by Lucy Parker
Richard touched Lainie’s lower back to nudge her in the direction of the doors, seemingly itching to get out of there, but before they were swallowed by a sea of silk and diamonds, he turned back. “I wouldn’t expect a rave review from Byrne’s paper unless you justifiably snap after tech week and beat Savage senseless with your curtain call roses, but you wouldn’t have scored principal billing if you weren’t capable.” A faint smile appeared in his eyes. “Personally, I’d rather decapitate myself with a blunt teaspoon than work with Savage again, but he knows what he’s doing. And he’s more businessman than artist. He thinks and acts with the success of the production in mind.”
So people kept telling her.
Richard tucked his wife’s hand through the crook of his elbow. “Prove them wrong. It’s always more entertaining to win over the sceptics than to come in as crowd favourite. And one tip: play to the public, not the critics. They’ve paid a lot of money, they’re out for a good time, and once that curtain is up and they’re caught in the plot, most of them will be backing you.”
Lily watched them leave, a little wistfully. Their minds were clearly moving to the night ahead; they were so engrossed in one another that they didn’t notice cameras turning in their direction, recording intimate glances and lingering touches.
Finding somewhere to stash her glass, she went to join the queue for the bathroom. When she’d washed her hands, she came back out into the plush hallway and paused beside a statue of Apollo to adjust a loose strap on her shoe. Snatches of laughter and joking conversation drifted around the corner from the men’s room.
“…bit out of character for Savage.”
“Hell, what’s the point in having your own theatre if you can’t install a few little treats for yourself?”
“She can audition for me anytime she likes. Lucky bastard.”
She remained hunched over her foot for a second, then straightened and shook out her skirt. Leaning beside the wall sconce, she exchanged stares with stone Apollo. “You’re the god of the plague. Think you can manage a ninety-degree angle with one of those arrows?”
*
Luc stood in front of the fireplace, watching Lily wander restlessly around his lounge. She stroked the spine of a novel in one of the inbuilt bookshelves that lined the walls before moving on to touch the wooden frame of a landscape. She’d already done a rapid circuit of the entire ground floor, drunk the cup of peppermint tea he’d given her, and turned on the TV.
She offered him a poor attempt at a smile. “If this was my house, I don’t think I’d ever go out.”
“Shame about those annoying things like food and mortgages and vitamin D,” he agreed, and stepped out of the way to let her pace past him.
He could imagine this being her house. He could imagine waking up every morning in her mews flat. The fact that he could clearly imagine both of those things was either a sign that the mammoth task of getting the QA up and running had tipped him over the edge, or—
She rounded the coffee table on her next circuit and didn’t see the footstool. He jerked forward and caught her before she smacked her head on the corner of the table, twisting so that they both landed on the couch. The fall knocked the wind out of her; she wheezed and accidentally caught him in the ribs with her elbow.
Or he was in love with her.
She was too young for him, she was contracted to his company, she was probably going to knock him unconscious at some point, and he was completely in love with her. He’d known in the hospital, when he’d been sitting in the empty waiting room, listening to the muted footsteps in the corridor, trying to keep an iron fist around his mind, and he’d looked up to see her standing there. Looking edgy and uncomfortable, and like his only source of comfort. The realisation hadn’t knocked him sideways in the best dramatic tradition. It had just slotted neatly into place, a sense of recognition, acknowledging it at last.
If he followed the playbook, and in most of his friends’ footsteps, he was now supposed to see his recently regained single life bowing out for good and run like hell in the opposite direction.
He’d actually missed her when he’d been caught up at the theatre this evening, for only a couple of hours. She made him happier than he’d been in a long time. Ever, maybe. He liked his life—and his own company—a hell of a lot more when she was in it. He was done running away from this.
Lily, however, looked as if one false move—or one more run-in with the ugly side of the press—would see her bolting towards Heathrow.
It had always been in his nature to push for what he wanted—and he’d never wanted anything as badly as he wanted her. This was the first time he was so wary about pushing too far, too fast, that he was holding back. He was fighting his own instincts.
He also had a company of people whose immediate livelihood depended on a solid opening, so on a purely practical level, he really couldn’t afford to send one of his principals into an emotional tailspin this close to curtain.
She was a very good actor on the stage, but when she wasn’t reading from a script, every movement and every word that came out of her mouth seemed to stem from instinct. Occasionally with unfortunate results. He saw the way she looked at him, and the way she reacted when she thought he was hurting. And her aversion to the outside circumstances bordered on the obsessive, so he doubted if she would have set foot in his house if she weren’t invested.
But life wasn’t a film. Problems didn’t disappear and “The End” wasn’t emblazoned across a lingering embrace the moment people succumbed to the inevitable and found the right moment to verbalise it.
He wasn’t thrilled about the increased media attention on anything except the play, but he found it a lot easier to ignore than Lily did. He did understand, to an extent, why she was struggling. If their relationship affected anyone’s career, it was likely to be hers. He was more established than she was, and there was a double standard to contend with.
He doubted if his own attitude towards her before they’d met had helped.
