by Lucy Parker
She wanted to check out the hotel gym. She wasn’t good at running, but she tried to do it regularly. With her body type and diet, she was always going to lean toward softness, which would be less of a concern once she’d finished filming for Knightsbridge and nobody had to see her in high-definition, but she did need to keep relatively fit if she was going to manage the West End schedule. Short bursts of sprinting also seemed to relieve stress. She wobbled towards the gate to remove her skates.
Dylan perked up. “Want some company by the fire? We could read lines together.”
They had about six lines of dialogue together. He was a trier. It would be endearing if it were directed at his wife.
Luc was even less enchanted by the offer than she was. “Fireside fraternising with anyone in the cast or crew is off-limits.”
Dylan was unabashed by the scowl, which Lily was beginning to think of in capital letters. The Scowl. “I thought that was the whole point of this weekend.”
“Not for you it’s not. Why don’t you FaceTime your wife?”
Dylan smiled at Lily. “But the scenery here is so difficult to ignore.”
“Try.” Luc’s voice fit perfectly into their frosty surroundings.
Lily debated the precise level of rudeness in just walking off and leaving them to their manly banter, and then did.
The snow crunched under her boots as she returned her skates and headed back to the house. She swiped it from the leaves of a hedge.
“Hey!” Freddy caught up with her breathlessly at the side doors. Her corkscrew curls were sticking out from under a fleece hat. “How’d you go?”
“Fell three times. Not even a bruise. You’re a lifesaver.” Lily smiled at her. So far, the other women in the cast had been distantly polite or openly hostile, so Freddy’s enthusiasm was particularly welcome.
“Portable cushions in your pants, I’m telling you. I’m considering adapting them for daily life. I’m appreciating this booty thing I’ve got going on.” Freddy twisted to admire her backside. Then she grinned back. “I saw Dylan gliding to the rescue. Such a prince he is. What do you think of him?”
“I think he’s a knob,” Lily said frankly. “And I hope his wife went into that marriage with her eyes open.”
“She went on some reality show last year and fucked around on him while they were engaged, so somehow I don’t think she’s doing a Faithful Penelope, sitting at home doing handicrafts while he’s off getting his jollies.”
Lily shook her head. “I don’t know why people bother.”
“Right? I mean, I can’t imagine being stuck with one person for life either, but I wouldn’t sign up for it in the first place. I figure, you sign a contract, you keep to the terms.”
“You hopeless romantic.”
Freddy laughed. Her eyes were dancing. “I might change my mind about the long haul if the new makeup artist is single. Did you see him? Built like a tank? Beard? Tattoos? Man-bun? Skin like warm chocolate? I think my lady parts spontaneously combusted.”
Lily had noticed the very sexy man in question, yes. He could probably open stubborn jars with his pinkie finger, and apply flawless liquid eyeliner in one sweep, and she’d seen him picking up an elderly woman’s knitting in the guest lounge this morning. If he was still single, there was something wrong with the population of London.
“He’s probably in a relationship.” Freddy sighed. “There’s really no flirtable prospect on this show. Everyone’s either married, a dickhead, married and a dickhead, or old.”
“There’s Luc Savage,” Lily said, and regretted it.
“Yeah, like I said—old.”
He was only about forty.
The thought was instinctive, and totally contradicted her running internal narrative, which centred around a refrain of “too old,” “boss,” “on the rebound,” “not interested” and “too old.”
He was too old. For…some people. He just wasn’t old. Unless you were nineteen and thought anyone over thirty was one stumble away from a hip replacement.
Freddy wrinkled her nose. “And intimidating. I feel like midthrust he’d be thinking about what you did wrong in rehearsal. Or he’d critique your performance afterwards in that impersonal robot voice. I like cuddlers.” She suddenly, hastily, glanced behind them. “Oh, thank God. Imagine if he’d heard that. Die.”
“He does have a habit of appearing out of nowhere,” Lily agreed with feeling.
