Pretty Face

by Lucy Parker

  “Thanks,” she said in a low voice when he handed her back the comb.

  “I know you’re angry with me.” He touched his cheek to hers. She almost reached for him. Her hand half rose before she stiffened again. “And I’m sorry. I really am so fucking sorry. About all of it.”

  Her skin rubbed his when she turned, making them both shiver. She swallowed and at last raised her lashes. Her eyes were swamped with grief and guilt, disappointment and misery, and the sound that rose in his throat was involuntary.

  Her words were harsh, radically unlike her usual soft vowels and teasing humour. “It’s not like I shouldn’t have expected this, right? He was in his seventies. He was an old man.”

  Luc ran his thumb over her knuckles. There was a painful knot in his throat. “He was your dad.”

  “Yeah, but—” Her voice cracked a little. “He was never a very hands-on father. His follow-through was shit. He was hardly ever there. It’s not like I’m going to be—to be missing—much—”

  She covered her face with her forearm, and Luc curved his hand around her head, cradling her. “I know,” he said into her damp hair. “I know.”

  She kept her arms folded in tight to her chest, but she didn’t pull away. Luc stroked her hair and her back, listening to the sound of her ragged breathing. It was one of the most frustrating, powerless feelings in the scope of human experience, to watch the person you loved suffering and be unable to take the hurt away.

  This should have been a watershed night in her life for a very different reason.

  Lily was the only member of the cast who’d had no family support in the audience tonight. Her parents had shown where their priorities lay, clearly not for the first time.

  Given her history—and his—he could hardly be surprised that she was sitting stiffly in his arms right now, not exactly radiating trust.

  When she put her hands up to cover his, holding on to him for a few seconds before she put him away from her, he knew what she was going to say before she opened her mouth.

  His instinctive “no” clashed with her soft “I need you to leave.”

  “I’m not leaving you alone.” He didn’t reach for her again. He respected her need for space to that extent. Not enough to put several city boroughs between them when she was hurting and still in shock.

  “I won’t be alone. Trix and Ash are—”

  “Taking Dan St. James apart, one home truth at a time.”

  “What?” Lily’s shadowed eyes focused. She made a move as if to get off the bed, and he shook his head.

  “They’ll be back soon. And if anyone needs to be worried about that visit, it’s St. James.”

  Her lips lifted in the tiniest scrap of a smile. “Is Trix on the warpath?”

  “If he knows what’s good for him, he won’t open the door.”

  He recognised the look that was creeping over her beautiful, blotchy face. It was classic Jack Lamprey, as televised during confrontations at the House of Lords: totally immovable.

  “Luc.”

  “No.” He spoke through gritted teeth. “You can be as pissed off at me as you like, but—”

  “Please.” Her voice broke again on the word, and she might as well have tightened her cold, white-knuckled hand directly around his heart. “Just—not tonight.”

  He bit down hard on what he’d been going to say next; it obviously would have been absorbed into the impenetrable wall she’d built around herself.

  He stared at her, his jaw working.

  She pressed her palms over her eyes. She was trembling. He wanted to touch her. He wanted her to turn to him for whatever comfort he could offer.

  Right now, it seemed he was causing her even more pain. She’d completely shut herself off, every taut muscle locked in self-defence.

  “I need to think,” she said huskily, lowering her hands to her lap. She interlocked her fingers, holding herself in a firm grip as if she couldn’t trust anyone else’s touch. A sheen of tears was trapped in her spiky lashes. “I’m tired, and I have some stuff to think about. I really need to be alone for a while.”

  “Lily.” His voice was raw and painful.

  “Please, Luc. Just…go.”

  Wrong was firing through every nerve ending. Leaving anyone when they were this upset: wrong. Leaving his lover—Leaving the person he loved more than anyone, when she was shaking and on the verge of tears: totally fucked up.

  “We’ll talk tomorrow.” Lily progressed to wrapping her arms about herself in a full hug. He couldn’t isolate a single emotion in her eyes that made him feel okay about this. “Tomorrow. I promise.”

