Pretty Face

by Lucy Parker

  “Don’t tell me there’s conflict in paradise already,” he said ironically. “It must be difficult to argue with the personification of a Tickle Me Elmo.”

  She pressed her lips down on an instinctive smile. “God, you’re such a git. Why did I ever overlook that?” She set her bag down on his desk and took a seat in a spare chair, crossing her legs. “Catch me up, then. What did you say to Bridget to send her scurrying for the hills? She didn’t even make it to the read-through. That must be a new record.”

  His jaw clenched with a surge of renewed irritation. “She’s defected for an action flick. And is trying to avoid contractual obligations by arguing that my recent bout of bad press is damaging her career by association.”

  Margo tilted her head. “I have noticed that most of the mud is flying your way. I’m surprised. My press agent was on standby. I thought I was going to come off as the guilty party.”

  “You did, for about three days. Happily, you’re now being congratulated on escaping my reign of tyranny.”

  “I just wrapped a shoot with Michael Trevayne. His directorial style makes you seem like a veritable teddy bear.”

  “Thank you for that unlikely comparison, but I think they’re referring to our relationship outside of work.”

  “We hardly saw each other outside of work.”

  “As a rebuttal, I’m not sure that would do either of us any favours.”

  Margo frowned. “Most of the vitriol seems to be coming from London Celebrity. Have you been ruffling feathers over there?”

  Luc made a noncommittal sound. He and Margo had never discussed the Byrnes. His grandfather’s less than sterling character wasn’t exactly pillow talk. “Personal differences with the editor.” He changed the subject. “I was surprised you were prepared to take the role after all. It was a fairly adamant ‘no’ during the initial casting.”

  “Well.” Her tone was generous. “I did feel that I owed you some loyalty after all these years.”

  “Or you had a serious case of stage itch.”

  “Might have been a bit of that, too.” She widened her eyes at him. “Is there a member of your company who isn’t courting media attention at the moment? With the possible exception of Freddy, who’s such a crowd-pleaser that even that sourpuss critic on Wake Me Up London just verbally pats her on the head. Dylan Waitely generates enough scandal for two. There are probably so many skeletons in his cupboard that bones fall out when his maid puts the washing away, although he disgraces himself in public so often that nothing short of murder would damage his career at this point. And Lily Lamprey from Knightsbridge. I also saw that.” She looked at him meaningfully. “I’m not surprised the press has run wild with rumours on that one. A bit unexpected?”

  Also not a topic he wanted to discuss with anyone right now, and very definitely not with his ex-girlfriend.

  “She’s good,” he said briefly. “Once Jocasta whips the vocals into shape, she’ll be very good.”

  Margo looked intrigued. “I watch Knightsbridge, and I can’t say I’ve been overly struck by Lily’s work in it, but I trust your judgement. And it’s certainly one way to build interest. I don’t think you’ve ever had such rampant speculation about a show before.”

  “You know that the media attention is going to go into overdrive after the press release goes out tonight and everyone knows you’re on board.”

  Her mouth tipped up at the corners and a faint gleam lit her blue eyes. “I know.”

  “And you look so bothered about it.”

  “Well, I have got feelers out for another big film role next year. After we close, naturally. Having cut my honeymoon short, I have no plans to pull a Bridget and jump ship. However, I can’t say that all the attention recently hasn’t—helped things along, professionally.”

  “So glad I could assist.”

  “As if you haven’t been rubbing your hands with glee watching the pre-sale numbers rise.”

  “I can sell out a production without needing half of England to read that I’ve been brutally dumped for an opera singer because I’m the West End’s answer to Sauron, thanks.”

  She laughed. “It’s nice, you know, just being back to this. I like you a lot more when I don’t have to worry about why I’m not in love with you.”

  As compliments went, it was fairly backhanded, but he’d take it.

  Chapter Seven

  After all the nerves and build-up, the read-through was almost boringly normal. The surroundings and core cast were different, but otherwise it was very much like the CTV table reads, down to the snack selection and dirty jokes from the younger male actors.

