Pretty Face

by Lucy Parker

“Savage?” she repeated. “Luc…I don’t—What do you mean?”

  Hudson came back slowly and cautiously with his own question. “Lily, who told you what happened?”

  She mangled a laugh and a sob. “About the last person I would ever want to hear any news from. Google filled in the details. What did you mean about Luc?”

  “I couldn’t get through to your phone,” he said warily, “so I called and spoke to a member of Savage’s team and then to Savage himself. He asked me not to speak to you personally until later tonight. I understand he’s issued a blanket order that you’re not to be told anything before or during the performance, so that you can focus.”

  “Luc said that.” She stood up and turned around, gripping the edge of the table. “Luc knows that my father died tonight, and he’s forbidden anyone to share that minor fact with me until his prize show is over, so I don’t miss a cue or lose my train of thought during the monologue.”

  “I’m not exactly Savage’s biggest fan, but I really don’t think that’s the slant to put on his intention—”

  It was either cut him off rudely or cry into the receiver. He would be more bothered by the tears. “I have to go.”

  “Lily—”

  She ended the call and this time did turn the phone off. No access to social media or well-meaning friends. Luc would be relieved.

  For two, possibly three precious minutes, she just stood there. Her dad. Jack—sarcastic, mischievous, affectionate, selfish Jack Lamprey was…gone. She couldn’t—Oh, God. She couldn’t even imagine it.

  He’d been in his seventies. He could have—She’d always seen him in her mind, still making trouble into his nineties.

  Oh, God. Dad.

  Something smacked against her door, partly shaking her out of her daze, although when she opened it she felt as if she were trying to push through a wall of water. A lady-in-waiting was limping towards the stairs, rubbing her thigh.

  Lily walked over to the full-length mirror and stared again at her unfamiliar reflection. Bowing her head, she pressed her hands over her face, feeling as if a thick layer of ice was forming over her skin.

  Lampreys get things done. She could hear Jack saying it, with that wicked lilt.

  Against her forehead, she balled her hands into fists.

  She could do this. For the next few hours, she was Elizabeth. She lived in a different time; she had never known Jack Lamprey… She faltered, and steeled herself. She had never known Jack Lamprey.

  And if the men in her life acted like self-absorbed pricks, she could just throw them in the Tower or order a swift beheading.

  More deep breaths, in and out, moving her hands down to press her fists against her stomach, before she turned and strode swiftly through the doorway.

  Upstairs, she walked into an almost tangible wall of nerves and excitement, and the atmosphere of organised chaos made it easier to lock herself into character. Margo’s quick glance at her, hastily averted, was a small stab through her armour, but she kept her own gaze fixed firmly on the wings.

  When the curtain went up, routine and muscle memory were her saviour. She had made these movements, reacted to these cues so many times in rehearsal that her mind and body responded automatically.

  The call boy signalled, and she stepped out in front of her first full house, and into the political instability of 1553.

  *

  It was close to perfect. Miles better than the final rehearsal. The cast were in full control; the audience was engaged. From the principals to the one-liners and the bit parts, every actor was cue-ready and holding up their end.

  Lily was stealing the show. She was working the audience like a seasoned pro, and they responded beautifully to every tense moment and unexpected quip.

  About twenty seconds after she first took the stage, Luc closed his eyes briefly.

  When the lights went up for intermission and the room appeared to undulate as people got to their feet or stretched in their seats, David released an audible sigh. “So far, so fantastic.”

  At his side in the lighting box, Amelia whistled. “Lily. Holy shit. Talk about exceeding expectations.” She shook her head. “God, it’s such a shame this night is going to be ruined for her.”

  Luc scrubbed his hand roughly through his hair. “She knows.”

  “What?”

  David looked at him sharply. “This is the strongest performance she’s turned out—”

  “She knows.” He spoke without a shred of uncertainty. He knew Lily. He knew the body language of all his actors, but above all, he knew Lily. She was hiding it well. Superbly. But he’d heard it in her voice, seen it in her face, from her opening line.

