by Lucy Parker
“Fantastic,” Tara said. “If we could have Will, Lainie and Richard over here, and Sadie and Jack on the opposite couch, please.”
Lainie glanced at Richard as they reluctantly followed the directive. The moment her bottom hit the cushions and she saw the blinking red light of a camera, nerves struck. She really, really did not enjoy interviews. Richard’s sarcastic comment about Will’s inability to communicate off-script hit a little close to home.
Richard returned her a wry look, and then looked again, his blue eyes narrowing on her face.
She was physically trembling, literally vibrating with tension. This never happened onstage.
The surprise she’d felt at his earlier, almost friendly remark was nothing to her astonishment when he casually reached out and took her hand in his. His fingers felt strong and rough as he linked them through hers, pulling her wrist over to rest against his thigh.
She let out a slow breath through her mouth.
“All right?” he asked evenly, and she nodded. She wrapped her thumb across his. Sitting up straighter, she ignored a poisonous look from Will. Her nerves had gone from a rolling boil to a slow simmer. For all his many and varied defects, there was something very reassuring about having Richard at her side, when he was on her side. He was unflappable in these situations.
Mostly because he didn’t care, but still.
The director cued them in, the cameras moved into position, and Sadie went from zero to sixty: sulky diva to big eyes and innocent dimples.
“I’m delighted to have with me this morning five of the brightest young stars in the West End firmament,” Tara said. “From the Metronome, Richard Troy, Elaine Graham and Will Farmer, and from the Palladium, Sadie Foster and Jack Trenton. Welcome, all! Thank you for being here today.”
“Thank you for having us.” Sadie offered the obligatory response.
“I’m doubly appreciative because I know free time is a scarcity when you’re in the middle of a performance run. When we announced you would be stopping by the studio this morning, we had a lot of interest on Twitter about what it’s like to work on the West End. Can you tell us a bit about that, what it’s like behind-the-scenes? What does the average day look like for a principal player?”
Sadie and Will fielded that one, jumping in with a pack of PR-friendly lies that made the theatres sound like something out of an Enid Blyton book. All jolly midnight feasts and togetherness. As opposed to a hard, professional grind and a social atmosphere that could be like navigating a snake pit. If one of them came out with a smarmy “There’s no ‘I’ in team,” she was pulling a Richard and walking out.
The questions continued, with the PR puppets continuing to supply most of the answers. Sadie had a habit of inserting little side remarks even when Tara directly addressed someone else, so as to keep herself in the shot. Lainie kept a smile on her face and wished she were back at work. At the actual Metronome, not the sunshine-and-rainbows My Little Pony version Will was spinning.
For the first five minutes, Tara kept the interview focused on the performances. It was obviously polite opening filler, since anyone actually interested in the plots of the plays could look them up in five seconds on Wikipedia. Lainie waited, cynically and on edge, for the inevitable.
They came back from another ad break, and Tara’s smile turned syrupy.
Here we go.
“I imagine things can become fairly intimate,” Tara said, her eyes moving meaningfully between the two couches, “when you’re working so closely together. And little birds have been Tweeting that there’re a few love stories happening off-script, so to speak.”
“Have they?” Sadie couldn’t have looked more coy if she’d put a finger to pursed lips and gazed wordlessly into the distance. She reached out and placed a gentle hand on Jack’s knee. “I try not to look at social media too much.”
Richard raised his eyes to the ceiling, and Lainie bit back a smile. Stress was bubbling at the base of her throat, and it really wanted to emerge as a nervous giggle.
“You don’t find it raises an issue, having relationships in what is, after all, your workplace?” Tara’s voice was a little sharper behind the sugary gloss. Lainie would have been interested to know what she was like behind closed doors, or in the opinions of the studio interns.
“As you said, it’s a workplace. We’re professionals, and we don’t bring our personal lives into the job.” Sadie crossed her long legs and leaned back, smiling at Jack. He looked uncomfortable. Maybe he wasn’t sure how to act when Sadie wasn’t actually plastered to his face. “I think it’s fairly natural that actors fall in love. You spend so many hours together, and you have something fundamental in common, which is always a strong beginning.” She shrugged and smiled. Lainie was going to have to revise her opinion of Sadie’s acting skills, because she was almost likable in this persona. “Add in a strong dose of chemistry, and, well...”
“And I suppose it doesn’t hurt when you’re acting out love scenes every night,” Tara said, with a knowing smirk.
Sadie laughed. “It’s only acting, of course, but—well, let’s just say it can be more fun with certain people.”
“But potentially risky, I would think, if you hit a bump in the road offstage and have to maintain a consistent performance?” Tara looked directly at Lainie and Will, but again it was Sadie who piped up.
“I imagine it could be a challenge, but I think anyone serious about their career would be able to put the job first. I can’t speak from experience, though.” She stroked a circle on Jack’s leg with her fingertips. “This is new territory for me. Meeting Jack was an...extraordinary experience for me. I can’t imagine making a habit of dating my costars.” Demurely, she looked up between her lashes. Straight at Lainie.
Zing.
Lainie could imagine the pings as the #WMULondon Tweets picked up their momentum.
