by Lulu Taylor
‘And that’s how you feel for Papa,’ Xenia breathed. How extraordinary that people met other people they could love all the time. How else could there be so many married couples?
‘Yes. And that’s how you’ll feel one day. It will be the greatest adventure of your life.’ Mama leaned back, closed her eyes, and took a long drag on her cigarette.
Rehearsals were over, the sets were built on the enormous sound stage, and filming began. Xenia, sitting in the shadows, was fascinated by this film in a way that she had not been with Delilah.
Perhaps I was too young to understand it. But I’m older this time . . .
The actor who played Anderson was impossibly handsome, with brooding dark eyes and a mop of black hair that was long at the front and heavy with hair cream, unlike the other men on and off the set. His mouth, full-lipped and expressive, was often sulky yet full of a promise that made her stomach tingle pleasantly when she looked at him. Soon he was all she thought of. At night, she constructed elaborate fantasies where the beautiful blonde who played his wife had an accident and she, Xenia, was asked to take on the role, and Anderson would kiss her on the set only to find that he loved her for real. And then something . . . something extraordinary would happen.
Making love would happen, Xenia told herself with a thrill, though she wasn’t exactly sure what would take place beyond the stories she had heard at school, some of which were frankly unbelievable.
Her infatuation with Anderson meant that for a while she was blind to the signs of Mama’s growing nervousness. Her mother wanted to stay at the set until late, working on her lines and blocking her every move, learning her marks and thinking about the kind of gestures Rhonda might make. At home, her light was on into the early hours but she was up with the sun, eager to be back on set. Then she began to be morbid. The blonde actress who played Anderson’s wife started to play on her mind. Sometimes she was envious, pacing around her dressing room, her eyes intense.
‘She’s at the start of everything, it’s such a delicious place to be! She’s so young and so pretty. She’s an unwritten page, all of it lies ahead of her.’
‘But you’re a proper star, Mama,’ Xenia protested. ‘And she doesn’t have your elegance and style.’
‘Maybe. But she’s got sex appeal.’
‘She’s nothing but sex appeal,’ Xenia countered stoutly.
Mama laughed. ‘You’re right. She’s just a repository for fantasy. How wise you are, little Xenia. I’m an actress, a real actress, and I mustn’t forget it.’
But the envy began to turn to something dark and morbid. Soon, Mama talked incessantly of the baby-faced blonde and her remarks grew vicious, her language filthy. ‘She’s a tramp who’s slept her way up the career ladder,’ she would spit, putting on her lipstick with a shaking hand. ‘She’s trying to seduce Sly and everyone else too. She wants to see me put in the shade because she thinks I’m past it. She’s sex mad, and stupid with it.’
Xenia hated it when Mama became coarse like this, and had no idea how to respond. What good would explaining do, in any case? The blonde did flirt with everyone but in a kind of desperate way, as though it was the only method she had to make people like her. And she did concentrate on the men, but then, the set was full of men. Her real mistake was to treat Natalie like some kind of wise old mother figure who might give her the approval she seemed to crave. Natalie wanted no part of that relationship. Soon she was obsessed with the idea that there was something brewing between the girl and the actor who played Anderson, and that seemed to send her into a jealous fury, as though the feelings her character had for him had possessed her for real.
At home in the evenings, in the house they’d rented on South Crescent Drive, Mama drank her favourite martinis and raved about the vileness of what was going on between the young actors, or stared into space and spoke of Papa and her fears that he would stop loving her. Perhaps he was with someone else while she was far away in America, making this bloody awful film. He’d leave her for someone younger and more attractive, and her life would be over.
Xenia was helpless before her mother’s fears. No matter how often she told her that she was beautiful, desirable and successful, the woman of Papa’s dreams, whom he would love forever, Mama became convinced that her looks were fading and that he would leave her.
