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said Dorian. ‘Wuthering Heights.’

      The stewardess gasped. ‘Oh my God, I love that book. Such a romantic story.’

      Dorian smiled. ‘You know it?’

      ‘Of course,’ she laughed. ‘Doesn’t everyone? Heathcliff and Cathy. They’re like Romeo and Juliet in the rain.’

      For the first time all day, Dorian felt a fraction of the tension ease out of his body. One of his concerns about his new project had been that the story might be considered too highbrow, too much of a classic for ordinary moviegoers to be interested in. Dorian had first read the book in high school and had been instantly captivated by the plot. Heathcliff, a mysterious orphan boy, is adopted by the kindly Mr Earnshaw and brought to live at Wuthering Heights, a grand but lonely house in the Yorkshire moors. Tragedy ensues when Heathcliff falls in love with Earnshaw’s daughter Catherine, who also loves him, but decides to make a more socially acceptable marriage to a neighbour. The ramifications of Cathy’s rejection of Heathcliff: her regret, his madness, and an ongoing saga of death and revenge, of innocent children being forced to pay for the sins of their parents, made for uniquely compelling drama, not to mention one of the most enduring love stories in English literature. But, cinematically, Wuthering Heights was a challenge. Whoever played Heathcliff would have to age convincingly, while remaining attractive enough to work as a romantic lead. Should original Cathy and young Cathy, her daughter, be played by two actresses, or one? How to deal with Nelly, the book’s nurse narrator? And then of course there was the issue of location. In a plot where the house was as much of a character as any of the protagonists, finding the right location would be key.

      A couple of the big studios had tried to warn Dorian off, as had his agent and friend, Don Richards.

      ‘You can’t follow Olivier and Merle Oberon, man. That 1939 movie is one of the all-time greats.’

      ‘They only shot half the book,’ said Dorian. ‘It’s half a story.’

      ‘That’s because the whole story’s unfilmable. It’s a fucking miniseries.’ Don frowned. ‘Did you see the seventies version? It blew.’

      ‘I know,’ Dorian smiled. ‘That’s why I’m doing a remake.’

      ‘If you do it, you’re gonna need two big names in the lead roles,’ Don warned him. ‘And I mean real bankable stars, none of your “respected character actor” bullshit. Oh, and Cathy’s gotta get naked. A lot.’

      ‘I see,’ said Dorian wryly. ‘Young Cathy or Old Cathy?’

      ‘All the Cathys have to be young,’ said Don firmly. ‘And hot.’

      ‘Right. So all I need is to find a major movie star who’s prepared to work for peanuts and get her panties off for some gratuitous nudity.’

      ‘It wouldn’t be gratuitous.’ Don looked offended. ‘There’d be a very important point to it.’

      ‘Uh-huh. And what might that be?’

      ‘Ticket sales,’ said Don.

      Dorian had the good grace to laugh. ‘OK. Well if anyone springs to mind, you be sure to let me know.’

      ‘Actually, someone does. How about Sabrina Leon?’

      At first, Dorian had assumed his agent was joking. When he realized he wasn’t, he dismissed the idea out of hand. Sabrina was toxic right now, a Hollywood untouchable. Plus she was known to be a majorly disruptive influence on set: demanding, diva-ish, unpredictable. Just associating Sabrina’s name with a project could be enough to kill it before they shot a single take.

      ‘All true,’ agreed Don. ‘But she’s still a huge star.’

      Dorian held firm. ‘No way.’

      ‘Plus, everyone’s watching to see what her next move will be.’

      ‘I’m not.’

      ‘Plus, she loves getting naked, on and off set. The kid’s allergic to clothes.’

      ‘I know Don, but c’mon. I need a serious actress.’

      ‘She’ll work for free.’

      And that was it. Jerry McGuire had Dorothy Boyd at ‘hello’. Don Richards had Dorian Rasmirez at ‘free’.

      Stretching his long legs out in front of him, Dorian at last began to relax. If American Airline stewardesses were fans of the story, it clearly couldn’t be that highbrow. It’s gonna be all right, he told himself. Sabrina Leon had signed on the dotted line. Of course, casting her as Cathy – both Cathys – remained a dangerous, double-edged sword. Dorian would have to keep a tight grip on her behaviour. But Don Richards had convinced him she was a risk worth taking. He’d just have to do the sell of his life to convince distributors that, by the time the movie was due for release, the furore over Sabrina’s Tarik Tyler comments would have died down.

      ‘Even if it hasn’t, people’ll still come and see the movie,’ said Don.

      ‘You reckon?’

      ‘Sure. They like watching her. It’s like slowing down on the freeway to gawk at a car crash.’

      Dorian hoped he was right. Because, if he wasn’t, it would be Dorian’s career, life and marriage that would be the car crash. Almost certainly a fatal one.

      For Dorian Rasmirez, everything depended on the success of this movie.

      Everything.

      CHAPTER FOUR

      As Dr Michel Henri lifted the child out of its crib, Letitia Crewe watched his beautifully defined biceps rippling beneath his grey T-shirt and thought: I have to get a grip. I’m here to play with the children, not ogle Michel like a love-struck puppy. But it was hard. What business did a paediatrician have being that attractive? There ought to be a law against it.

      Tish Crewe had come out to Romania in her year off to spend six months working with orphans in the northern city of Oradea. Five years later and she was still here, visiting hospital wards like this one, rehousing as many abandoned children as she could. It was gruelling work, and distressing at times, but it was also addictive and rewarding. Dr Michel Henri felt the same way. It was one of the things that had first brought him and Tish together, their shared compassion and sense of purpose. That and the fact they both wanted to rip each other’s clothes off the moment they laid eyes on one another. Tish still felt the same way. It was Michel who’d moved on.

      Watching him move purposefully from bed to bed, engaging each child with eye contact and talking to them in that deep, gentle voice of his before each examination, Tish calculated that she had been in love with him for a full year now.

      Wow. A year of my life.

      It felt like twenty.

      Michel was so wise. So good. So capable. Tish Crewe was capable herself, very much head-girl material, and she admired this trait in others. Of course, it didn’t hurt that Michel also looked like a younger version of George Clooney, complete with sexy, two-day stubble growth and smouldering coffee-brown eyes. Nor that he was so good in bed, Tish had had to restrict the lovemaking during their brief, six-week affair to Michel’s apartment, afraid that she might make so much noise at home that she would wake up Abel, her adopted five-year-old son, and scare the living daylights out of him.

      It wasn’t Michel’s fault. He’d been honest with her from the beginning. ‘I don’t do commitment,’ he told Tish bluntly, the night they first kissed on the bridge over the Crisul Repede in Oradea’s old town. ‘My work is my passion. If you’re looking for something serious, I’m not your man.’

      Tish had assured him she was not looking for something serious. After four years of almost total celibacy, living in a city that still looked and felt as dour and grey and lifeless as it had under communism, the idea of some fun, especially the kind of fun that Dr Michel Henri was offering, sounded utterly perfect. Since founding her own children’s home three

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