  His abdomen was clenched so tightly that it was starting to cramp. “All right.” He forced himself to stand up. He pushed his hands into pockets, holding himself almost as stiffly as she was. “Tomorrow?”

  She nodded, a tear slipping down her cheek. He watched it track a path to her jaw and disappear.

  “I’ll wait in the living room until Trix gets back.” He wasn’t compromising on that. “And I’ll have my phone. If you need me, call me. I don’t give a shit what time it is.”

  Her head nodded; every other part of her body told him not to get his hopes up.

  When he turned at the door, she was holding the cup of tea he’d made, looking into it as if she’d lost all memory of what it was. On the English crisis scale, step one was drinking a cup of tea. Forgetting the entire concept of tea was off-the-charts stress.

  He sat in the semi-darkness of the living room for a long time. He went back several times to check on her, and was relieved when she finally dozed off. Her head was bent at a neck-cricking angle against her immensity of pillows. Quietly, he walked over to the side of the bed and lifted her, as gently as he could, settling her down more comfortably. He took the furry comforter from the end of the bed and draped it over her.

  He didn’t tuck back the loose strands of hair or kiss her exposed ear, or do any of the things he would have last night. Only hours ago, when they’d still been on speaking terms and her bare legs had been tangled with his. He looked back at her once, then returned to wait for Trix.

  It was almost two o’clock in the morning. He was starting to wonder if he’d been too flippant about her ability to handle Dan. From the little he’d seen of the other man, he’d written him off as a classic bully, too self-serving to risk violence, but—

  The intercom buzzed. He released a breath and went to open the door for her.

  “Is she asleep?” Trix’s movements were steady and assured as she unbuttoned her coat; even he could see there was something different in her. Closure, perhaps. For her sake, he hoped that didn’t mean St. James’s head was now mounted on the end of Lady Justice’s sword at the Old Bailey.

  “Yeah.” Exhaustion settled into the depths of his body. He sat back down on the edge of the couch. “I’ve been checking on her. She dropped off a while ago, thank God.”

  “I’m glad. I made Ash head home. He means well, but he’s a real pain in the arse when he’s trying to be sincere.” Trix hung up her coat and turned to study him.

  “No bloodshed, I see.”

  “It was a narrow escape. For him.” She lifted her chin. “He won’t be a factor in my life or in Lily’s ever again.”

  “Good for you.” He meant it sincerely.

  “Is there a reason you’re sitting out here by yourself? That’s quite a big bed Lily has in there.”

  Luc didn’t respond, but his expression must have said a good deal.

  “Did she kick you out?” Trix didn’t sound all that surprised.

  A little tightly, he said, “She wants some space until tomorrow, to think things through.”

  People usually meant one thing only when they asked for space. He glanced back down the hallway, fighting the overwhelming urge to go in there, press close to her, hold her, and demand—something.

  That was what he needed. This was about what she needed.

  Which apparently wasn’t him.

  *
r />   Lily’s cheek felt sticky and sweaty where it rested on her hand. It was that godawful experience when reality took a moment to settle. For a few seconds, she felt light and well-rested; then she remembered and her stomach swooped.

  It was on pure instinct that she reached out for Luc. Instead of warm, spice-scented skin and taut muscle, her arm encountered delicate bones and feminine softness. Her eyes shot open. Trix looked solemnly back, her tousled pink head resting against her folded arm.

  “Hey.” Lily’s voice was like sandpaper.

  “Hey. You slept.”

  She swallowed. “It really happened. All of it.”

  “Yeah.” Trix gripped her hand. “It did.”

  She drew in a shaky breath and looked at the clock. Almost eight. She pushed the fluffy mess of her hair behind her ears. Last night felt like the shreds of a nightmare, but every word and sickening moment was sinking back into her consciousness. “Did Luc leave?”

  “He waited until I got back.” Trix hesitated. “He waited a long time. And he didn’t want to go.”

  Lily stared at the cold, abandoned cup of tea on the bedside table. “I know.”

