"Freddy G told me where to find you," she rasped, relatively clearly.
"Ahh!" I let out. This made a little more sense. I'd texted Freddy G my new UK location as soon as I’d arrived back in the UK in case he had to contact me and send me my next contract. Though if I'd known he planned to pass it around to the likes of Vivien, I would have given him some bogus address somewhere up in Glasgow.
"He really loves you," she blurted out.
"Who? Freddy?" I exclaimed, rather taken aback by the prospect.
Vivien actually laughed out loud at this. The mixture of laughter and sobs made me think of Doctor Jekyll and Mr Hyde.
"Lionel, you fool," she muttered, looking sad once again. Nevertheless, by calling me a fool she was obviously getting her spirit back. I took that as a good sign.
"I've loved him all my life, worshipped him ever since I was a little girl, long before he became famous. I kept hoping that one day he would stop searching for the woman of his dreams, which he'd become obsessed with finding, and realise that that woman was me. He gave up the search two years ago, which was when we finally started dating. I was so happy. My dream had come true, though I knew I was just kidding myself. I was in love with him, but not blind to the fact that he didn't love me back, at least not as I felt about him. He cares for me, always has, but as a sister, in the same way he cares for Gabby. Then it all came to an end when he saw you in that cheap film. You looked so ugly in that film. I couldn't believe that he'd become obsessed with you."
I wanted to point out that I only looked so shocking because of the horrid make-up, but decided to keep quiet as not to break Vivien's flowing confession.
"My therapist tells me it's time to move on," she sniffed.
I thoroughly agreed.
"But life without Lionel just didn't seem to have any meaning. I couldn't bear the idea, which is why I tried to commit suicide the day after the cast party. Then you, of all people, saved me. I couldn't believe it, especially after putting on the spectacle that I did by hurling my handbag at you in front of all the party guests."
Your rock-filled handbag, I almost added.
"I thoroughly hated you, and made it clear from day one."
I had to agree with her there.
"And what did you do? Go and save my life." Vivien paused to regain her breath. She was still glowing pink, and I thought it best not to let my guard down in case she had a relapse into hysteria. But I was rather shocked to hear her continue, "I want to apologise for all I've put you through, and I want to thank you for giving me this second chance to start over."
She threw her arms around me then and hugged me tight. And I had to confess that her declaration had taken a lot of bottle.
"Your therapist would be proud of you," I said, smiling back and returned her warm embrace.
Vivien went on to explain that Lionel actually gave most of his money to charity, which made me, ridiculously, glow with pride. Moreover, she added that if Lionel was happy, she was happy for him. Nonetheless I believed she was only half- convinced there. She still needed a couple more therapy sessions to solidify that concept.
I suddenly remembered, once again, that I needed to call Lionel myself and was frantic for Tammy to return with the van and my charger. As I worried over the fact that I should have phoned Lionel hours earlier and that he'd probably given up on me in frustration by now, Vivien sheepishly asked, "Did I imagine it, or was there a guy here last night that looks remarkably like Lionel?"
"You didn't dream him up. He's called Robbie, and he'll be back later on."
Vivien rose to her feet in a flash. "I'd better go and make myself presentable, then." And with that she bounded up the stairs with newborn energy.
As I glanced after her as she took off to our shared bedroom, I speculated on whether I should forewarn her that Robbie was actually a bit of a psychopath and had a tendency to leave threatening letters around the house. Then again, I reflected, perhaps it was Robbie I should warn about Vivien's rather unstable temperament.
Eventually I decided against doing either of those things. They would probably get on like a house on fire.
Chapter Twenty
Tammy, Ray and Robbie arrived with my new kitchen gear mid-afternoon. As soon as they were through the door, Vivien could be heard clattering down the stairs in three-inch stilettos. Very practical country footwear I have to say. She swished in to the living room and the others all turned to stare. She was kitted out in tiny hot pants and she had a see-through blouse on that she had tied around her waist, accentuating her slim figure. The blouse was unbuttoned to the third buttonhole, baring her generous cleavage. She looked like Miss Playboy Bunny of the Year.