The filming proceeded quickly. Sly Manikee, the director, liked to work chronologically and that was possible in this drawing room drama, set inside. As the passion and intrigue between the characters grew more extreme, so Mama’s spirits seemed to intensify until she lived in a state of nervous tension, calming herself with drink and pills that Xenia thought, in reality, only made things worse. At night she paced the floors of the house, muttering and trying to place phone calls to England to reach Papa and demand that he tell her who he was sleeping with, but she always lost patience and hung up before they connected her.
Xenia couldn’t sleep either. She haunted her mother like a little ghost, growing pale and wan herself through lack of sleep and fretting about what might happen. She wrote letters to Papa begging him to come and calm Mama down, but he wrote back that she was doing a fine job and that it wasn’t worth his coming when filming was almost over.
‘Hey, little lady,’ said a drawling voice behind her as she loitered on set one day. ‘How are you?’
Xenia turned and found herself face to face with her dream. He was smiling at her with his charming lopsided grin, his brown eyes warm, one lock of dark hair falling forward over his face. Her stomach plummeted and turned in a sickening and yet pleasant tumble. ‘Oh,’ she stammered. ‘I’m . . . fine, thank you.’
‘You don’t look so good. Are you sure you’re okay? You’re awfully pale.’ He put out a hand and rested it lightly on her arm. It seemed to burn where he touched her. ‘I know you have quite a job looking after your mother. She’s on the flip side of sane, isn’t she? You’re too young to have that kind of responsibility, I’d say. Where’s your dad?’
‘Papa is at home in England,’ she said, her voice sounding high and prim next to his drawling American accent.
‘Papa’s home in England, huh?’ He mimicked her clipped tone. ‘Well, well. Then he ought to get over here, I think. Before your mother loses it completely.’
Xenia was torn by the desire to talk, to tell him everything – all her hopes and dreams and worries – and by her loyalty to Mama. ‘I think she’ll be all right,’ she said lamely.
He shook his head. ‘It still shouldn’t be your responsibility. I said as much to Sly, but he won’t listen. Well, whatever happens, it won’t be your fault. Remember that, okay?’
She nodded as he turned and sauntered off, leaving her longing more than ever.
‘I saw you!’ Mama turned on her, green eyes flashing with rage, fists clenched. She was in costume for the next scene, a nightdress and slippers, which seemed all the more incongruous, paired with her towering fury. ‘You’re like that blonde slut! You were trying to seduce him, weren’t you? Trying to prove that you’ve got what I haven’t! Little tart! I thought I’d brought you up better than this.’
Xenia stared at her, aghast. She knew what her mother was talking about, but she was horribly mistaken. Except . . . she did love Anderson and long for him to kiss her and hold her and . . . A hot blush exploded across her cheeks.
‘Guilt is written all over you,’ spat Mama. ‘You’re cheap! You’re cruel and cheap. How could you do it to me?’ Tears sprang into her eyes and she moaned pitifully. ‘Why do you want to punish me? My own daughter! How could you?’
‘But I don’t want to punish you—’
The tears vanished, the snarl was back, Mama’s beautiful face contorted with the horrible emotions possessing her. ‘You think I’m finished, do you? Washed up? Dried-up old hag? Is that it? Well, just you watch me.’ She marched out of the trailer, Xenia racing behind her, frantic, desperate to stop her, knowing it was her responsibility to hide Mama’s state from everyone else.
; ‘Come back, please, what are you going to do—?’
Her mother strode out onto the set. As usual, it was full of people as another shot was set up. Electricians, carpenters, sound engineers, grips and dolly operators, swarming over the scaffold that surrounded the set, all over the cameras, up in the lighting rig, everywhere.
‘No, Mama!’ cried Xenia desperately, but it was no good. The actor and the blonde looked up startled from the scene they were running through as, in full view of everyone on set, Mama stormed up to the girl, raised her hand and slapped her hard across the face. While the girl was still gasping with shock and pain, she pulled the actor close, sunk her fingers into his hair and put her lips on his, pressing hard in a kiss, her tongue coming out to probe his closed mouth. It all happened so fast, but an instant later, the actor was pushing Mama away, his expression disgusted; the girl was sobbing hysterically, pointing at Mama; people were rushing onto the set to pull Mama away, while she screamed abuse and resisted their efforts to remove her.
