by Lucy Parker
She tore off the sheet and held it out to him. “I couldn’t help overhearing that you’re having tile problems. This is the importer my father uses for his businesses. They’re top quality and reliable. Might be worth a call.”
He didn’t think his expression had changed, but he must have given her a look she’d seen before when her father came up in conversation, because she narrowed her eyes. “It’s completely legit.”
Yeah, well, he had been wondering. Jack Lamprey’s profit margins were in the upper strata of wealth, and not many straight and narrow paths led there.
He glanced down at her scrawled handwriting. “Thanks.”
She passed David on her way out the door. His stage manager smiled politely into her face, and then turned around to blatantly watch the rear view. The sudden annoyance that rose in Luc’s chest reminded him he had to deal with Mitchell before he went home. He was running a company full of sexist fuckwits. Himself included, apparently.
“Don’t drool on the cast,” he said when the other man reached him. “It’s not a good look.”
David looked at him. “We’re caving into Hudson Warner’s blackmail, then, are we? Marilyn’s on board?”
“Don’t—” He stopped and blew out a heavy breath.
What, it pisses you off that you were a prick about her because it turns out she possesses multiple brain cells and might make you a lot of money? Otherwise, it’s open season and totally fine for the Boys’ Club to make dick remarks about pretty blondes?
Stress, sleep deprivation, a few more missing tiles, and he ended up with Amelia’s voice in his head, offering irritating home truths.
“I don’t give a fuck about Warner. The audition went a lot better than I expected. We’d definitely need to bring in Jocasta—” or rather, they’d have to go to Jocasta in Oxford, because the speech therapist didn’t leave home for a client sight-unseen and voice-unheard “—but I’m leaning towards Lamprey over Clarke.”
They reviewed the footage in his office, David watching with folded arms and rampant scepticism. Several times, they stopped the recording, backtracked, commented.
“You’re right,” David said at last. “In the connection she’s made to the material, she’s far and away the best. I’m worried that she won’t be able to hold up vocally for the long haul, though. There are very good actors who just aren’t suited for theatre.”
“Agreed. Maybe not the case here.”
David studied the screen, where Lily was frozen midway through the monologue. There was a look of such agonised decision on her face, knowledge tinged with regret, the princess caught between two opposing forces.
“Maybe not,” he conceded. “But it’s a hell of a backfire if you’re wrong.”
*
Luc kicked a chastened marketing assistant out of his office at three minutes past five, and then phoned Jack Lamprey’s tile importer to request samples.
Maria, his head of PR, stopped him on his way out the front doors at seven. She had an iPad in her hand and her lips were compressed.
He rolled his eyes and held out his hand for the device. Through the glass doors, a camera flashed as their fingers touched. Maria had probably just propelled herself into his bed, in the mind of anyone who believed the gossip blogs. His stock had gone up with the paparazzi since the breakup. They were rabidly looking for Margo’s ex’s rebound fling, and, according to one particular tabloid, anyone he’d bullied into a nervous breakdown. “Let me guess. Zach Byrne at London Celebrity. What crock of shite has he printed now?”
“He’s got hold of Damian Cost, who claims he had to work fourteen-hour days and crawled from his deathbed with campylobacter because you wouldn’t let him take the day off. And that he’s still owed money.” Maria looked disgusted. She’d had to run around after Cost with a metaphorical tin of whitewash when they’d all worked together on The Velvet Room, trying to cover his meth-fuelled mistakes and outbursts before they leaked to the press.
“He’s still owed something.” Luc flicked through the article and found about two statements that were halfway factual.
“Byrne’s also suggesting that you have violent tendencies and got into a physical altercation with Richard Troy at the Theatre Awards.”
“I do have violent tendencies when it comes to Richard Troy. I had a long-running fantasy of folding him into human origami and launching him into the stalls. But it would have stuffed my no-claims bonus on the cast insurance.”
