Tales Of Temptation: Rivals / Pride / Ambition

Chapter One

‘It’s unbearably bloody hot. Can someone get me a drink before I burst into flames?’

Emily Windermere fanned herself with small, porcelain hands, gazing whimsically upon her beauty in the make-up girl’s mirror. Even when she was roasting beneath layers of net and taffeta, trussed up in a bodice and choked by a necklace of ribbons, her wide-eyed reflection—those pools of hazel bordered by delicate lashes; that thicket of copper framing a flawless, cream-skinned complexion—remained as serenely lovely as an English garden on the first day of spring.

It was the English summer that was the problem.

‘Ugh! Wasps!’ Irritably Emily batted her arms, causing the make-up girl’s brush to stab her in the eye. ‘My God, is it too much to hope I’m not blind by the end of this?’

‘Here you go, Ms Windermere.’ A nervous runner was proffering a glass of cloudy lemonade, one of the onset requisites stipulated by her management.

‘That’ll explain why I’m getting mauled by insects,’ she complained, accepting it all the same. ‘Can’t we take care of this inside my trailer?’

‘I need the light, I’m afraid,’ said the make-up girl through gritted teeth.

It was Friday morning, a fortnight into filming, and, contrary to the studio’s concerns that a London June wouldn’t produce enough light, they now had rather too much of it. The city was enduring a heatwave that showed no signs of abating, golden sun blazing across Hampstead Heath from an unbroken swimming-pool sky. Cast were sweating through Victorian petticoats and frock coats, while crew chased to allay the disgruntled company, struggling under clipboards and sound equipment and taking occasional refuge for a cigarette in the shelter of a crisp white parasol.

‘They’re ready for you,’ prompted the runner, anxiously smiling as Emily rose with majesty from her seat, mustering her lacy skirts and, with a dainty finger, removing the spot of perspiration that had gathered in her philtrum.

She thought of Christopher Fenwick awaiting her in his breeches.

‘And I’m ready for them,’ she breathed.

‘Oh, Lord Ackland, we mustn’t! Your dear wife—’

‘Why relinquish such precious moments to the folly of resistance?’ Lord Ackland growled, attacking his lover’s neck with the ferocity of a vampire. ‘I’ve caught your shy glances, Lucinda; well aware you are of how I admire thee.’

Lord Ackland’s hands, wide and strong as a bear’s, roamed across her corseted body with the territorial claim of that same animal, deftly unpicking the ties that held her together. His tongue shot into her mouth, rich with tobacco.

‘My lord, we act in haste—’

Abruptly Lord Ackland stepped back, releasing his flap-fronted trousers as the camera panned to Lucinda’s fey, lips-parted stare. She could see him bulging through the cotton and struggled to remember what came next. Fortunately it was his line.

‘The heart hastens unchecked, my dear; it knows not the temperance of reason.’

She’d seen it all before, of course, and as Christopher Fenwick grasped Emily Windermere’s bottom, thrusting a hardness towards her that was most definitely not part of the script, she fought the urge to reach for him in the way she had the previous night and have him surrender to her dexterity right here against the grandfather clock.

‘You almost had me back there, you minx,’ Christopher said to her afterwards as they walked up to camp. He couldn’t resist checking over his shoulder to make sure they were out of earshot. ‘We should be more careful.’

‘Conscience, all of a sudden?’ Emily enquired archly, absorbing her co-star’s profile out of the corner of her eye: he had a prominent forehead, appealingly like a caveman who might wrestle beasts for supper, and a slight underbite that completed the impression. His shoulders were broad and muscular, his hair grown longish so it tickled the starch of his collar. There was no doubt about it: Christopher Fenwick was divine. He was also married with two daughters.

What was it they said about life imitating art?

‘A careful tread isn’t the same as a rampant conscience,’ he observed.

‘Now you’re talking like bloody Lord Ackland.’

He steered her into the shade of an oak. ‘My wife is away this weekend,’ he murmured, pulling her into his arms. ‘I’ll have the place to myself.’

‘Good for you.’

He grazed his nose against hers. ‘Why so petulant?’

