Blackpeak Vines Page 4

  They appeared to be in a vast tussock bowl rimmed by mountain peaks: not pretty, blue-in-the-distance mountains, but right there, in-your-face, almost overwhelmingly close slabs of rock and snow. Looking up at the precipitous screes, Ella felt a little dizzy. Gosh. They must be at some height here. As if to confirm it, she felt her ears pop as she accepted Vito’s helping hand and jumped down into the grass.

  The wash of the slowing rotor blades whipped her hair free of its ponytail and plastered it over her face. Damn. She should have thought not to wear lipgloss. When she could see again, Ella almost clapped her hands at the sight of the hut below them. It was perfect — old corrugated-iron chimney and all. In the background, two silver streams meandered through the tussock, glinting in the sun, and a horse grazed the bank. Ella sighed happily. It was as though one of her mother’s coffee-table books had opened up and she’d fallen inside. She framed the shot in her mind. A double-page spread couldn’t do it justice.

  A cloud of toxins tore her out of her reverie.

  ‘Come on, come on.’ Quentin, mouth clamped around his fag, rubbed his hands. ‘We’re not on holiday. Let’s get this gear unloaded.’

  ‘Where do you want it?’ Amy asked.

  Frowning, Quentin completed a slow three-hundred-andsixty degree turn. ‘There.’

  Amy and Ella headed back to the chopper. When they turned around, Quentin had gone. ‘Typical,’ said Amy.

  ‘Grazie.’ Flavia held out her arms for a suitcase. ‘The boys and I will take the clothes to the hut.’

  No sooner had they finished unloading than Quentin returned. ‘Right.’ He paused to watch the helicopter take off. ‘Sort us out some coffees, eh Ells?’ he ordered, when the noise had died down. ‘Double-shot macchiato for me.’

  ‘And how’s she supposed to do that?’ Amy snapped. ‘Did you see a bleeding Starbucks?’

  ‘Alright, alright.’ Quentin sighed. ‘Just get us some fucking tea then.’

  Ella looked around. Runners weren’t supposed to ask questions, but … was there some sort of catering van?

  ‘There is coffee and tea in the hut.’ Flavia Sammartino gave her a sympathetic smile. ‘I’ll help you.’

  ‘No, you won’t,’ said Quentin. ‘I need you, Mrs Samm. Amy, come along. You boys, too. Let me show you what I’m thinking.’

  They moved off. Okay then. Alone, Ella headed down the slope and circled the hut in search of a door. There it was. Oh! There was even an old saddle hanging up on the porch. Boy, that looked like it had seen some use. It would make a lovely shot, too. She ran her fingers over the leather.

  Leaving the saddle, she pushed open the door. It was pretty dark inside. Ella looked around for a light switch. There wasn’t one. Of course not — what an idiot she was. Gradually her eyes adjusted to the gloom. Sure enough, there were two chilly bins on the table. She took the lid off the first one. Muffins, sandwiches, filled rolls — ooh, cheese scones. She tried the other bin. Beer, wine, milk, two six-packs of bottled water … tea! Three kinds, in fact. And — trust an Italian — a stovetop coffee pot. Quentin might just get his macchiato after all.

  Under the hut’s one window was an old tin sink-bench. Ella carried the coffee pot over and turned on the tap. It spat out half a cup of thick brown sludge and then died. Ella brushed herself off. Black had been a good choice. She eyed the mouse droppings on the bench. Oh well. What Quentin didn’t know wasn’t going to hurt him. Having filled the base of the coffee pot with water from Flavia’s bottles, she looked around for something to boil it on. All she could see was a fireplace.

  Right. Well, she’d used an Aga, hadn’t she? That was kind of the same. There was plenty of firewood stacked on the porch. She could definitely do this.

  Trying not to pull threads in her T-shirt, Ella gathered an armful of logs. Oh good God, what was that? She dropped the logs and leapt back. An enormous beetle remained on the fallen wood, waving its long antennae.

  ‘Okay,’ she said aloud, ‘okay.’ Her heart was beating ridiculously fast. ‘Pull yourself together. It doesn’t bite.’

  ‘Actually,’ said a voice behind her, ‘it might — or else kick.’

  Ella spun around. Rob Caterham stood beside the porch. Minus his shirt. Oh no, there it was in his hand, dripping wet. As Ella watched, transfixed, he wrung it out a little.

  ‘It’s a weta.’ Smiling, Rob nodded at the insect on the ground. ‘Have you never seen one before?’

