Emerson looked unimpressed. ‘Never hearda him. So why is Annalise a bitch?’

  ‘I… uhh…. I… ahh…’ Spader’s smile stretched even wider and her eyes flickered desperately. Annalise allowed her to squirm for a few seconds but then, fearing the woman might rupture her cheeks, intervened.

  ‘Holly was telling me about a scene from a film and sort of acting it out a bit – about a posse of rappers, was it, Holly?’

  ‘Rappers…’ Spader mouthed.

  ‘I hate rap,’ Emerson said flatly.

  ‘I play Irene Arnald,’ Spader spoke through clenched teeth.

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s her part,’ Annalise soothed, ‘she’s the innkeeper’s daughter who betrays us on the way to Montaillou.’

  ‘Oh.’ He scowled at Spader as if she had betrayed him in real life then turned his shoulder to her, to show that she was now surplus to requirements. ‘Annalise, can we talk?’

  Still showing her molars, Spader backed away. ‘Yeah. Right. See you guys around. Real nice meeting you, H.E… real nice…’

  Emerson did not deign to look at her. He waited several beats before continuing.

  ‘Can I come in?’

  ‘It’s hot and stuffy in that old trailer, let’s get some air.’

  They strolled up a grassy ramp onto the keep wall. In their costumes, they looked like they belonged.

  I don’t remember hirin’ that woman,’ he glared after Spader as she scuttled through the keep arch, ‘musta been the castin’ director, it’s a small part.’

  ‘I barely know her myself.’ Annalise smiled wanly.

  ‘I see you’re checkin’ your publicity.’

  Only then did she realise that she still held Loach’s press clippings. ‘Oh… just a letter from my agent.’

  ‘I betcha he’s got loadsa offers!’

  ‘Apparently there’s a few things in the air all right.’

  ‘Don’t agree to anythin’ until you’ve finished this movie.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because you should only do big pictures from now on. I’d like you to come to dinner tonight.’

  ‘Since I’m staying in your home, I’m sure I can manage that.’

  ‘No, we’re goin’ out.’

  ‘Oh? Where?’

  ‘I dunno; some restaurant. Can you do me a favour? Will you wear that classy brown number you wore the other evenin’?’

  ‘Uhh… you mean the Nichols dress? It’s still in my apartment.’

  ‘I had Frost move your stuff.’

  ‘You’ve moved all my things up to your place?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘I… er… gosh, I don’t know what to say. But look, I’ll be fine in this dress. I want to wear Roselaine’s clothes all the time from now on. This restaurant, it isn’t in a town, is it? I can’t go anywhere where there’s lots of people or cars.’

  ‘I told them to pick somewhere quiet. But d’ya gotta wear that costume? It’s, like, dirty and torn.’

  ‘It’s starting to work for me, Harry – I’m getting closer to Roselaine and I don’t want to stop. But tell you what, I’ll pop into wardrobe – they have other outfits for her. There’s actually a beautifully embroidered dress for one of the flashback sequences – I’ll try that, okay?’

  ‘Uh, okay… I guess.’ He rummaged in his tunic and produced a mobile phone. ‘I’ll get Levine to take us home.’

  ‘You go on. I want to ride back to Saint-Christophe.’

  ‘You’re kiddin’…’

  ‘Not at all. Don’t you see, the more I do things the way Roselaine would have, the more it helps.’

  There was a distant, throaty scream, and a figure fell off a nearby battlement, sixty feet onto the ground beyond the keep. For a terrible instant, Annalise thought it might be Spader, but then there was another shout and two more figures followed. The second unit, she realised, must be filming stunts.

  ‘Keep those safe,’ he pointed to the clippings in her hand, ‘they’re the start of somethin’ great.’

  She gave him her most modest smile, squeezed his arm and set off towards wardrobe. He lingered and watched a few more staged falls, but although they were quite spectacular, he did so with preoccupied indifference.

  Sylvia Jardyce taught drama at Broken Cross. Her classes were extracurricular and attendance meant staying late at school two nights a week, but there were many reasons why this appealed to Annalise. She liked Sylvia; she liked walking down
Brompton Road in the dark; she didn’t like going home to the Stockwell bedsit that she’d rented after leaving the Goddards. She had not wanted to return to Ireland, so she’d needed to construct her own life in London. When she’d moved to Stockwell, her father had sent her an angry letter threatening to cut her off, saying that she’d never amount to anything and suggesting that she change her surname to ‘anything except Palatine’. But a week later, he’d paid her school fees for the rest of the year and posted her a cheque for five thousand pounds. She’d returned the cheque and continued on at school, taking a part-time job in a bar to pay for food and tube travel. Sylvia’s classes and the returned cheque had been two-fingered gestures to her father; she fantasised about him watching her first theatrical performance then taking her out to dinner afterwards and having to feast on his words.

  She’d had another motive – she’d felt compelled to act, and not just because she was her father’s daughter. For although they no longer spoke, nor even lived in the same country, her years with Froggy had ingrained the habit of pretending to be someone else. It was a habit she’d found impossible to give up.

  Monica Goddard had been very upset by Annalise’s departure from her Kensington home. She had not believed her pretext about wanting to live alone and rightly suspected that something had happened between her and Lucy – but being partially blind to her daughter’s true nature, she had not been able to fathom out what. Lucy had put on a display of haughty nonchalance, however Annalise had caught her giving the occasional covert, worried look. Lucy had known that it was one thing to be slagging her way around the nightclubs of Soho and Notting Hill, but quite another to be dabbling with an old family friend, especially one with David Palatine’s reputation. That would have caused more trouble than even she could handle.

  Annalise had also been upset about leaving Kensington, and not just because it had meant trading secure luxury for tawdry uncertainty. She’d agonised that perhaps she had been too hard on Lucy; perhaps her father had deserved all the blame. Lucy hadn’t actually done very much – but it had been what she had not done that had tormented Annalise. Lucy had not leapt up from that lounger; she hadn’t shrieked or subsequently confided. She had behaved as if it had been no big deal for David Palatine to stick his hand down her pants, and the more Annalise had thought about that, the more her mind had filled with sickening images of what might have happened had she not been present on the yacht. Her father kissing Lucy’s breasts in the scalding sun. Lucy laughing, letting him, then leading him like a dog to his so-called stateroom – a cabin twice as big as all the others, equipped with a king-sized bed. For in spite of all the stories; in spite of her mother’s drunken rantings about what her father was really like; in spite of the woman she’d seen at his penthouse, she had never thought of him as a dirty lech before. He had always been her Darling Sweetheart.