“It’s the hair,” I said, in answer to his befuddled expression. “And I’m Chantelle,” I continued, holding out my hand.
“I’m Ken,” he said, as he took it in a warm, firm handshake. I laughed, which just added to the look of perplexity on his face. I mean, I'd thought this morning that he looked like Barbie's boyfriend, so actually being called Ken was quite a coincidence. Or maybe not. Perhaps it was just a question of time before the Barbie Queen herself turned up, and then all I needed was someone to pinch me (preferably not on my backside) and I'd wake up.
As I moved to the base line, racquet in hand, memories of my childhood and of not so long ago came flooding over me. It had been eighteen months since I'd last stood on a tennis court. My dad, who had been a semi-pro in his youth, had drilled me through hours and hours of tennis play. It was his way of dealing with my mother's death. It was the only time of day he was able to forget the pain he suffered, and I, in turn, strove to play the best I could, because every time I whammed the ball down the side line or cross court in a winning pass, I was rewarded with his proud smile. That was incentive enough for me.
Ken and I rallied for a while and I realised I hadn’t lost my touch. Ken, in turn, after the first couple of comments he called out about footwork and ball spin, just hushed, comprehending that I was in no need of coaching tips.
After a fifteen-minute warm-up I called out, “Let’s play a couple of sets?”
Obviously the excitement of the morning had got to me. Despite being pretty skilful, I'm not the competitive sort and always shrink from competition of any type and at any level. But here I was on the other side of the Atlantic, with new hair and new attitude. The surrounding courts were jam-packed. Most of the people on court had been at the mansion the day before when I'd arrived in my tacky clothes. They'd witnessed my clash with Vivien. Now I had the opportunity to prove that I was a tough cookie and better than the likes of Vivien in every sense, and I wasn’t going to let that slip.
I won the toss and opted to serve. My first serve was an ace and I won the first game to love. Ken, who had started careless, confident and cocky, was jolted. Manly pride under threat, he was spurred on and took the following two games with relative ease. I could hear my dad's voice in my head just as if he was standing right beside me: Don’t rush your shots, Chantelle. Follow through properly and make your opponent run.
And I did just that. One hour later, sweat literally pouring down my whole body and with Ken in just the same state, we reached tiebreak. By then, quite a crowd had gathered cheering us on – or rather, cheering me on. Ken only got a shout of encouragement now and again, from the local macho men whose worst nightmare would be losing face by losing to a woman. And of course there was Vivien. Her high-pitched screech could be heard above the rest, willing Ken on. I was vaguely aware that bets were being placed and it was Gabby who was acting as "bookie."
Some minutes later we were drawn at five points all, and I had visions of the match going on for ever.
As I moved back to the baseline for my serve I was aware of a dark-haired stranger staring intensely at me, and I suddenly felt week at the knees. I could have sworn that it was Robbie, though with his shades on, and the sun blaring and hazing my vision, I couldn’t be sure. But just the thought that there was a remote chance that it could be him really got me inspired. With new-born energy I fired an ace down the centre of the court, not giving Ken time to react. I was buzzing, and one point away from victory. The crowd had hushed and I imagined that I was on Centre Court at Wimbledon playing for Championship point.
Ken’s turn to serve. He sliced the ball down the sideline, but I was ready with my double-handed backhand and sent it whizzing back across the net and straight down the line like a bullet. A winning shot! The crowd cheered and Ken approached the net and clasped my hand in congratulations.
“Way to go, kid,” he declared, full of respect. I just glowed.
The spectators called out their congratulations, the more generous comments coming from those who had earned quite a bit of dosh from betting on me. Thoroughly exhausted but elated I went in search of Gabby. I'd seen her talking animatedly with the dark-haired stranger, and I was just bursting to find out if he really was Robbie. But Gabby, much to my mystification, denied speaking to anyone.
What the hell was going on?
