Pretty Face

by Lucy Parker

  And the melodrama just came crashing right back in.

  Lily froze.

  There was an extended, startled pause.

  “Lily.” A definite sneer appeared in Dan St. James’s eyes. He was as square-jawed and expensively barbered as ever. “Fancy meeting you here.”

  She wondered if her own hair was starting to rise on end like a hostile Chihuahua, or if it was just prickles of intense, unadulterated loathing. “Dan. Horrifyingly small world, isn’t it?”

  This was London. There were millions of people living here whom she would never encounter during her lifetime. She’d hoped Dan would become one of them.

  The assistant was watching them curiously. Lily automatically backed up to a position where the other woman would at least have to put some effort into eavesdropping.

  “Well,” she said in Dan’s general direction. “See you around.”

  There were several other things she’d like to add, but not anywhere near her workplace. She headed for the hallway that led to Luc’s and apparently David Benton’s offices.

  Behind her, Dan asked, “How’s Trix?” and her steps faltered.

  Her response was equally cold. “She’s great. Thanks for asking.”

  “Give her my love.”

  She started counting to ten, and gave up at three. She turned around. “Your love. Right.”

  He came up to her, looking down on her. He’d had plenty of practise doing it metaphorically, so doing it literally was probably a cinch. “I see you haven’t lost the attitude. Something to work on.” He lowered his head so he was looking into her eyes and slowed his speech to enunciate every letter. “Do you need me to write that down so you can remember? In tiny little words? Spelled phonetically?”

  The assistant at the desk was all but craning her neck and cupping a hand behind her ear. Lily glanced at her, bit down hard on the retort that was clawing up her throat, and stepped back.

  Professional. She was a professional.

  Dan followed her, still right in her face. “Trix has a lot of baggage. Naturally enough, given her unfortunate childhood. Being handed off from one foster home to another, dumped at boarding school on scholarship, it’s got to mess with your head.”

  She assumed that he had a reason to be in Luc’s building, besides pushing her closer to the edge of grievous bodily harm.

  “Correction,” she said. “Trix had excess baggage, for almost a year. Fortunately, she wised up and left it on the curb.”

  He dropped any pretence of a smile. “With a little help from you. What exactly are you doing here?” he asked, preempting her exact same question. “Learning how to act like even more of a bitch?”

  “Wow. It must be a relief that you don’t even have to try to hide the inner demon anymore. Good for you. Embrace the truth. Live in the real world. Pour yourself a nice glass of holy water.”

  “You—”

  “Just to see what happens.”

  “Listen, you interfering little bi—”

  Luc’s voice came from behind Lily. “I think everybody in a five-hundred-metre radius is listening. And I’d strongly suggest that you don’t finish that sentence.”

  She felt the burn in her cheeks as she spun around. Luc’s eyes clashed with hers before his gaze sliced back to Dan, who was visibly trying to get his temper under control.

  “Mr. Savage.” Dan cleared his throat and tested out his most plastic smile. “I’m Dan St. James, from—”

  “You’re a financial advisor from Weston & Crimm.”

  “That’s right.” Dan started forward with his hand extended, ignoring Lily now. “I have to say, we don’t usually meet with clients on a Saturday, but obviously for you, we were—”

  “I assume you have colleagues.”

  Dan blinked, his hand hovering in the air. “I’m sorry?”

  Luc spoke in the same slow, drawn-out syllables that Dan had used on her. “I suggest that you go back to your office, drop your boss an email and tell him or her to send someone else. By the end of business hours on Monday. You can add a postscript that if their second attempt at competency also speaks to a member of my company like that, we’ll be contracting a different firm.” He paused. “A postscript is a sort of written afterthought to include information not previously mentioned. It’s usually abbreviated as ‘P.S.’ Do you need me to write out those letters for you phonetically?”

  Lily bit down on the inside of her lip and tried to pretend that the noise that erupted from her chest was a cough.

