Emily Brontë - Fame and Wuthering Heights

She knew she was being childish. In part this was to try to hide her own nerves. Today’s meeting was important. Rasmirez had cast her, the contract was signed; but he could easily wriggle out of it if he met her and had a change of heart. On the other hand, Sabrina was savvy enough to know that Hollywood was all about bravado. The moment she started acting like a failure, like she was washed up and flailing and desperate for the lifeline Rasmirez was throwing her, was the moment she knew she would sink without trace. What was Jack Nicholson’s mantra? Never explain, never apologize. Ed had already apologized for her, so that ship had sailed. But Sabrina was determined to undo the damage by projecting nothing but A-list star quality to Rasmirez today. She did not appreciate being kept waiting.

Listening to Sabrina bitch about everything from the menu to the air-conditioning to the glare from the restaurant windows, Ed Steiner felt his self-control tanks running dangerously low. Just as he was about to lose his temper, a visibly tired and dishevelled Dorian Rasmirez walked in and was led over to join them.

‘Sorry I’m late.’ He addressed himself to Ed, who had stood up to greet him, and not to Sabrina, who hadn’t. ‘Complete craziness at my office. I’ve been out of town for three weeks, so I’m sure you can imagine. Have you ordered?’

Ed shook his head. ‘We only just got here ourselves.’

‘Oh, good,’ said Dorian, who couldn’t see Sabrina’s furious glare behind her enormous dark glasses. He glanced round for a waitress, who materialized instantly. ‘Hi there. We’ll have three green salads to start, please, and just bring us a selection of main dishes, whatever the chef recommends. Hope that’s OK with you.’ He turned back to Ed. ‘I’m on a really tight schedule today and we’ve got a lot of ground to cover.’

‘Of course,’ said Ed. ‘We’re grateful you could fit us in. Aren’t we Sabrina?’

Slowly, with a melodramatic flourish worthy of Zsa Zsa Gabor, or a young Joan Collins, Sabrina removed her sunglasses, folded them neatly and laid them down on the table. She looked at Dorian Rasmirez, her eyes crawling over his face with disdain. It was the sort of look an empress might give to an unkempt page boy. Who the hell did he think he was, showing up late then ordering food without even asking her what she’d like? Presumptuous jerk. She turned to a passing waiter. ‘I’ll have a sour apple martini please, not too much sugar. And the lobster. And I’d like to see the menu again, please. I haven’t quite made up my mind about an appetizer. You can cancel the earlier order.’

‘Of course, Ms Leon,’ muttered the waiter. ‘Right away.’

Dorian watched this little charade with a combination of irritation and amusement. So the stories are no exaggeration. She really is a little madam. So much for rehab having humbled her. No wonder her manager looked as if he was one Big Mac away from a fatal coronary. Working for Sabrina Leon had clearly driven him to the brink.

The rumours about Sabrina were true in other areas too. Dorian had worked with some of the most beautiful actresses in the world, but few of them could match the electricity that positively crackled out of this girl. Electricity was good. Attitude, on the other hand, was bad, and Dorian had no intention of standing for it.

Leaning forward over the table, so that his face was only inches from Sabrina’s, he said very quietly, ‘You have fifteen seconds to cancel that order.’

Sabrina refused to be intimidated. ‘Or what?’ she taunted.

‘Or you are off my movie,’ Dorian smiled sweetly. ‘Entirely your choice, of course. But I don’t work with prima donnas.’

‘Is that so?’ Sabrina stood up haughtily. ‘Well, it just so happens I don’t work with megalomaniacs. Goodbye, Mr Rasmirez.’

‘Goodbye, Miss Leon.’

Poor Ed Steiner was so panicked he looked as though he were about to spontaneously combust. ‘Hey, hey, come on now guys. Let’s cool things down, shall we? No need to get into the Cuban Missile Crisis before we’ve even been introduced.’ He put a restraining hand on Sabrina’s arm. ‘How about we start this again? Dorian Rasmirez, Sabrina Leon. Sabrina Leon, Dorian Rasmirez.’

Neither Sabrina nor Dorian moved a muscle. After a few, tense seconds, Sabrina caved first, grudgingly extending a hand. Dorian hesitated, then shook it.

‘Sit down please.’

Ed shot Sabrina a pleading look. She sat.

‘I’m a fair man, Miss Leon,’ said Dorian. ‘I have nothing against you personally. Nor do I have any interest whatsoever in your personal life.’

‘I should hope not,’ Sabrina bridled.

‘However, I should tell you that the moment your personal life intrudes on the set of my movie, or impacts my cast and crew in any way, you will be out of that door so fast you won’t know what hit you.’

Sabrina opened her mouth to speak but Dorian held up a hand for silence.

‘I’m not finished. You’re a good actress, Sabrina. You have potential to be a great actress. But you’re also spoiled, immature, and at times breathtakingly stupid.’

Sabrina bit her lower lip so hard she drew blood. Not since Sammy Levine the youth theatre director back in Fresno had anyone spoken to her like this. All around their table, diners were straining their ears to hear her being ticked off like a naughty schoolgirl. It was mortifying.

‘None of the major studios will touch you,’ said Dorian. ‘Nor will any of the independent producers worth their salt. You’re a liability.’

‘That’s bullshit,’ spat Sabrina, unable to contain herself any longer. ‘I got offers.’

Dorian laughed brutally. ‘Thank God you’re a better actress than you are a liar. You have nothing, Sabrina. You know it and I know it. As of today, you are nothing. Now, if you want to become something again in this town, in this business, in this life, you’d better start by learning some humility.’

Sabrina’s blood boiled, but she said nothing. Dorian continued.

‘I’ve taken a chance on you young lady, when nobody else would. That’s the reality. I don’t need you. You need me. Which means that for the next year, or as long as it takes to get this movie pitch perfect, you do exactly as I say. You get up when I tell you to get up. You work when I tell you to work. You speak when I tell you to speak, you shut up when I tell you to shut up, and you eat whatever I put on your fucking plate. Are we clear?’

Sabrina glared at him in silent rage. He was right. She did need him. But in that moment she hated him more than she had hated anybody since the stepbrother who’d abused her as a kid.

‘Are. We. Clear?’ Dorian repeated, raising his voice so the entire restaurant could hear him.

‘Yes.’ Sabrina nodded, her voice barely a whisper.

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you.’

‘Yes,’ she hissed. ‘We’re clear.’

‘Good.’ Dorian smiled broadly. ‘Now go ahead and cancel your order and we can get down to business.’

Nine hours later, Dorian pulled through the electric gates of his Holmby Hills mansion utterly exhausted. What a godawful day.

After lunch with Sabrina, he’d had back-to-back meetings with his manager, his accountant, and Milla Haines, his casting director on Wuthering Heights. He’d hoped that would be a short meeting, but Milla wanted to run through an agonizingly long list of possibles for the role of Hareton Earnshaw.

‘What about Sam Worthington?’ suggested Dorian.

Milla attempted an eyebrow raise, not easy with a forehead-full of Fraxel. ‘You can’t begin to afford him.’

Stick thin, perfectly groomed and of indeterminate age thanks to decades of surgical tinkering, Milla Haines was about as sexually alluring as a bag of nails. She was, however, a first-rate casting director, not to mention a straight talker. Dorian respected her.