Emily shrugged. In part she felt peeved at how cocksure Christopher was—at how cocksure she’d made him, because leaping into bed on the second occasion they’d met had scarcely been playing hard to get—but she also knew he liked her in this girlish mode, fifteen years his junior, and reverted to known tricks the instant his wife was dragged into conversation.

She pouted, shaking her ringlets. ‘You’ll have to make a fuss of me.’

‘You know I will.’

‘And get someone to take that smelly dog of yours. I can’t bear it panting at the door with its tongue hanging out.’

‘Consider it done.’

Emily tilted her head, pretending to reach a decision. ‘Fine,’ she said, with a wistful sigh. ‘I suppose.’

Christopher grinned wolfishly. He reached to squeeze her behind, which was no easy feat through a voluminous bustle.

‘One day you’re going to get in trouble for this,’ he teased.

‘Yes,’ she mused, returning his kiss. ‘I suppose I am.’

Chapter Two

It was their brazenness that did it, how lazy they were about concealing the affair, especially her, tarting about on set as if she ruled the place (which, in a sense, she did), performing her love scenes with overblown gusto just so everyone could know they were sleeping together. Had she no moral fibre?

Julia Chambers swiped the saggy mobcap off her head and scowled.

Maud Screwe. Could her character have been given a more disastrous name? As if it wasn’t bad enough being cast in Emily Windermere’s shadow yet again, the soul-destroying pattern that had first been sown in the girls’ childhood then tended through adolescence and college, eventually flourishing in the wake of their exit from drama school. Why? Because Emily was pretty and precious and made stupid exclamations like ‘Goodness!’ and ‘Fiddlesticks!’, which made Julia want to scream ‘FUCK!’ in her face for as many moments as it took before her throat shrivelled up.

Maud Screwe. Oh, she’d seen Emily’s expression when they’d arrived on location for the first time; the familiar gratification, the raised eyebrow, the ‘Julia, is that you? Fancy us working together again! If I didn’t know better I’d think you were stalking me—’ a tinkling laugh ‘—now, Maud Screwe, what a funny name…’

Emily had landed the part of Lucinda Liddell, naturally, the role Julia had originally auditioned for. It was a simple distinction: Julia wasn’t one of life’s Lucindas—her face didn’t belong in an Edwardian dolls’ house or in one of those ballerina music boxes that played dinky tunes on the harpsichord, it belonged to the trusty friend, the plain Jane, the slightly overweight sidekick. Never mind that she was the better actress—since when had that counted for anything?

Maud Screwe. The Maud was as dour and uninspiring as any of the parts she was offered—maudlin, that pretty much summed it up. And as for Screwe, well, someone was having a laugh. Julia couldn’t remember the last time, and, as always seemed to be the case, her own drought in the bedroom coincided perfectly with Emily’s dalliance with one of the hottest British actors in existence.

Christopher Fenwick. The mere sight of him brought her out in shivers.

‘Everything OK?’

Julia turned, for a stupid moment believing it was Christopher himself before the voice got attributed to Isaac, one of the footmen. Isaac’s character Ned was as downtrodden as poor old Maud and through shared scenes they had identified a kindred soul in the other—Julia decided if anything good were to come from this production it would be her friendship with him.

She realised she’d wandered further from Heriscombe House than she’d thought. The lake was spread before her, glittering silvery light.

‘Hey.’ She sank on to its banks, not much caring if she got mud on her cotton dress—it was already brown—and balling the mobcap in her hands. How she wanted to fling it into the water and never see it again! Why did she always have to be the sodding maid? Was it too much to ask for a scrap of glamour in her life? How was she ever going to attract anyone even remotely of the calibre of Christopher Fenwick while she was bound up in an apron and the only lines she uttered were variations on ‘Yes, my lord’ and ‘As it pleases you, m’lady’?

Isaac flopped down next to her. ‘It can’t be that bad…?’ he prompted.

She looked up at him. ‘I bet you’re obsessing over Emily Windermere like the rest of them.’

He smiled a little. ‘Why would you say that?’

‘It’s pathetic. Men are so shallow. All you care about is looks.’

Isaac scratched the back of his head. ‘That’s a sweeping statement.’

‘It’s true, isn’t it? And why shouldn’t you?’ She picked at the grass, discarding tufts of it till a bald patch started to appear. ‘End of the day, that’s what counts.’