  Dan was opening and closing his mouth like a grouper. His face was a violent shade of crimson. “I—”

  “Monday. Before five.” Luc turned away. His voice was tight as he addressed Lily. “I’d like to see you in my office.” He walked back down the hall without waiting to see if she followed. She could suddenly sympathise a little more with Mitchell the Wolf-Whistler.

  Leaving Dan to his futile spluttering, she caught up with Luc at the entrance to his suite. His secretary must be at lunch and would be disappointed to learn that she’d missed the opportunity for another judgemental stare-and-sniff. “Now?”

  “Sorry,” he said sarcastically, and held the door open, “are you late for another public slanging match?”

  She slipped past him into his office. “I’m sorry. That was completely unprofessional.”

  “Yes. It was.” Luc sat on the edge of his desk. He was doing his best two-dimensional Gertrude Stein again. Crabby as hell. “I’d appreciate it if you’d keep your personal life out of—”

  “I know. Inappropriate. Unprofessional. Profuse apologies. Won’t happen again.”

  He looked at her levelly.

  “Although,” she added, “if by ‘personal life’ and that charming tone, you’re implying something other than mutual, overwhelming hatred—very wrong track.”

  “As long as I don’t come across a similar situation between you and Dylan Waitely at any time during this run, it’s not my con—”

  “Sorry?” She stared at his tense face before enlightenment dawned. “Seen photos of us at the Primavera last night, have you?”

  A muscle moved in his jaw, but he said nothing.

  “Well. I did kind of bring that one on myself. Having said that—what was it you said about expecting and ignoring all sorts of insinuating crap in the press?”

  “I think that was more of a factual play-by-play than an insinuation. If you’re going to leave a Central London club hanging from Waitely’s neck, it’s not much of a stretch for even the single-celled organisms who take up desk space at the gutter press to smell a story.”

  They glared at one another.

  “You’re jealous.” Lily’s accusation tailed into slight uncertainty, but he didn’t even hesitate.

  “Yes, I am.” He sounded even more pissed off than before.

  “And mad.”

  “Apparently it tags along with the jealousy.”

  She felt a bit unsteady. “Dylan helped Trix and me to a taxi. And by ‘helped,’ I mean played up to the cameras like he was doing a Charlie Chaplin skit and then accidentally kicked me in the back of the leg when I opened the car door.”

  “Sounds about right.”

  “I neither arrived nor left with him.”

  “Sensible.”

  “Technically, however,” she continued, taking a slow breath, “it would be none of your business if we were boinking like bunnies, as long as it didn’t affect the show.”

  “It always affects the show.” Luc was still scowling. “Costars jumping into bed inevitably ends in tears and tantrums and a PR disaster.”

  “Cynical society, party of two,” Lily murmured.

  “What?” he snapped. He stood and shoved a hand through his hair.

  “Nothing. I agree with you. Didn’t mean to interrupt the rant.”

  “I’m not—” Luc looked at her. He shook his head, once, a quick jerk to the side as if he were dislodging an insect or other minor irritant. She heard the rush of air as he forcibly e
xhaled. “I don’t know what I’m doing with you. I don’t even recognise myself when I’m around you.”

  He might have been reading from the transcript of her own jumbled thoughts, so it shouldn’t have hurt.

  Again, as he had in the snow outside Kirkby, he reacted instinctively to whatever expression she was totally failing to hide. He reached out and cupped her cheek, his hand warm and strong, and she closed her eyes.

  She curled her fingers about his wrist, stroking her thumb over the hairs she felt there, tracing the strong lines of the bones.

  “People say things,” she said quietly. “And write things. All the time. And even if every other person in London believed them, I need to know that they’re not true. I need to know I’m not that person. My reputation does matter to me. And it’s not only the implications for my career, going forward.” She tugged his hand away from her face, although their wrists stayed linked between their bodies. His fingers tickled as they traced patterns on the tips of hers. “This wouldn’t do your reputation any favours either.”