“Besides which,” Maria said, “Richard was at the Awards for about forty-five seconds this year. He waited until Lainie got her award, went all smug-husband and then hustled her out of the building before his own category was called. The creepy, invasive West Enders blog says they had sex in a limo.”
He might have to try Amelia’s doubtful method of brain-cleansing and run a Google search on cats. “Thanks for that. The day really wasn’t bad enough.”
“This is getting a little out of control. We could take it to court.”
Even more expense and unwelcome publicity. He had no desire to participate in Byrne’s one-sided feud. He’d tried to mend fences with the Byrne family in the past; it had achieved nothing. “So far, most of the vitriol is coming from one source only, it’s over the top, circumstantial, and interest will die down once people get over the situation with Margo or remember they have lives of their own. Whichever comes first.”
“What’s with the personal vendetta? Did you steal Zach Byrne’s Tonka truck when you were kids or something?”
“Zach Byrne is sixty-five years old, so thank you for that.” Luc handed back the tablet. “A very long time ago, Byrne’s father made the extremely ill-advised decision to go into business with my grandfather. He lost everything, Byrne grew up in poverty, and he’s now got a forum to express his feelings about that.”
Maria frowned. “Well, it’s hardly your fault. Your grandfather’s been dead for—”
“Years. Correct. My father tried to make financial compensation when he could; so did I. Byrne adamantly refused our ‘blood’ money, which apparently we’ve inherited from a rotting heap of corruption.”
They’d actually inherited nothing from Johnny except the falling-down theatre, a problem Luc’s father had happily passed into Luc’s hands. The money he’d put into it, he’d earned himself. And despite what was written in Byrne’s editorials, he’d done it without fiddling his taxes, taking food from babies’ mouths, or conning vulnerable pensioners.
“I see. That would be why—”
“—my name has appeared in London Celebrity at least twice a day since he took over as editor, with allusions to dodgy business practice and multiple fascist dictators? Yes.” Luc shook his head. “Just keep an eye on it for now. If Byrne’s named sources are limited to Damian Cost, who burps gin fumes and sits at a forty-five-degree tilt during interviews, I’m not overly concerned at this point. If it gets out of hand, we’ll intercede.”
“You’re the boss.”
“That would explain why my name is on all the bills.”
It was pitch-black outside when he drove to his parents’ place in Shepherd’s Bush via Harrods, which was lit up like a cruise ship in port, the rectangular dimensions outlined in bulbs like an architectural sketch. Manic Christmas shoppers were out in force. He picked up flowers and the Egyptian chocolates his mother liked, and walked five blocks back to where he’d found a lucky park.
He was freezing and exhausted by the time he let himself into their house and followed the sounds of anguished groans and enthusiastic shouts to the living room.
“Where’s the ref?” his mother asked indignantly as he opened the door. She was curled up in an armchair with her bare feet tucked beneath her, much the way Lily Lamprey had sat during her audition.
He looked at the TV. “I didn’t realise The Great British Bake-Off was a contact sport. Happy anniversary. Why did I think you were married in September?”
“He spat out a perfectly good scone,” Célie said indignantly,
her French accent still strong after almost fifty years of living in London. Her voice, both speaking and singing, had barely altered since she’d first made her name in opera. He couldn’t help appreciating the dulcet tones more than usual. “We did get married in September. The fourth.” She smiled at her husband. Cameron Savage was sprawled full-length on the couch, looking amused. “It’s forty-seven years today since your papa said he loved me.”
“I see.”
“Also since we first made love.”
He paused in the act of handing over the gifts.
His older brother grinned at him from the most comfortable armchair. Alex indicated the coffee table, where an orchid sat in a gift-wrapped pot. “Welcome to the club of feeling like a complete pervert for bringing celebratory flowers.”
No kidding.
Luc surveyed Alex. “You look better.” The last time he’d seen his brother, Alex’s divorce had just been finalised. There had been a lot of bitterness and ridiculous hunger-striking.