Nothing made sense. The luxurious living quarters I'd been allocated, the beauty treatments, the expensive new clothes... What was it all for? Gabby was obviously in charge of getting me in shape, but despite the hours she'd spent by my side she remained mute to my questioning about what I was really doing here. Mr Guillem was behind the whole project, but I doubted he was the key person. There was definitely a missing link somewhere, but the only way to discover who (or what) that missing link was would be for me to stick it out and brace myself for whatever was to come.
That night, after nearly two hours of intense tennis and a five-mile run at first light, I slept like a baby. My dreams whirled between Robbie, and attempting to escape from a battlefield of flying tennis balls. So, much to Gabby’s despair as she attempted to wake me at 5.30 the following morning, she would have been more successful at resuscitating Tutankhamun. I refused to budge. Two mugs full of icy water were thrown over me. I finally started to stir thinking I'd peed in the bed. In a hoarse and broken voice, as if I'd been out on the booze all night, I turned to Gabby.
“Just tell me how long I have to put up with this military routine, and I promise to get up and change.”
“Three weeks,” came Gabby’s quick reply, “and then you’ll be flown out on location. So get your act together, sunshine, or else you won't be ready.”
“Ready for what?” I probed, thinking I'd softened Gabby’s conscience. But she was a tough old bird and totally ignored my question.
Despite the vigorous tennis match the afternoon before, my legs felt comfortable and I made it through the five-mile run with relative ease. The Pacific was running high and I spied surfers decked out in black wetsuits bobbing out on their boards, patiently waiting to catch the perfect wave.
“Can you swim, kid?” Gabby asked having detected my line of vision.
“Of course I can swim,” I snapped back at her, I didn't mean to sound so sharp, but I was still feeling peeved at her for waking me up so roughly. I had a mind to tell her off, but I wasn't brave enough, at least not just yet.....
“We’ll have some fun this afternoon then,” she commented. Amusement lined her face, and I wondered what she had in store.
***
The morning took the same routine as the previous day. After the run Gabby disappeared for three hours, calling for me once again at ten o’clock on the dot. She sped me into town and I had an eyelash permanent dye done, lip liner tattooed on, eyebrows shaped, facial done, followed by a fifteen-minute whirl on the sun bed.
Back at the cottage, feeling refreshed and almost new (except for my lips, of course, which after the lip line tattoo now felt like I'd just snogged an Arizona Hedgehog), I spread a large towel down on the shaded grass area to the side of the wooden bungalow. I had a large fruit cocktail in one hand and an armful of glossy Cosmo, Glamour and People magazines I'd found on the kitchen table that morning and assumed that Gabby had left there. I tossed them down onto the fluffy towel as I positioned myself alongside. My gaze was drawn to one of the magazines that had fallen open, and staring back at me with his sexy smile was Lionel King. My heart started racing as I realised that he was the stranger who'd watched me so intensely the previous day at the tennis courts, and that in my obsession with Robbie I'd not recognised him. I looked closely at the image and realised how remarkably similar both men were: the same olive skin, dark hair, powerful build. Even their eyes looked similar, Lionel’s being a shade greener that Robbie’s bright blue.
I gasped out loud. I knew Robbie had reminded me of someone! But what a coincidence! Or perhaps my mind in a subconscious Freudian way was playing tricks on me, and any tall, dark, handsom
e stranger would cause me to get confused.
I turned to the accompanying article and started to read.
After a long-term but at times turbulent relationship, Hollywood’s most sought-after bachelor is single once more, after putting to an end his romance with Queen of the Screen Vivien Francis…
My stomach suddenly felt queasy. No wonder the poor girl had her claws out. I even felt sorry for her. It was one thing to get dumped and lick your wounds in private, but to have it plastered all over the glossy magazines was quite another. It was enough to make anyone go crazy, even for a big star like Vivien Francis. I promised myself that I’d try and be friendly to her the next time we met.