  That was a weta? She thought Peter Jackson had made them up. ‘I didn’t realise they were so big,’ she said feebly, trying not to stare at Rob’s abs as a trickle of water ran down his chest. She took a deep breath. It didn’t help — his battered jeans smelled of horse and leather and sweat.

  Rob finished wringing out his shirt and shrugged it back on over his head. Ella felt her jaw drop.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, emerging from the wet cotton and slicking back his damp curls. ‘I thought I had time to wash up before you guys got here.’ His blue eyes crinkled into another smile. ‘You caught me.’

  ‘I don’t mind.’ Ella bit her lip. ‘I mean, don’t worry about it.’

  Leaning into the porch, Rob picked up the fallen piece of wood and, with a gentle tap, deposited the weta into a tussock. ‘Are you lighting the fire?’

  ‘I’m making coffee,’ Ella remembered at last.

  He nodded, still smiling. ‘Might be quicker to use the gas.’

  Bollocks. ‘There’s gas?’

  ‘Come on.’ Rob gestured at the hut door. ‘There’s a burner under the sink. I’ll show you.’

  ‘You’re a bloody miracle-worker,’ Quentin declared, on receiving his cup. ‘Look at that, Ames. Didn’t I tell you this girl’s got talent? Eh?’

  Amy rolled her eyes at Ella. ‘Yes, Quentin.’

  ‘You finish that wanky college of yours, Ells, you give me a call.’

  ‘I have finished, Quentin.’

  ‘And she did give you a call,’ Amy sighed.

  ‘Really?’ Quentin looked puzzled. ‘What did I say?’

  ‘That you were in Peru and you’d call me back.’

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, call me again.’ Quentin knocked back his coffee and handed Ella the cup. He looked at his watch. ‘Right. Let’s get to work, then.’

  The next hour or so passed in a blur of ever-changing light-boards, lenses and camera bodies, punctuated by swearing and Italians in various states of undress. Quentin liked to shoot film and he liked to shoot fast, which kept everybody busy.

  ‘Grazie,’ Vito breathed, as Ella leaned in to blot the shine from his forehead. ‘Is he always like this?’

  ‘No,’ Ella told him. ‘He’s usually worse. You’re just lucky Flavia’s the stylist. He can’t shout at her.’

  ‘What time is it?’ yelled Quentin, ignoring the watch on his wrist.

  ‘Eleven-forty!’ Amy yelled back from the opposite side of the stream, where she was still reloading his last camera.

  Quentin shaded his eyes and peered up at the sun. ‘Time to set up for the money-shot,’ he declared. ‘Everybody get ready. No fuck-ups, okay?’

  Flavia swept the models away to get changed.

  ‘Over here.’ Camera in hand, Quentin strode off into the tussock. Amy and Ella trotted behind him with the bags.

  ‘Stand on that rock,’ Quentin ordered Ella. ‘No — stand like a bloke. Be taller.’

  ‘How’s it going?’ Rob walked up behind Quentin. His shirt, Ella noticed, had dried rather well.

  ‘Stand on that rock,’ snapped Quentin, without turning around. ‘No, Ells, don’t you get down. I want Rob behind you. That’s it. Back up a bit. Closer now. Closer. For fuck’s sake, Ella, close!’

  ‘Steady there.’ For a nanosecond, Rob’s hands braced her hips. ‘We’re about to run out of rock,’ he said into her ear.

  ‘Good,’ Quentin called. ‘Rob, you look over at the hut. Ella, crouch down and lean forward …’

  Oh, God.

&nb
sp; ‘… that’s it, like you’re getting ready to run. Now look straight at the camera … Good! Now look away left, that’s it … Rob, put your hand on her shoulder, good, good … now touch her cheek …’

  Amy cleared her throat. ‘Um, Quentin?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s Vito and Sandro, right? I’m pretty sure they’re not meant to look like a couple.’

  ‘Oh, yeah.’ Quentin grinned. ‘Sorry, you two looked so hot up there I got a bit carried away — wrong shoot. Ella, maybe you’d better get off the rock.’

  Blushing furiously, Ella jumped down. At times she could bloody well murder Quentin. She didn’t dare look at Rob.

  ‘Same position,’ Quentin ordered, ‘in front of the rock.’

  ‘Allora. We are here.’

  Oh, thank God — Flavia and the models were back.

  ‘Don’t move till I tell you to move,’ Quentin snapped. ‘Sandro, get up there and stand where he’s standing. Just like that. Right — now Vito, mate, you take Ella’s place.’