Alex had been the only person surprised by the failure of his brief marriage. Even the woman who’d baked the wedding cake had seen that estrangement on the horizon. Luc’s ex-sister-in-law was a nice enough girl. She was intelligent and ambitious. She was also nineteen. His brother was forty-six and a moron. A considerably out-of-pocket, depressed moron.
“Yeah, well.” Alex looked distinctly shifty. He should probably start putting more cash aside for spousal support. Luc could hear the distant sound of inappropriate wedding bells, take two. “I sort of met someone.”
“That’s great.” Luc took the free armchair and stretched out his legs. “How old is she?”
“Fuck off,” Alex returned without rancour. “She’s thirty-two.”
Well, it was an improvement. By the time he was hobbling around a retirement village, his brother might actually hook up with someone his own age.
“Don’t curse,” said their mother severely, the woman who had been known to out-swear case-hardened sailors in an Irish pub. She had a chocolate wedged into one cheek like a squirrel and was admiring the flowers. “What beautiful lilies. You usually buy me roses.”
“How’s the casting going?” his father asked. He had so far managed to restrain himself from interfering in the theatre renovations, but Luc suspected the grace period would soon be over.
“We’re getting there.”
“Are you still taking everyone to Aston Park this weekend?”
Both Elizabeth I and Mary I had stayed at Aston Park when it had been a private home, so it seemed like a thematic choice for the meet-and-greet, and the hotel owners were fairly hospitable.
“Unless the forecast is right and Shropshire gets a massive dumping of snow.”
No way in hell was he risking getting snowbound with Bridget. How to lose every shred of sanity in one easy step.
Célie changed the channel during the ad break and landed on a chat show. A very familiar blonde was seated on a couch, fending off the determined prying of the comedian host. The man seemed to be incapable of pursuing a line of conversation without resorting to eyebrow aerobics and desperate humour. The show had obviously been pre-recorded, since Lily’s hair was longer on the screen. Today, it had been a silky, shoulder-length tangle.
“So you don’t believe in love?” the host asked, and managed to turn a completely vapid question into something offensive.
“I don’t believe that you’re somehow completed by romantic love. You aren’t born half a person, doomed to drift through life unfulfilled until you find someone who can validate you. You’re a whole person with a whole life, that you might choose to share with another person. Or you might not. Your body and mind is your own. Your happiness is your responsibility and your right.” A strange, fleeting expression touched her face.
“Hear, hear,” Célie said, and ate another chocolate. “Fucking men. It always has to be about them in some way, doesn’t it?”
Cameron raised his wineglass to her. “Happy love anniversary to you too, darling.” He looked at Luc. “You were saying? About casting?”
Luc nodded at the screen, where the host was trying—and failing—to worm a controversial sound bite out of Lily about her soap character’s sex life.
“Our Elizabeth I.”
Chapter Three
A car was coming for Lily in ten minutes and she was cutting it fine with her packing. For the past couple of days, since the casting director at Savage Productions had called her agent with an official offer, she’d been existing in a surreal bubble. She kept bouncing back and forth between elation and terror. With a fair whack of incredulity. After Savage’s charming critique and her own disrespectful fuck-up, she’d assumed he would chuck her headshots in the bin.
“I say this as someone who would probably rescue her books first if the flat burnt down and then come back for you, but you may not need eight books for one weekend,” Trix said from the doorway. “I fear a meet-and-greet might involve social interaction with nonfictional people.” She had four sets of tangled fairy lights slung around her neck. They’d found Elf on TV last night and she’d come down with rapid-onset Christmas spirit. Lily had come home this afternoon to a wreath on the door and a bald tree in the living room. Judging by the state of the lights, Trix would still be standing here unwinding them when she got back next week.
Lily slapped a hand down on a teetering pile of books before it collapsed. “This is the third edit. I’ve already weeded it down from fifteen.”
It wasn’t an option, being away from home without her favourite books. Her Kindle was great for downtime between scenes at the studio, but when things went tits up, she needed her favourite characters physically in her hands. She was actually looking forward to the weekend—the hotel looked gorgeous on the website, she hadn’t been out of London in months, and there were several actors in the cast she wanted to meet—but so far, her interactions with Luc Savage had proved somewhat stressful.