There was a sudden commotion from the pathway on the other side of the fence that led to the main house. I heard Sav, as she dashed up, calling, “Señorita, Señorita…”
I let her through the dividing gate, though I could only make out her legs. The rest of her was hidden behind a huge bouquet of fresh flowers that wobbled in her arms as she let out a string of sneezes. Her eyes were watering by the time I'd taken the flowers from her.
“Are these for me?” I asked, perplexed, convinced that there must have been some mistake. Sav vigorously nodded her head and I thought her neck would snap in her excitement. “Who from?” I went on, madly hoping she would say “Robbie,” although I knew that was wishful thinking.
Sav shrugged her petite shoulders. “Admirador… Amante…?”
"Admirer" or "lover"? Well, it was obvious that Sav hadn’t the slightest idea either. Lover indeed; that will be day. Knowing my luck, they were probably from a real freak who would turn out to be some wacky stalker.
“Gracias,” I said to Sav before turning indoors to hunt for a vase large enough to fit the flowers in, though the bouquet was so huge that I imagined I’d end up having to put them in the bathtub. There was no note or card, and I thought cleverly that I would strategically place them in the middle of the dining room so that Gabby would see them when she called for me in the afternoon. She would know who they were from.
Gabby, however, was just as surprised as I was. In fact I think it was the first time I'd seen her at a loss, and I didn’t know whether that was a good or bad sign. But the mystery of the flowers was left behind as we both strolled down to the beach. As we made our way across the soft sand I gasped out loud. The waves were massive.
“You’ve got to be nuts if you think I’m going in there?” I didn’t give a toss if I offended Gabby.
“Don’t be a sucker. They’re baby waves. They’re only about two metres high.”
“Fuck that, I don’t give a shit how tall they are. You're talking to a London lass. The highest I’ve ever seen water come up is when the toilets get blocked. But go ahead, I won't get in your way.”
By this point we'd reached the shore, deserted but for the seagulls which cried out overhead. Before I knew it Gabby had dived into the surf and with powerful strokes was heading out into the ocean. She’d better not drown, I thought. I wasn't certain if I would be brave enough to go in to save her. Luckily Gabby was an exceptional swimmer, and it actually looked fun catching waves and body-surfing to the shore. On the fifth wave Gabby surfed I was madly contemplating going in and giving it a go, so when she shouted, “Come on you fairy, I thought you said you could swim,” the new gutsy attitude that had overwhelmed me the previous day during the tennis match flowered once more. I dived in.
“Jesus, it’s cold!” I cried out as the surprisingly freezing water lapped over me. This was followed by an ear-splitting scream as I felt something brush my leg in the dark depths of the murky blue water, visions of Jaws flashing through my mind. Gabby nearly choked with glee at my fear-stricken face. I, with a grin, had to admit what a baby I must have seemed as she fished out, and held up a small piece of plastic that had been floating just below the surface.
It had seemed fun, and was fun. After a while Gabby called out, “Make this your last one.”
I positioned myself to set off with the booming wave, head down and between my arms, which were shaped like an arrow. I kicked off hard, maintaining myself at the crest of the wave as it rushed to the shoreline taking me with it. Not bad, old girl, I thought. Then the wave broke, crashed down on top of me and took me under.
I could feel myself tumbling all over the place and in a panic I opened my eyes under the gloomy depths. I desperately needed to breathe, but I was so disorientated I had no idea which way was up. Stay calm…! I let a few air bubbles escape in order to follow them, knowing that they would float in the direction of the surface, which, I quickly realised, was to my right. With one last effort, I thrashed out in that direction and came to the surface spluttering for air. Gabby was twenty metres further down the shore and I was relieved that she hadn’t witnessed my close encounter with oblivion. I had, however, lost my bikini top somewhere along the way. I wondered how I was going to explain that one.
As casually as possible I made it over to where I'd left my towel and wrapped it around me as Gabby approached. She chortled as she neared, and as if it was the most natural event in the world, commented, "You'll probably find it washed up on the shore tomorrow morning. I know from experience.” I was grateful for this, as it obviously meant that she, too, had at some point battled it out with the waves. The difference was, however, that I had no intention of ever getting back in the surf when the waves were up.