Despite that, she was blowing it out of proportion. She was stealing scenes from Freddy at every rehearsal and steadily climbing her way to secondary lead status. If she held out through tech week and put in the opening night performance he expected, she was extremely likely to secure another role in the West End after the run ended.
She kept reading all the bullshit she should be ignoring by now, and he didn’t think that was the only thing bothering her.
She still lay sprawled half under him. When she’d reinflated her lungs, he propped his arm against the back of the couch so he could see her face. “Did something happen tonight that I should know about? Because you’re never the most restful person, but you were a little…overly cheerful at the Savoy for someone who was drinking fruit juice, and ever since we got back you’ve been acting like you’re in a dentist’s waiting room.”
She pinched the end of her nose. “Not exactly. You missed seeing Richard Troy and Lainie Graham.”
“Reason to be grateful to my contractor after all.”
“I like Lainie.”
“I was referring to the only actor who made directing Bridget Barclay seem like a holiday in Bora Bora, not the unfortunate woman who has to live with him.”
“Richard seemed nice enough, in a brusque way. And at least he never broke his contract.”
“If Troy had quit, I wouldn’t have sued. I would have broken out the party poppers.”
There was a short silence.
“You also missed the encounter with the editor of London Celebrity, which was probably fortunate for all concerned.”
He’d been tracing his fingers up and down the length of her thigh, but at that, his hand flattened and his grip tightened. “Zach Byrne was there?”
“He was there, he’d had a bit too much to drink and he was very—Hamlet.”
He realised he was squeezing her leg and relaxed his hold with a murmured apology. “I’m guessing the conversation centred around the main reason I wasn
’t on his Christmas card list.”
“Yes, it did.” Lily pushed up on her elbows. “It maybe should have come up in an earlier, private conversation? I’ve never exactly been popular with sites like London Celebrity, but things have been getting a little intense in that corner.”
“Gutter would be a more appropriate word. There’s a lot of useful, occasionally even responsible reporting in this country. Then there’s London Celebrity, which was absolute trash even before Byrne started using it as a personal hit list.” Luc sat up. “I ought to have talked to you about my grandfather.” He watched her closely. “To be honest, I’m surprised you didn’t know. You’re usually impressively well informed. Jack certainly knows. He’s been needling my father about Johnny for years. And you spend so much time reading that garbage I assumed you would be aware who’s slinging most of the mud.”
Lily dragged her tangled hair back and held it in a ponytail. “Was that you making a very subtle point?”
He couldn’t completely repress his frustration. “The point is, stop reading the bloody tabloids.”
“It’s probably a little easier to ignore when, with one exception, you’re starting to get just the faintest hint of a pat on the back, while I look like an opportunistic homewrecker who’s sleeping her way up the ladder.”
“I’m aware of the double standard. And before you say anything, in no way condoning it.”
She opened her mouth to retort, but suddenly sighed and covered her face with her hands. Bringing up her knees, she rested her head against them, her loosened hair falling forward. She was quiet for almost a minute before she raised her head. “Sorry.”
Luc moved his arm, sliding it beneath her legs, and scooped her into his lap. He wove his fingers through her hair, feeling the silky texture. “So am I. I didn’t mean to snap.”
“I don’t want to argue with you.” Lily tugged his tie loose and his top button open. “I especially don’t want to argue with you over Zach Byrne.” To the hairs on his chest, she said, “It’s just—a blur at the moment. Everything’s changed so much in such a short time that I’m still trying to work out where I am now.”
He found a tight knot in her neck and moved his thumb in massaging circles. “If you figure it out, clue me in. I could use a few directions myself.”
“Ironic.”
“Incorrigible.”
“Are you planning to do anything about Byrne?”
“Dad and I have both offered the family financial compensation at different times. Byrne is far too bitter to accept it. I understand why; Johnny’s behaviour towards Alan Byrne was atrocious. It’s a case of too little, too late where money is concerned—and hell, I wouldn’t have touched Johnny’s bank accounts, even if he’d left anything in them, so I don’t blame Byrne for rejecting what he wants to believe are Johnny’s dirty profits. It’s the way he’s choosing to vent his anger that’s the problem.”
“Are you going to take legal action?”
“If it gets any worse where you’re concerned, yes. Although even if we won a case against him, there are countless ways to insinuate without crossing the line into actual slander, so…”
“So, basically, as long as he’s editor, his paper is going to continue painting you in the worst possible light.”
“And dragging you down with me? Pretty much.”
“Great.” She shifted on his lap and their combined weight bumped the remote control she’d left on the cushions. The muted volume came back on, loudly. Broadcasting a familiar voice. “Shit.”
She grabbed for the remote and aimed it at Knightsbridge, and he swiped it from her hand and held it out of reach.
“Luc,” real-life Lily said at the same time her screen character made a sort of purring noise and slunk up the aisle of a church. “Change the channel.”
“I’m making amends. I made snap judgements about your work on this show without a fair trial.”
“Seriously, change the channel.”
He curved his hand around her forehead, holding her back as she tried to make another grab for the remote. “I’ve told you repeatedly that you need to have more confidence. Even if you think something was shit, you can’t say that. Own your work.” He watched the screen over her squirming. Screen-Lily was talking to the co-star he recognised from that fucking awful day at CTV.