She added a worn copy of Jane Eyre to the stack.
She wasn’t sure what kind of clothes she was supposed to take. It was fine if it was just cosy fireside chats with the rest of the cast and crew, but going away en masse did smack horrifyingly of corporate team-building. If she ended up climbing rope ladders in the snow or playing the trust game with Bridget Barclay, falling back and expecting to land safely in the leading lady’s arms, she was going to need really grippy trainers in the first instance and probably a first-aid kit in the second.
She was also packing for a night in Oxford, as apparently the country’s best speech therapist could be found haunting the Bodleian, and Savage was wasting no time. They were going straight there on Monday.
“What are your plans for the weekend?” She tried to close a bulging zip. “Are you going out with Aiden again?”
Trix was literally wrapped up in her fairy light catastrophe. “No,” she said, twisting and turning, and shedding plastic bulb covers at an alarming rate. “We went out for dinner on Tuesday, and over dessert he suddenly asked if I didn’t think I was a bit old for pink hair. Apparently I’d be quite pretty with dark hair.” Lily twisted to look at her. “Yeah. Then Prince Charming made some kind of comment about how it’s so refreshing that I don’t wear any makeup offstage, because a lot of girls try to hide their freckles. Implying that I ought to go home and pack on the concealer immediately. I was wearing makeup, by the way. Just not a full face of greasepaint.”
Trix had a permanent role in The Festival of Masks cirque burlesque show and was usually heavily made-up to look like a broken porcelain doll. She went through two jars of cleanser a month, scrubbing off the thick paint each night.
“Not that it would be his business if I chose to go out wearing just my face.” The words came out sharply before Trix made an obvious effort to relax. “Then he made fun of cos-play.” She gestured at her pale pink bob and the trail of little stars tattooed up her neck. “Do I look like someone who thinks dressing up is lame? I do it for a living, for God’s sake.” She cro
ssed to the wardrobe and stretched up to feel around the shelf where Lily had stored all the miscellaneous decorations last Christmas. “Anyway, it was getting a bit serious.”
“You’ve been seeing him for three weeks.”
“Exactly.” Trix pulled down a garland of tinsel and plucked at it thoughtfully. “Practically a relationship.”
Her eyes were shadowed.
Lily’s stomach tightened, but before she could speak, the doorbell rang.
Trix looked at the partially zipped cases. “You get the door. I’ll try to tame the beasts.”
“Thanks.” Lily got to her feet but hesitated. “Trix—”
The bell rang again, at impatient length. “Better answer that before they give up and leave, and you’re stuck fondling vicars for the next ten years.” Trix handed Lily the hideous, winking plastic Santa her dad had sent her in one of his more whimsical moods. “Put this on the mantel on your way past, would you?”
Lily hid it behind a pile of towels in the linen cupboard before she went to the front door. She pasted on a polite expression as she opened it. She was expecting a hired driver who wouldn’t be looking forward to a six-hour round trip in this weather.
Luc Savage’s quizzical eyes met hers, then dropped to her wavering smile.
“Hello,” he said, when it became clear she was too startled to speak first.
“Um, hi.” She came to with a slight jerk and shifted aside to let him in.
He was dressed more casually than he’d been at his offices, but still impeccably. His wool jumper looked soft and touchable, and he’d thrust his hands casually into the pockets of well-pressed dark trousers. His shoes were shined, his hair neatly combed and his jaw clean-shaven.
If she saw a black-and-white photo of him, she really would think he was an actor from the forties or fifties.
Which reminded her that he’d thought the same about her, and his comparison hadn’t been a compliment.
He looked grim, and her stomach gave a sharp churn. God, he wasn’t revoking the contract, was he?
Savage cleared his throat. He seemed annoyed with life in general. “Unfortunately, there’s been a mix-up at the hire car company and we’re short several drivers. You’re with me, if you don’t object.”
