Pretty Face

by Lucy Parker

  “Before my parents forcibly abduct you,” Luc said, ignoring them, “do you have plans?”

  “I’m going to watch Trix’s charity performances for the children’s hospital.”

  “So, you’re going to spend Christmas Day, your one day away from the theatre, in the back row of a different theatre, watching the same series of acrobatics and improvised panto multiple times in a row?”

  “It’s for charity,” Lily said loftily.

  “So you’ve said. Very commendable. And probably a good reason why you shouldn’t be taking a sick child’s seat.”

  Yes, well. There was that point.

  “Come to us,” Célie urged. “It’ll be great fun. We always have friends and colleagues join us.”

  Luc’s car keys jingled like bells as he pulled them from his pocket.

  “Luc will pick you up at eleven.” It was more of a royal command than an offer.

  To be polite, Lily kept her resigned sigh inward. It resonated silently through her entire body. “That’s okay. I have my car. Thank you.”

  “Merveilleux. Champagne at eleven, turkey at two.”

  *

  “I don’t know what I’ve done to get to the top of Santa’s ‘nice’ list,” Alex said, champagne glass in hand as he looked out the kitchen window, “but the embodiment of my favourite fantasy just appeared on the street.”

  “Somebody dropped off a beer fountain and the world’s largest round of camembert?” Cameron didn’t look up from the oven.

  Luc grinned and pulled the cork from a bottle of Australian Shiraz.

  “That’s my second-favourite fantasy.” Alex knocked back the rest of his champagne and continued to peer through the lace netting. “Please be here for me.”

  Mark Campbell joined him at the window. His features, which he’d always been able to mould like playdough into whatever character part the Royal Shakespeare Company required, lifted and creased into a smile. “Are we referring to the Audi R8 or Miss Great Britain?”

  Luc’s movements hitched before he held a glass of red in his father’s direction.

  Cameron finished prodding the unfortunate turkey in the backside with what looked like an extendable backscratcher. “Cheers.” He took the wineglass. “Get away from that window,” he said to Alex and Mark, “and stop staring at the poor woman like she’s a zoo exhibit. You’d think neither of you had been let out in public before.” He carried a bowl of crisps to the table. “And if Miss Great Britain is a platinum blonde and dressed like she just stepped out of The Matrix, forget about it. She’s Luc’s.”

  “I’m sorry.” Alex dropped the curtain and swung around. “She’s Luc’s?”

  Luc poured his own glass of Shiraz. “She’s a member of my company whose family is out of town.”

  Cameron’s smile was bland. “That’s what I meant.”

  “I’m this close to taking back that case of Scotch.”

  Alex frowned. “Catwoman is here for you?”

  “Catwoman is here for lunch.”

  “She has a name, chaps,” Cameron said reprovingly.

  The doorbell rang. Luc heard his mother’s voice and then Lily’s greeting in the hall.

  She followed Célie into the kitchen, her eyes going straight to him. A wash of pink appeared along her cheekbones. She was wearing slim black trousers, a tight black jumper and her lethal-weapon boots again, and did look capable of scaling the outside of a skyscraper. “Um, Merry Christmas.” She held up a bottle of Drambuie and a huge box of chocolates. “Provisions. A small thank-you for having me.”

  “Totally unnecessary, but much appreciated.” Cameron took them from her. “And a very happy Christmas Day to you. Have you met Mark Campbell? Mark, Lily Lamprey.” They exchanged greetings and he added, “Help yourself to crisps.”

  “Thank you. Salt and vinegar?”

  “Is there any other flavour?”

  “I believe there’s an urban legend that some people prefer them plain.”

  “Philistines.” Cameron offered her the bowl. “Glad you’re here. We’re seriously short on people with taste and brains. This is Alex, by the way, my elder son.”

  “Thanks for that segue.” Alex held out his hand. With a spark of private amusement, his gaze skated towards Luc. “Alex Savage.”

  Lily switched the crisps to her left hand and returned the handshake. “Lily.”

  “I believe you’ve signed your life away to my despot brother.”

  “Well.” She also flicked a glance at Luc. “The next few months, anyway.”