I wasn't as surprised as the others by her attire, for I'd guessed she'd dress to kill and that Robbie was her target. However, considering how cool it got during the evenings, I deliberated that it was more probable that she would freeze to death before she got a chance of pouncing on her prey. I introduced her for a second time and she was all over Robbie like a rash, much to his bewilderment. I held back my mirth and watched her antics with detachment. Vivien had latched her arm through Robbie's regardless of his attempts to elude her. I don't think he had ever, on any previous occasion, been pursued with so much zeal, and he was obviously highly uncomfortable. Ray, trying to be the true gentleman and desperate not to offend Tammy, struggled not to gawk at Vivien's sexy provocative outline, which he just about achieved without breaking out in a nervous sweat. Tammy just stood open-mouthed, viewing the skimpily-dressed Vivien as if transfixed.
I winked at Tammy as I zipped past her to the van. "I'll explain later," I whispered in her ear, as I dashed to retrieve my phone charger.
I hurriedly plugged in my mobile and saw that I had five missed calls from Lionel and a couple from “Unknown number” which I imagined was probably him too. I was thrilled to see his gallant persistence in attempting to get in touch with me, although, no doubt, he thought I was a callous cow for not getting back to him. Just as I was about to dial his number the phone rang, and, of course, it was him. My heart almost lurched out of my chest. Suddenly I was in a panic at the thought of having to speak with him. For some reason, Vivien's news, which should have given me confidence and happiness, had left me a nervous wreck. It finally sunk in that Lionel was in love with me, and my voice shook uncontrollably from sheer emotion.
"Hi Lionel."
"Well I'm glad you're still alive," came his curt reply. "I'd almost got Interpol on your case." He sounded overwrought, and I wondered if there was anything else on his mind. "What with you not answering your phone, and the fact that Vivien has disappeared too, I thought someone was doing a serial kidnapping job."
"Vivien's here," I blurted out, hoping the information would calm him. It hadn't occurred to me that Vivien could have flown over without telling anyone where she was going. But obviously she had, and I'd visions of the entire California State Police and FBI out hunting for her. She was evidently in a more critical mental state than I imagined.
"She's there with you?" he gasped in shock. I wholly empathised with that, for I'd been just as stunned by her arrival the previous evening. "Is she okay?"
"Well, considering that in all my previous encounters with her she's always been somewhat insolent, I would say she's comparatively serene and affirmative. Do you want to speak to her?"
"No, no," he answered quickly. "I'll take your word for it."
I was glad he didn't want to speak to her – not for my own personal reasons (for I no longer felt envious of her), but for her own sake. If she was trying to get over Lionel, it wouldn't do any good conversing with him over the phone. In her present sensitive state she would probably have been left in floods of tears. And hysterics would only frighten off Robbie (the Menacing Letter Writer) all the more, whereas I needed him to be concentrating on her, not me.
"So what do you say?" Lionel went on.
"About what?" I hadn't a clue what he was referring to.
"About
escorting me up the red carpet at the Oscars, of course," he replied exasperated, though with good humour, and obviously mindful of the fact that I must have been overwhelmed to find myself with Vivien as a houseguest, especially as we'd never been the best of bosom buddies. Not that this description of our friendship, given Vivien's rather enhanced frontage, was the best choice of words.
Believe me or believe me not, I actually paused before answering. It wasn't every day a girl got asked to the Oscars. Indeed, I was fully aware that most would have jumped at the chance blindfolded, especially if it meant being escorted by Lionel King. But, crazy though it may seem, it was not on my bucket list. In fact, the idea of willingly putting myself at the mercy of the public, the press, the paparazzi, and that entire horrific hullabaloo was something I'd always shied away from.
As if reading my mind, Lionel spoke softly down the line.
"Chantelle, I know it's asking a lot from you. I realise you have no desire to have to put up with the blinding flash bulbs, the probing questions, the gaping stares from famous and non-famous alike. I realise what a daunting experience it will be for you. But I really need you by my side. It's the first time I've ever been nominated for Best Actor, and it's the first time I've ever found someone whom I really love to share the experience with, to help me get through the evening."
