Darling Sweetheart

by Stephen Price

  ‘I can’t believe she asked you for rent, bug-face – your own mother! How freakin’ cheap is that?’

  ‘She was upset. She didn’t mean it…’

  ‘Upset, my sweet, young arse. She was pissed out of her mind.’

  Annalise and Froggy lay curled up together in a tatty sleeping bag in a corner of her father’s aircraft hangar. They had spent a very uncomfortable night there.

  ‘Please, can we just not talk about her?’

  ‘Oh, but we need to talk about Mother. I mean, shaking you awake in the middle of the night, demanding rent for the privilege of staying in your own home? And how come she gets to sleep in the mansion while we freeze our arses off in a fecking field?’

  ‘It’s not a field, it’s an aircraft hangar.’

  ‘Do aircraft hangars have rats?’

  ‘WHAT?’ She sat bolt upright. ‘Where? Where did you see rats?’

  ‘Errr… I didn’t see any as such, but you’ve got to admit this looks like the sort of place where you’d find very large families of them, running around with their big pink tails sticking out as they hunt for young women to chew on.’

  ‘Oh God…’ She slumped against the corrugated iron of the hangar wall. Froggy was right; the building was really just a barn in an overgrown field, full of useless junk. Late last night, when Annalise had screamed at her mother and stormed out of the house, it had seemed like the logical place to storm off to, almost as if she had expected to find her father and his little aeroplane waiting for her, waiting to whisk her away. But, of course, her father and his little aeroplane were in bits at the bottom of the Mediterranean. Now, she deeply regretted having come home, because her mother obviously didn’t want her here and certainly didn’t seem to be in mourning. Annalise, on the other hand, was tormented by questions. What had happened to her father? Had he known he was about to die, or had it been sudden? Had he had time to think of her? Had his life flashed before his eyes? What, she wondered, had been the last thing to go through his mind? And don’t say ‘the windscreen’ because that joke is so OLD.

  ‘I know what’s going through her mind,’ Froggy opined.

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Bit slow this morning, are we? I said, I know what’s going through her mind. He’s dead, so she thinks you’ve inherited his money. That’s what Mother wants. That’s why she burst into your room last night, demanding rent.’

  ‘But that’s ridiculous! I spent every penny I had on a taxi to get here! I’m just a poor, skint student!’

  ‘Yeah, but try telling her that. She’s insanely jealous.’

  ‘She always was. Right from when I was little, she always treated me like the competition.’

  ‘Because you were.’

  ‘But that wasn’t my fault!’

  ‘Oh, don’t start feeling sorry for yourself, or we’ll be here all day. This Monica, the woman who gave you the money for the taxi, could she give us more?’

  ‘She’s in London – there’s nothing she can do for us here.’

  ‘So let’s go to London! I mean, stuff Whin Abbey! I have to say, I’m dying to meet this Lucy, she sounds like my kind of girl! Drugs, late-night parties, casual sex in the Cineplex…’

  ‘There’s no way you’re meeting Lucy, so forget it.’

  ‘What? You’re gonna feck off back to London and leave me here again, is that the deal?’

  ‘No. We can’t go to London because I can’t afford a bus up to Dublin, let alone a boat or a flight. And, anyway, I’m not friends with Lucy any more.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because she did a very bad thing.’

  ‘What sort of very bad thing?’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’ Annalise kicked off the sleeping bag. She was fully clothed, in her Oxfam overcoat, black jeans and Doc Marten boots. Stiff and shivering, she set out across the bottom field, carrying the sleeping bag over one arm and Froggy in the other.

  ‘I’m starving,’ she complained, ‘but there’s no food in the house.’

  ‘There’s a half a pizza in the oven – remember? We saw it yesterday!’

  She wrinkled her nose. ‘It must be at least a week old.’

  ‘So think of it as mushroom flavour!’

  ‘Ugh!’

  ‘Get the yucky pizza and we’ll go to the library,’ Froggy enthused. ‘We can hide there from Mother while we figure out what to do next. Just like the good old days!’

  ‘I’m seventeen on Thursday,’ she muttered, ‘and look at the state of me.’