“And I heard you. Self-confidence. More power to me. Swell.” Lily looked at the scene again and groaned. “But I remember this episode very clearly and in about fifteen seconds that suspender belt is coming off. What happens next barely made it past the censor board. I do not want to watch my fake orgasms with the man who’s providing me with real ones, and I really don’t think you want to see that either.”
“I’ve directed a sex scene or two throughout the past couple of decades. I do get the difference between fiction and reality.”
“Is that right?”
“That I understand the concept of acting? Yeah, I think I’ve just about got it down.”
Lily raised her hands in surrender. “Okay.”
They watched in silence, until Luc said scathingly, “A baptismal font? Sacrilegious and uncomfortable. Neil Forrester’s writing?”
“I think so.”
On screen, her co-star shoved his hands beneath her sequinned dress and tore it open. The bastard lowered his mouth to her breast.
Luc lowered the remote and switched to the weather channel.
Lily twisted in his lap to look at him.
“I need to make sure it’s not going to snow tomorrow. The schedule is packed.”
“I told you it would be weird.”
In bed, in the early hours of the morning when they should have been asleep and were emphatically not, he settled his body more comfortably on hers, enjoying the softness and warmth of her and the slick glide of their skin. Her thighs gripped his sides; he could feel the glancing touch of her feet against his legs.
Her heels pulled up and dug in when he slowed his thrusts and angled deeper, and her broken breath fanned the side of his neck. Against the chaos they’d made of the sheets, their entwined fingers gripped tighter.
He freed one hand to trace down over her breast and ribs, relearning the silky curves of her hip and stomach, brushing against himself as he found her with his thumb. She jerked the hand that was still linked with his, sliding their arms up towards the scattered pillows, and arched beneath him. He was rapidly becoming addicted to the sounds she made.
When she finally shuddered and clamped down on him, he groaned and ground his hips into hers, searching out her mouth with his. She kissed him back, sliding both arms around him, her short nails digging into his shoulder blades as the tension in his body locked ferociously and his brain went into blinding white stasis, registering nothing but extreme pleasure.
They lay in a tangled, breathless, sweaty heap, his lips nuzzling at her ear, his body a dead weight on hers. He was half-aware that he was crushing her into the bed, but couldn’t gather the energy to move until her legs loosened their grip and went slack around his hips. When his heart stopped trying to shove forcibly through his chest, he shifted to her side.
Gently, he rubbed his knuckles over her arm, playing with her fingers, lifting them to his mouth. “You can talk to me, you know,” he murmured, and felt a hint of tension return to her body.
“I think the dirty talk usually comes a bit earlier in the proceedings. But if you’re that set on it, give me a second. I think I forgot how to make a sentence even before you rolled me into the headboard.” She stretched, sweeping her sweat-dampened hair away from her neck. “Sexy. You. Fuck. Huge. Harder. Me.”
He couldn’t help smiling. “Lily.”
The forced lightness in her expression faded. She slid her hand from his shoulder to his chest, sending sensation shooting through him. “It’s just—so easy when I’m with you. And then I remember that other people and other things exist, and it all gets a little more complicated.”
Luc studied her conflicted features. �
�Lily, did something else happen tonight?”
Her dark eyes met his.
After a brief hesitation, she shook her head, and when she tugged him down to kiss him again, he tried to ignore the trickle of unease that edged through his belly.
*
If the past few weeks had seemed like a blur, tech week was like being caught in The Wizard of Oz tornado, with people and props and sets flying about her in a whirlwind. Lily stood in the wings, watching Luc and David slowly drive Freddy and Dylan demented, making one scene adjustment after another. Every day, the play evolved into something a little bit different, a little bit better. Sometimes significantly worse, then they backtracked and tried a different approach. It was exactly as Jocasta had predicted: fireworks from David, icicles from Luc. Backstage was chaotic, the dressing rooms were already a mess, and the construction crew was putting final touches on the foyer.
They were almost there.
Luc came offstage, clipboard in hand. He surveyed her from headpiece to buckled shoes, and she swept out her voluminous skirts and curtseyed.
“Practising for your standing ovation?”
“You think I’m going to get one?”
“If you turn in another performance like this morning, I’d say you’ve got a shot.” A small smile lit up his tired eyes. “You’re buzzing.”
“I love this.” She swished from side to side. “I feel like I just drank about sixteen shots of espresso. Who needs actual caffeine?”
“The stage bug is a lifelong disease.” His expression was torn between amusement and affection. “I’m glad to see you’re the type where the pressure translates into adrenaline, not a nervous breakdown. Long may it last.”
“And the vocals?”
“Marilyn has left the building.” He stepped back out of swatting reach of her fan, and sobered. “Seriously, I couldn’t have hoped for better. Jocasta was actually smiling this morning. You should be very proud.”
She felt a flush of warmth in her cheeks, the glow adding to the fizz of excitement in the pit of her stomach. “I am.” She gestured around them. “And look at this place.”
