by Carrie Elks
And anyway, she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of her Googling him. She really wasn’t that bothered. It would only add to his smugness levels if he ever found out.
Shaking her head, she pulled the door open and stepped out of the telephone box. There were only a few more weeks until Gabi and Sandro got back. She could make it until then, couldn’t she?
It was the afternoon before Cesca got the chance to sit down in the library, turning on the computer and flexing her fingers, ready to type. She had her notebook beside her, the white paper covered in scrawls only she could decipher, with pieces of dialogue and stage directions for the next scene.
There’d been no sign of Sam when she’d returned. The dishwasher held the evidence of his breakfast, so he’d at least been up that morning. Cesca assumed he was somewhere in the gardens, continuing his reading sprint. It was easy to get lost among the lush greenery and trees, and if you wanted to you could probably hide out for a while.
The first thing that hit her when she opened up her play was the amount of red covering the screen. The usually black and white document was covered in lines. Red down the left side of the document where changes had been made, comments on the right in speech bubbles, and bold words where things had been deleted, the sentences underlined to emphasise the fact.
There were tracked changes on her document. Changes she hadn’t made.
Her stomach churned as she stared at the screen. She felt invaded, as though something precious had been stolen from her, and it took her breath away.
A moment later, the anger arrived. Her whole body tensed as the explosion started deep inside her, rising up until even her face was bright red with ire.
How bloody dare he? Because there was only one suspect in Cesca’s mind. Only one person who would think it was OK to go into somebody’s private document and not only read it, but actually make comments on it. She should have password protected it from the beginning, or stored it somewhere other than in the documents, but God, what a bloody ego that man had if he thought she would want him in her private thoughts.
Cesca punched the off button. It was as though a red veil had descended, clouding her thoughts, making her see everything through a wrathful light. She stomped out of the library, determined to find him and give him a piece of her mind, even if it meant she was fired from her job.
He wasn’t in his bedroom or the living room, or any part of the villa, so she swung open the glass doors that led to the garden, stalking out onto the patio in her sandalled feet. Standing there, she looked left and right, trying to work out which way to go first.
‘Sam?’ she shouted out, a frown pulling the corner of her lips down. ‘Where are you?’ She didn’t care that nobody was supposed to know he was here. Didn’t care if the entire neighbourhood heard. As far as she was concerned, his need for privacy came very low on her list of priorities.
No response. Either he wasn’t close enough to hear, or he was ignoring her. She wouldn’t put that past him.
Huffing loudly, she stormed off in the direction of the trees. It was so typical of him to put her to even more inconvenience. ‘Sam? I need to talk to you.’
She climbed uphill, heading to the top boundary of the estate. Built on a cliff, the gradient was surprisingly steep, and the exertion, coupled with the warmth of the afternoon, was making her overheat. Rivulets of perspiration ran down her chest.
When she found him, she was going to kill him. It was best for all concerned to put them all out of their misery. Just a little squeeze of her hands and pouf! he would disappear. Nobody could blame her for that.
‘Sam?’ She was almost screaming now, the frustration of not being able to locate him making her words loud and shrill. ‘For God’s sake show yourself!’
A rustle of the trees in front of her alerted her to his presence. Sam stepped out of the lush vegetation, rubbing his face, his brow wrinkled with what looked like confusion. ‘Are you OK?’ he asked. ‘Are you hurt?’
Hurt? She was mortally injured, and it was all thanks to him.
‘No, I’m not all right. I’m the very bloody opposite of all right.’
He stood there open-mouthed, staring at her, tipping his head to the side as if to try and make her out. ‘What’s happened?’ He reached out for her with one hand, the other rubbing his brow. ‘Can I help you?’
She cringed away from his touch. ‘Let go of me.’
‘So we’re back to that again.’
‘Back to what?’ she asked. ‘To me realising what a complete and utter prick you are? To you behaving like you always do – as though you’re more important than anyone else?’
Sam blinked. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve been up here all morning, reading. I haven’t done anything.’ He smiled at her, as though he expected her to take his word for it.
‘Oh yes you have! You interfered with my play, you bastard. How could you? Didn’t you break me enough the first time? Or are you just so bored you’d rather mess everybody else’s lives up just for the hell of it?’
Emotions passed over his face. First understanding, then shock, followed by what looked almost like shame. He frowned.
‘How did you see that?’
‘Because you left comments all over it.’
He rubbed his hand across his face. ‘But I saved it somewhere else. You weren’t supposed to see that.’
Her eyes widened. ‘That’s your excuse?’ she bit out. ‘It’s my fault for seeing it, not your fault for interfering?’
‘I didn’t say that.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s just you weren’t supposed to see.’
Cesca rolled her eyes. ‘Is this some kind of retaliation? Are you still trying to push me out? You must think I’m a terrible writer to want to screw me over twice.’
‘You’re being irrational.’
She let out an exasperated shriek. ‘There’s nothing irrational about me. You’re the one behaving like a shit.’
His eyes narrowed. There was a tic in his jaw. ‘I’m not a shit.’
‘You interfered with my play. You wrote all over it.’