‘Let go of me, you fuckers!’ she yelled as they wrestled her back to her dressing room.
‘For Christ’s sake,’ yelled Sly Manikee, ‘get that fucking maniac off my set!’
Xenia burst into tears and ran to the ladies’ room to weep, ashamed of the awful stranger her mother had become.
Chapter Thirty
Here I am. Home.
Buttercup had parked the car on the gravel at the front, instead of her usual place near the back door in the yard. Visitors and Charles usually parked here. She went in at the front door, where the security cameras recorded all arrivals and a moment later, as she put down her bags and took off her coat, Carol came into the hall from the back, wiping her hands on a towel.
‘Hello there!’ she said brightly. ‘How was London?’
‘Very nice, thank you.’ Buttercup found she could hardly look at Carol, knowing what she did about her. She could imagine Carol going back to the kitchen right now, taking out her tablet and making some notes: Mrs R seemed a bit downcast when she got back, and much less friendly than usual.
‘I was just about to head off home actually,’ Carol said, not seeming to notice Buttercup’s detachment. ‘I’ve got the rest of the day off. There’s soup on the stove, and a casserole to go into the oven for later.’
‘Thanks.’ She managed a smile, relieved that Carol would be going. ‘You think of everything. Enjoy your day off.’
‘I will.’
Buttercup took her bag upstairs and checked her emails. There was one from Charles – a few brief lines asking how she was – and one from Rose filling her in on his return from Shanghai in three days’ time. So she had three days to work it all out and plan what she was going to say to Charles. It would need careful thought if she was going to strike the right note. She sent back a breezy reply saying she was looking forward to seeing him.
Going downstairs, she found her attention caught by the flash of a red dot: one of the security cameras aimed at the stairs had come on, alerted by her movement. A sick feeling washed over her: she was watched and monitored, she knew that, but the cold, hard evidence of it was still horrible.
On impulse she went to the electrics cupboard in the back corridor and opened it to see a complicated-looking control box, but the labels under various switches helped. She found the one labelled ‘CCTV system’ and flicked it off. Immediately she felt much better. Then she noticed the wireless router that controlled the internet access to the house and after a moment, pressed it to off. The light went out. The house was offline.
Buttercup giggled. She had just thrown a blanket of invisibility over the house by cutting its connections to the outside world. Better than that, she had freed herself from all constraints. Carol was gone, the cleaners were not here, the cameras were off. There was only Tippi about, dozing in the kitchen by the Aga most likely.
Buttercup went to her bag and took out her wireless ear pods, linked them to her phone and set an energetic playlist going loudly. Bouncy, upbeat pop exploded in her ears. ‘Silent disco!’ she shouted at the top of her voice, and kicked off her ballet slippers so that she was wearing only her fine cotton socks underneath. ‘Let’s dance!’
Sliding and jumping over the slippery marble floor of the hall, she danced with all her might, singing along to the track, not caring what she might sound like to anyone listening. She wriggled and bopped, leaping about and grooving hard, using the whole great room as her personal dance space, feeling the energy flowing through her as she threw her whole body into movement, her blood racing as she danced.
As the song finished, she was panting and bright-eyed, elated by the rush of endorphins in her blood, feeling better than she had for weeks or even months. Tippi was standing at the corner of the room, her tail wagging, watching her curiously.
Buttercup turned down the music and pulled out one of the earbuds. ‘Sorry, Tips, do you think I’m completely mad? I’m not, I’m just so happy to be properly alone for the first time in so very long.’
Just then, a great thud reverberated around the room. Buttercup gasped loudly, jumping with shock, before she realised it must be the brass knocker on the front door, so rarely used that its sound was completely unfamiliar.
‘Oh, fantastic.’ She rolled her eyes at Tippi. ‘Who could that be? Surely not the postman!’
