VICTORIA’S SECRET’S OUT
Film star Victoria Woodward has been spotted with Prince Rodolfo of Maldavina on several occasions this week at the Cannes Film Festival, fueling rumors that the pair are in the throes of a passionate affair. Victoria, who starred in the hit Hollywood movie
SHE HATED EVERY MINUTE of it: the hype, the flashbulbs everywhere she went, the ever-present expectations…
And now they wanted her to be on show yet again.
Victoria Woodward sighed. How she wished that the wretched movie, of which she’d unwittingly become the star, had not ended up as a contender to win the Cannes Film Festival.
But it was too late for regrets. Too late to wish herself back in the security and anonymity of Hetherington, the English village where she’d resided all her life, where everything was predictable and simple. To think she’d used to consider it boring, had longed for change and excitement. As though granting her wish, fate had changed her life overnight, swooping her into a Hollywood whirlwind of parties, private jets, paparazzi, and the not-so-easy-position of being dogged at every step by the press and the curious.
Now, as she exited the airport at Nice, another batch of eager reporters lay in wait.
‘For goodness’ sake, smile,’ Anne Murphy, her agent, hissed. ‘Ed’ll have a fit if he sees more pictures of you sulking.’ She pulled Victoria forward and hurried her out of the terminal. Immediately the press rushed upon them.
‘Is it true you may win the Palme d’ Or, Miss Woodward?’ A reporter poked a microphone aggressively under her nose.
‘Do you have a boyfriend, Miss Woodward? Is it true that you and Peter Simmons are dating?’
Victoria experienced that familiar and frightening tightening of her throat, followed by a paralysing rigidity that made it almost impossible to speak or move. Fear gripped her gut. She turned in panic to Anne.
‘Get me out of here,’ she muttered, her long blonde hair swinging wildly, her grey eyes glazed.
‘The car’s right there.’ Anne held her elbow and manoeuvred her expertly through the crowd.
Two burly young men in grey suits and designer sunglasses kept the spectators at bay as they forged a path to the limo that represented her safe haven. Forcing one foot in front of the other, Victoria managed a brief smile, then plunged inside the vehicle, curling up in the corner, ignoring the eager faces pressed against the windows, the camera lenses seeking one last shot of her before the car glided off into traffic.
‘Victoria, you’re just going to have to get used to this,’ Anne said sternly. Anne was short and sandy-haired, and the thirty-five-year-old New Yorker’s tone spelled efficiency.
‘I simply hate it,’ Victoria whispered, stretching her long slim legs out before her. ‘I think I must be claustrophobic or something.’
‘Well, this is hardly the moment to make earth-shattering discoveries,’ Anne replied tartly, sending her a significant look. ‘You’re on show, honey; that’s what they’re paying several million bucks for.’
‘I thought that was for playing Xanthia in the movie,’ Victoria said crossly, hair curtaining her face as she dropped her chin on her chest.
‘Now, grow up, Vic. You know perfectly well that was just the beginning. I really don’t understand what you’re complaining about. Anybody else would be delighted to have reached stardom in such a short time.’
‘I loathe it.’
‘And I give up,’ Anne exclaimed, rolling her eyes, wishing Ed Banes, the director, had chosen someone else for the role. For, although the girl was a natural, she had been nothing but trouble from the word go. Anne had warned Ed and the others that it wasn’t going to be a smooth ride. But had they listened? No. And as usual she was left to clean up. She liked Victoria a lot—thought she was a sweet, sensitive kid and a great actress. But that wasn’t enough. If she wasn’t disposed to do the PR, and put up with the media, it was just no damn good.
Glancing sideways at her charge, Anne decided to let Victoria be until they got to the Carlton Hotel in Cannes. She leaned back against the leather seat and flipped through the Festival programme.
There was a dinner tonight. She supposed that would be another piece of work. A top fashion house was delivering Victoria’s dress this afternoon. God only knew what she would do if there was a mistake in the fitting. Anne checked the guest list. Several other stars would be present. That would make Victoria less conspicuous. A couple of heads of state would be there, a sprinkling of royalty, and some famous rock stars to help dilute things. She glanced at the table seating. Victoria was placed to the right of HRH Prince Rodolfo of Malvarina, the ruler of the tiny principality, an island not far off the coast of Italy.
Anne twiddled her pen a minute and thought about what the bankers had said regarding a change of residence for Victoria. Malvarina wasn’t a bad option—one of the more attractive tax havens, easy to access, and with great banking laws. She wondered whether to mention it, then took a look a Victoria’s closed face, grimaced and decided not to. Right now, all Victoria seemed to want was to return to this place—Hetherington, the small English village where she and her widowed mother had lived. It was all very cute, but not Anne’s style. Malvarina, on the other hand, was smooth and sophisticated. Some of the world’s richest and glitziest had moved there, seeking anonymity.
Hmmm. Anonymity. That might be just be the selling point, she reflected. After all, everyone in Malvarina was rich and famous. Another star would just blend in. Anne made a note on her Palm Pilot to mention the subject to Victoria at a suitable moment, then glanced at her watch. Time to make sure Victoria would brave the arrival at the Carlton and the inevitable pack of reporters awaiting them without a scene.
IN HER HUGE SUITE over looking the Croisette and the Mediterranean, Victoria sank down on the king-size bed and let out a sigh. She didn’t want it to be this way, wished that everything could be as she’d imagined it would be when she’d been discovered and offered the role—before she’d rushed into all of this, so excited and thinking of nothing but the opportunity to act. She’d always wanted to be an actress and now, at only twenty, she’d been offered the break of a lifetime. So why was it so hard to do the other thing? Most people wanted to be famous, to be in the limelight, to be a star, seek fame and fortune. But to her the publicity and pressure were insurmountable obstacles that she found increasingly hard to deal with.
Time