  Lily stood by the refreshment table during the break, looking around.

  They would be rehearsing here in the studios at Savage Productions for the next few weeks, before they moved to the Queen Anne for the madness of technical week. Hell Week, as the crew called it.

  Then—because Luc was one of the few West End directors who refused to hold previews—they were opening cold, with no test run. There would be no opportunity to gauge a response from the public before the critics were given free rein; any problems would have to be ironed out during tech week.

  Reality was sinking in for everyone concerned. Lily was still fielding a bit of hostility from certain members of the company, but most people were focused on their own lines and cues today. The party atmosphere was over. This was work.

  If there were side glances and murmured speculation, most of it was aimed at Luc and Margo.

  She had been trying not to watch them, but her eyes kept travelling back when they were talking and making notes on their copies of the script. She hadn’t expected them to do anything to feed the gossip, but she could usually spot a poker face—it was in the genes—and she’d expected to sense some underlying tension.

  There was nothing. It was exactly as Freddy had said. They might have been friendly but distant acquaintances, not people who knew intimately if the other snored and what they looked like asleep.

  “Nice work.” The comment was warm, and Lily looked up from the juice bar and returned Margo’s smile.

  “Thanks.” She filled a glass with pineapple juice and stood back to let the other woman grab a cup of coffee. Obviously Margo didn’t worry, or didn’t have to worry, about caffeine. Another member of the vocally blessed. “I have a lot more work to do with Jocasta, though.”

  “She’s a miracle worker,” Margo agreed. “I worked with her when I first started in theatre, right out of drama school. I had no vocal stamina back then. I lost my voice halfway through an am-dram production of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. One of the worst nights of my life.”

  Oh.

  Well, if Lily should have learned anything by now, it was the dangers of making assumptions.

  “I can’t remember you ever being anything but word-perfect,” she said ruefully. “I was reminding myself that I should feel inspired, not psyched out.”

  Margo pulled a face. “It’s just experience. I’ve been doing this a bit longer than you have.” She caught sight of the folded newspaper Lily had been reading and tilted her head to read the headline. “Well, God, don’t read rubbish like that. Of course you’re going to psych yourself out.”

  “I know. I’m not sure why I do it to myself.” Lily turned the paper over, smothering the paragraphs about how she was bringing down the tone of the whole production against the tablecloth. “And I don’t know why it’s worse when it’s printed in a paper than online. The online stuff stays there, even if the news moves on. This will end up in the bin, or the fire, or stained with fish-and-chip grease. But when someone actually takes the trouble to print it out…”

  “You’re entirely correct, though. It’s going to end up in the bin. Right now.” Margo tossed it into the nearby rubbish bag. “Just stop reading it. It’s never going to be productive. Even if they’re saying good things, you’ll find something negative. Or you’ll turn it into a negative, think that you’re on a good streak, it can’t last, it’
s only going to disappoint people more if you fail. You can’t worry about all of that or you will break.”

  She made it sound so easy. She was totally right, but it didn’t seem that easy. It was partly the new medium. Lily was used to cameras and highly edited scenes; there was amped-up pressure with the live immediacy of theatre, and it was going to take a while to get used to that. It also meant so much. She had been so sure for so long that this was what she wanted to do that the self-doubt was creeping in again, and it didn’t help when it seemed like the rest of the theatre world agreed with her.

  Before she could stop herself, Lily glanced over at where Luc stood in conversation with his stage manager. He turned his head for a moment, on cue. It was only the slightest altering of expression, probably not discernible to anyone else in the room, but it doubled the number of butterflies in her stomach.

  “Some people must find you fairly intimidating to be around,” Margo said, to her embarrassment. “Or to stand next to.”