‘Clearly it does to you.’

Her head snapped up. ‘Excuse me?’

‘You can’t accuse us of valuing appearances when you’re one girl slagging off another because of what she looks like.’

Julia opened her mouth to reply but the pithy retort didn’t come.

‘You wouldn’t understand,’ she puffed, getting to her feet and tramping off.

‘Julia, wait.’

She rounded on him. ‘Fine, if that’s what you think. You know nothing about me, or Emily, or—’ She put her hands on her hips. ‘Are you laughing?’

‘No,’ he said, trying not to grin. ‘It’s just…you in that outfit—’

‘What about me in this outfit? You try wearing it!’

‘If you let me finish, what I was going to say was that you in that outfit and me in this—’ he gestured at his livery ‘—for a minute it felt like we were really these people. You know, in another life, another time, or something.’ He went red. ‘Never mind, it sounds silly now I say it out loud.’

Julia sighed. ‘No, it doesn’t. Sorry, Isaac. I’m the one being silly.’

‘What I meant to say was that you shouldn’t waste your time feeling bad over Emily Windermere.’ He scuffed the ground with his heel. ‘OK, she is pretty, but by all accounts she’s poisonous and anyway she’s never said two words to me, so, for the record, I’m definitely not obsessing over her.’

‘Christopher Fenwick is,’ Julia muttered bitterly.

‘And he’s an arsehole.’

‘How would you know?’

‘Because he’s a forty-year-old guy who’s cheating on his wife with every twenty-something starlet who crosses his path? The guy’s a dick.’

They made their way back up to the trailers in silence. Julia wondered if getting to take a dick to bed each night was every bit as bad as Isaac made out.

It wasn’t the first time Christopher Fenwick had visited her in a dream. On this occasion he was dressed as Lord Ackland, strutting in his breeches to the scullery where Maud was occupied with a basket of ripe polished apples, peeling their skins in bright green coils, fragrant and sweet, rolling floury pastry and dusting brown sugar, and he bent her over the wooden table wordlessly, unstrapping himself and tearing her knickers in a practised wrench that made her blood explode. The fruits went rolling, plopping over the rim and on to the floor, dozens of them, as his thrusting got faster and deeper and he was crying out her name—

Julia woke to silence, searched the dark and heard nothing but her heartbeat.

She checked the time: 2.41 a.m.

Unable to return to sleep, she sat and opened a book. The words swam in front of her eyes, making no sense, with each blink dragging her under. Was Emily doing those things with Christopher right now? Was she writhing in ecstasy in some hidden place, just as she had years ago in the gym changing rooms with Julia’s first and only boyfriend? The only boy who had ever looked twice… Well, he’d changed his mind the instant something better came along. Emily with Christopher was hardly the same, it didn’t come close to that terrible betrayal, but he was still a man she craved and a man whom she was forced to watch capitulate to those manipulative charms. Emily saw what she wanted and she went out and got it—regardless of the cost.

At three Julia padded to the kitchen and flicked the kettle on. She leaned against the counter and hugged herself against the cold. Six hours till she had to be back on set, six hours till she had to see envied, enchanting Emily glowing in evidence of the time she’d spent in his arms—time Julia could only dream of.

But tomorrow things would be different. The cast was to be joined by an American, an actress as beautiful as she was troubled, who’d recently emerged from a super-elite island paradise where she’d sought to battle her demons. She’d been drafted in to play a rival for Lord Ackland’s affections. If rumour were anything to go by, Emily Windermere might find she had a fight on her hands.

It was about time.

Chapter Three

Emily took against Nina Tarot on sight. The woman was grotesquely Californiafied, all candyfloss blonde hair and huge white teeth and a chest that looked like a baby’s bum stuffed into her corset. She also had this really grating accent that you could hear a mile off and sounded like a bird squawking in distress.

But the worst thing of all was that Christopher Fenwick had the hots for her.

It was so obvious! Never did it fail to astound her how predictable men were. She supposed it was the slutty demeanour—Nina was, after all, playing a tawdry madam—but it was also the novelty: Emily wasn’t idiotic enough to believe she and Christopher were indulging in a heartfelt love affair; it was sex, plain and simple.