  There was an odd pause, as if Trix was unsure whether to say more, before she squeezed Lily’s shoulder. “Are you hungry? Toast? Tea?”

  “Tea. Tea would be good. Thanks.” She tried to shake free of the remnants of ice that had paralysed her. “I can get it.”

  “Lily.” Trix stood up with a pursed-lipped frown that would have put the sternest of their boarding school teachers to shame. “I’m fully aware that you’ve spent most of your life trying to look after everyone around you, and the only reason you let people hold you up last night was because you were in shock. But I’m telling you right now. You’re grieving. You’re allowed to be sad and you’re allowed to lean. Now run a hot bath, get in it and let me make you some fucking toast.”

  After an instant of sheer surprise, Lily—unbelievably—felt her lips twitch. “Am I also allowed to be intimidated?”

  “Just call me Rambette.” Trix pointed at the door. “Bath.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She ran the bath hot enough to scald and emerged from it a nice shade of blush pink. While she dressed, she tried to concentrate on breathing and stillness, but constantly battled away thoughts of her father, thoughts of Luc, tossing and tumbling and jumbling, all of them making her feel sick. Sad. Guilty.

  Angry.

  She stopped, startled, in the doorway to the living room, and Margo looked up from where she sat on the couch.

  “Lily.” She stood and ran her hands over her hips, smoothing down her expensive wool dress. “I’m sorry to intrude this early. How are you?” She winced. “That’s always a ridiculous question, isn’t it?”

  “I’m—” Lily started to come out with the conventional social lie, but broke off. “I honestly don’t know.”

  Trix came out of the kitchen holding two cups of tea and balancing a plate of toast on her forearm. She’d paid her way through drama school and dance training by waiting table and tending bar, and her skills were holding. She set everything down on the coffee table and looked between them. “I’m going to take a shower. Nice to meet you, Margo.”

  “Yes, you too.” Margo seemed distracted, but she produced her infamous smile. It faded when Trix discreetly made herself scarce. “Luc’s not here?”

  Lily sat on the edge of her favourite armchair and reached for one of the cups, wrapping her hands around the warmth for comfort. “No,” she said baldly.

  “I see.” Absently, Margo sat down again and picked up a piece of toast, glanced at it, put it back on the plate. “Lily, I’m very sorry about your father.”

  Another stab of pain. “Thank you.”

  “It’s amazing that you performed as well as you did. You stole the stage last night. It would have been an incredible show under any circumstances, let alone…this one.” Her gaze was steady and sincere. “We’re all unbelievably proud.”

  Lily tightened her grasp on the cup. “Everyone came through last night.”

  “Yes. It was one of those rare instances of magic. It’s such a shame that—” She pressed her lips together. “I am sorry to come here so early and so soon after—It’s just that—”

  This was the most flustered Lily had ever seen her. She was usually utterly in control of her voice and body, and apparently emotions.

  When she did get out a complete sentence, it seemed to be totally irrelevant. “Luc did a beautiful job renovating the Queen Anne.”

  “Yes…”

  “But I think he skimped on the insulation in the dressing room walls.” Margo coughed. “They’re not soundproof. At all.”

  And the light dawned.

  “You heard us. Me. After the show.”

  “It was a little difficult not to.” Margo sat forward on the couch, her hands clasped tightly. “I realise I’m probably the last person you want commenting on your relationship with Luc—again—but…I think you need to know, and he wouldn’t have wasted time trying to justify himself when you were that upset. When Luc got the news from Amelia last night, he thought your father had been taken to the hospital for treatment. He thought you’d need to be with him, and he didn’t hesitate. Not for a second. He told David to put Kirsten on in your place and take over immediately, so that he could go with you.”

  Lily set down the tea before she spilled it. She had to steady her voice as well. “He was going to sub in Kirsten? And leave the theatre before the show even started?”

  “He was prepared to miss the entire thing, delegate full control to his team. Lose all the satisfaction of seeing everything come to fruition. The opening night of his theatre, not just of the play. His dream for years.” Her eyes flickered. “He said you needed him more.”