Tara’s smile was more genuine now. She must have visions of high ratings dancing in her head. Pushing back her hair, she turned to the Metronome couch. “At the risk of being shockingly tactless,” she said hopefully, “I understand things might have been a little...challenging at the Metronome recently, from a personal perspective.”
“In what way?” Richard asked politely.
Tara’s pause lasted only a fraction of a second, but she definitely hesitated. Straightening her back, she smiled again, narrowly. “Your recent breakup, Elaine and Will, was fairly well publicised. You’ve clearly managed to carry on in a professional capacity, but it can’t have been easy. Especially when things have taken a...shall we say, unexpected new direction?” Her gaze went pointedly to Lainie’s and Richard’s entwined hands, and then returned to Lainie’s face. “There’s been a lot of speculation about your new relationship, Elaine, particularly when it’s—well, fishing in the same pond, to put it bluntly. How are you dealing with that? And you, Will? It must be difficult for you.”
Although the amazing Ethel and her magically disappearing knickers must soften the blow.
Will’s fatuous expression was meant to be sensitive and long-suffering. She recognised it from his regular attempts at emotional blackmail when things hadn’t been going his way. “Breakups are never easy,” he said, lifting one broad shoulder. “But Lainie and I are still very good friends.”
That trite cliché that covered up all manner of hurt feelings and homicidal impulses.
“No truth to the rumours of friction between you and Richard, then?” Tara pushed.
Richard shifted lazily at Lainie’s side, and Will flushed. “As Sadie said,” he replied after a moment, “we’re all professionals.”
Tara made a sympathetic little grimace at the camera, in lieu of just inserting the subtitle Heartless Tart under Lainie’s close-up.
“It seems quite...fast, though,” she said to Lainie, really picking up a stick and beating that dead horse into the ground. “When did you first realise that your feelings for Richard went beyond those of a colleague?”
(A) When we sp
oke directly to one another for the first time, and I almost shanked him, and (B) Mind your own fucking business.
Lainie could feel the heat in her own cheeks. She was not going to be made out to be the cheater here. Whatever she said in response would likely have been cross, blunt and definitely not Pat-sanctioned, but before she had a chance to land herself in hot water, Richard spoke up in a slow drawl.
* * *
“The last time I checked,” Richard said, keeping his tone very light, “Lainie was a grown woman, capable of making her own decisions.”
His eyes were fixed coolly on the vapid blonde host. Thwarted ambition, he suspected. She had Hollywood signs in her pupils and was obviously straining at the bit in this second-rate studio. If she had the slightest bit of self-awareness, she would realise that attempting to slut-shame another woman on live television was not going to win her any popularity points. He shrugged off the additional, more unfamiliar level of anger. If he did feel...protective toward Lainie, it was all part and parcel of the role they were playing. “I don’t really think she needs to apologise for a private relationship between two unattached, consenting adults, do you?”
The host, whose name he’d temporarily forgotten, was taken by surprise. Perhaps she was unfamiliar with the reciprocal aspect of an interview, where her guests actually responded to her classless questions with more than Farmer’s brand of arse-kissing.
“Do you have a partner?” he asked conversationally, and she blinked.
“Well, I—yes,” she said, further startled and not recovering well.
“But naturally it’s your first and only relationship. You haven’t dated other people in the past. None.” He maintained eye contact. “I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt. I wouldn’t like to be irresponsible and just throw around implications of hypocrisy.”
The suspiciously taut skin around the blonde’s eyes quivered and attempted to crease. Lainie’s warm fingers momentarily convulsed around his hand.
After a long pause, in which he heard a stifled giggle from someone in the crew, the host pressed her lips together and switched her line of attack. He could almost hear the cranking sounds as the catapult turned in his direction.
“As opposed to throwing plates?” she asked with pseudo-sweetness. She was scrambling to regain control. “Or public temper tantrums? The Metronome has been hitting the headline recently with rumours of internal conflict and diva behaviour. Would you care to address that?”
He lifted a brow. “Which aspect in particular? Or should I begin with the plate-tossing and work my way forward?”
The blonde opened her mouth, but Lainie cut in. “Unfortunately,” she said, “it’s all true.” She turned to look at him, and he watched the mischievous twinkle come into her eyes. His gaze moved briefly to her mouth, which was lifting into a cheeky smile. “I am a world-class diva. If I miss a cue or forget my lines, I just take it out on the props. Start chucking plates around the stage. Vases. Goblets. If I’m really frustrated, I’ll drop-kick the silverware into the stalls.” She winked at their visibly hostile host. “It’s an extra ten points if you land a silver spoon in the royal box.”
Trenton laughed suddenly, and Sadie directed a malevolent stare at the poor bastard.
With an audible intake of breath and a tighter smile, the host tried again. “You’ve gained something of a reputation lately, Richard, for being difficult to work with. There have been reports in the press as to breaches of contract, and details have emerged of a rather nasty email exchange between yourself and the Department for Culture, Media and Sport.”