‘Cut her some slack,’ Christopher mooned as they made their way to the drawing room, already adopting these bizarre Americanisms that made her skin crawl.

‘You sound like you’re having a mid-life crisis,’ she threw back, cracking her face into a smile for the director before turning to Christopher, whereupon it vanished completely. ‘Haven’t you a sufficient sense of self to desist from modifying your behaviour whenever you think it’ll help you get a leg over?’

Christopher regarded her blankly. ‘Nina’s been through a tough time—’

‘Oh, spare me!’ Emily waved a hand, drifting across to a mahogany chaise longue and gracefully reclining across it. ‘We all know she’s been in rehab, why such a song and dance? What was it this time? Drink? Sex? Over-the-counter drugs? So LA.’

Christopher smirked. He came closer. ‘This is a change from the obedient little thing I had in my bed last night,’ he hissed excitedly in her ear. ‘As I remember she seemed perfectly content with a mouthful of cock.’

Emily’s face burned up—she hated how he did that to her right before a take! He did it on purpose.

As sound and lighting were finalised, her flustered gaze landed on Julia Chambers hovering anxiously in the corner, clad in an infinitely morose maid’s outfit that did nothing for her pasty colouring. Julia had a crush; it was achingly clear. Milking the moment, Emily looked longingly after Christopher as though their last exchange had been in affection, and adjusted her position on the chaise to appear more alluring. Like the runt of the litter sniffing at her heels, Julia never failed to serve as a convenient reminder of Emily’s uncontested superiority—what a dreadful curse plainness was! Well, at least that made her good for something.

Instantly she felt better. Why should she care a jot about Nina Tarot? Let them go ahead and get their knickers in a twist if that was what they wanted. Emily was the star of this production and no one, least of all a brassy American, was going to compromise that.

‘Isn’t she great?’

Emily yawned. ‘Who?’ she asked boredly, though she knew full well.

‘Nina, of course.’ The boy was as captivated as everyone else gathered in the parlour. Emily recognised him as one of the footmen but had never bothered to register his name: he had floppy brown hair and would probably be handsome in a couple of years. ‘She’s been telling us about her rehabilitation—it’s inspiring.’

‘I’m sure,’ Emily responded drily, sipping her slimline tonic. Drinks had been arranged post-shoot to welcome their new addition and the way they were all hanging on to Nina’s every word was sickmaking.

‘This is a fresh start for her,’ the footman wittered on. ‘Her first job since she came back from the island.’

‘What island?’

The footman seemed surprised to have engaged her in conversation.

‘I don’t remember the name,’ he said. ‘You’ll have to ask Nina.’

Emily made a face. ‘I’m sure I’ll survive not knowing.’

As far as Emily was concerned, the less she had to endure concerning Nina Tarot, the better. The actress’s execution of the drawing-room scene had inspired a litany of adoring praise from cast and crew—Emily grudgingly admitted she was talented—and now her speaking to the extras and assistants was securing the lowlies’ devotion as well. Who on earth was she, Mother bloody Teresa?

Christopher certainly seemed to think so. All through their scene he’d been eating out of the palm of Nina’s hand—undoubtedly he’d be eating out of her lap soon enough if Emily didn’t put a stop to things—and now he was rapt at Nina’s side, abandoning his leading lady in favour of some cheap American trash.

‘Well,’ Nina was saying, and for some reason that accent was ten thousand decibels louder than an ordinary one, ‘I just feel incredible. That place…it’s magical. It made me feel—’ a toss of the head, a bat of the eyelids—what a performer! ‘—I can’t describe it: alive, again, I guess.’

‘I’ve heard about it,’ piped up one of the scullery maids. ‘Isn’t it, like, the most exclusive place on the planet?’

Nina giggled. ‘That depends, honey. The island is paradise—and paradise doesn’t come cheap.’

‘But it’s more than that…right?’ Now meek Julia Chambers was getting involved. ‘I read an article. You have to be someone important for them to let you in.’ Julia chewed her lip. ‘You have to be someone, at least.’

Christopher drained his glass of Scotch. ‘And Nina most certainly is someone, so I’d say that was a fair observation.’