  “Champagne or shiraz?” Luc asked her. He looked at the bottle she’d brought. “Or Drambuie?”

  “No alcohol, remember?”

  “One glass and I won’t tell Jocasta.”

  “How very un-despotic.”

  “It’s the constant, mind-numbing refrain of Mariah Carey. It’s weakened my defences.”

  When lunch was served, he sat down next to Lily and realised why his mother had, at the last minute, decided she had to have named place-settings for the first time in years.

  “Don’t forget to pull your crackers.” Célie was already wearing a pink paper hat and examining her prize and joke.

  Luc shook his head. “Have you started mentally tracing your steps back to yesterday yet, when you agreed to let yourself in for all of this?”

  “Hey, I enjoy a good cracker joke.” Expectantly, Lily held her cracker out to him.

  “I think that’s an oxymoron.” Unenthusiastically, he pulled on the other end, and it came apart without a sound.

  “That was a bit anticlimactic.” Lily tipped the contents onto the tablecloth.

  “Probably preparing you for the experience of what’s inside.”

  She unwrapped the coiled joke and found her prize. “Cool. Nail clippers.” Smoothing out the joke, she read it. “Huh.”

  “If it’s anything about chickens, turkeys or reindeer crossing the road, I don’t want to know.”

  “It’s not a joke, Ebenezer. It’s a proverb. Of sorts. Maybe there was a mix-up at the cracker-joke-and-fortune-cookie factory.” She read it aloud. “‘Life is like a treadmill. Exercise is good for you.’ I’m slightly offended, but not so much that I’m not going to eat these roast potatoes.” She picked up her knife and fork.

  “Lily, you’re not wearing your hat,” Célie said.

  “Oh, they never fit.” Lily’s eyes were reflecting the dancing light of the candle flame. “My head’s too big.”

  “I’m sure it isn’t—” Célie stopped when Lily obligingly tried to put on the red paper hat and it immediately tore in half. “Oh dear.”

  “Never mind.” Cameron speared a Brussels sprout and glared at it. “You know what they say. Big head, big…” He trailed off, puzzled.

  “The saying is big feet, Dad.” Alex reached for the bowl of cranberry sauce. “It’s not really appropriate when you’re referring to a woman, and it’s definitely not appropriate at the dinner table.”

  Lily lifted her napkin, very rapidly, to cover her mouth.

  When they’d reduced the contents of the table to crumbs, Luc avoided the post-turkey party games by offering to stoke the fire in the lounge. He was looking into the flames when Lily came through from the living room and perched on the arm of the couch. She was holding a gift bag.

  He shot her a sideways glance. “I see you managed to escape from Charades hell.”

  “My ten-minute attempt at The Luminaries flopped. Mark did Fablehaven in about ten seconds. My ego is dead.” She coughed. “I excused myself to get a glass of water. But your parents are snogging in the kitchen. I didn’t really want to squeeze past them to the tap.”

  “Sorry. Any first-time guests should probably be issued a warning at the door.” Straightening, he pushed his hands into his pockets and studied her. She looked…at home here.

  She obviously hadn’t wanted to come. Anyone without ironclad proof of a prior commitment was likely to fall victim to his mother’s relentless hospitality, and he
hadn’t seen any way to fend off the press gang without drawing even more attention to their…situation.

  But even when she wasn’t in the same room, house or city borough, she seemed to have become a constant presence in his life.

  Possibly a necessary one.

  “It’s nice.” She reddened. “I mean, not the walking in on them part, and I’m glad I didn’t take a second longer to fail at Charades because…hands were going places…” He winced. “But your parents love each other. A lot, obviously. It’s nice.”

  “Mmm. The occasional couple does make it in this business.”

  “Apparently so. Your parents. Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward. Kermit the Frog and Miss Piggy.”

  “And a few others.” The mention of the Muppets reminded him of the library at Aston Park and the oversized pink jumper. Evidently, when she broke away from her favourite sleek black, she did it in a big, fuzzy way. “Although I think Kermit’s back on the market.”

  “Figures.”

  “So young. So cynical.”