  A small crease appeared between Amelia’s brows. “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Should we—”

  Luc turned in his seat. “Padma, go backstage and make sure Lily’s left alone. If she doesn’t speak to anyone, nobody speaks to her. Let her focus.” Grimly, he looked back at the closed curtains and the milling stands. “If she’s doing this, let her do it her way.”

  *

  It was a dream. She’d actually had this dream more than once in the past. Standing in front of a West End audience, many of whom were on their feet, taking her bow with the rest of the cast. The direction of the house lights had changed, so that she could clearly make out individual figures and faces, all of them strange. Margo’s hand was dry, holding hers tightly; on her left, Privy Councillor Brian Halsey’s palm was slick with sweat.

  The applause went on for a long time. The lights started to blur her vision.

  She should be enjoying this moment. She couldn’t wait to get off the stage.

  Finally, the curtain went down and stayed down. Lily dropped Margo’s hand and wove through the mass of people between the main stage and the wings. A few of the cast and crew smiled and congratulated her, but in general there was an odd, awkward vibe that she would have found disconcerting if it weren’t for Dan St. James’s last act of spite.

  Nobody stopped her on the path to her dressing room. Inside, she carefully detached her headpiece and started removing hairpins. It was a relief to pull the wig free and lay it back on its stand. Her movements were a little more flustered and jerky as she yanked at the laces of her bodice, suddenly desperate for air.

  Luc came in quietly, without knocking, and closed the door behind him. They stood, staring at one another, as she kept loosening her dress, one row of cords at a time.

  At last, he said, “Lily.” Just her name. Heavy with regret and worry, and a dozen emotions she couldn’t name.

  “How could you?” Her voice broke and she stopped to steady it. She didn’t want to cry right now.

  At that first sign of tears, Luc came to her, reaching for her, but she made an instinctive, defensive gesture, and he stilled.

  “I’m sorry.” His hand lifted again, futilely, and he clenched it so tightly that his knuckles blanched. “I’m so sorry.”

  “What for?” She heard the harshness of her words almost from a distance. “My father’s death, or that you tried to keep it from me for the sake of your fucking profit margins?”

  His head went back at that, a physical reaction, as if she’d hit him. “Lily—God. No. Christ, no. That’s not—”

  Again he reached for her, and again she moved her hands, backing away. “After everything—God, Margo said it would always be the theatre first with you, she warned me, but I didn’t think you’d…” She swallowed down the rising tears. “I didn’t think you’d…”

  His jaw was iron-tight. “Lily—”

  “It was that important to you to open with the core cast? You actually issued some kind of gag order? Everyone in the theatre can know what happened to my dad, but keep Lily in the dark until she’s done her part? Like a fucking trained seal?”

  Luc was breathing just as quickly, but obviously trying to stay calm. “You have no idea how much I hated—There was nothing you could have done. The plane won’t arrive ba
ck for hours. There’s nobody here who needs you to be with them. I wanted you to have tonight.” He thrust his fingers through his hair. “I wanted you to at least have this.”

  “Right.” She didn’t even try to hide the scepticism. “That decision was entirely for my benefit.” Pressing her fist to her forehead again, she made a strangled noise. “God. I’m over here, getting pulled down into shit and rumours every day because of this, losing opportunities—”

  “What opportunities?” he asked tightly.

  “I was up for a role with Kathleen Leibowitz. Turns out she’s not that tempted by tabloid trash.”

  “Don’t fucking call yourself—”

  The door opened again; if someone had knocked, she hadn’t heard it through his harsh response and the white noise clouding her brain. In a daze, Lily turned. When she saw Ash’s face, usually filled with humour and now creased with concern, something pinged in her chest.

  “Lily.” Ash made an abrupt, cut-off movement, as if he were going to open his arms to her, and she realised he was probably holding back as a mark of respect to her relationship with Luc. “I’m so sorry, kid.”

  “You heard?”

  “I think everyone’s heard. The prime minister’s released a statement expressing his condolences to—” Ash flushed.

