by Lucy Parker
His tone suggested that if she objected, she could renew her acquaintance with the evening train service.
What she meant to say was something along the lines of “Thanks for the lift.”
What came out of her mouth was “What, all the way to Shropshire?”
Trix, appearing in the doorway to the bedroom, coughed into her fist.
“No.” Savage nodded politely at Trix. “I thought I’d do a wild detour to the Forest of Dean and leave you there with a compass and a Swiss Army Knife. Consider it the final audition phase. If you can make it to Aston Park alive by the end of the weekend, I’ll stick an extra fiver in your pay packet.”
Sarcasm, insults and a nasty habit of appearing without warning. She was going to be sharing a car for three hours with the Demon King from panto. She wanted to be annoyed, but couldn’t hold back a small smile.
Trix brought the suitcases from the bedroom, towing one in each hand. She was five foot nothing and tiny, and could probably have fit in the luggage without having to bend her head. Lily hurried to take them from her and collided with Savage, who was apparently on the same errand. There was an awkward moment in which they stumbled, accidentally hugged and burst apart in silent horror.
Trix blinked.
Lily felt her cheeks burning again. What the actual fuck. It was as if the part of her brain responsible for normal foot and hand movements went under general anaesthesia every time they were in the same room. “This is Beatrix Lane.” Now her voice was wooden as well as breathy. Fantastic. “Trix, this is Luc Savage.”
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Savage.”
Savage shook Trix’s hand. “It’s Luc.” His eyes returned to Lily. “To cast members as well.”
She tested that out in her mind. She was on first-name terms with all the production and direction team at CTV, but it had taken a long time to get used to greeting some of them informally. Oddly, with Savage—with Luc—it seemed natural.
Probably her self-conscious being contrary and not wanting to put the perpetrator of the blow-up doll comment on a pedestal.
“Well,” Trix said to Lily. “Enjoy your jaunt to the country while the rest of us are slaving away under the house lights.”
“Trix’s playing Pierrette in The Festival of Masks,” Lily found herself explaining, even though she couldn’t imagine that the man whose name was synonymous with high-brow drama had much time for the musical spectaculars.
He surprised her. “Impressive. I’ve seen the show. It’s excellent.”
Trix looked so happy at that moment that Lily felt a rush of gratitude towards him.
“Thanks,” Trix said, almost shyly. “A lot of people at the Old Wellington have worked with you. They all raved about the experience.”
Luc’s response was wry. “After the tabloid memoirs of other former team members, that’s good to hear.” His phone beeped and he flipped open the case. “I’m sorry to rush Lily away, but it’s a reasonably long drive and we still have someone else to collect on the way.” He glanced down at the suitcases. “Is this everything?”
Lily grabbed her handbag and snack bag from the coffee table. “That’s all.”
She hoped he had plenty of space in his car. She didn’t want to leave one of the bags behind. Besides dragging along half the contents of her bookshelves, she always felt it was better to come back with unworn clothes than to run short on knickers.
She didn’t need to worry. His vehicle seemed to be suffering an identity crisis, unsure if it was a car or a freight truck. It was black with semi-tinted windows and looked like it ought to be part of a presidential cavalcade. The tyres were almost taller than Trix.
Luc opened the boot to stow her bags and Lily saw snow chains. It was, as her snarky weather app said, “so freaking cold—are you sure you didn’t enter this location through the back of a wardrobe?”, but the forecast had improved to a lot of rain and very minor flurries, so hopefully not enough to affect the roads or strand them in the countryside.
She hugged Trix goodbye, which elicited a protest when she squeezed too tight in her lingering concern, and still didn’t look at Luc when he held the door open for her.
He didn’t mention who the second passenger was, and they drove in silence until he drew up outside a townhouse in Pimlico. There was a bright pink Lamborghini parked outside. As cars went, it was pretty fucking amazing. Unfortunately, thanks to the paparazzi, Lily knew who it belonged to. She was frankly blown away that Bridget Barclay hadn’t insisted on a commute by private helicopter.