  “Statistics back me up, Methuselah.” She played with the handles of the gift bag. “It obviously takes something very…special to survive the media attention and work schedules. Public opinion. Travel. Career flops. Clashing egos.”

  “Apparently so.”

  The bag started to crumple in her grip and she looked down. “Oh. Here.” She held it towards him. “Season’s greetings. I’m sorry in advance.”

  He took it from her quizzically. “Sorry?”

  “You’re a very difficult person to buy for. And I didn’t know if I should, or if it was inapprop—Anyway, it’s Generic Man Present 101. I’m sorry.”

  He opened it and took out a bottle of cologne. “This is what I use,” he said slowly.

  “Yes. I—know.”

  He turned the box over in his hand. “You wear something vanilla.”

  “Diptyque Eau Duelle,” she supplied automatically, then eyed him. Her cheeks flushed again.

  “Thank you.” He slipped the box back into the bag. “I was almost out.”

  She made an effort to be casual. “At least I saved you a trip to Selfridges, then. Not a total gift fail.”

  He picked up the wrapped parcel he’d left on the wooden dresser and passed it to her without a word.

  She looked at it, and at him, before she slipped her fingers beneath the wrapping paper to loosen the tape. “You didn’t have to—A book?” Pulling out the faded hardcover, she turned it to see the spine. Her smile returned and she shook her head. “Surfeit of Lampreys. Funny, funny man.” She opened the cover. “Luc. It’s a first-edition.” She turned a page. “Oh my God. It’s signed.” Her finger hovered over the signature as if she was afraid to touch it. “It’s signed. Is this real?”

  “Well, I didn’t personally witness Ngaio Marsh pulling out her ink pot and refilling her pen, but the extremely possessive owner of Ocelot Books in Covent Garden tells me it is legit, yes. And since he just about requested photos of the bookcase it was going to before he’d hand it over, I chose to believe him.”

  She touched her thumb to the signature, staring down at it. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  There was a faint tap at the door to the back hallway, and Luc turned to see Alex standing there, his expression inscrutable.

  “Sorry,” his brother said. “But Mark’s looking for Lily. Apparently he offered to show her the collection of RSC memorabilia he carries around in his car. He’s in the conservatory, Lily, if you want to make a quick exit out the back door and avoid an hour of anecdotes about Brian Blessed.”

  Lily seemed to hesitate, looking again at Luc before she stood, holding the book to her chest. She smiled weakly at Alex. “No, that’s okay. I did want to see them.”

  “He’s on his fourth Drambuie,” Alex warned her. “You might want to pour yourself a glass to deaden the pain.”

  He waited until she was gone before he snorted.

  “What?” Luc said flatly.

  His brother pressed the tips of his fingers together and raised them to his mouth. “Oh, haven’t the mighty just come crashing down?”

  “She works for me.”

  “Clearly.”

  “I mean, she’s on my payroll.”

  “I know,” Alex agreed gleefully. “That just makes the whole thing so much better. In fact, my vindication could only be exceeded if she was your secretary. All that shit you gave me about Jillian.”

  “Your nineteen-year-old ex-wife? Whose middle name you still don’t know? I stand my ground.”

  Ignoring the interruption, Alex finished with triumph, “And you’re nailing some little blonde-haired chorus girl.”

  He probably couldn’t punch his brother in the face on Christmas Day. “I’m not nailing anyone. And I don’t hire chorus girls, blonde or otherwise. It’s not fucking 42nd Street.”

  “You just exchange expensive presents with everyone in the cast, then?”

  “Just peered through the crack in the door, did you?”

  “She couldn’t look more like a midlife crisis if you’d found her draped across the bonnet of your Porsche.”

  Hell, Christmas came around every year, and what was a bruise or two. “She’s a woman, not a cliché. A fully grown woman whom I’d happily let kick your arse if she were still in the room. And I don’t have a Porsche.”

  “By the look of your new girlfriend, it’s only a matter of time. Red is a little too cliché. I suggest black.”

  “For your eye?” Luc offered, and Alex’s grin widened.

