In that respect, The Velvet Room would be just as bad. It was beautifully written, but not exactly abundant with laughs.
It would, however, very likely sweep the National Theatre Awards and look bloody great on a CV.
Which, not so long ago, she’d have jotted down as item one on the priority list. Living up to the family legacy, reaching the highest salary bracket, winning countless Leading Actress awards, crossing over into film, meriting an incredibly long and detailed entry on Wikipedia—who wouldn’t want that?
Who wouldn’t find happiness in all of that?
She smooshed another chip into a greasy pillow between her finger and thumb.
“So, how was the show?” The question came from the next booth. The Prop & Cue was always packed to the rafters, as the closest pub to four of the major theatres, and the noise level was usually a continuous loud buzz, but every so often there was an unexpected lull. She could hear the man clearly, speaking in an attractive, melodious voice. “Where does tonight’s review fall on the scale of ‘could do better’ to ‘Jesus God, pass me the brain bleach’? Which poor sod’s career is in the crapper this time?”
“It’s unfortunate in some cases, but I’ve never trashed anyone’s career.”
Freddy raised her head. She knew that second voice. It was deep, with a distinctive curt resonance to it. She’d heard it just this week through her laptop speakers, while watching a Marlowe documentary on her afternoon off.
J. Ford-Griffin. Grumpiest TV presenter in the UK. And the witty wanker behind the scathing theatre reviews in the Westminster Post.
“If they can’t pick themselves up after one person’s criticism, they don’t deserve another person’s accolades.”
She could almost see him saying it, with the same expression he wore when discussing Elizabethan tragedy. The man looked like an assassin in a war film, and would be temperamentally suited to the part.
He probably even orgasmed with a frosty stare off into the middle distance.
Although it was unfair to judge by appearances. Behind the sub-zero remarks and laser eyes, he could be a total marshmallow. Maybe he went home every night, watched Titanic for the hundredth time, and wept sensitively into his pet kitten.
“Masquerade was a pile of tedious crap when it was committed to paper, it should never have made it as far as a stage, and it’s an embarrassment to Henrietta Carlton’s legacy that it’s still being produced. And of all the boring-as-fuck resurrections I’ve had to sit through, this was the worst.”
Across the table, Sabrina’s brows had snapped together. Freddy took a sip of her drink.
“Well, there’s the first few lines set to go. The column’s practically writing itself.” The other voice was tinged with humour. “I hope you have something nice to say, my friend. People will be starting to think you’re a right miserable bastard.”
A snort. “That was established by the time I was old enough to talk.”
Sabrina was still looking unaccountably irate. She was a protective sister, but she didn’t usually go from zero to homicidal at the first hint of professional criticism.
Thoughtfully, Freddy ran her fingertip through the rings of water on the table as the nicer man asked, “Who’s in it?”
“Adrian Blair, as usual blinding the audience with his veneers so they don’t notice the weaknesses in his performance. When the spotlight hits his teeth, it’s like looking directly into the sun.”
Freddy tried to keep quiet, but a tiny squeak made it out of her throat.
“Freddy Carlton.”
She’d been expecting it, but still jumped as those harsh tones spoke her name.
“I’ve interviewed her.” The other voice again. “She’s very...exuberant. Pretty. Lots of hair. Big arse. Not as striking as her sister, but much nicer.”
The night just kept getting better, didn’t it. And she’d just recognised that voice as well. Mystery solved as to why Sabrina had turned a curious shade of purple.
“She must be good,” Nick Davenport added. He was the host of the evening chat show The Davenport Report, and Sabs’s main professional rival. She was currently a presenter for Sunset Britain. Same time, different channel. No love lost. “She’s in everything, isn’t she?”
“She does give that impression.” The reply was so dry that she could imagine wisps of steam rising from ice. “It was a surprisingly variable performance from her tonight. She fumbled a line at one point, and for some reason decided to diverge out of maudlin sentiment into classic rock. Which, to be fair, was an improvement on the actual dialogue.”
Freddy glanced at Sabrina with a shade of irony.