Luc sat for a moment in silence, his wrists resting on the wheel.
She cleared her throat. “You all right there?”
“Just mentally preparing. And despising the car company with every fibre of my being.”
“Did they cancel all the cars at the last minute?”
“Just two, but not until everybody else had left, so it was this or stick you both on the train, alone and at night.”
Yeah, she’d figured the artistic director and company CEO didn’t usually moonlight as a chauffeur.
Reluctantly, he opened his door and got out, and she glanced over her shoulder.
“Should I move into the backseat?” She had a feeling Bridget was going to expect top billing in every respect.
Luc stuck his head back into the car to fix her with an even stare. “Leave that seat free and I will literally cut your salary in half.”
Hey, she was the lesser of two evils. She’d have to watch that these heady compliments didn’t go to her head.
He took the steps to the front door in one stride, rang the bell and disappeared into the house. Eight rounds of her Sudoku app later, he came out with two Louis Vuitton weekender bags, a dog bed and a cartoon storm cloud over his head. She could feel the aggravation all the way from the tank.
While he was putting the luggage in the back and letting in a lot of bitingly cold air, Bridget made her entrance in a Burberry coat and rose-gold sunglasses. Her black hair was swept into perfect waves, just touched with silver that probably wasn’t natural. All she was missing was a silk scarf tied over it, Grace Kelly-style. She was clutching a massive pillow under one arm and cradling a bichon frise in the other.
Lily had seen her from a distance at the TV Awards this year, when Bridget had been a guest presenter, but a phalanx of black-suited minders had informed everyone in sight that Mrs. Barclay didn’t wish to be disturbed, as if they’d all been planning to latch on to her like spider monkeys and screech for an autograph.
Bridget stood on the pavement, waiting glamorously. When Luc went to open the rear door, she nodded at the front passenger seat where Lily sat.
He said something sharply to her, which Lily couldn’t hear through the thickness of the glass, and looked slightly incredulous when she responded.
His shoulders rose in a visible search for patience, before he took the puppy from her and opened Lily’s door. “Bridget is graciously extending you the privilege of holding Penny Sweets for the next three hours. Since she’s tweaked a tendon in her knee and requires the full length of the backseat in order to recover in time for rehearsals.”
The screaming subtext of “bullshit” hung in the air between them. Lily pressed her lips together to hide her smile. Spreading her coat across her knees, she reached for the puppy.
Luc continued to hold it, ignoring the indignant squirming. “Do you actually like dogs?” He didn’t trouble to speak quietly. “Because otherwise she can sit on the lap of the person who supposedly can’t exist without her for two days.”
Bridget huffed, and Lily tore her eyes from Luc’s penetrating gaze. Private amusement lurked in the grey depths. “It’s fine.” She took the ball of fluff for a cuddle. A tiny wet nose touched her palm. She could feel the rapid fluttering of a little heart. “She’s gorgeous. And she’s not exactly a Great Dane, is she? I’m sure we’ll cope for a few hours.”
Penny Sweets took exception to the comment on her size and immediately let loose with a series o
f high-pitched yips.
Luc pinched the bridge of his nose. “I know it’s tempting to look for an off switch, but Bridget swears it’s a real-life dog.”
He opened the rear door, and Bridget settled herself on the spacious backseat with some energetic pillow-fluffing.
Lily greeted her cheerfully, trying not to sneeze at the heavy musk-based perfume. Bridget looked her up and down, frowned and put in her earbuds.
Okay then.
By the time Luc returned to the driver’s seat, the puppy had curled into a quiet ball and was chewing on Lily’s thumb.
She rubbed the little fuzzy head. “I take it you’re not a dog person.”
Luc negotiated the turn into the busy traffic flow before he replied. “Oh, I’m a dog person. I’m pretty sure that what you’re cuddling is the inside of a cushion. Although it sounds like a car alarm, which I admit adds to the confusion.”