  Ella looked up into Vito’s eyes. Wow. Why couldn’t she have lashes like that? It wasn’t fair.

  ‘I think you can move now, bella,’ he offered her his hand.

  Ah, a beautiful man she could actually touch. Ella let him pull her back to her feet. She heard Quentin’s shutter click.

  ‘Nice,’ Quentin said. ‘That could work. The wellies are great, but that top has to go. You need to look more farmy.’

  ‘Sorry,’ she told him. ‘I left all my checked shirts back at the ranch.’

  ‘Borrow his.’ Quentin jerked his thumb at Rob.

  Oh no — it wasn’t Rob she’d meant to insult. She liked his checked shirt. She liked it a lot.

  ‘I don’t think you’d want this one,’ Rob laughed. ‘It might be a bit sweaty.’

  Five minutes later, Vito and Sandro arranged to his satisfaction, Quentin lowered his camera and shaded his eyes.

  ‘So where is she then?’ he demanded, turning to Rob.

  ‘I’m sure she’s on her way,’ said Rob.

  ‘On her way?’ Quentin’s voice rose. ‘She’s supposed to be there now. The fucking light is going.’ He pulled a crumpled paper from his back pocket, unfolded it and waved it at Rob. ‘Eleven-forty-five: Charlotte herds sheep through back of shot. That’s what the call-sheet says.’

  Rob shrugged. ‘I guess the sheep didn’t get the call-sheet.’

  ‘Jesus Christ.’ Quentin shoved the call-sheet back in his pocket. ‘We’re cutting it fine as it is. The shot’ll look flat as a pancake by midday.’ He glared at Amy. ‘Why didn’t we do this first thing?’

  ‘Because the sheep had to get here,’ said Amy patiently.

  ‘It takes time to work a mob,’ explained Rob. ‘First you’ve got to find them.’

  ‘Ella, get me a bottle of water, it’s hotter than hell.’

  Ella hurried off to obey. Quentin was right, it had got hot. How Vito and Sandro were managing to look cool in suits and coats she had no idea — that’s why they earned the big bucks, she supposed. She was boiling in jeans and gumboots.

  In the hut, she grabbed Quentin’s water and then took her shorts from her bag. Surely she had time to change. Ella checked the window: the coast was clear. She moved into the corner and slipped off her jeans. She was just about to step into her shorts when the door flew open.

  ‘God, sorry.’ Hand to his eyes, Rob turned on his heel.

  ‘It’s okay.’ Hurriedly, she pulled her shorts up. ‘My fault. I was just getting changed — it’s so hot out there now.’

  For a second Rob was silent. ‘Yes,’ he said, clearing his throat, ‘it is.’

  ‘Let me know if anyone else is coming, will you?’ Watching the silhouette of his back in the doorway, the mountains behind, Ella buttoned her shorts. ‘You and I seem to be seeing rather a lot of each other today.’

  He laughed. ‘We do.’

  ‘You can turn around now.’

  Rob took a step into the hut. Oh God, that smile … ‘Sorry,’ he said again. ‘Flavia sent me down to ask if you’d mind bringing water for everyone.’

  Pulling her boots back on, Ella swung her ponytail to the other side and returned his smile. ‘Sure.’

  Rob looked away. ‘I’ll give you a hand,’ he said, crossing to the table.

  ‘I’m sorry about Quentin,’ she told him, desperate for something to say. ‘You know, with the rock and all that. He’s so used to ordering people around, sometimes he forgets who’s working for him and who isn’t.’

  ‘I didn’t mind.’ Rob reached a six-pack out of the chilly bin. ‘I quite enjoyed being a male model for a minute or two. It was fun.’

  ‘You’ve never done it?’ Ella walked over to join him at the table. ‘You could, you know.’

  Rob laughed. ‘Thanks … I think. So could you.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  There was an awkward pause.

  ‘I have done a bit.’ Oh God, was she still talking? ‘Just to help pay for college and stuff.’

  ‘You don’t like it? Modelling, I mean?’

  ‘It’s okay.’ Ella shrugged. ‘I’d rather be on the other side of the camera, though.’

  He laughed again. ‘I’d rather stay as far away from it as I can. Here’ — he passed her the remains of the other pack — ‘you take these. I’ll bring the rest up.’

  Ella paused in the doorway, achingly conscious of Rob just behind.

  ‘It’s so beautiful here,’ she said. ‘Does this place have a name?’