  ‘Hey. You’re never too old to become younger – Mae West said that.’

  ‘I’m cold, hungry and broke, my father’s dead and my mother hates me – Annalise Palatine said that.’

  ‘It could be worse.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘At least you still have me!’

  ‘Always look on the bright side, don’t you?’

  ‘As long as we’re together, I’m a happy bunny.’

  ‘You’re not a bunny, you’re a frog.’

  ‘So tell me about this Lucy – what was the really bad thing she did, exactly? Did it involve S-E-X?’

  ‘I said I don’t want to talk about it.’

  ‘But you will,’ he cackled, ‘because in the end, you talk to me about everything!’

  ‘Congratulations.’

  She felt something tickle her cheek. She opened her eyes. Bright lights shone into them.

  ‘Hmm?’ The tickle moved to her chin.

  ‘I’ve seen the papers,’ the female voice cooed in her ear, ‘what wonderful news.’ She swatted the tickle away, then realised that she must have dozed off in make-up. The restless night and the early start; the fresh air on the ride to work then a nice reclining chair in a warm room… A make-up assistant called Carol was brushing foundation onto her face. She yawned.

  ‘Sorry, what did you say?’

  ‘I’ve just seen the papers – congratulations on your news.’

  ‘What news?’

  Carol passed her a copy of France Soir from the make-up counter. The front-page photo was fuzzy but nonetheless showed Emerson down on bended knee, before her at the restaurant table.

  ‘LA DEMANDE EN MARIAGE.’

  The marriage proposal; although it struck Annalise that ‘demande’ was a much better word. She dropped the paper to the floor.

  ‘Shite,’ she breathed. ‘Shite, shite, shite, shite, shite.’

  ‘Oh dear – did you not want anyone to know?’

  The trailer door smashed open and heavy footsteps clumped along the corridor.

  ‘Where is she? WHERE IS SHE?’

  Peter Tress erupted into the room, waving another copy of France Soir. ‘You!’ He pointed at Carol. ‘ Get out!’ Carol tiptoed away. ‘What is the meaning of this?’ He thrust the paper at Annalise.

  ‘I’ve just seen it myself,’ she sighed, pointing at the copy on the floor.

  ‘Then what do you have to say about it?’ He was near-hysterical; his pale-blue eyes bulged in their sockets and his lips were flecked with white. ‘WHAT DO YOU HAVE TO SAY?’ She felt trapped in the chair. She thought he might grab her again or lash out, but she kept her eyes and voice as level as she could.

  ‘Right now, I don’t know what to say.’

  He snorted and slumped against the counter. ‘I’ve been a fool. I thought you were someone else.’

  ‘Who… who did you think I was?’

  ‘I thought you were a real person, not some starfucking little fake. I thought you were here to work, but all you want is a rich husband.’

  ‘Is that what you think?’

  ‘It’s what everyone thinks.’

  For the first time in many years, she wished she had Froggy at her side. ‘How good is your memory, Peter?’

  ‘What sort of bullshit question is that?’

  ‘Because you seem to have forgotten that I’ve kept my mouth shut about your behaviour in my apartment. And you seem to have forgotten that when Harry first invited me to din
ner, I didn’t want to go. But you said I should. You said we should keep the gods happy – do you remember?’

  ‘I am bored already. Your point is?’

  ‘Then, you wanted me to help you handle Emerson, because that would make your life easier. Well, since then, my life has been far from easy.’

  ‘We could have made some real art together, you and me!’

  ‘Is this about art, or about your ego?’

  ‘That is such a… woman thing to say!’

  ‘Hmm, the last time I checked…’ she lifted her bodice and made a show of peering into it, ‘…yup, they’re still there. Fancy that.’

  He leapt from the counter. ‘People like you find it easy – you are so beautiful, men just fall at your feet! But what good is beauty, if you have no heart?’ With a flick of his ponytail, he paused for effect in the doorway. ‘This is not about art, it is about love. Because I love you!’ The door slammed and he was gone. She stared at herself in the mirror.

  ‘How can you possibly love me,’ she wondered aloud, ‘when you don’t know who I am?’