They slowed to a stop at an intersection. He glanced over at her and then down at her lap. Briefly, the corner of his mouth curving, he lifted his hand from the wheel to offer a fingertip for the puppy to nip. His fingers grazed Lily’s as he returned his attention to the road, and he frowned—just a flicker of discomposure.
Absently, she rubbed the back of her hand against her lap as they drove.
“Do you have a copy of the full script I could look at?” she asked when they reached the outer boroughs and got onto the motorway.
Luc opened a bottle of water with one hand. “Do you get carsick?”
“Well…”
“Then no.” His Adam’s apple moved as he drank. “There’s a selection of audiobooks on the internal system. Dial on the left side. Choose whatever you like.”
The cunning manoeuvre also known as Don’t talk to me.
She was impressed with the extent of the car’s book collection, which ranged from Ernest Hemingway to Lee Child. She homed in on the Ngaio Marsh murder mysteries.
“How about Surfeit of Lampreys?” Luc slanted a glance at her. “For some reason, that speaks to me tonight.”
She rolled her eyes, but did go with her namesake. She’d always thought the eccentricities of the fictional Lamprey family had nothing on her flesh and blood.
He turned his head and caught her staring.
In response to his silent enquiry, she panicked and made shameless use of the puppy. “Um, I think Penny Sweets needs a wee. She’s fidgeting.”
He muttered that of course it would be on the fucking motorway, and indicated at the next exit.
Lily had almost forgotten Bridget was in the car, but when they stopped at a shopping centre, where Penny Sweets obligingly peed on the single strip of grass by the road, she woke up from her impromptu nap and began to live up to her reputation.
“Why have we stopped?” she demanded, emerging from the car. The streetlights cast a demonic red tint on her face.
“Blame your property’s minuscule bladder.” Luc was clearly having none of the impending strop.
“But it’s cold!” Her voice hit a level that Lily thought even she would struggle to achieve.
No shit. It was December, and it was England.
“We might as well get some food while we’re here,” Luc said, totally ignoring her. “I’d rather not stop again in case the weather packs in.”
Bridget looked with distaste at the three dining options: Starbucks, Pizza Express and Wagamama, but didn’t insist that they produce a Michelin-starred restaurant on the spot. “I’ll have a fruit salad and a green tea,” she said grudgingly to Lily.
“Does she look like your maid?” Luc asked, before Lily had a chance to do more than blink. “Food expenses are included this weekend. Personal slaves are not. I will, however, mind the Furby while you’re stretching your faulty tendon on the walk, since I value my upholstery.”
Bridget opened her mouth, thought better of it, and speared him with a vicious look. Taking the twenty-pound note he extended, she stomped off towards the restaurants with nary a limp.
This was going to be a merry weekend. Lily assumed Bridget was a professional onstage, at least, or she wouldn’t have been cast. Luc had directed her before, and it seemed like one-chance saloon. Cock up and don’t expect to come back.
Luc watched her stalk away and muttered, barely comprehensibly, “Fucking Ferreti.”
Lily flicked him a curious glance and he changed the subject. “Get whatever you like.” He handed over another note. She obviously was the lesser irritant in this specific situation. She’d scored a fifty. And everything in her rebelled at taking it.
“I have money,” she said stiffly. A gust of icy wind crept beneath her coat, which had a new stain on the front she hoped was melted Jaffa Cake and gloomily suspected was puppy poo. At least it was a cheapie from the Next sale. She folded her arms and shivered.
Luc had picked up Penny Sweets and tucked her into the opening of his own coat. It seemed to be instinctive when he stepped to the side, acting as a buffer between Lily and the rising wind, trying to keep her warm as well.
Well, that was…kind. And kind of unsettling.
“Of course you have money.” His impatient tone was at odds with the chivalry. “You’ve been on a primetime salary for four years, and your father is Jack Lamprey. If you couldn’t afford a few noodles, you’d need serious budgeting help.”
Best never mention the Audi R8 she’d bought during her first year on the show, then, which had resulted in having to cut out takeaways for six months. Her first big endorsement cheque had temporarily gone to her head.