  “To Lady Charlotte?” For the first time, with a rush of guilt, Lily wondered how the other woman was coping. She didn’t know if she ought to call her, or if that would make things worse. She assumed she would be allowed to attend the funeral. Another lump formed in her throat and she had to fix her gaze on the wall to the left of Ash’s ear. There was a small crack in the plaster that Luc’s construction team had missed. “That’s very politic of him. The whole House of Lords is probably having a quiet party. A lot of pacemakers had to work overtime when Jack attended a session.”

  “There’s a lot of press outside. And about fifteen people in the hallway clamouring to speak to you,” Ash said to Luc, who swore viciously. “I’ve got a car waiting out back. If you want to make a quick exit now—”

  “Yes.” She didn’t hesitate. She wanted to be at home. The adrenaline that had carried her through the performance was wearing off, and she just wanted to crawl into bed. “I want to go now.”

  Ash looked at Luc again. “I can take her home and wait with her until you—”

  “I’m coming now.” Luc’s reply was uncompromising.

  She forced herself to meet his gaze; he was watching her intently. “You have a duty here. The show’s a hit. You might as well follow through.” He was very pale. She could hear herself saying these things, and she couldn’t seem to stop. She was aware that she was hurting him, which made her stomach and her heart seize with pain, but she was just holding it together.

  If she opened up completely, let herself feel it all, she would fall apart.

  Ash looked extremely uncomfortable. “I’ll take her home.”

  Luc’s grey eyes were dark and conflicted. His jaw shifted. “I’ll follow you.” He came towards her, and she felt the warmth when he slipped her coat around her shoulders. “I’ll be there. Soon.”

  She tore her gaze from his, and let Ash slip his hand through the crook of her arm and steer her out the door. The walk through the theatre, pushing through the laughing party atmosphere backstage, putting her hand up against the camera flashes before Ash’s driver opened the car door for her—it was all a haze.

  She felt as if her brain didn’t start functioning until they were halted somewhere in traffic and she became aware of how cold she was, even with the wool coat and the car heating on full blast.

  Ash put his hand over hers. “I know this probably doesn’t mean what it should right now, but…you were bloody amazing out there. Every person backstage was singing your praises.” He nudged her, very gently. “Spine of steel, my friend.” He was so very, very serious. Ash, the jokester, without even a hint of a smile. Just one more surreal element in a night of unreality. “I’m so fucking proud of you, Lily.”

  “Thanks,” she said quietly, and felt absolutely nothing.

  Chapter Thirteen

  It was shaping up to be the most commercially successful opening of Luc’s career, and one of the worst nights of his life. He gave perfunctory thanks to the investors and VIPs for their support, and a statement to the press that was both guarded and sincere. He expressed the condolences of the company on the death of Jack Lamprey and emphasized how very proud they were of Lily. He ran the media gamut in less than fifteen minutes and delegated the rest of the PR hassle to Maria and her team.

  Ignoring the prying questions of the waiting paparazzi, he left the theatre and headed straight for Lily’s flat. Traffic congestion was fucking awful and he had even less patience for it than usual.

  He sat behind another build-up at a red light, knocking his fingers against the steering wheel. He wanted to be with her. Every instinct was telling him that it was his right to be with her. And it was a toss-up at this point whether she would even open the front door to him, let alone want him to touch her or offer any kind of physical comfort. He doubted if he would ever forget the image of her stricken face, or the knife thrust of realising exactly how badly she had interpreted his actions.

  Margo had told her that the theatre would always come first with him. That had never been true where his family were concerned. It was almost laughably untrue now.

  When he finally pulled up outside her mews, Trix was getting out of a taxi. She glanced over her shoulder as she paid the driver. They met at the intercom.

  “How is she?” Trix asked a bit stiffly, pressing the button. Her coat was unbuttoned and she was still wearing her costume underneath. There were smears of greasepaint on her cheeks.

  “Not good,” he said, as someone buzzed them in and the outer door clicked open.

  When Ash let them into the living room, Luc could hear the shower running.