  He didn’t pretend otherwise. He was similarly frank as he released her hand. “No, it wouldn’t.”

  “Especially given what’s already being said. About you. And your overly active casting couch.”

  “I’ve been accused of running a production like a despotic, lecherous automaton, not of senility. I haven’t forgotten.”

  “I don’t…trust this.” She hadn’t intended to say that, and he didn’t look impressed.

  “I’m surprised you’re standing within tumbling distance of my couch, then. Although I suppose since you’ve already secured the part—”

  “I’ve already had one encounter today with someone who gets his kicks from twisting people’s words and using them as weapons. Do me a favour. Rein in the inner prat. He’s been so delightfully quiet since he made that comment about the blow-up doll and retired on a low note.”

  She rubbed her forehead. “I’m not talking about your ethics. From that perspective, you don’t just look like Atticus Finch. I’m sure you abide by union rules regarding sick days and work hours, support equal pay and civil rights, and only throw members of your company down on your desk in exceptional circumstances. I unreservedly believe you. As, I’m sure, would Atticus, if we ignore the existence of Go Set a Watchman.”

  “The moment of desktop insanity was a first.” Luc looked her up and down, and did a very flattering groan-and-curse combo. “Specific to one particular bane of my existence. Thanks for the vote of confidence. What don’t you trust?”

  That this could end in anything but a professional headache and a personal heartache.

  That he would ever let anything jeopardise his plans for the theatre.

  That if covert desk-tumbling and unsubstantiated rumour became confirmed fact, it wouldn’t matter if Lily owned that stage on opening night. Even if she were magically so brilliant that she made Margo look like a rank amateur, she’d still end up cementing the public and industry image she’d been carrying for the past four years and would prefer not to heft around for the rest of her career.

  Landed first serious stage role. Slept with director. Nobody would be picky as to the order in which those statements went.

  She had fenced herself into a very small box when she’d taken the role as Gloria, and enforced it by showing up for contractual interviews with the only face she had and a voice she was still trying to de-porn. Hooking up with her director would undermine any belief that she might be able to earn a role on her own merit. It would limit her chances of receiving genuine respect and a fair trial from future casting agents and directors.

  All for an intense attraction that might end up being a…failing proposition.

  She stood in total silence.

  Luc’s follow-up question, when it came, was unexpected. “What’s the connection with corporate Ramsay Bolton out there?”

  It took her a second to catch up: story of tabloid-Lily’s life. When his question registered, she snorted. Dan even looked a bit like the Game of Thrones character. “I’m sure it’s a daily disappointment to Dan that he doesn’t possess an army of serfs to torture, maim and carry out his every self-centred whim.”

  Luc’s mouth lifted at the corner. “Are you sure I was on the wrong track earlier? I’m sensing just an edge of hostility.”

  “He’s Trix’s ex. He’s an emotionally abusive, manipulative wanker. With a fixation on the tax expectations of overseas hedge funds that I find highly questionable.”

  “Hedge funds.”

  “Have dinner with him sometime. He’ll either be talking about his offshore investments or he’ll be making passive-aggressive comments about his girlfriend to slowly whittle down her self-esteem, one acidic little criticism at a time.”

  “As tempting as that sounds, if I want the conversational equivalent of having sections of my brain removed without anaesthetic, I’ll schedule a shareholders’ dinner with your godfather.” Luc was still watching her. “Trix’s ex?”

  “Unfortunately.”

  “How old is Trix?”

  “Twenty-six.”

  “I see,” Luc said. “And you’re also twenty-six?”

  Lily narrowed her eyes slightly. “Yes.”

  “Mmm. And Dan is—”

  “Not twenty-six.”

  “No. I’d say he’s somewhere around my age.”

  “Quite possibly. Are we going to arrive at your point anytime soon?”

  “No point.” Luc’s voice was bland. His expression was not. “Just an observation.”