“Even when she had her words straight, she was phoning it in. She’s losing her spark. Until a few years ago, she was still getting kiddie parts, and mostly took roles in musicals and drawing-room comedy. She danced and bounced her way from curtain to curtain, it was exhausting to watch, and audiences bloody loved her. Then she aged into adult characters, switched direction into pretentious bullshit like High Voltage, and obviously hated every moment of it. For some reason, she’s pursuing a determined line in the high-brow dramas, when she’d clearly rather be stamping about in puddles in Singin’ in the Rain.”
Carefully, Freddy set her glass on the table. She suddenly felt as if a hand had reached over and torn off her dress, leaving her sitting here naked and exposed. It was one thing for Akiko, who had known her most of her life and had always been incredibly intuitive, to see right through the real-life character she’d been playing for a long time now. It was very different to have that icy, impersonal voice slicing through all her shields and digging straight into the heart of her private thoughts and fears. Ford-Griffin had said plenty of unflattering things about her in print over the years, but she’d always been able to brush off a bad review. That was solely about her work on one distinct night, and it was often justified. Occasionally even helpful.
To her, that terse speech struck at the issue of who she was—who she’d thought she would be—as a person.
“Is that what you’re going to write in the review?” Nick asked.
“That would be the tactful way of putting it.”
“And the less tactful?”
“She’s an overexposed, chronically confused crowd-pleaser, who’s built a career riding on her family’s coattails. A twirl through her grandmother’s work was inevitable, and unfortunately this is probably a practice run. There’s a huge revival of The Velvet Room coming next winter, and regardless of suitability, the surname is promotional gold.” Drip, drip, went the tap of cynicism.
And realism.
“Half the world runs on nepotism,” Nick pointed out.
“Agreed. Wringing her connections dry shows common sense. Which is then smashed by the complete lack of critical judgment. She either has no idea of her own strengths, or is under someone’s thumb. I suspect both. You need grit to endure in this industry. If she has it, she’s doing an exceptional job of hiding it.”
Looking at Sabrina’s expression now, Ford-Griffin should be grateful there were no lethal weapons within reach of the booth. Akiko looked torn between indignation on Freddy’s behalf and alarm at the brewing thundercloud across from her.
A new group of people thankfully entered the pub then—judging by the glimpses of leotards under leggings and hoodies, it was the cast from The Festival of Masks—and the noise cranked up to the approximate level of monster-truck rally.
Freddy took a second to ensure that none of the turbulence in her mind leaked into her expression or words. “Put the claws away, kids. That was a short, sharp dose of painful accuracy. I have cashed in on the Carlton name and we all know it.”
And he’d made a direct hit with the rest of it.
“You’ve also worked your tail off. What a fucking twat.” Sabrina drummed her nails on the table and glowered over Freddy’s head.
“Who is he?” Akiko asked curiously.
“J. Ford-Griffin. The critic for the Westminster Post.” Freddy played with the rose in the glass on the table. She usually found flowers very soothing. Flowers and books: her happy places. “He’s the guy who presents all the arts programmes on TV. Expert in the history of theatre. You know. Short-haired Lucius Malfoy. Tall. Sarcastic. Ice-blond hair. Ice in general.”
Illumination dawned on Akiko’s face. She was an art history professor, she’d have seen him before; he produced multiple shows on all aspects of the arts. “Oh—yes, I met him when he was filming a documentary at the British Museum. He’s very...um...” Akiko always liked to pick out the best qualities in anyone she met. She was struggling. “Learned. I believe he has a PhD.”
“And a mind like a snake.” Sabrina made no attempt to speak quietly, so all gratitude to the boisterous dancers at the bar. “He was on the show once, and I had to interview him. Any question he didn’t feel like answering, he twisted to suit himself, and I ended up looking like I had no idea what I was talking about.” Sabrina looked peevish at the memory, although Freddy found it hard to imagine her sister ever feeling discomposed on camera. She’d never had a stupid professional stumble like Freddy had made tonight. “And,” Sabs finished ominously, “as we can see, he’s a mate of Nick Davenport’s.” She would probably use the same tone if she’d said, “And he likes to knock down old ladies in the supermarket.”
On the charge of being uncooperative in interviews, Freddy didn’t entirely blame Ford-Griffin. As much as she loved Sabrina and obviously supported her career—go team—she still had haunting memories of the one time she’d had to do a talk show interview. Incidentally, with Nick Davenport. Who was a right nosy bastard beneath the slick veneer. He’d tried to suggest she was the latest Other Woman in a co-star’s train wreck of a marriage. Not likely.