  That was the second time Lily had heard the word “intimidating” in as many days. It was bizarre, the way different people saw the same situation. When Lily had arrived this morning, a member of the legal team had brought paperwork for her and Dylan to sign. He’d greeted her in a tone that just crossed the line from kind to patronising, and then addressed all his questions to Dylan, as if she would be incapable of even understanding what he was asking, let alone answering for herself. When he’d left, he’d all but patted her on the head and offered to change her tyres for her. She hadn’t felt intimidating then. She’d felt like a mannequin.

  “I’ve never seen men literally trail off mid-conversation when someone walks into a room.”

  Lily tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Her cheek felt hot against her hand. “I’m sure they didn’t.”

  “I’m sorry, I’m embarrassing you. I imagine it’s difficult to know what to say to stuff like that, if you don’t have an ego the size of Europe. And you must get comments on your looks fairly often.”

  “Well, it is the only thing worth noticing about a woman.” She grimaced. “Sorry. Sore point.”

  “Valid point.”

  Lily shrugged. “I’ve been working in the TV industry for several years. There’s obviously a lot of focus on looks. The management and the makeup and wardrobe teams have no problem giving a detailed analysis of your appearance to your face, and that’s never going to be a stream of compliments.”

  “Oh, I know. And I think there’s even less room for unconventional beauty and quirky character faces in the TV studios than in the British film industry. But you do have quite an extraordinary face.” Margo added frankly, “I expect that’s why the tabloids take such pleasure in criticising your acting ability and your body. It makes people feel like you’re still a real person if you’re a half-wit with hips.”

  Lily had to laugh then. Margo had been completely single-minded from the moment they’d opened their scripts; five minutes in, it had been impossible to imagine that anyone else could ever have played Mary. She was stubborn and prejudiced, loyal and manipulative, and occasionally, unexpectedly, very funny. The flawed, lethal queen. But out of character, she was so direct that it was impossible not to like her.

  “I assume you’re leaving Knightsbridge?” Margo was checking out the biscuit selection. “Do you see Party Rings?” Lily pointed at one of the platters. “Excellent.” She offered the plate and Lily took one as well. “Don’t answer that. You probably can’t say anything contractually until your exit episode screens.”

  “Fair assumption.” Lily licked a smear of pink icing from her thumb. “I’m shooting certain scenes tonight and tomorrow.”

  “Really. I don’t suppose Steve Warren is directing?”

  “I’m pretty sure he is.”

  “I filmed my first guest role with him, in my early twenties.” Margo chewed thoughtfully. “Is it a closed set? I don’t suppose I could tag along?”

  It was a closed set, due to the “secrecy” of her departure, which had been pretty widely guessed since fans of the show knew she would be performing a heavy West End schedule for the next six months, but Margo had probably had open access anywhere she wanted to go for at least ten years.

  “Do you want me to ask?”

  “Would you?”

  Unsurprisingly, Lily got the go-ahead to bring the famous film star to work with her. When they arrived at the CTV studio late that afternoon, accompanied by Margo’s walking mountain of a bodyguard, the assistant who brought the confidentiality form for Margo to sign was humbly apologetic. Margo gave her triangular sphinx smile and signed both the form and an autograph.

  Shooting Lily a mischievous look, she murmured, “I’m going to quite enjoy the regal persona for the next few months. I just finished playing a Roman slave. My husband is going to find things a little different on the home front with this character.”

  It kind of figured that Margo would be an extreme method actor.

  When he spotted her, irascible Steve Warren fawned all over his most successful protégée. After that disturbing sight, it was a relief when Ash was his usual, unfazed self.

  “Is this the new status symbol? The next step up from a Chanel bag?” he teased as they stood off-set, waiting for the production team to give the all-clear. “Just tote a BAFTA winner around with you?”

  “Apparently she used to work with Steve and wanted to say hello.”

  “Strange woman.”

  “I really don’t think he purposely gave you a triple chin.”

  Ash scowled. “People keep screenshotting it on Twitter. I’m a fucking meme.”

  “Hang in there. You get to show off your muscles today. Although why Edward is walking around shirtless on a Sunday afternoon when the house is full of elderly parishioners…”

  Ash flexed his shoulders and pecs. “A little post-sermon treat for them.”