  Lily had been on the verge of tears before; she almost broke completely then.

  “I’m…glad.” Margo took a deep breath. “That he has that. I’m glad for him. For both of you.”

  Lily’s hands were shaking. She curled them tightly into fists.

  Margo cleared her throat. “Maybe I shouldn’t have come, but—”

  “No.” Lily looked up. “No, I’m glad you told me. I…don’t like being left in the dark.”

  “He didn’t want to hurt you. Fifteen minutes to curtain and it was like his mind went straight down to your dressing room and never left your side. It’s a rarefied little club, the people who mean that much to Luc. To that extent, it might be a club of one.” She collected her bag and her coat. “I’m going to go.”

  Lily stood, as well. “Margo…”

  Margo spoke abruptly. “I brought your flowers and presents over, by the way. I saw them when I passed your dressing room and I thought—I don’t expect you’ll have a shortage of flowers this week, but I thought you might want some…happier ones around.”

  Lily looked over at the dresser, where the clusters of roses were stacked carefully next to the wrapped box of champagne from Luc.

  Margo touched his crimson roses on her way out. “They’re beautiful.” She paused and slanted a small smile back at Lily. “Gorgeous colour.”

  Lily closed the door behind her and stood with her hand resting against the wood, before she turned and picked up the bouquet of roses.

  Beneath it, looking slightly bedraggled, a few blooms askew and shedding buttery petals, were the yellow roses her father had sent her.

  A tear tickled along the side of her nose.

  *

  Luc stood outside the closed door for several moments before he knocked.

  When Lily opened it to him, she was very pale. Her skin had a strange papery fragility and her eyes were bloodshot.

  She reached for him.

  She came into his arms, her hands sliding beneath his coat, fisting in his jumper against his back. She shook once, a compulsive shudder; he tightened his grip, pulling her into the curve of his body.

  His heart was beating in a disjointed series of jerky thuds.

>   He knew, as he had known last night, what she was going to say. It was like being on an express train, heading for the worst destination he could imagine; he wanted to alter the course, to turn back, and he couldn’t.

  There was a cliché about unstoppable forces and immovable objects that was about to derail his best hope for happiness.

  Her scent and her body were familiar, but it was as if Lily—everything that really made Lily who she was—had retreated deep within, trapped in a frozen little box. She was cuddling against him, her breath warm into his neck, her fingers clutching at him almost desperately—and it felt like goodbye.

  She took a deep, tear-clogged breath and stepped back. Just a single step.

  “Don’t do this.” His words came out in a rasp, as if they’d been torn from him with a serrated blade, and she swallowed.

  “Luc. Margo told me what happened last night. When Hudson called.” She shook her head. “I’m so sorry. For what I said. How I acted.”

  He rubbed her wet cheek with his thumb. His hand was unsteady. “You had every right to be angry. My reasons for trying to keep you in the dark weren’t what you thought, but I still went behind your back. I knew that was inexcusable.”

  “You did it for me.” She touched his chest. “I do believe that.”

  He heard the silent but…loud and clear. Harsh words of protest were a corrosive burn deep in his gut, but he looked into the immensity of pain in her eyes and they never made it to the surface.

  “Until last night, you’ve never been anything but honest with me.” She made a quick, negative gesture when he started to speak. “I don’t mean that as an accusation. I know you were thinking of me; you were doing it for me.” She took another long breath, releasing it in a shaky rush. “But I still thought—I never doubted, even for a second, that you’d done it for the show.”

  It hurt, as it had hurt last night, and his expression obviously revealed that.

  Her voice hitched. “I should have trusted you, and I didn’t.”

  “I don’t think you’ve ever had much reason to trust the people who—care about you, have you?” Care about. It was a pathetically watered-down substitute for how he really felt, but he’d never spoken the words aloud before, and to use them now… She wasn’t ready to hear them. They would disappear into emotional blackmail. “Your parents…” He couldn’t continue that, inflict even more pain. It didn’t need to be reiterated, anyway. “Even Trix.”