by Lucy Parker
“You’re about three decades too old for that tone of voice,” Pat told him in deflating accents. “Zip it.”
Lainie hid a smile and encountered a dangerous flash of blue.
“Apologies,” Richard drawled. “Do tell why I’ve been summoned into the great presence.” He quirked a brow at Bob, and the stage manager glowered, his cheeks flushing an angry crimson. Richard looked directly at Lainie for the first time. “And why, if one might ask, is the scorned lover here also?”
It was clear he was not referring to her role in the play.
Pillock.
Lynette glanced from one to the other of them. “I’m not sure their acting skills are up to it,” she said frankly to Pat.
The other woman’s lips tightened in a thin line. “If you don’t keep a civil tongue in your head, Richard, you’re going to find yourself booked for joint interviews with Will every week for the next two months. Keep your mouth shut for five minutes and listen.”
The threat must be appalling. Richard obeyed.
Pat outlined their scheme far more succinctly than Bob had managed with Lainie, but by the time she had finished speaking, the look on Richard’s face registered somewhere between scorn and black amusement. He twisted in his chair to stare at Lainie.
She glared back. “I hope you don’t think this is my idea. I’ve seen what happens when you leave the house. I might as well paste on a few feathers, slap a target on my forehead and take a stroll during duck season.”
“And I hope you don’t think I want to be publicly associated with a woman who—presumably in a state of complete sobriety—took her clothes off for Will Farmer.”
Lainie’s fingers closed into fists in her lap.
“A hit, a very palpable hit,” Pat quoted under her breath. Then, louder: “And...back to your corners, ladies and gents. That’s quite enough of that, thank you.” She actually waved a finger at them. Lainie was beginning to think she had missed her calling as a primary school teacher. Or a prison guard. She imagined that much of the same skill set was required in either occupation.
“Richard...” Lynette began.
“Not a chance in hell,” came the blunt, chilly response.
Pat folded her arms and leaned back against Bob’s desk as she surveyed him. “I’m aware that you seem to take a perverse pleasure in rendering yourself as obnoxious as is humanly possible.”
A flicker passed over Richard’s face, and Pat went on relentlessly, “But I’m also given to understand that you’re aiming to take over the presidency of the RSPA in the December by-elections. And frankly,” she said, with the distinct air of a poker player producing an unexpected ace, “if you don’t make some small effort to improve your PR profile, ‘not a chance in hell’ would be an equal description of your shot at the chair.”
Richard sat in complete silence. His face was set in grim lines. He, in his turn, was the player who had rested in smug confidence on a hand of two pairs and now found it wasn’t enough to take the round.
Lainie eyed him with some curiosity. So, Richard had his sights set on the Royal Society of the Performing Arts. In her experience, the RSPA was the most stodgy, entitled and ineffectual of the national arts bureaucracies. They seemed to spend most of their time congratulating themselves on their existence, turning down grant applications and generally doing sod-all.
...Seems about right, then.
To her horror, Richard’s gaze on her was turning faintly—and very reluctantly—speculative.
“Forget it,” she said bluntly. “I endorse the first instinct. Not a chance in hell.”
“One month.” Bob was watching her as well, and his own eyes were calculating. “Keep up appearances for at least the next four weeks—”
“False appearances,” Lainie interrupted.
“And I’ll see that half the profits from two evening shows in November are donated to that kiddie cancer charity of yours. What’s it called? Shine a Light?”
“Shining Lights UK,” Lainie corrected automatically. She bit down hard on her lip.
Bugger.
West End ticket prices were daylight robbery. That was thousands and thousands of pounds.
In a last valiant attempt at defiance, she said rather nastily, “You’ve already told me takings are down and you’re having to paper the house.”
Bob pursed his lips and seemed to come to a decision that caused him actual physical pain. “Saturday nights,” he managed to get out. “Cling to Troy like a bloody limpet in public for the next month, and half the profits from the first two Saturday night performances in November go to the sick kids. It’ll look good on the books,” he added reprehensibly.