***
The following morning, five minutes before Gabby was due to appear jogging up the path from the main house, I was out in the garden area patiently waiting for her and carefully blended into the shadows so as not to be seen. On the dot she came into view. She stepped through the gate, as silently as a panther, and I wondered if she'd been a member of the secret service or a SWAT team, because she moved with stealth and there such was a military stance about her in general. Not wanting to miss out on my planned ambush, I quickly turned the switch for the sprinklers. Soon the silence of early dawn was broken by a loud hiss as the sprinklers spun around.
That will teach her for dowsing me with cold water in the mornings.
Gabby, who at this point was right in the middle of the garden, dived on the grass and rolled to the safety of one of the hedges. I lost sight of her as I gurgled with the hilarity of the situation. But before I knew it, Gabby had me face down on the ground, arms twisted behind my back in a rock-solid grip.
This wasn’t part of my plan!
Totally winded and struggling to get my face out of the turf, I could feel Gabby release her hold on me as she became aware that the ambush came from harmless me. I turned to face her spitting out tufts of green grass that I'd almost choked on. And Gabby, for the first time since I'd arrived, let out a cackle of laughter. I followed suit and we both sat there getting drenched to the bone, shaking with laughter until our bellies ached.
From that moment on, Gabby’s attitude towards me changed. She became more chatty, and treated me as a human being instead of a mission.
***
The days turned into weeks, and in a spin of morning runs, tennis, beauty sessions and low-fat yoghurt, the time arrived for me to be flown to the location for the film I'd been contracted to do. I was in a state of pure nerves, as nothing about what was expected of me had been clearly explained. Despite Gabby’s reassurance, I couldn’t help but fret as to why I hadn’t been given a script to study, or had anything explained with regard to my character’s role. I was going into this venture headfirst, totally blind and at the rate of a steam train. There’s no turning back now, I thought, as I sat on the private jet heading out to Nevada.
Chapter Five
I was met by Mr Guillem and driven out into the hot desert in an open-topped sand jeep. The dust swirled up around me as we sped along the bouncy desert track. Some time later, covered in sand and grit, I finally saw the film location. In the middle of No-Man's-Land a small town had sprung up. There were at least a hundred caravans of all sizes, whilst five huge army tents and several marquees had been
set up, together with one immense barn. At least, that’s what it looked like from a distance. There were two helicopters in a temporary hangar on the far side of the camp, together with several other sand jeeps and flashy-looking desert motorbikes. It was late evening, and people were milling around; the inhuman heat had finally cooled enough to allow the cast and crew to circulate.
As we sped at what seemed breakneck speed down into the valley where the camp had been put up, I spotted a posse of people all moving around one main figure. The tall powerful build was unmistakable even at that distance. The dark hair glinted in the evening sun. The bare chest was tanned dark brown, wiry and firm.
Lionel King moved with such grace that my heart skipped a beat, not because I was staring at one of the most famous actors around and that I was to work on his film, but because I could indeed confirm that this is who Robbie had reminded me of. There was no Freudian slip, Robbie and Lionel were very similar! Robbie who had conquered me, heart and soul, in one afternoon, and, however much I tried, I couldn’t get him out of my thoughts. From the moment I'd felt his penetrating gaze (which felt like a lifetime ago), I knew I was lost. It didn’t help that I was to be left on a desert location with Robbie’s multi-millionaire film star double.
Mind you, thinking about it, I wasn’t going to complain.
In a swirl of sand we came to a halt in the centre of the temporary town. I was helped down from the jeep by one of Lionel’s assistants as Lionel himself moved towards me. My heart thumped, I was at a full-blown loss as to what I should say. But I needn’t have bothered. I was left staring as Lionel walked straight past without the slightest acknowledgement of my existence. Even when Mr Guillem tried to introduce me, Lionel replied flatly, “Not now Freddy G, I haven’t got time to waste.”
A Little of Chantelle Rose Page 5