by Lucy Parker
She blanched. Unless Will had taken...
In which case she was going to hit the stage and make short work of borrowing Richard’s sword, and Will was going to find himself minus two of his favourite accessories.
“Sit down, Elaine,” Bob said, his expression unreadable. Reluctantly, she obeyed the order—Bob didn’t do invitations—and chose the most uncomfortable chair in the room, as if in a pre-emptive admittance of guilt.
Get a grip.
“I’ll come right to the point.” Bob sat on the edge of the wide mahogany desk and gestured the other women to sit down with an impatient wiggle of his index finger. Reaching for the iPad on his blotter, he flipped it open and keyed in the password. “I presume you’ve seen this.”
He held the iPad in front of Lainie’s face and she blinked, trying to bring the screen into focus. She could feel the heavy pulse of her heartbeat, but dread dwindled into confusion when she saw the news item. London Celebrity had struck again, but she wasn’t the latest offering for the sacrificial pit after all.
It appeared that Richard had dined out last night. The fact that he’d entered into a shouting match with a notable chef and decided to launch a full-scale offensive on the tableware seemed about right. She took a closer look at the lead photograph. Of course his paparazzi shots were that flattering. No piggy-looking eyes and double chins for Richard Troy. He probably didn’t have a bad angle.
God, he was irritating.
She shrugged, and three sets of pursed lips tightened. “Well,” she said hastily, trying to recover her ground, “it’s unfortunate, but...”
“But Richard does this kind of shit all the time,” was probably not the answer they were looking for.
And what exactly did this have to do with her? Surely they weren’t expecting her to cough up for his damages bill. The spoon in baby Richard Troy’s mouth had been diamond-encrusted platinum. He was old family money, a millionaire multiple times over. He could pay for his own damn broken Meissen. If he had a propensity for throwing public temper tantrums and hurling objects about the room, his management team should have restricted him to eating at McDonald’s. There was only so much damage he could do with paper wrappers and plastic forks.
“It’s getting to be more than unfortunate,” Lynette said, in such an ominous tone that Lainie decided to keep her opinions to herself on that score.
Pat at last broke her simmering silence. “There have been eight separate incidents in this month alone.” Three strands of blond hair had come loose from her exquisitely arranged chignon. For most women, that would be a barely noticeable dishevelment. Lainie’s own hair tended to collapse with a resigned sigh the moment she turned away from the mirror. For Pat, three unpinned locks was a shocking state of disarray. “It’s only the second week of October.”
Lainie thought that even Richard should fear that particular tone of voice from this woman. She flinched on his behalf.
“Any publicity is good publicity. Isn’t that the idea?” She glanced warily from one mutinous face to the next. It was an identical expression, replicated thrice over. A sort of incredulous outrage, as if the whole class were being punished for the sins of one naughty child.
Apt, really. If one considered the personalities involved.
“To a point.” Bob’s nostrils flared. She couldn’t help noticing that a trim wouldn’t go astray there. “Which Troy has now exceeded.” He gave her a filthy look that suggested she was personally responsible for Richard’s behaviour. God forbid.
“Men in particular,” he went on, stating the loathsome truth, “are given a fair amount of leeway in the public eye. A certain reputation for devilry, a habit of thumbing one’s nose at the establishment, sowing one’s wild oats...” He paused, looking hard at her, and Lainie hoped that her facial expression read “listening.” As opposed to “nauseated.” He sounded like a 1950s summary of the ideal man’s man. Which had been despicably sexist sixty years ago and had not improved since.
“However,” Bob continued, and the word came down like a sledgehammer, “there is a line at which a likable bad boy becomes a nasty entitled bastard whom the public would rather see hung out to dry in the street than pay to watch prance about a stage in his bloomers. And when somebody starts abusing their fans, making an absolute arse of themselves in public places, and alienating the people who paid for their bloody Ferrari, they may consider that line crossed.”
Lainie wondered if an actual “Hallelujah” chorus had appeared in the doorway, or if it was just the sound of her own glee.
She still had no idea why she was the privileged audience to this character assassination, but she warmly appreciated it. Surely, though, they weren’t...
“Are you firing him?” Her voice squeaked as if she had uttered the most outrageous profanity. Voiced the great unspoken. The mere suggestion of firing Richard Troy was the theatrical equivalent of hollering “Voldemort!” in the halls of Hogwarts. He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Missed.
Still...
She wondered if it would be mean-spirited to cross her fingers.
Bob’s return look was disappointingly exasperated. “Of course we’re not firing him. It would cost an absolute bloody fortune to break his contract.”
“And I suggest you don’t attempt it.” Lynette sounded steely.
“Besides,” Bob said grudgingly, “nobody is denying that he’s a decent actor, when he confines his histrionics to the script.”