  “I think I’d rather have the jam and scones, myself.”

  They were filming the scenes out of order, so her emotional final sex scene and argument with Chris Blakely, who played the duke, was tomorrow. Today was the discovery of her body by Ash. The script had changed, which she should have suspected, to avoid any spoilers leaking to the public. The garter-belt strangling had been scrapped; she was now going to drown in an enormous vat of champagne. It seemed massively unlikely that the Victorian-minded duchess would order a literal tank of champagne for a church fête, but whatever. Lily wasn’t paid to critique the writing.

  The crew had erected a glass diving tank, filled it with water, and tinted it with pink dye that would show up as a muted gold on screen. They were doing alarming things with ropes and pulleys. She couldn’t help feeling that one of the people she’d pissed off in Head Office had really enjoyed coming up with this. Legally, they had to provide a body double for anything that could end in an insurance claim, but she was going to have to be underwater for at least a few seconds. She’d once had to shoot a pond scene where they’d used green dye and it had clung to the fine hairs on her arms. For three full days, her skin had looked like mouldy bread. Hopefully the pink residue would just look like a heat rash.

  Nobody had bothered to heat the water, she discovered when she was lowered into the tank on the end of a pulley, like a giant hooked salmon. It had probably been tepid half an hour ago. In the December air, it had turned freezing.

  They also hadn’t anticipated that the pump in the bottom of the tank would cause her dress to fly up over her head the moment she was submerged. The silky fabric clung to her face and blinded her in sequinned green. It happened so quickly; suddenly, she couldn’t see, hear or breathe, and her body instinctively jerked. Her leg dislodged the clear tube that was providing gentle streams of bubbles and it wrapped around her ankle.

  Outside the tank, people were shouting; she heard the muted echo under the water. It was probably less than thirty seconds before somebody was in the water with her, knocking against her, hands touching her ankle, and her head broke the s
urface, but by that time she’d inhaled several gulps of water.

  Every time she coughed and sucked in a breath, she got a mouthful of wet silk. And she still couldn’t see.

  Her brain stuck on a revolving chorus of getitoffgetitoffgetitoff.

  Strong arms pulled her clear of the tank, and someone finally unwound the sodden dress and dragged it off. She was lowered to the ground, where she sat shivering in the period-appropriate and now totally see-through cami-knickers.

  “Jesus Christ.” Steve’s moustache filled her stinging vision, and she scrubbed at her eyes. Her hands came away tinged with pink. “Are you all right?” He didn’t wait for her to answer, but turned to roar at someone, “What’s happened to the fucking medic? And why the fuck didn’t you do a test shot with the dress?”

  An arm came around her. She looked up at Ash. As her mind started to clear from the rush of adrenaline, she wasn’t sure which of them was shaking.

  “Fuck,” he said. It seemed to be the shared reaction. “You okay?”

  She looked down at her unnaturally pink palms again. “Yeah. I think so.”

  He took the thermal blanket someone brought out and wrapped it around her, then refused to move while the set medic took her vital signs and listened to her lungs as she coughed.

  Lily eventually became aware of Margo hovering nearby, eyes anxious, voice exasperated as she spoke into her phone. “I don’t know what happened, Luc. I was outside in the hallway. Writing down your vitally important schedule.” She lowered the phone to speak to Lily. “Are you all right, Lily?”

  She could hear Luc’s muffled voice. She couldn’t make out the words, but the sharp urgency came through the speaker.

  “Yes.” She was starting to feel more embarrassed than shaky, which was probably a good sign.

  Not only had she writhed around in a giant fish tank and granny panties in front of the entire crew, they’d recorded the whole thing.

  “She said she’s okay, Luc.” Margo sounded even more harassed. “Yes, she’s talking. And breathing. She seems fine now.” Sarcastically, she added, “I don’t think you need to worry about recasting Elizabeth as well.”