Emily despised both the remark and Julia’s flushed reaction to it.

There followed a string of excited speculations:

‘Apparently you have to be on a waiting list for, like, five years—’

‘I heard you’ve got to be royalty, or related to royalty, or—’

‘You need to have fifty million dollars in the bank—’

‘You need to get a secret password—’

‘You’ve got to own a small country—’

‘You’ve got to own a jet—’

‘All I’ll say,’ Nina interrupted, waiting for the thrill to subside, ‘is that the island changed my life. There’s nowhere like it.’ She paused till once more the limelight came to rest.

‘I swear to God, you’ve got to see this place to believe it…’

Emily excused herself to visit the bathroom. She stayed a long time fussing over her appearance, with each strand tweaked and dab of gloss reapplied reminding herself that she was the prime cut on this movie. Just because Nina Tarot had been a big Hollywood star in the nineties, just because she’d worked alongside legends, it didn’t detract from the fact she’d fallen spectacularly off the rails and her career had shot down the pan. What kind of actress let that happen?

All that made Nina ‘someone’, did it?

Well, Emily was more of a someone than she’d ever be—and if it took gaining access to some silly little island to prove it, then so be it.

Chapter Four

She loved the back of Christopher Fenwick’s neck. It was wide and bronzed and strong; the way his hair touched the collar of his waistcoat, damp from the heat…

‘Julia?’ A nudge in the ribs brought her back to reality. Isaac was gesturing to the front of the crowd where their producer was preparing to address the assembly.

She tore her eyes from Christopher but was only half listening. It was the following day and they had been summoned on the lawn for news that the Heriscombe estate was hosting a live charity ball in a week’s time, and as publicity for the forthcoming film Christopher and Emily would be appearing onstage to present an award. Millions would witness the teaser—helped along by rampant public interest in the couple’s are-they-aren’t-they? love affair. Everyone knew Christopher was a player—the question was had sweet, English-rose Emily been able to resist succumbing to his charms? The answer was no.

Julia knew she shouldn’t care. All Emily’s life she had been the centre of attention and this was no exception: a while ago she’d imagined basking in the warmth of the spotlight, how it might feel to attract such veneration, but some things just weren’t meant to be. While Emily was up there next week, pouty and pert as she charmed her fans and blew them kisses from a cupid’s bow mouth, Julia would be making tea in a back room with some work experience adolescent who was only talking to her because they wanted Emily’s autograph.

There was a smattering of applause. It was directed at the PR team who had secured the stunt but Julia noticed that Emily herself refrained from clapping, instead contributing only a beatific smile in the assumption that the accolade was for her.

‘Don’t suppose you fancy grabbing a drink later?’

‘Hmm?’ The group dispersed. Across the courtyard she saw Christopher take Emily’s hands, kiss them in turn and then draw her into an embrace, in the clutches of which Emily bobbed up and down with excitement. Inwardly, Julia groaned.

Isaac shifted his weight from one foot to the other. ‘You know, just to the pub or whatever, or, um, we could get something to eat, if you prefer…’

‘OK.’ Julia watched as Nina Tarot attached herself to Christopher’s side, exclaiming about the live show. Emily’s face dropped like a stone.

‘Really?’

‘Sure.’ Julia took Isaac’s arm as they headed up to the house. ‘Why not?’

‘Great. There’s this wicked place I went to with my mates—it’s got a beer garden and a games bit and stuff. Not that I’m saying you’ve got to down pints and play me at pool—unless you wanted to, I mean, I’m not being sexist or anything—’

‘She’s cool, isn’t she?’

Isaac blinked. ‘Who?’

‘Nina.’

‘Er, yeah.’

‘She’s pissed Emily off.’

‘Which makes you her number one fan.’

‘I just think it’s time someone made her sweat.’

Isaac stopped at one of the stagecoaches and rested his elbow on the driver seat. ‘Sounds like Christopher’s already doing that.’

‘Whatever,’ Julia said sulkily.

‘What’s so great about him anyway? He’s a vain, conceited tool. Come to think of it, they’re made for each other.’

‘He’s not vain.’

Isaac raised an eyebrow. ‘You don’t believe that for a second.’