  “I have to say, Dad’s Christmas dinner is always pretty good, but this year—” He kissed his fingers like a self-satisfied chef. “Even with the hangover, so worth the drive.”

  Cameron shouted from the living room, “Queen’s speech!”

  Alex nudged Luc’s foot with the tip of his loafer. “Wouldn’t want to miss that. I love a good chat about morality. Although—do we think it might seem a bit dull after the raging hypocrisy of your effort?”

  His brother was the only Savage in several generations who hadn’t gone into the entertainment business, but he didn’t lack the family bent towards melodrama.

  Swinging around, Luc headed for the kitchen instead, where his father had opened one of his new bottles of scotch earlier. Alex followed, still laughing into his hand, like he was fucking Muttley from the old Wacky Races cartoon.

  Exit, pursued by snickering hound.

  Chapter Ten

  “Again. From the diaphragm.” Jocasta patted her own middle as an unnecessary visual aid. Lily might be struggling to pull all the minute details of the performance into one cohesive character, but she was fairly clued up on body parts. She didn’t think her diaphragm was located in her foot.

  She repeated the line, deepening the vowel sounds and feeling as if she were doing a meditation exercise. Minus any feeling of relaxation.

  “Hmm.” Jocasta folded her arms and nodded. The plastic bird perched on top of her cloche hat echoed the movement. “It’ll do.”

  Lily breathed out through her mouth, spontaneously this time, not measuring every inhale and exhale. It’ll do from Jocasta was high praise.

  “Although,” Jocasta scolded, checking the clock, “you’re ten minutes late for your costume fitting.”

  Lily had mentioned that she was due in the wardrobe department at two o’clock. She had mentioned it, in fact, every fifteen minutes for the past hour. Jocasta’s exact words after her last reminder had been: “Nobody is going to care what you’re wearing if you have the diction of Boomhauer on a bender.”

  Lily’s smile was tight-lipped as she thanked Jocasta for the voice session and yanked her wool cardigan back on, wrapping the ends behind her back ballet-style. She was just going to have to take it off again on the second floor, but even though the Savage Productions central heating was a lot more generous than they’d had at CTV, London had entered the January phase of winter. Bleak skies and freezing-cold rain, without the festivenes
s of Christmas to cheer things up. Even inside the building, it wasn’t warm enough to run between floors in her vest top.

  “Stop! Turn,” Jocasta ordered, and Lily swung around in the doorway. “Take a deep, slow breath.”

  Lily glanced at her watch. “I don’t—”

  “Deep. Slow. Breath. In. Out.”

  She let out a short, impatient breath first, and then followed the direction. And again. And again.

  Some of the tension left her body, and Jocasta nodded. “You’re starting to lose your temper.”

  “I know.” The general level of stress all around the building was escalating. Shit, as Freddy had put it succinctly this morning, was getting real. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s perfectly normal. It’s the downward roll towards tech week. And then it’s going to be speed bumps and delays and potholes, and every other uncomfortable part of a rocky road, while David Benton and the production team nitpick and harangue and drive everyone into a nervous breakdown. Luc will turn into a human iceberg and rarely raise his voice, but prepare to defrost your ego with a hairdryer if you screw up in front of him. Which you will. Everyone will. And then you’ll pull it together.” She spoke briskly, the decree laid down and absolute, and dismissed Lily from both the room and her mind.

  Pull it together. Lily’s breathing quickened again as she hurried down the stairs as quickly as safety and her boot heels permitted, and it wasn’t the physical exertion.

  She’d been trying to pull it together for weeks now, and particularly since Christmas.

  She was failing on all counts.

  There was another press article today about her impending failure and equally colossal hips. There was Margo, who made knowing faces every time Luc worked through lunch or appeared to have slept in his office. And there was a signed Ngaio Marsh novel on Lily’s bedside table, personally tracked down in an obscure rare bookstore, that threw her into an emotional mess every time she thought about it.

  Lily expected the costume fittings to have begun by the time she slipped into the wardrobe department, but most of the cast were still sitting stretching, running vocal warm-ups or sipping water. Or, in Dylan Waitely’s case, looking into the wall-length mirror and smiling.