“Don’t get me wrong, I love working for him. He brings this performance out of you that you couldn’t even have imagined. It’s just like teachers at school, I guess. Hard to think of them having a social life. Although he lived with Margo Roy for years, so I guess they were in love. They weren’t exactly all over each other backstage. More like neighbours bumping into each other at the supermarket. Polite conversation, minds elsewhere.”
“This is me,” Lily said thankfully as they reached the first-floor bedroom wing. She liked Freddy a lot, but she was intensely uncomfortable with this whole conversation, and had learned her lesson about discussing Luc behind his back.
“I’m going to stretch out for a while. Catch up on some TV while I can.” Freddy bounced down the hallway with so much energy that she made Lily feel about ninety.
In her room, she hunted out workout gear, making a huge mess of her suitcases in the process. It was almost too warm inside after the biting chill outdoors, but she skipped over a pair of shorts and pulled out yoga tights. With a house full of image-conscious actors, she doubted if the gym would be empty and she could never shake a lingering self-consciousness about her legs. It was why she appreciated the hemlines of her Knightsbridge costumes. When the script allowed her to wear clothes. One of the first times she’d appeared in a magazine, they’d gleefully pointed out the cellulite on her thighs. It still happened all the time and her skin should thicken with every catty article, but she was shy about showing too much leg in public. Which was infuriating.
In fact, it was so infuriating that she was going to wear the damn shorts. She had cellulite. Fuck it.
The self-confidence lasted until she found the gym on the second floor and walked in on Luc Savage doing push-ups. Shirtless. He had the body of a swimmer, all shoulders and lean muscles.
She actually put one foot behind the other and tugged at the hem of her shorts, trying to hide herself. Fortunately, he was busy scowling at the floor and didn’t see.
By the time he sat back on his heels, she was composed. Not feeling at all naked. Not feeling at all irrationally crabby. “How did you even get here this fast?”
He stood and gave her another of his patented looks. Pointedly, he turned his wrist and checked his watch. “How did I walk about two hundred metres and change my clothing in a mere twenty-five minutes?”
Okay, so it had taken longer than she’d thought to find her sports bra. At least she’d bothered to put on a top.
Keeping a dignified silence, she put her towel and water bottle on a bench and made a beeline for a treadmill. They each planted a trainer on it at the same time.
With exaggerated gallantry, he stepped back and offered it to her with a sweep of his arm.
“Thanks,” she said awkwardly, and took refuge in her running playlist, plugging in her earbuds.
She was aware of him running at her side, and at one point it seemed a bit ridiculous. The two of them, jogging to nowhere like guinea pigs in a play wheel, in front of a screen that seemed to be permanently fixed on the cartoon network. They were working out to Spongebob Squarepants.
When she slowed down to a walk and finally gripped the sides to lift her feet from the belt, Luc was still going strong. The muscles in his back moved under smooth, warm-looking skin.
Are you going to stand here objectifying your boss, or are you going to stretch?
She bent her leg and pressed one heel to her butt cheek in a token attempt at cooling down.
The sexual component of whatever she was feeling around him was becoming difficult to deny, and it didn
’t sit well. He was a good-looking man, but recognising that fact and finding him attractive were very different things. She was often physically attracted to people, but usually they were people who treated her with respect from the get-go.
There were three instances when she wouldn’t touch a man with a sixty-foot pole: if he was already in a relationship or had very recently exited one; if she worked with him—or far worse, for him; or if he was more than a few years older than her. This was hitting the triple.
As long as it wasn’t mutual and she kept it to herself, it was fine. It wasn’t something she would ever pursue, and even if the universe decided to complete her mortification and Luc realised she was…looking at him, he would ignore it. This wasn’t a man who would let anything interfere with the dynamics of his company.
He swung off his treadmill and tugged out his own earbuds, draping them around his neck. “I saw you heading inside with Freddy. You seem to be getting on well.”
“Yes, we are. She’s been great.”