Lainie’s hand slipped into her pocket and closed tightly around her phone. She knew the photograph on her screen background down to the last freckle on her sister’s nose.
Hannah, my pet. You can still make me do the most insane things.
“All the profits,” she said, and Bob blanched.
There was a long, fraught pause, broken only by the faint sound of Richard’s nails tapping against the sole of his leather boot.
“All the profits,” Bob finally agreed, and he sounded strangled. He looked from her to Richard. “And you’d better be bloody convincing.”
Chapter Two
London Celebrity @LondonCelebrity. 35m
Hot new couple alert!
West Enders Richard Troy and Elaine Graham cuddle up at Pink Ribbon benefit...goo.gl/Ep2m03
It was the noise that was so overwhelming. More so even than the cluster of camera flashes, which left her temporarily reeling and blinded, circles of light pulsing in her vision. The chattering sound as the cameras got their shots, snapping one after another like rapid-fire machine guns. It seemed to run through the crowd of paparazzi in the rhythm of a Mexican wave, each click of a button echoed by its neighbour. And the competing human voices shouting demands—”Richard! To your left, Richard! Richard, to your right! Elaine! Over here, Elaine!”
Trying to bait or cajole or provoke with their commentary: “Looking gorgeous, Elaine! Who are you wearing, Elaine? Are you two dating? Richard, how long have you been together? How does Will Farmer feel about it? Did it start before the breakup?”
Hammering away at them. Rude. Relentless.
Usually, it was a minor barrage. Theatre actors tended to get only the surface interest from the paps, who congregated outside overexposed celebrity events. They ranked somewhere between minor reality stars and radio personalities on the saleable news scale. The increased harassment was one of the reasons she had thought twice about pursuing roles in television.
Thanks to her escort, she was getting her first taste tonight of what it meant to be prime real estate in the banner news headlines. And she was not enjoying it. Nor, she had to admit, was Richard, to judge by the grimness of his face as they pushed forward from the car. The valet whisked the Ferrari away, and he followed its progress as if he suspected an illicit joyride might take place. His fingers were iron-tight around hers, the skin of his hand surprisingly rough and calloused. She couldn’t imagine him doing manual labour. Or even the dishes. He growled a warning in the back of his throat when a heavily built photographer advanced close enough that she felt his moist breath against her ear.
Her feelings of empathy were limited. It was not lost on her that if Richard didn’t make the paps’ job so easy by losing his temper left, right and centre, they wouldn’t flock around him like starving seagulls.
With her free hand, Lainie held down her skirt against the brisk wind. She had read somewhere that the Duchess of Cambridge had weights sewn into the hems of her dresses, which seemed like sound common sense. The last thing Lainie needed was a wardrobe malfunction. She was wearing her lucky knickers with the hole over her left bum cheek. The evening ahead had seemed a miserable enough prospect without adding Spanx into the mix.
“Would you keep up?” Richard muttered in her direction, and she barely resisted the urge to pull a face in respons
e. There was something horribly provocative about the knowledge that one irresponsible gesture would set off a rippling wave of flashes, like blowing into a pool of water and causing a tidal wave. It perversely made her want to misbehave.
A teenage YouTube star arrived to pandemonium from young fans, which diverted most of the camera attention. Lainie let out a deep breath and released her skirt to catch her handbag before it dropped from her arm. It contained her phone, and her favourite sister-in-law had strict instructions to call with a fake emergency if prompted by text. She had promised to appear at the Pink Ribbon benefit with Richard; she had no intention of remaining by his side for the entire evening if he proved his usual intolerable self.
At least it was for a good cause, she thought gloomily, as Richard gave another impatient pull on her arm.
“Stop it,” she hissed, and then smiled at the bouncers as she handed over her pass. “You’re not hauling around a bag of golf clubs.”