“Which is a shocking reflection on the state of journalistic ethics in this city. Hacking into government emails.” Lainie shook her head with dismay. Letting go of Richard’s hand, she crossed her legs and leaned forward, clasping her fingers around her raised knee. “What do you think about that?” she asked, with avid, wide-eyed interest. She seemed completely at ease now, after her initial bout of nerves, and ready to have a good natter over a cup of tea.
Even Farmer was starting to look reluctantly amused.
The harassed blonde looked like she needed a large glass of wine.
Richard leaned back and let Lainie have at it. He really had underestimated her.
The interview wound up with a rapidity that surprised no one. As they were ushered off the set, the forgettably named host eyed Lainie’s rear. Probably weighing up the potential cost to her career against the satisfaction of soundly kicking it. Still grinning, Richard moved smoothly between the two women, just in case impulse won out over sanity.
An intern swept them back to the greenroom, where they’d left their belongings.
“Well...thanks,” the teenager said, biting her pierced lip. “That was...great.”
“By ‘great’,” Trenton said thoughtfully, when she’d departed in a hurry, “do you think she means ‘total fucking disaster’?” He grinned and picked up Lainie’s wool coat to help her shrug into it. The uncharacteristically chivalrous gesture annoyed everyone in the room except those immediately involved. Richard bit back a sarcastic comment when he saw Farmer and Sadie scowl. He had no desire to share even a fleeting sentiment with that company.
“For Tara Whitlow’s ego, I mean,” Trenton went on, happily oblivious to his simmering girlfriend. “I personally enjoyed the hell out of it.”
“Well, I did not.” Sadie grabbed Lainie’s arm. “If you’re that ignorant about how to behave in public,” said the woman who’d caused widespread nausea by cleaning Trenton’s eardrum with her tongue, “your management team shouldn’t let you off the leash. It’s our reputations that’ll take the hit from your lack of control.”
To the probable disappointment of all three men, Lainie failed to live up to the clichéd promise of her red hair and merely rolled her eyes in response.
“She’s probably right, though,” she admitted to him privately as they made their way down to the lobby, out of earshot of the others. “That may not be what Pat had in mind when she suggested we present a contrast to Jack and Sadie. I don’t want to sound paranoid, but at times I got the feeling Ms. Whitlow didn’t like us much.”
Her phone trilled, and she dug through her bag. “Ten quid says it’s Pat?”
“No bet.” He held the door to the street open for her. “Watch the step, Tig.”
The nickname slipped out again. He enjoyed the cranky looks it generated. He hadn’t called anyone by a ridiculous nickname since his schooldays, when he’d shared a dormitory with One-Can Murphy and Mouse Philps. His own Eton nickname had been firmly consigned to the history books, never to be spoken again. Suffice to say that he’d paid dearly for the sports day folly of keeping his spare tennis balls in his pockets while wearing overly tight trousers. The entire upper school had thought he’d been a little too excited about winning the house cup. The recent coining of Byron by some moron on Facebook might otherwise have grated, but seemed trivial by comparison.
It was raining again, so they paused under the awning while she opened the text. Silently, she held it up for him to see.
To clear up any confusion on the issue, the point of this unholy alliance is to elevate Richard’s reputation. Not for you to become mutually irritating.
Another beep. He could feel her breath warm against his ear as they read it together.
Fortunately, Tara Whitlow is a renowned twit. Behave like that at the Theatre Awards, and you’re fired. Ditto Troy.
“She must be in a good mood,” Lainie said, but she looked uneasy. She was an innate do-gooder. When the buzz wore off, she would end up mentally rehashing the interview countless times, probably wondering what on earth she’d been thinking.
Richard was slightly curious himself on that point. It had been a very long time since anyone had publicly leapt to his defence, and no one had ever done it with such an air of protectiveness.
Absently, he rubbed the heel of his hand against his chest. The troubled expression in her eyes was making him restless. “Talk abou
t preferential treatment,” he said, with a lightness that didn’t reflect his mood. “The last time I did an interview, Pat texted me a link to a site on medieval torture methods. I should talk to the union.”
He watched her. The air between them felt charged, as if he was attuned to her thoughts and reactions.
Oh, bullshit. He must be more tired than he’d thought.
Lainie smiled suddenly, and his heart actually thumped. He gritted his teeth and a muscle jumped in his jaw. He wanted to turn on his heel and walk away, like a fucking coward, and the impulse struck fiercely at his pride.
“As you called the union president an incompetent prick during your last interview, that might be counterintuitive.”
A few years ago, he had participated in a black-and-white short film for the Royal Shakespeare Company. He’d had to communicate the passage of Lear’s descent into madness solely through the alteration of his facial features. He had found that less difficult than it was to keep his expression bland now.
“The current president has a brain,” he said shortly.
Unfazed by his sharp tone, Lainie gave him a distracted smile and began to text a reply to Pat. He was even more unsettled by the blasé response.
He checked his watch. They had to be at the theatre for a rehearsal at twelve. It was way too early to arrive yet. He didn’t care. “I’ll drive you to the theatre,” he said abruptly, and Lainie also checked the time on her phone.
Casting him a slightly curious look, she hesitated, and then shrugged. “All right. I do need to talk to Olivia about my second costume change.”