Luc tossed his towel aside and turned his full attention on her. “Meaning other people haven’t?”
Like she was going to run to him telling tales—the poor, sad TV actor everybody resented for skipping the queue, who’d most likely got the part via somebody’s casting couch. She’d overheard two separate conversations on that subject this morning.
She shrugged. “It’s like any new job. There’s a learning curve and it takes a while to find your place.” Although quite a few people would have no problem putting her in it.
“There are a lot of strong personalities in this cast,” Luc said, fairly tactfully, all things considered. “And a certain amount of spark helps with onstage chemistry. However, we don’t condone workplace bullying—” there was a weighted pause “—despite the shit the tabloids are writing, so if it’s becoming a problem, tell me.”
No way. “I’d rather fight my own battles.” She tried to equal his tact. “I don’t think it’s going to garner a lot of respect if I run to teacher every time someone’s mean to me in the playground.”
The corner of his lips lifted in that half smile. “Not a bad analogy. Particularly if Bridget’s involved.”
She couldn’t help smiling back, and his eyes moved to her mouth again. She wondered if she’d imagined that he stiffened.
“Anyway,” he said abruptly, “I’m glad you’re connecting with Freddy. She’s an old hat at this, but she’s always been one of the youngest cast members and she’s sometimes a bit isolated because of that.”
“Yeah,” Lily said slowly. “Well. We’ve been getting along well, but we’re not exactly contemporaries. I’m closer to my thirties than my teens.”
She heard a distinct snort.
She’d thought he was starting to view her with a bit more respect, so that was irritating on an almost primal level. “Any other aged wisdom to share with the kids, there, Grandpa?” she asked, probably justifying his jab at her maturity.
He looked about as approachable as Darth Maul, but then, unexpectedly, he laughed. A proper, eye-crinkling laugh. And her pathetic, perverse, masochistic little heart went oh—it’s you.
For the second time in less than twenty-four hours, she mumbled something nonsensical, snatched up her stuff and bolted.
She stood under the shower in her bathroom for so long that the hot-water system started to flag. While she was drying her hair, she looked at herself in the mirror. As usual, nothing of what she was feeling showed on her face. Unless she was in character and actively using her features, they settled into…Helium Barbie. What had a review in The Sun once said? “Look closely enough into her pupils and you can actually see the tumbleweed bouncing past”?
Right at this moment, she was inclined to agree with that assessment.
She was already in a dark mood when she headed down to the library, where the window seat and books were calling her name. It didn’t help when she heard someone speaking her name and recognised Bridget’s strident tones.
“…boyfriend got her the part, but she’s probably fucking Luc as well. She hardly stopped staring at him during the meeting, and they were well cosy in the car last night.”
Twice today she’d turned and walked away from a similar situation. This time, anger rose in her throat, and she deliberately went into the small drawing room where a group of women from the cast and crew were sitting giggling over cocktails.
The laughter ended the moment she came into sight. More than one face turned an interesting shade of pink.
Lily met Bridget’s enquiring, amused glance. “You might as well say it to my face,” she said calmly. “I can take it, you know. Go ahead.”
Someone cleared their throat and the discomfort in the room was palpable, but she didn’t break eye contact with Bridget, who was idly stirring the swizzle stick in her martini.
“Well, it’s hardly a secret, is it?” Bridget’s small smile didn’t falter. “You’re a TV…I suppose we could say ‘star,’ with no stage experience. Everyone knows you only got the role because Hudson Warner threw a tizzy and threatened to pull his funding from the theatre if his pet lamb didn’t get her big break. Although I know Luc, and I find it hard to believe he would cave into blackmail without additional…persuasion.”
It was the last implication that had brought Lily into the room, full of outrage and an unsettling edge of defensiveness, but her brain came to a dead stop at the first accusation. Hudson…
Bullshit.
Even in her mind, she could hear the uncertainty in her denial.
This whole thing had seemed too good to be true from the beginning. And she knew her godfather.