  ‘It’s called Two Burn.’ Rob patted the doorframe wistfully. ‘You know, I think this has to be my favourite spot on the whole station.’

  ‘There must be a lot to choose from.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘there are.’

  Breathe, she told herself. Oh, but it would be so easy to just lean back and … Across the valley, a dog barked.

  ‘Come on!’ Rob said cheerily, as bleating echoed through the air. ‘Better get back. Our cover shot just got here.’

  Dammit. Ella hurried out of the doorway. Probably — no, certainly — just as well, she told herself, as Rob strode past her through the grass.

  Quentin was already working and she could see why. The shot was magic. Behind Vito and Sandro a river of sheep was crossing the valley, flanked by dogs, and in their wake rode a woman, long black hair spilling out from under her hat, on an enormous brown and white horse. Quentin had been right: the sun was getting too high, and in a few minutes more the best of the light would be gone, but right now it was perfect.

  ‘Got it!’ Sweat pouring down his forehead, Quentin lowered the camera and held out his hand. Ella handed him the water bottle.

  ‘Are you sure?’ asked Flavia nervously. ‘She can’t move the sheep through again.’

  ‘Sweetheart,’ Quentin grinned, ‘I’m fucking certain.’

  ‘Lunch!’ Amy called.

  ‘Damn right,’ Quentin said. ‘I’m starving.’

  ‘I’ll tell Charlie she can let the mob go,’ said Rob, moving off. Ella watched him stride back to the hut and pick up the saddle from the porch. So that was how he’d got here — she’d been so busy staring she’d forgotten to ask.

  ‘We don’t have to wait for him, do we?’ Quentin asked.

  ‘No,’ said Flavia. ‘We’ll start. They could be a while.’

  They? Ella’s heart sank.

  Sure enough, when Rob rode back an hour later, the dreaded Charlotte Black was at his side. Sitting with the others in the shade of the hut, Ella watched Charlotte swing down from her horse and walk towards them. Her heart sank some more. There was no point even trying to compete with that — the woman was stunning. She stole a glance at Vito and Sandro, who were sprawled on the grass beside her in T-shirts and jeans. Sandro sat up. Yep, they were taking notice.

  ‘This is Ella,’ said Flavia, as Charlotte flung herself down on the tussock beside her. ‘Lizzie’s daughter.’

  ‘Hi, Ella.’ Looking not very interested, Charlotte too
k off her hat and wiped the sweat from an otherwise perfect brow. ‘Any scones left?’

  ‘I saved you one.’ Flavia handed her the container.

  Charlotte looked over at Quentin. ‘Did you get what you wanted?’

  ‘It looked fucking amazing,’ Quentin said. ‘All we need now is the close-ups.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Charlotte swallowed a mouthful of scone. ‘I’m still not sure about that.’

  ‘Cara,’ Flavia pleaded, ‘think of the sheep — they need you.’

  ‘Tell me again why you can’t use a model?’

  ‘Because with you it is real. That is what is special.’

  ‘Come on, Charlie.’ Rob touched her knee. ‘You said you’d do it — you can’t back out now.’

  ‘I just don’t get how a picture of me in riding gear is going to sell suits.’

  ‘Sweetheart,’ said Quentin, ‘trust me. It won’t hurt.’

  Ella sighed to herself. She had a feeling that she, at least, was going to find it painful. Looking for an excuse to get up, she put her hand to the half-finished bottle of wine that Quentin had wanted with lunch.

  ‘This is getting warm,’ she said. ‘I’ll go pop it in the stream for a bit.’

  ‘We call them “creeks” here,’ Charlotte said.

  ‘Sometimes even “burns”,’ said Rob wryly, giving Ella a smile.

  Unlike Flavia, Ella decided on her way to the creek, Charlotte Black was a woman it would be perfectly possible to dislike.

  She dipped her hand in the water. Yow. It was certainly cool. Ella slipped off her gumboots and socks and, wine bottle in hand, waded into the icy water. Ah, that was better — she could have boiled lobsters inside those boots. Crayfish. Whatever. Her feet slipped on the rocks. She swayed forward, then gathered her balance. Ow. Okay, maybe putting the bottle close to the bank was a better idea. She turned around.

  Vito stood watching her on the bank. He was smiling.

  ‘What?’ Ella demanded, defensively.

  ‘Nothing.’ Vito held up his hands. ‘I was just admiring the view.’

  Awkwardly, she picked her way back towards him.

  ‘Can I help you?’ Vito held out his hand.