  “That some of us are twenty-six and some of us like to make leading comments?” Lily took his vacated seat on the edge of the desk. “Dan treated Trix like absolute dirt, tried to take over every aspect of her life, and systematically suppressed her personality. It was not because he was older. It was because he’s a complete bastard. I in no way mentally house you in the same pigpen just because you were born in the same decade.”

  Her prejudiced view of the situation was focused elsewhere.

  Luc leaned back against the office wall, one ankle crossed over the other, putting some space between them. It was probably wise, given their habit of stroking, groping, and every other verb that involved bodily contact when they were alone in rooms that contained desks.

  “I think it’s pretty obvious that my opinion of you is in a different stratosphere.” She tried to ease the mood. “I don’t throw out comparisons to Atticus Finch lightly. He was my first boyfriend.”

  “He’s fictional.”

  “When I was ten, that was a minor drawback, easily outweighed by the staunch devotion to human rights and penchant for natty waistcoats.” She pushed off the desk and stood up. “If I’ve apologised sincerely enough for the ruckus in reception, there are papers I have to sign in David Benton’s office.”

  Luc didn’t move from his position against the wall. “I assume that’s a subtle hint you don’t want to discuss this anymore?”

  She looked back at him from the doorway, her hand resting on the wooden frame. A stream of weak winter sunlight was creeping along the carpet, highlighting a path towards his booted feet. He was tense beneath the casual stance.

  She sought for the right words. “I—”

  He smiled, just a twist of his mouth. “Have papers to sign. Got it.”

  She bit her lip. “I’ll see you back in there.”

  Chapter Nine

  The Majestic had always been one of Lily’s favourite theatres, partly for the domed ceiling, which wasn’t quite as impressive as the Sistine Chapel but still merited a cricked neck. It was very close to the Dramatic Arts Institute, so she’d been to a lot of productions as a student. She’d never been to the Christmas Eve concert, though, and hadn’t planned to attend this year. Unfortunately, Margo was still trying to build bridges and had asked what she was doing tonight. Since her parents were both out of the country and Trix had to work, Lily’s plans involved vegan mince pies and Love Actually, and she’d been too distracted by
David and Dylan’s eggnog-fuelled shouting match to invent something more pressing.

  Fatal mistake.

  The foyer was packed, people standing shoulder to shoulder in their winter coats, their combined voices buzzed and happy.

  “We’re in the family box,” Margo said into her ear. She pointed to the marble staircase that led to the upper levels. “I’m just going to duck backstage quickly. Meet you up there?”

  She slipped between two women in fur coats and pearls, and was swallowed up by the crowd.

  There were still thirty minutes before the concert was due to start. Lily turned to the closest person, one of the men in the party, and indicated in the direction where she was fairly sure the bar was hiding. “I’m going to grab a glass of water before it starts.”

  She would prefer something with at least a one-percent alcohol volume, but Jocasta’s ban on all fun food and drink was helping her vocally. With only a few weeks to go, she wasn’t going to risk backsliding just because everybody in sight had either mulled or sparkling wine in hand.

  “Oh, let me,” said the helpful gentleman who’d already offered to take her coat, buy her programme and, after two glasses of wine in as many minutes, father her children.

  “Thanks.” Lily extracted her wrist from his hand. “But I need to use the bathroom too.” Before he could make any suggestion about escorting her there and probably following her into the stall, she escaped.

  Murmuring apologies, she edged through the crowd. There were at least forty people queuing for drinks, but one of the bartenders recognised her and served her first, which earned her a glass of wine she couldn’t drink and the violent antipathy of four dozen opera fans.

  She was elbowed to the edge of the crowd and looked around for a place to leave the wineglass. Despite the chaos, she was enjoying the atmosphere. She loved the theatre. Any theatre. It was a stark reminder that in less than a month, she was going to be backstage, hearing a similar audience buzz from the other side of the curtain.

  A group of businessmen pushed past and she stepped out of the way. Turning around, she came face-to-face with Luc.