Bone-deep humiliation was a cold feeling.
She turned around and left the room without another word. Behind her, someone called her name hesitantly, with clear embarrassment.
She stopped a passing staff member and was told that Mr. Savage was in the ground-floor study.
It was a small room next to the library, dominated by a beautiful tiled fireplace and a massive mahogany desk. Luc was seated on the edge of it, frowning as he flipped through a sheaf of documents. She went in without knocking.
He looked up, his face registering surprise and then concern. Tossing the papers down on the desk without stopping to mark his place, he stood and spoke sharply. “Lily? What’s the matter?”
She stared at him in silence, studying, thinking. He came to stand in front of her, and it seemed to be an unconscious action when he rested his fingers lightly against her wrists.
The pressure increased when she asked, bluntly, “Is Hudson Warner a shareholder in the theatre, and did he threaten to pull his backing if you didn’t give me this role?”
“Yes.” Luc didn’t seem bothered in the slightest by the accusation, although he did realise he was holding her and let go. He even rolled his eyes a little. “Someone’s been running off at the mouth. Who was it—Bridget?”
She didn’t bother to confirm that. She was too busy seething. Hud had a howler of a text message coming his way. She occasionally used personal connections to give others a helping hand, but there were limits, for God’s sake. It would be one thing if he’d used his influence to get her name in front of the casting committee for possible consideration for an audition, but to actually blackmail people into giving her a role outright… Especially when a catastrophic performance on her part would act like a cannonball on the whole production.
Hudson. Fuck.
“Look,” she said, after a bit of inner weeping. “You’ve been pretty—” brutally “—honest with me so far. If you don’t really think I’m right for this role—”
“I said that Warner threatened to yank his funding if we didn’t cast his little darling.” Luc turned to pick up a cup from the desk. He offered her a plate of biscuits, and, feeling a bit surreal, she took a Jammie Dodger. Her stress carb of choice. “I didn’t say that we gave a shit. Your godfather makes at least one unreasonable demand a week. I pick my battles, throw him the occas
ional bone and tune the rest out.” He bit into a chocolate digestive. “Close, are you?” he thought to add.
If anyone was concerned, that sound they could hear was the wind rushing out of her self-righteous sails. “Close enough that I was going to buy him a decent Christmas present, but carry on. We’ve established that I don’t tell tales.”
“We already had a shortlist by the time your name even came up; if you’ve been trying to break into the lists before this, your agent isn’t doing much to earn his Christmas bonus. Yes, if Warner hadn’t chucked your reel at Amelia, it’s doubtful you’d be standing here right now, but I wouldn’t cast even a bit part because Warner stamps his foot and points a finger. Everything I said stands. You’ve got a hell of a lot of work to do, but if I didn’t think you’ll get there, I would have tossed you back to the soaps. Are we clear?”
Honestly, he was such a bastard, and she’d never felt more like giving someone a hug.
Which would have been fine, if she hadn’t actually done it.
It was one of the most awkward moments of her life. One moment she was standing there like a sane professional woman; the next, her nose was buried in his chest and she was hugging a human ice lolly. He’d frozen into cadaverous horror, and she was really glad she couldn’t see his face.
She couldn’t seem to let go. She wasn’t sure where to go from here. Step back, clear her throat, give his hand a brisk shake, and sprint back to her room to die quietly?
Seemed like a plan.
Before she could put it into action, she felt a tentative brush against her back. And then his touch settled there, his palm wide and reassuring. God, she was trembling. Slowly, she pulled back and looked up at him.
Lily was a perpetual onscreen love interest. She knew how this played out. Eyes met, breath hitched, minds said ‘no, no, we shouldn’t,’ body language said ‘hell yes, we should.’ Heads tilt, lean in, lips meet, snog, return of sanity, regretful dash from room. She knew the whole bloody cliché. Everyone knew the cliché. It never ended well.
And no fleeting moment, no matter how romantic or sexual, was worth risking her career. Or his.