  ‘I won’t let you do it, Annalise. It’s too fuckin’ dangerous. Peter, tell her she can’t do it.’

  Tress looked up from the complicated camera device strapped to Sergio Palmiro’s body. His expression was indifferent, his tone flat.

  ‘I am sorry, Harry, but it is in Miss Palatine’s contract that she can do her own stunts within reason.’ Pointedly, he turned his attention back to Palmiro, who puffed and groaned under the weight of his equipment.

  ‘So who the hell decides what’s within reason? I mean, our lead actress throwin’ herself offa huge goddamn cliff – is that within reason?’

  ‘It’s all right, I can do it. I want to do it.’ Annalise peered over the drop. It was perpendicular. The walls of Beynac Castle melded into the cliff, which ended far below in a jumble of boulders and trees – as it happened, roughly the same spot where she had dropped the runner’s mobile phone.

  It was early evening. A crowd of about fifty cast and crew stood on the ramparts above the keep, waiting to film the escape scene, where Bernard, Roselaine and a group of others would be lowered from the rear of the castle while Roselaine’s father distracted the besieging army with an attack. The abyss was unguarded, for it was considered impassable. The group of soldiers who would pretend to do the lowering were, in fact, stuntmen in costume and all the other actors had asked for stunt doubles – including Emerson.

  ‘Annalise – I want you to use a standin.’

  ‘And I want to do my own scene!’

  ‘I’ll be her double! Pick me!’ A diseased old beggar minced out from amongst the assembled onlookers, mostly extras who’d hung around to watch. ‘Pick meee!’ A general laugh went up at the very idea of the warped figure in his hideous latex make-up standing in for Annalise.

  ‘Get away, ye numpty, or ah’ll chop yer heid off!’

  Emerson’s standin wore a copy of Bernard’s costume, but when he spoke, it was with a strong Scottish accent. Using the flat of his sword, he smacked the beggar on the backside. That drew another collective laugh and the beggar played along, retreating with a gurgle of curses. Even Emerson, who discouraged clowning in his presence, cracked a reluctant smile.

  ‘Hey,’ Annalise addressed Emerson’s standin. ‘I’ve seen you two around, haven’t I?’

  ‘We’re paid to be around.’ He sheathed his sword. ‘Ben Proctor,’ he shook hands with her, then Emerson, ‘and mah pal here… now where’s the wee arse gone?’ The beggar had melted into the melange of equally scabrous-looking extras. ‘Never mind. I’m your stunt co-ordinator for this scene and I can assure you,’ now he addressed Emerson, ‘that what we’re doing here is perfectly safe. This is the rope the camera sees,’ and he lifted a stretch of thick, old-fashioned hemp, ‘but we’ll have Miss Palatine harnessed to a steel cable from that winch.’ He indicated a truck parked in the keep. ‘We could dangle a two-ton jeep over that drop, no sweat.’

  ‘She’s not a two-ton jeep, fella,’ the star grumbled, ‘she’s someone who could close this production right down, if anythin’ happened to her.’

  ‘You’re the boss…’ Proctor shrugged.

  ‘Damn right I’m the boss.’

  ‘… but this stunt is less risky than riding a horse.’

  ‘Please hurry,’ Palmiro interrupted, sweating, ‘the steadicam ees ver’ heavy.’

  Emerson snarled, ‘Then you shouldn’t eat so many tapas, fatboy.’ Proctor raised an eyebrow at Annalise. ‘Harry!’ she admonished.

  ‘Less danger than ridin’ a horse, you reckon?’ Emerson kept his eyes locked on Proctor, who seemed unfazed.

  ‘Absolutely. Plus I’ll be going over with her, to get the shot the director wants.’

  As they stood together, Annalise covertly compared Emerson to Proctor. It seemed that the actor was talking to an imperfect version of himself: Proctor was taller and younger, but Emerson took such care of his appearance that the age gap was not glaring. They both had the same build, but whereas Emerson was handsome and all-American, Proctor’s face looked lived-in, as if he were descended from a long line of heavy smokers. His hair had been coloured and brushed to sit the same way as Emerson’s, but at close quarters it was thicker and Annalise saw dark-blond roots. Emerson clapped a hand on the stuntman’s shoulder.