What a smooth talker! Put that way there really wasn't much for me to deliberate.
"Of course I'll go to the Oscars with you!" The vision of having to fight my way through screaming crowds was cast aside by the simple, joyful fact that he'd said the words I'd been longing to hear. He loved me, and that was reason enough to dive into the lion's den.
"You'll have to fly over this week, then. We haven't got much time to get your dress sorted out."
"And my hair sorted out," I added in mirth.
"We'll let Gabby deal with that," he joked back.
I thought, gleefully, he loves me – regardless of my feral hair!
***
The following day I drove back to London with Tammy and Ray, leaving Vivien in Robbie's capable hands. He was going to have his work cut out, dealing with Vivien as well as the house restoration. Nevertheless, considering the anxiety he'd put me through over the last several days, inundating me with threatening letters, I didn't feel the slightest bit remorseful.
Vivien was all bliss and exhilaration when I told her that she could remain in the house during my absence, with the sole condition that she helped with the work. She had agreed enthusiastically. I wasn't sure if she would feel so eager at the end of the week, and several broken fingernails later. As I sped into the city I actually wondered if it had been wise to let Vivien help with the decorations. I risked returning to a pink Barbie dollshouse. I just hoped that Robbie had the good sense and male firmness to ignore her, and her colour schemes, if it came down to it.
The flight over to LA seemed to be the longest I'd ever endured. I'd managed to get a flight the very next day after speaking with Lionel. I'd turned up at the airport, luggage in hand, proposing to go on standby and, as luck would have it, the very first flight scheduled for LA had a seat available. The luck ended here, however, as the moment I sat down a chronic case of diarrhoea set in. I was out of my place every five minutes and dashing to the loo.
I asked one of the flight attendants for something to help soothe my upset stomach, but was politely informed that she was not authorised to give out medication. So I asked for a couple of adult nappies. She laughed out loud at the notion, finding the situation remarkably funny and obviously assuming that I was just pulling her leg. In fact, she had no sodding concept of how serious the situation was. I had no control over my bowels and was in agony and despair each time I scampered down the aisle to the WC as fast as my cramped-up body would allow.
On the fifth toilet stop I came face to face with a nun who was waiting her turn to use it.
"You really don't want to go in there," I said. But she obviously didn't understand English, as she took no notice of my warning and stepped inside closing the door in my face. It wasn't long before she reappeared, bright pink in the face. She'd evidently held her breath inside the cubicle and looked on the verge of hyperventilating. She made the sign of the cross as she passed me, which utterly offended me. Nevertheless, I was blessed with a brainwave and on my next loo stop I was armed with a home made Out of Order sign, which I proudly and promptly stuck on the outside of the door. It was with mental relief – if not stomach relief – that I saw that passengers used the other toilet during the long haul, leaving me and my out of order gut alone with the "Out of Order" loo.
I was sure that Robbie was to thank for this bout of gastritis. He'd been chef the evening before I'd left, and had impressed us all with his cordon bleu flair. Vivien had looked guiltily at her plate which had been piled high, but after the first mouth-watering bite she was in food paradise, as were we all: roast chicken set in a delicious herb and wine sauce, roast potatoes that just melted on the tongue, and an array of poached vegetables, all polished off with several generous goblets of red Rias Baixas wine.
The evil rotter had obviously gone and put rat poison in my food, or possibly a whole sachet or two of laxative in my wine. I couldn't believe that I'd been so naïve. I'd even congratulated Robbie on his cooking prowess. I could've kicked myself for my stupidity when it had been so clear for so long that he was out to get me. Robbie, meanwhile, had just looked at me in sly mirth, which, at the time, I had taken for shy modesty. He really was a calculating arsehole! Having said that, he must have felt some remorse the following morning. Just as I was about to step into Tammy's Jag to return to London, he'd pulled me to one side. There'd been an anxious look in his eyes.
"There's something I've got to confess."