Richard also produced his pass but dispensed with the smile. A muscle flexed in his jaw, but he said nothing until they were inside the hotel foyer. “I don’t carry my golf clubs,” he eventually remarked. “That’s what a caddy is for.”
First eye roll of the night.
The hub of voices in the room was almost as loud as the throngs of paparazzi outside, only here the shouted demands were replaced by shrieks of recognition and social giggles. Lainie was an adamant city girl, but for a second she thought wistfully of a quiet spot in the countryside, where the only noise came from birds and trickling water.
And probably wasps, heavy machinery, meatworks and cattle trucks, she acknowledged a moment later with a faint smile. The peaceful haven of her imagination had more in common with Lark Rise to Candleford than the twenty-first century. Occupational hazard: too much time spent amongst artificial sets, slight loss of grip on reality.
Richard handed her a cocktail glass from a waiter’s passing tray, and then ruined the polite gesture by frowning in the direction of her breasts and asking, “Did your stylist choose that?”
She took a very large gulp of fruit-laced vodka. “I don’t have a stylist,” she said grimly, resisting the urge to make self-conscious tugs and adjustments to her dress. Which was fine. It was a perfectly simple LBD with a classy amount of cleavage.
Richard sipped gingerly from his own glass, looking into it as if he suspected lacings of cyanide. He must have been quite good in Hamlet, she noted absently.
“Have you considered hiring one?” he asked, in tones of friendly interest.
Thousands. Thousands of pounds for Shining Lights.
She put a mental heel on her growing irritation and ground it into the very fancy parquet floor.
She tried not to imagine Richard’s face was under there also.
“Darlings!” Greta French arrived in a wash of air kisses and perfume. The chat show matriarch was the only three-dimensional human Lainie had ever met who actually addressed people she had neither slept with nor conceived as “darling.”
Greta beamed at them. Her nose was all but twitching as she scented material for her five-past-two gossip slot. Lainie felt Richard’s biceps shifting against her shoulder. She told herself it was an impatient fidget. He probably wouldn’t clock the woman. However tempting it might be.
“I had no idea,” Greta went on, looking from one to the other of them. “Elaine, you sly thing. You didn’t utter a peep when we had our little chat about Will last week.” Her voice was hushed and confidential. An eavesdropper—and there were at least four in Lainie’s direct line of sight—could be forgiven for thinking that she made a habit of phoning Auntie Greta in tears after every romantic disaster.
The “little chat” in question had consisted of Greta ambushing her in the yoghurt section of Waitrose and making snide digs about Will’s obvious preference for silicone.
Richard smiled back at Greta. It was a completely manufactured, calculated movement that had nothing whatsoever to do with genuine feeling. That didn’t lessen the impact. Eyes became more blue, interesting lines and dimples appeared around firm lips, and a face that could be overly severe in repose became almost mythically handsome. Even Lainie’s heart gave an extra thump in response, and she still wanted to upend her cocktail over his smug, shapely head.
“No idea about what?” Richard asked, his words blandly curious. He took another sip from his own glass and managed to skip the aftertaste blench this time. It was a fairly horrible drink.
Greta looked slightly discomposed. She blinked under the dual threat of the smile and the purring lack of response. “Well...” she said, tearing her eyes from Richard’s mouth with some difficulty. Her gaze kept drifting back like a fly unable to pull its feet from sticky spider webbing. She looked meaningfully at Lainie. “I couldn’t help noticing you come in,” she said, with a revolting comradely nudge. “Holding hands.”
The undertone of “Scandal!” was so heavy that one would think Lainie had walked into the room with her hand thrust down Richard’s pants.
“Oh, you know me, Greta.” Richard was still smiling. “Always a gentleman.” He ignored Lainie’s muffled cough and patted her on the shoulder. “She was a bit unsteady on her feet. Light-headedness is fairly common with that particular strain of the virus, I believe. I assume you’ve had your vaccination?” he added with concern. “It’s running rampant in the theatre at the moment.”