  ‘So you’re responsible for this stunt?’

  Proctor nodded. ‘Yeah, pal.’

  ‘I’m not your pal. If Miss Palatine so much as gets a scratch on her pretty face, you’re fired from my movie, okay?’

  A gasp went around the nearby crew and the other stuntmen muttered and stared at Emerson with contempt, but Proctor just smiled.

  ‘She’ll be fine – I promise.’

  Roselaine de Trenceval looked over the heart-stopping precipice.

  ‘It is so far down,’ she panted, ‘I don’t think I can do it!’

  Bernard de Vaux took her by the shoulders. ‘You must do it for your faith! Do it for your father!’

  ‘My father… my father!’

  ‘Don’t be afraid – I’ll be with you all the way!’ He lifted the rope, wrapped it around her waist, then embraced her with one arm and held the rope with the other. ‘Ready, men?’ A group of soldiers took the slack and braced.

  ‘Cut!’ shouted Tress. ‘Hold your positions please! Can we have Harry’s double, quickly!’ Proctor took Emerson’s place. He fixed a webbed harness around Annalise and used mountaineer’s clips to attach her to his harness and the steel cable. Tress spoke into his walkie-talkie. ‘David, stand by. They’re coming over.’

  ‘We’re ready,’ crackled the response. Lamb had a camera trained upward, at the base of the cliff.

  ‘Maria?’

  ‘We’re rolling.’ Kepecs and her crew were on the far side of the river to capture a vista of the tiny figures against the drop.

  ‘Okay, Sergio,’ Tress instructed his cameraman, ‘be sure to get Roselaine’s expression as she is lowered. Roselaine, you are looking up at your father’s castle, yes? This is the last time that you will ever see your home. So there is no fluffing, I need sadness and fear, yes? Sadness and fear. Action!’

  Holding the fake hemp rope, Proctor and Annalise sat on the parapet then slipped into the void. Proctor kept his face averted as Palmiro leaned outward to film Annalise. To summon the requisite mixture of sadness and fear, she ignored Tress’s jibe about fluffing and thought about her parents, which did the trick. Two charge hands held a nylon strap attached to Palmiro’s waist to prevent the hefty cameraman from toppling. Another unit filmed the stunt-soldiers as they pretended to play the hemp rope out, while the winch truck slowly unwound the steel cable, lowering Proctor and Annalise down, down. When they were about halfway, they stopped.

  ‘I think that’s a cut,’ Annalise eventually said. ‘Sergio’s pulled back, looks like we’re clear.’

  ‘Smoother than a baby’s bum.’ Proctor gave a relaxed grin. Dangling together on the cable, the two we
re body-to-body, nose-to-nose, like a couple on a dancefloor – only there was no dancefloor, just air beneath their feet. From this close, Proctor’s features seemed less haggard; there was something mischievous, almost cuddly about him. She pretended she couldn’t feel him up so close and made a show of looking around.

  ‘Nice view.’

  To her left, the rock face was almost within touching distance, but below to the right lay the streets of Beynac and the sweeping, tree-lined bend in the river. A few insect-like tourists pointed upward and stared; the dying sun burnished everything with a brazen light.

  ‘Mind if I smoke?’ Proctor reached inside his tunic and came up with a lighter and the butt of a rolled cigarette, which he lit. She recognised the sweet smell instantly.

  ‘Is that dope?’

  ‘Want some?’ He offered her the glowing joint.

  ‘No!’

  He took a deep drag. ‘I love the smell of hashish in the evening.’ She averted her face from the smoke. ‘If it’s a problem, I’ll put it out.’

  ‘No, it’s just… we’re halfway down a cliff!’

  ‘So if the cable snaps, I’ll die stoned with a beautiful woman on top of me. I can think of worse ways to go.’

  She laughed. ‘You’re not from Glasgow…’ she tried to place his accent, ‘…Edinburgh?’

  ‘Place outside of Edinburgh called Kirkcaldy, no one’s ever heard of it. You’re London, right?’