She slid over on her cotton socks and turned the great brass doorknob, pulling the huge door open as she did. Standing in front of her was a tall man, solidly built in a dark coat, jeans and heavy lace-up boots, thick coppery russet hair and warm brown eyes. He took Buttercup in, her single earbud, the phone sticking out of her pocket, her socks, jeans and sloppy sweat top, her hair pulled back into a messy ponytail and the flush in her cheeks. ‘Hello,’ he said uncertainly. ‘I’m looking for Mr or Mrs Redmain – they’re the owners, aren’t they?’
‘They are. I’m Mrs Redmain. How can I help you?’
Embarrassment dropped over his face. ‘Ah – I see. I’m awfully sorry, I didn’t . . . you look so . . . Sorry.’
Buttercup held up a hand. ‘It’s fine, honestly. But it’s jolly cold here with the door open. Perhaps you should come in.’
‘Thanks.’ The man stepped into the hall, looking about curiously as he did, a look of bemused awe on his face. ‘Wow, this place has changed.’
‘You know it?’
‘Yes, I do.’ He turned to smile at her, showing even white teeth, his eyes full of easy charm. ‘I used to live here.’
‘Really?’ Buttercup frowned, pulling out her other earbud and putting them in her pocket. ‘I thought that before Charles, the house belonged to the princess for years.’
‘That’s right. Xenia Arkadyoff. We lived here when she owned it.’ He was gazing around, his eyes moving around the room, taking it all in. ‘What a transformation. Those ceiling paintings look incredible now they’ve been restored.’
‘Sorry – your name is?’
He remembered himself with a start. ‘Excuse my rudeness, I’m a bit overwhelmed being here after so many years. I’m Gawain Ashley. Sorry to turn up out of the blue like this, I tried to arrange something with Mr Redmain’s office but couldn’t get very far with them.’
Buttercup nodded. She could imagine that there were many levels of protection in place before a stranger could reach Charles. ‘My husband’s away right now, I’m afraid.’
He looked beseechingly at Buttercup. ‘Would you mind terribly if I took a look around? For old times’ sake?’
She stared at him for a moment. He seems genuine, not much like a murderer. She smiled. ‘Sure. Why not? Would you like a coffee or something?’
‘Yes, please,’ he said, grinning back. ‘That sounds great.’
She led him through to the kitchen where he was even more overcome with astonishment.
‘This is amazing,’ he said, as she put the kettle on to boil. ‘You would simply not believe what this room used to look like. I wish I’d brought my old photos now so I could show you. When we
lived here, this was pretty much unchanged from the nineteen twenties. I remember the range in that fireplace where you’ve got the Aga – an old cast-iron thing. An old butler’s sink, not a picturesque one at all. A copper to boil hot water, cracked black and white tiles, and a huge old table in the middle of the room. And the whole place was cold and draughty.’ He turned to Buttercup, smiling. ‘It’s so different.’
‘But how did you come to be living here?’ Buttercup asked, spooning coffee into the jug.
‘She rented out the house and outbuildings to my parents. My dad died recently. He was a furniture maker and carver, and he believed passionately about passing on the old skills before they died out. So did my mother – she was a painter of miniatures. They had a dream to create a kind of artists’ commune here, with all the room they needed for creating things. Charcombe seemed absolutely perfect and it was so decrepit that it was cheap.’
‘So the princess lived here with you?’
‘That’s right. She obviously needed money badly, the place was in an awful state and she lived here more or less alone, looking after her mother who was pretty old and sick by then.’
‘You mean Natalie Rowe.’ Buttercup thought back to the shimmering screen presence, the flawless face and graceful figure. ‘What was she like?’
‘I was just a boy – this was back in the late eighties – and I was pretty frightened of her, if I’m honest. She wandered about, crazy white hair, dreamy, sometimes crying and wailing, sometimes happy and singing, always looking for someone called Paul.’ Gawain laughed sheepishly. ‘I thought she was completely cracked, of course, but I was only about seven. Golden Age movie stars meant nothing to me, and she certainly didn’t look like one in any case. My parents showed me her portrait but I didn’t think it was really her.’
‘We’ve got that portrait.’
‘Have you?’ Gawain looked interested. ‘I’d love to see it again.’