Greta tried an uncertain smile, obviously prepared to humour the joke, but at Richard’s persistent look of bland enquiry, she grew restless. With a wary glance at Lainie, perhaps checking for a flush of fever or sprouting pox, she developed an intense need to greet another acquaintance.
Lainie watched her departing back. “I’m speechless,” she said. “I am without speech.”
“If I thought that was remotely true, I would feel considerably more optimistic about my evening.” Richard glanced at his watch. “Christ, we’ve only been here for five minutes. It’s like being stuck in the TARDIS. Time has lost all meaning.”
He turned away to ditch his cocktail glass, thus missing Lainie’s gobsmacked expression. A Doctor Who reference from her second-least-favourite person? Wonders never ceased. How potent were these drinks?
She followed his example and got rid of hers on a side table, watching Richard from between lowered lashes. She could not, for the life of her, imagine him going home after a performance and crashing in front of the TV. She actually couldn’t imagine him existing in a room by himself. It was if he flashed into being inside the doors of the theatre and disappeared again when he left. With occasional sightings of the poltergeist reported on Twitter when he threw plates at people’s heads.
“So, is it solely my presence that offends,” she asked when he returned with obvious reluctance to her side, “or do you just despise people in general?”
He seemed about to resort to sarcasm, but changed his mind and considered her question. A faint frown appeared between his arching black eyebrows. “I do find the majority of people somewhat lacking in intelligence,” he admitted. Eye roll number two. “But they’re more tolerable in isolated groups. En masse, with the addition of alcohol, these occasions tend to be a social experiment in pushing the absolute boundaries of insipidity and vanity.” He looked around the filling room with disdain. “Three-quarters of these people are a walking waste of oxygen. And that’s a conservative estimate.”
“Well, it’s nice to see that success hasn’t gone to your head.” Lainie gave him an exasperated look. “If you hate people and parties so much, why do you bother coming? You could go home and get to bed at a reasonably decent hour. I bet you’re a chronic insomniac,” she said thoughtfully. “It might explain part of the grouchiness. And the dark rings.”
He instinctively touched under his eye with the pad of his thumb, and then looked furious with himself for the gesture. He glared at her. “My success has not gone to my head.” He ignored the rest of her insults in favour of the first observation, which seemed to truly offend
him. “My personality has not once altered under outside influence.”
“Then I’m genuinely appalled, and your childhood nannies have my intense sympathy. You’ve got a bit of a nerve, don’t you think, accusing other people of vanity? You make Mr. Darcy look like the poster child for low self-esteem.”
“There is a difference between vanity and having a clear idea of your own abilities and potential.”
She grimaced, lifting her hands to her cheeks. “Oh my God. I have never had such a sisterly feeling for Elizabeth Bennet.” She looked at him with both brows raised. “Please tell me that you were misquoted in Time when you referred to theatre as the only true forum for the craft. And that you did not call screen actors ‘fame-mongering puppets with as much understanding of the complexities of drama as Kim Kardashian has of nuclear physics.’”
“The journalist exaggerated, as usual. Although my opinion of the comparative status of theatre against film and television is fairly well-known, I believe,” Richard said, a bit stiffly.
“Yet you obviously watch TV.” She was suddenly feeling defensive about her miniseries ambitions, and was correspondingly cross with herself. Who bloody cared about Richard Troy’s out-of-date elitism? “And I’m frankly amazed that you even know who Kim Kardashian is.”
“I’m not denying the entertainment value of screen productions, nor the importance of their documentary and educational role. But I maintain that the roots and truest expression of drama is in live theatre. With the odd exception, most of the programmes produced for British television are absolute rubbish. And I was once unfortunate enough to share an interview slot with Kim Kardashian.” After a moment, he said grimly, “Don’t even get me started on reality TV.”
She possibly agreed with him on that score. Still—
“You’re going to be perfectly suited for the RSPA,” she said, and it was not intended as a compliment.
“Yes, I am,” he agreed coolly. He looked behind her. “Speaking of which...”