A spark of amusement returned as her sister visibly simmered. “I see inter-show relations are as cordial as ever.”
Sabrina said something that would send the curse-censors on her show haywire. “And see if I expend energy trying to coax a smile out of Malfoy next time they drag him on. Wanker.”
“The Westminster Post has always been a hard sell. His column is actually extremely entertaining.” When his remarks didn’t hit so close to home. “He strews the insults about with such panache.” Freddy wriggled out of the booth. “I’m going to get another round. Who wants?”
Akiko shook her head, but Sabrina held up her glass. “Another rum and coke, please.”
It took a full minute of elbow-ducking and handbag-dodging to manoeuvre her way to the bar, where the staff were flat-out and looking harassed. She was leaning forward and trying to read the new cocktail menu when the youngest bartender, a girl with artificially grey hair, made an unwise grab for a bottle of gin on a shelf high above her head. It slipped from her grasp as she lost her balance, and Freddy shot out her hand and grabbed it. She caught it inches before it could smash right in the face and expensive jacket of the man who’d come up beside her.
There was a moment of stillness, before she flipped the bottle upright and set it carefully on the counter.
Blinking, the bartender cast a quick look over at her shoulder at her boss. “Shit. Thanks. Ever think about trying out for wicket-keeper at Lord’s?”
“I’d be happy if I could just pull off that much dexterity on stage now and then. It would really—” Freddy turned to check on the target of the near miss, and tilted her head as she finished “—widen my skill set.”
Ford-Griffin, in all his towering, broad-shouldered, frosty glory, asked another bartender for two whisky-and-sodas before he looked back at her. His eyes were almost black, in stark contrast to the very pale hair, and his gaze moved coolly from the gin bottle to her face. “Nice catch. Thanks.”
“Not a problem.” Freddy gave her own order to the grey-haired bartender, then propped her elbow on the bar and studied him. She’d forgotten he had that nose. When he was doing his presenting work, the TV cameras didn’t usually film him in profile. She suspected he didn’t give a shit about his looks, but if impressions were deceptive and he spent a lot of time gazing into mirrors like his friend Davenport, he was probably grateful he had the strong jaw to balance it out. An unexpected little flutter in her stomach took her by surprise. An oxytocin hit from the walking ice cube. Interesting life choices, body. “Apparently I have an affinity with all sorts of small objects. Bottles. Safety scissors.”
His brain didn’t require even a second of internal whirring to catch on. A small glint appeared behind the emotionless observation. “If it helps, there’ll be no references to predictability in the next review.”
“Because I was completely rubbish tonight?”
“You weren’t completely rubbish.” Definite emphasis on that completely. He pulled the whisky-and-sodas towards him and waved his credit card over the sensor. “Comparatively, you made Adrian Blair look like he was performing in a school hall nativity.” He slipped the card back into his wallet and picked up the glasses. “With the exception of the meander into Springsteen.”
Freddy handed over a note for her own order and dropped the change into the tip jar. All the staff looked like they deserved a few drinks at the end of their shift. “I’ll look forward to reading the review.” She stuck a straw in her sangria. “Especially if you put in the part about Adrian’s teeth.”
He looked at her for a second and then over her head towards their respective booths. He lifted an eyebrow.
She cheers-ed him with Sabrina’s rum and coke. “Nice to meet the man behind the most entertaining reviews I’ve ever had.”
And the most discomfortingly perceptive.
Without looking back, she returned to her seat, where in the midst of Sabrina’s risqué anecdote and frequent hostile glances at the next booth, she tried to forget all about J. Ford-Griffin and his insidious commentary.
And his inkwell eyes.
Don’t miss
The Austen Playbook by Lucy Parker,
available April 2019 wherever
Carina Press ebooks are sold.
www.CarinaPress.com
Copyright © 2019 by Laura Elliott
Special thanks and acknowledgment are given to Stella Bagwell for her contribution to the Fortunes of Texas: The Lost Fortunes series.
ISBN-13: 9781488041891
Guarding His Fortune
Copyright © 2019 by Harlequin Books S.A.
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