‘It was good.’ His voice was low. ‘I just wanted to make it better.’
‘I don’t care what you think,’ she shouted back. ‘I don’t care about your opinion at all. I just want you to leave me alone.’
His lips twisted as he stared at her. ‘Are you finished?’ he asked, the words whistling through his teeth.
She wasn’t, not by a long chalk, but she was starting to feel light-headed. It wasn’t from relief or a sense of righteousness or any of the things she’d thought she’d have once she’d got everything off her chest. More likely a combination of the heat and the long walk.
‘Yes.’
He was like an animal waiting to pounce. She held her breath, anticipating his response. But instead of the fury she’d expected, what he gave her was an icy control.
‘Then so am I.’
14
There is no following her in this fierce vein
– A Midsummer Night’s Dream
Sam made it back to the villa in record time. He couldn’t even remember the walk, or the way he’d muttered to himself, or even how his hands had curled into fists at regular intervals. The need to hit something was becoming a compulsion, as if slamming his hands against a surface would rid him of his rage.
Was she right? he wondered. Did everybody really think of him that way? He was used to being disliked by some – it came with the territory when you were made out to be some kind of Hollywood heart-throb – but for the majority of his life love and admiration had come easily to him. His father excluded, of course.
Cesca’s anger conjured up memories of Foster. He and Cesca both seemed to hate Sam’s guts. If he could bring out such a strong reaction in people, then maybe there was some truth in what she had to say. Was he really that much of a shit?
Sam walked into his bathroom, splashing cold water onto his heated face. He’d been an idiot for coming here.
An even bigger fool for staying after Cesca had made it clear how much she hated him.
He stared into the mirror above the basin, his eyes narrowing as he took in the image reflected back at him. Dark wavy hair, inherited from his mother, as well as her clear blue eyes and Roman nose. His tan he got from mother nature, but the rest of his face must have come from his father. The high cheekbones and sensual lips that people raved about online, the sharp jaw that always seemed to grow a five o’clock shadow no matter how hard he shaved. A face loved by millions, but hated by those who were important to him. He could barely stand to look at it himself.
When Cesca had stood in front of him, her face glowing with anger, he’d felt an urge to touch her. To hold her. To take away the pain in her eyes. His therapist had once told him that anger was only pain trying to fight against itself. If it were true, that would mean he’d caused her to feel that way, and that thought made his chest ache.
More and more he was remembering that girl from six years ago. The one who almost bounced into the theatre with excitement each morning. The one who had explained Daniel’s motivations to him, talked him through each scene, and unabashedly encouraged him to show all the emotion he could.
He didn’t like the way that memory made him feel. Like that kid he had been, all vulnerable and hurt. His relationships were like a walking time bomb, and it was only a matter of time before this one exploded, too. He didn’t need a friend, and he definitely didn’t need to be attracted to her. He just needed to lie low until the fallout from his last fuck-up disappeared.
For as long as it took.
*
Cesca spent an hour aimlessly wandering the grounds, feeling the sun beating down on her bare skin. She hadn’t put any sunscreen on in her haste to give Sam a piece of her mind, and she could already feel herself pinking up. Not that she cared. What was a little sunburn compared to everything else? If anything it was helping to ease the guilt she was feeling at blowing up at Sam so much.
She’d gone a little over the top. OK, more than a little. She’d reacted purely from anger, not bothering to temper her words, saying things so unkind they made her blush. Cesca wasn’t a horrible person, not really. Wherever possible she tried to treat people with friendliness and respect. But there was something in Sam’s actions that had triggered her anger once again, taking her back to those awful days when her world came crashing around her feet.
Eventually she made it back into the villa, still unable to shake off the uncomfortable feeling from her shoulders. Grabbing a glass of water from the kitchen, she found her way to the library, trying to ignore the way her skin was stinging from exposure to the afternoon sun.
The computer was where she’d left it, the screen was black but the light still flashing. She switched it on, the first page of her play blinking back to life in front of her.
For the next hour she sat and read every comment, her eyes taking in each change he’d made.
Seeing his words took her back to when she was in English class at school. Every term the teacher would hand out the required texts, old dog-eared books that had been in the department for years. Some of them for longer than Cesca had been alive. Yet each time she’d felt a shiver of anticipation slide down her spine, knowing that when she opened up the book it was more than the author’s text she would see.
Each schoolgirl who held that book in their hands would leave a little piece of themselves behind in there. It wasn’t just the bookplate they had to sign at the front – with their names, their form and the year they held it – but also in the illicit scribblings they’d leave in pen or pencil in each page, saying what they thought of the passage, what they thought of the book. No two people ever read the same story, because they each brought with them their own view of the world.
And as she sat in front of her own text, seeing it through Sam’s eyes, the same feeling was rushing through her veins.
With each word she read, Cesca could feel herself becoming more and more ashamed. Of her actions, of her words, of the way Sam had looked at her with such shock before he stalked away from her and back to the villa. Because his suggestions were good. No, that wasn’t enough. They were excellent. He was seeing things so differently to her. Adding comments to make the characters rounder, more real. And all those things that had been holding her back from making the play work were slowly melting away.