“This is a work weekend. I’m sorry if I’m trampling on your feminist principles,” he went on sarcastically, rubbing the puppy’s trembling back, “but it’s company policy to cover expenses when we drag you away on location, not an assumption that you’re a woman and therefore incapable of providing for yourself. And I’m fucking freezing, this dog is about to tunnel a hole through my chest, and would you just take the money already?”
Ten to one, she’d just knocked Bridget off the podium for biggest pain in the arse. She’d never had a reputation for being difficult to work with and didn’t want to earn one. She wasn’t going to lie down and let arsehat comments roll over her, but he was being totally reasonable at the moment. “Sorry.” She took the money and wound the note around her finger. “Er, thanks for dinner?”
“On behalf of the company, no worries.”
She suspected this was one of the worst evenings he’d had all year.
“I’m going to Pizza Express.” Automatically, she reached out to soothe the puppy when it whimpered, but withdrew her hand at supersonic speed when she stroked Luc’s knuckle. She hoped her cheeks were already red from windburn. “Um…what would you like?” She anticipated his exasperation. “I’m not being passive-aggressive and trying to earn my keep. There’s no point all three of us going separately, playing pass-the-parcel with the dog. We’ll be here all night.”
He shrugged. “A slice of anything and a black coffee. Thanks. You might want to go all out on the cheese while you can, because once we get to Oxford and you’re under Jocasta Moore’s thumb, dairy’s off the menu. Probably chocolate and caffeine too.”
Her expression made him grin, properly, for the first time. He had cheek grooves, like dimples on steroids, and he looked momentarily nice. Like he had a personality with facets beyond frosty grump. Otherwise, he wasn’t magically transformed, no years instantly dropping from his face. He still looked forty-odd, just disturbingly jolly.
When they were back on the road, Lily restarted the audiobook for a while, but it was difficult to follow the story with Bridget complaining about everything and anything that crossed her mind.
It became almost funny, waiting to see how far she could scrape the bottom of the barrel for a whinge—an evening jogger’s reflective safety jacket made her eyes hurt—and watching Luc’s struggle to keep his responses civil. If his production didn’t depend on Bridget retaining her tongue to deliver her lines, Lily thought he would have
yanked it out by force and strangled her with it.
About half an hour from Aston Park, Bridget’s body took pity on them and returned her to a snuffling sleep. The countryside was so dark outside the window that Lily could only see reflections in the glass. She watched reflection-Luc check his leading lady in the rear-view mirror.
“God,” he muttered. “I thought I’d gone deaf for a second.”
She swallowed a yawn and turned in her seat. A question had been in her mind since he’d mentioned her father at the rest stop, but even if she’d been able to get a word in, she hadn’t wanted to discuss her family while Bridget was conscious. “Do you know my father?”
He at least knew of her father. She hadn’t missed the recoil in the amphitheatre, when she’d kindly attempted to assist him with his interior decorating dilemma. Like she was trying to foist mob connections on him or something. Start with a few tiles, end with a horse head in the bed.
Her father lived by the creed that the end justified the means. Like his MP wife, he’d devoted the past few decades to a cause. Business on his agenda, women’s rights and equitable pay on hers. Politically, Lily had always admired the woman who couldn’t stand to be in the same room as her. Unlike Lady Charlotte, Jack had no qualms in bending the truth and playing the system if it ultimately benefited his projects.
But he tested the law; as far as she was aware, he didn’t break it.
“We’ve met a couple of times.” Luc navigated the tricky country road; there were no street lights, but several potholes. He didn’t sound massively thrilled with the topic. “It’s my own father who knows him well. Knew him well. He and Jack were poker buddies back in the day.”
She grimaced into the blackness. “Sounds about right.” Few gamblers didn’t live to regret sitting down at a card table with Jack. Even in his seventies, her father was still wringing tears and inheritances out of grown adults who ought to know better. He never played with anyone who was betting on their sole source of income, or was drunk beyond the ability to reason, but that was his sole concession. “You said ‘knew’ him well, past tense. Jack didn’t—”