  “Lily’s in the shower,” Ash confirmed unnecessarily. He looked as tired as they all probably felt.

  “How is she?” Trix asked again, pulling off her coat. She headed straight for the kettle and switched it on.

  “She’s in shock.” Ash turned to Luc. “She must have always known that she’d lose Jack while she was relatively young, but—you’re never really prepared, are you? She’s not thinking straight, and she doesn’t know what she’s saying.”

  Luc nodded once. “I know.” Abruptly, uncomfortable with discussing Lily behind her back in any more intimacy, he asked the question that had been lurking behind more immediate concerns. “Did she say how she found out?”

  He hoped to God she hadn’t had to read about it online. This situation was bad enough.

  A slight flush rose in Ash’s cheeks. “Uh…yeah. She said…someone called her.”

  At the kitchen counter, Trix’s eyes narrowed. “Why did you look at me when you said that? I didn’t tell her.”

  “Dan told her.”

  Trix had been lifting down a mug from a high cupboard; her hand froze in mid-air. “Excuse me?”

  “Your ex-boyfriend called her on the pretence of offering his condolences, really to rub it in that her chance of a big opening night was shot, and scored the unexpected bonus of catching her completely off guard.” Ash looked as if he’d swallowed a glass of acid. “He’s a dick. Your taste in men leaves a lot to be desired.”

  “Dan St. James called Lily? At the theatre?” Trix’s face was flooding with a far more violent shade of red.

  “Yes.”

  There was a tense moment before Trix set down the mug she was holding, walked around the counter and picked up her coat. Slipping it on, she started buttoning it. Her movements were precise and calm.

  “What are you doing?” Ash asked warily.

  “I’m going to speak to Dan.” Trix considered. “Possibly murder, maim and/or castrate him. We’ll see how the verbal evisceration goes first. Tell Lily I’ll be back in an hour. If she needs me before then, call me.”

  “I don�
��t think you should—” She was already stalking towards the door, and Ash swore. “Lily will unman me if I let you go around there alone.”

  Trix fixed him with a scornful look. “Dan’s not dangerous. He’s a cowardly, spiteful shitbag who gets his kicks spreading poison, and enough is enough. I have several things to say to him and they’re all long overdue. And let’s be real—in the extremely unlikely event that things did get physical, you would be absolutely no help.”

  Ash groaned. “You realise I’m still going to have to come with you.” He raised his hands when Trix scowled. “Look, my money’s on you, Rambette, every time, but seriously—Lily will lose her shit and she’s got enough to deal with tonight. I’ll wait in the car if you like, but I’m coming.” He grabbed his keys. “I’ll drive.” He looked at Luc. “Look after her.”

  “Goes without saying.” Luc lifted an eyebrow at Trix. “If there’s anything left of Ramsay Bolton when you’ve finished with him, feel free to send the remains my way.”

  Her expression was still banked with fury, but her lips suddenly eased into a minuscule smile. “Ramsay Bolton? Was that Lily?”

  It belatedly occurred to him that, dick or not, he was referring to her ex-lover. “Uh—no. It wasn’t. Sorry.”

  “God,” he heard her mutter as she left with Ash. “It’s like peas in a pod.” Before the door closed behind them, she issued a direct warning. “Don’t make things worse for her.”

  Luc glanced grimly down the corridor before he went into the kitchen to finish making the cup of tea. When he took it into Lily’s bedroom and set it on the bedside table, she was still in the bathroom.

  He was sitting quietly on the edge of the bed, his linked hands resting between his knees, when she padded across the hall with a comb in her hand and a towel under her arm. Her hair clung wetly to her neck and shoulders, dampening the soft knit top of her pyjamas.

  Averting her eyes, she crawled past him onto the bed, thumped the pillows into a tower and tugged roughly enough at a knot that even he winced.

  Without a word, he twisted, bringing one knee up on the mattress, and took the comb from her hand; she sat perfectly still while he gently worked it through the satiny tangle. She wouldn’t relax against him and he could see the tension in the graceful lines of her back.