She’d expected him to be critical, disparaging even. Instead he was kind, succinct and hit the nail on the head every time. He hadn’t bothered disguising how much he liked the story, and he was making her see it from a different angle. A clearer one. One that she could actually see working. She felt herself sink lower and lower, until her lip started to wobble as she read his final comment.
This is brilliant. She needs to write more. It’s one of the best scripts I’ve read in a long time, and I’ve read a lot.
Her hand shook as she covered her mouth. Cesca couldn’t remember when she’d felt more ashamed of herself. She’d accused him of breaking her, of messing up her life, and all the while he’d left such lovely comments. No wonder he’d looked at her as if she was some kind of screaming harridan. She was like a lion who, when offered an olive branch, simply ate the dove for breakfast.
‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered into her hands. ‘I’m so sorry, Sam.’
What on earth was she supposed to do next? Cesca wasn’t really sure. All she knew was she’d managed to mess things up, and it was up to her to untangle them again.
Sam didn’t come out of his bedroom all afternoon. By evening, Cesca’s stomach was grumbling, reminding her she hadn’t eaten since that morning, and she decided she’d cook enough food for two. Grabbing some pancetta and wild mushrooms, she put a griddle pan onto the range, igniting the flame to heat it up. While the food sautéed – spreading a gorgeous aroma throughout the kitchen – she boiled up a pan of pasta, watching the water bubble over, occasionally glancing to her left to see if Sam was anywhere to be seen.
The previous nights that he’d been here, Cesca’s cooking had never failed to attract his attention. He’d watched with envy as she’d made a quick sauce for some golden strips of tagliatelle, or deftly rolled out some pizza dough before topping it with fresh ingredients. Not tonight, though. This evening there was no sign of him at all. Even when she splashed some wine into the pan and cooked it off before adding the cream.
She’d made enough for two. More than enough, probably, but from her observations Sam had a pretty big appetite. Placing the pasta-laden plates on the wooden kitchen table, Cesca poured out two glasses of iced water and grabbed some cutlery. Then she wandered out of the kitchen into the hallway, making her way to the grand staircase.
‘Sam?’ Her voice was tentative. She didn’t want to sound angry, the way she had in the gardens. Maybe if she was softer, more cajoling, he might actually answer.
Except he didn’t. Cesca stood at the base of the staircase, her ears full of the sound of silence.
‘Are you hungry?’
Still no response. Cesca reached for the banister, her movement stopping so her hand was in mid-air. Should she go up, see if he was OK? Maybe he wanted to be left alone, and for her to disappear back into the hole she’d managed to crawl up from. She couldn’t blame him, either.
‘I’ve made pasta,’ she called again. ‘Enough for both of us. Would you like to join me?’
She waited for another minute. The hallway was silent, save for the sound of her breathing and the low hum of the air conditioning as it attempted to fight the Italian heat.
‘I’ll put it in the refrigerator, then,’ she said, as much to herself as to him. ‘Come and help yourself if you’re hungry.’
Her shoulders felt heavy as she walked back to the kitchen. Once inside, she sat at the table, trying to ignore the empty seat opposite her, and the plate of food that would almost certainly never be eaten. Cesca couldn’t understand why she was so upset by their argument – or rather her rant – and his subsequent reaction. The
Cesca of a few weeks ago would have been happy with that outcome, of finally seeing the golden boy brought to his knees. Wasn’t that what she’d wanted, the opportunity to really tell Sam Carlton what she thought of him? The problem was, she didn’t feel satisfied, or vindicated, or any of those emotions she’d thought she have. Instead she felt sick and guilty, and more than a little disgusted with herself.
It was clear Sam wasn’t coming downstairs. It was obvious he hated her more than ever, and there was nothing she could really say to make things better.
At times like these, the only thing left to do was write.
15
Mistress, you know yourself, down on your knees
– As You Like It
Sam had slept in this room since he was a young boy. Though it had been redecorated since that time, not much else had changed. It still had pale blue walls, an oversized bed with an embroidered quilt, and antique furniture that had been in the Palladino family for centuries. Strong and hardy to the touch, yet delicate to look at. Like everything else in his mother’s home, he treated it with respect.
Everything except the person pottering in the room below him, that was.
An only child, Sam’s mother Lucia had inherited everything when her parents both died in a car crash. That was when Sam was a tiny baby, and they were living in New York, where Foster was an up-and-coming theatre producer. Every summer since then, Lucia had brought her family home, to spend the warm days frolicking in the sun. Villa Palladino had become an anchor in Sam’s life, even if he’d avoided it in the past few years. It was here, where there was no phone or Wi-Fi, that he felt most like himself. The pre-Hollywood Sam who loved to read, to play, to spend time with his family. The Sam who could never please his father, but couldn’t understand why.
He lay back in his bed, the mattress groaning beneath him. It was ironic that he’d come to Italy to escape his problems, yet had only managed to make more for himself. He should go back to LA, face his self-inflicted demons, and forget that Cesca Shakespeare ever existed. Yet somehow he found that difficult to do. Even when he closed his eyes she was there, staring back at him, her anger and ire somehow only enhancing her beauty.