That was a typical Bob-ism. Pure understatement. Richard Troy had made the cover of Time magazine the previous year. The extravagantly handsome headshot had been accompanied by an article lauding him as a talent surpassing Olivier, and only two critics had been appalled.
“And if he conducted his outbursts with a bit of discretion,” Bob said, as if they were discussing a string of irregular liaisons, “then we wouldn’t be having this discussion. But Troy’s deplorable public image is beginning to affect ticket sales. The management is not pleased.”
Lainie couldn’t match his awe of a bunch of walking wallets in suits, but she echoed the general feeling of dismay. If the management weren’t pleased, Bob would make everyone else’s life an utter misery until their mood improved.
“I’m not sure what this has to do with me,” she said warily.
“If ticket sales are down, it’s everybody’s problem,” Lynette said pompously, and Pat looked at her impatiently.
“We need some good publicity for Richard.” She folded her arms and subjected Lainie to an intense scrutiny, which wavered into scepticism. “The general consensus is so overwhelmingly negative that he’s in danger of falling victim to a hate campaign in the press. People might flock to see a subject of scandal, but they won’t fork over hard-earned cash to watch someone they wholeheartedly despise. Not in this competitive market. At least not since it became socially unacceptable to heave rotten vegetables at the stage,” she added with a brief, taut smile.
Lainie allowed herself three seconds to fantasize about that.
“How badly have sales dropped?” she asked, wondering if she ought to be contacting her agent. She had a third audition lined up for a period drama that was due to begin shooting early next year, but if there was a chance the play might actually fold...
An internationally acclaimed West End production, brought down by Richard Troy’s foot-stamping sulks. Unbelievable.
“We’re down fourteen percent on last month,” Bob said, and she bit her lip. “We’re not going bust.” He sounded a bit put out at having to lessen his grievance. “It would take a pipe bomb as well as Richard’s presence onstage before there was any real threat of that. But we’ve had to paper the house four nights running this month, and we opened to a six-week waiting list. This play has another four months to run, and we want to end on a high. Not in a damp fizzle of insulted fans and critics.”
Lainie was silent for a moment. It was news
to her that management were giving out free tickets in order to fill empty seats. “Well, excuse the stupidity, but I’m still not sure what you expect me to do about it. Ask him nicely to be a good boy and pull up his socks? Three guesses as to the outcome.”
The tension zapped back into her spine when Bob and Pat exchanged a glance.
Pat seemed to be debating her approach. Eventually, she commented almost casually, “Ticket sales at the Palladium have gone up ten percent in the last three months.”
Lainie snorted. “I know. Since Jack Trenton lost his last remaining brain cell after rehab and hooked up with Sadie Foster.”
Or, as she was affectionately known in the world of musical theatre, the She-Devil of Soho. Lainie had known Sadie since they were in their late teens. They had been at drama school together. She had been short-listed against her for a role in a community theatre production of 42nd Street, and had found shards of broken glass in the toes of her tap shoes. Fortunately before she’d put them on.
She was so preoccupied with a short-lived trip down a murky memory lane that she missed the implication.
“Quite.” Pat’s left eyebrow rose behind the lens of her glasses. She was now leaning on the edge of Bob’s desk, her blunt, fuchsia-painted nails tapping a jaunty little medley on the surface. “And the only genuine buzz of excitement Richard has generated in the past month was when London Celebrity printed photos of the two of you attending the Bollinger party together.” She again stared at Lainie, as if she was examining her limb by limb in an attempt to discover her appeal, and was coming up short.
The penny had dropped. With the clattering, appalling clamour of an anvil.
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Act Like It by Lucy Parker.
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Copyright © 2015 by Lucy Parker
Author Note
This book contains a number of fictionalised elements, including but not limited to Highbrook Wells, Mallowren Manor, the Wythburn Group, the play and game version of The Austen Playbook, and The Velvet Room and all the trouble it caused.
Acknowledgments
As always, I’m so profoundly grateful for the constant support and encouragement I received while I was writing this book.
To my editor, Deborah Nemeth, my agent, Elaine Spencer, and the entire team at Carina Press—thank you so much for your expertise, professionalism, and kindness.
To the family and friends who talked me through the low points, let me talk through the plot tangles (special mention to my very patient mum!), and kept me going—I love you all so much and I couldn’t have done it without you.
To my community online, who inspire me every day and make me feel better about the world in general—all the hugs. You’re amazing.
And to Remus, the furriest member of our family—you made everything brighter and we’ll love you forever.
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Act Like It
Pretty Face
Making Up
Now available from Lucy Parker and Carina Press.
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ACT LIKE IT (London Celebrities, book one)
PRETTY FACE (London Celebrities, book two)
MAKING UP (London Celebrities, book three)
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ISBN-13: 9781488036255
The Austen Playbook
Copyright © 2019 by Laura Elliott
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All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.
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