I was taken aback. He was obviously going to confess that he was the author of the letters. But I had neither the time nor the desire to converse with Robbie about all that just then. I wanted to leave it to one side for now and deal with it at some point in the future.
"Robbie, it's OK, I know. We'll talk about it when I get back. When we are both less emotional about the whole affair, and have had some time to reflect."
He looked rather stunned at the fact that I was aware of his conduct, though, at the same time, somewhat relieved. He looked as if a huge burden had been lifted from his shoulders.
Without another word I'd stepped into the Jag and had zipped into London, the airport, the loo – and on to the Academy of Motion Picture Awards: The Oscars.
***
I don't know how I got through passport control once I’d successfully landed in LA. For an alarming moment I thought I was going to be put into quarantine; placed under strict observation lest I was carrying some hitherto unknown and deadly bug into the States. Thankfully, they shifted me, real nippy, out into the arrivals lounge. I staggered through the sliding doors, the constant belly cramps making me double over in pain. I felt so weak, too; the only thing that actually kept me on my feet was the fact that I leaned heavily on my luggage trolley and my childlike belief that Lionel would be there at the airport to greet me with open arms.
Lionel, however, was much too famous to fight his way through mobbing crowds just to meet me at the airport. Instead, as I tried despondently to remain lucid, I came face to face with Gabby. The moment she saw me she rushed over.
"Honey, you look absolutely shocking."
"Just as candid as ever," I managed to joke back.
"What's wrong?" she asked, concern in her voice.
"Apart from breaking the Guinness Book of Records for toilet stops over the Atlantic, I'm fine. It must be something somebody gave me to eat or drink…"
From then on everything remains rather vague. I had no recollection of the drive to Freddy G's mansion. Nor of being taken down to the cottage where I'd been accommodated during my previous stay. I had no notion of time or events.
I had visions of Lionel sponging my forehead with a damp towel, of doctors who seemed to be in and ou
t the room like bloody yo-yos, of Gabby who looked on at me ghostly pale and fraught. As long as they don't bring in a priest, I'll be fine.
At some point, though I'd no idea if it was hours later or days, I finally felt the fever break. My entire body was sore and frail. I felt as if I'd been given a good hiding – and I guess in a way I had, by Robbie's evil cooking, or by whatever poison he'd used on me.
The diagnosis was a severe bout of salmonella, which had left me bedridden for five days. Personally, I thought I looked like I'd just stepped out of some sort of extra-severe Gabby-style fitness boot camp. My cheeks were hollow, my eyes sunken, my bust non-existent, and my bum no longer cheeky. I couldn't possibly accompany Lionel to the Oscars looking as I did.
"You look like a bloody beanpole," had been Gabby's comforting words. It looked like mission impossible. But at least it meant I was off the carrot diet for a while.
"You've got three days to recuperate before Oscar comes to call. And kid, you’re gonna be ready… No shit!" said Gabby optimistically. A personal stylist was sent for, my hair was trimmed and tamed, and I had all the beauty treatments done in the cottage. Gabby even set up a portable sun-bed in the lounge.
In a frantic rush to find some elegant attire for the Oscars I was jostled in and out of at least twenty exclusively-designed evening dresses by Giorgio Armani, Dolce & Gabbana, Versace and Emanuel Ungaro, but nothing seemed to fit. The dresses were either too tight or too loose on me. Gabby insisted on an opulent lengthy red Versace dress, but it conjured up images of the red cat suit I'd been given to wear during the shooting of The Business and I didn't want anyone to be reminded of that ghastly film. It would not have been a good way to begin relationships with the Hollywood press. At last I saw a silver crocheted dress by Marc Bouwer that I fell in love with. It was the best fit of all the dresses and, considering that there was so little time for last minute alterations, I thought it the best choice. It was cut very low and left the midriff area almost visibly bare, except for some delicate stitching which just about covered the skin. The fine material hugged the waist and hip line and then fell straight to the floor, with a rather generous slit up the left leg.
A Little of Chantelle Rose Page 18