Pretty Face

by Lucy Parker

  A heavy bass beat shook the wall to their left, and Freddy’s head shot up. “That little fucker. He’s got my iPod again.” Leaning over, she thumped her fist against the panelling. “Waitely. For the last time—paws off!”

  “‘What is she but a foul contending rebel, and graceless traitor to her loving lord? I am ashamed that women are so simple.’” The quote from The Taming of the Shrew was muffled but audible.

  “Try Dogberry’s speech instead, dickwad,” Freddy snapped back through the wall. “‘Masters, remember that I am an ass; though it be not written down, yet forget not that I am an ass.’ It’s like Shakespeare knew you personally.” She rolled her eyes and tapped the wrapped parcel. “Too early to break out the alcohol?”

  “I’d say so.” Lily leaned towards the mirror to remove a ball of dried mascara from the end of her lashes. “But you can add my bottle to your stash later if you like. I’m still on a booze ban for the duration.”

  “Cruel and unusual punishment, but it’s working. Your vocals are solid.” Freddy studied her. “Although, I have to say—hair-wise, red is really not your colour. It’s like Wilma Flintstone just discovered static electricity. Is this the least attractive you’ve ever looked?”

  Lily grinned and turned away from the mirror. “I have a long track record of falling off curbs, down stairs and out of bed. When your cheekbone swells right over your eyelid and your bottom lip is hanging past your chin—that’s tough competition.”

  Margo made a startled sound. “Damn. That reminds me, I have to double-check the first scene amendment with David. What time is it?” She twisted to see the clock. “Shit. Shit, shit. See you both up there.”

  She hoisted up her skirts and went sideways through the door, almost colliding with a group of laughing soldiers on their way to the wings.

  Freddy blinked. “Which part of the droopy-lipped Cyclops image reminded her she had to speak to David?” She stood up and accidentally knocked the yellow roses with her elbow. “Oops. Sorry.” She caught them before they fell. “Gorgeous. Luc has a great florist.”

  Lily tore her eyes from the battered copy of the script that had been lying abandoned on her table for several days now. All of a sudden, her brain was convinced that she’d forgotten every word that was printed in it. “Mmm? Oh. No, the red ones are from Luc.”

  “Really?” Freddy turned, looking wickedly delighted. “How about that?”

  “What?” A slight blush was warming her cheeks already. Whenever Freddy produced that expression, an embarrassing remark was likely to follow.

  “Luc has a routine when it comes to gifts. He always gives the principal cast yellow roses. Even when he directed Margo during their relationship: yellow roses.” Thoughtfully, Freddy cupped a red bloom between two fingers. “And he gave you red ones. Beautiful, glossy, crimson red.” She brought the flower to her nose. Her lips were twitching. “How very interesting.”

  Clearing her throat, Lily got up and reached for the card on the yellow roses, looking for a distraction. She ripped open the small envelope. “These are from my dad. He’s—” The rest of the words fell away as she read the short note.

  Looking down at the short, apologetic sentences written by a stranger’s hand, she felt almost distant as she separated out her emotions in that moment, examining each one. Disappointment. Resignation. Very little surprise.

  Freddy poked the rose back into the bouquet and looked at her with concern. “Problem?”

  Carefully, Lily slipped the card back into the envelope and smoothed the torn edges. She tucked it back under the gold ribbon that encircled the wrapped stems. “Not exactly. My father’s had to fly to the States on business.”

  “He’s missing your debut?”

  “Well, my friend Ash is planning to illegally film the whole thing on his phone, so I guess he can catch the low-res replay.”

  Freddy ignored the blithe words. Her voice remained serious and her eyes sympathetic. “Sorry.”

  Lily shook off the simmering disappointment. “So is he. Very. But a lot of people are relying on him. Business comes first.”

  “Still sucks.”

  “Yeah.” She found her hand playing with the corner of Luc’s card again. “It does a bit.”

  Her phone started vibrating on the table, which reminded her that she needed to turn it off.

  “I need to start my vocal warm-up.” Freddy squeezed Lily’s arm and winked. “See you in the sixteenth century.”

  Lily reached for her phone. She was about to switch it off when she saw the number of the incoming call. She recognised that number. It contained several repetitions of the numeral six that she’d always found ironically appropriate.

  Her stomach twisted.

  *

  “Safety checks complete, sets in place, props accounted for, all teams on standby, front of house running like clockwork, every influential critic in the city has been spotted circling the foyer, and no reports of nervous breakdowns in the dressing rooms.” David paused for breath, standing by Luc as they both surveyed the final activity on the stage. There was a ruddy flush of exhilaration under his skin. Thousands of people were finding their seats in the stalls beyond, their combined voices and rustling coats and possessions rising into a droning hum. “I think we may yet do this thing.” He turned and extended his hand. “Congratulations, mate.”

  Luc clasped David’s hand. “Very much a combined effort. And in a couple of hours, I won’t have the slightest hesitation in passing this one into your care—lock, stock, barrel and Waitely.”

  “When do you start pre-production for the autumn season?”

  “Monday.”

  “The conveyor belt begins.”

  “For the sake of my mortgage, long may it continue.”

  David stroked his chin. “So Waitely’s all mine, huh?”

  “Every job has its ugly side.”

  “David.” Margo squeezed past a couple of grips, holding her heavy skirts above her knees to keep the hems from dragging on the floor.

  “If you’ve contracted some sort of illness,” David said uncompromisingly, “it had better not be contagious. Because as long as you’re conscious, you’re going on that stage.”

  Margo held up a torn-about, sketched-over piece of paper. “I need you to clarify the final amendments to the Tower monologue.”

  A stagehand walked past, hissing, “Twenty minutes.”

  “Luc.” It was Amelia this time, and at the unusual grimness in her tone, David and Margo broke off their hurried conference.

  Luc looked into Amelia’s eyes and a jolt of apprehension went right down his spine. There was a certain highly specific expression that nobody ever wanted to see in the face of someone speaking their name. His response came out in a clipped staccato. “Is it my mother?” She’d been in her usual form this afternoon, sitting on his father’s lap and issuing a stream of complaints that she was going to miss the opening, but—

  “No. It’s Lily’s father.”

  For a split second, the tension in his body began to drain; it immediately racketed back. “Jack? What’s happened to him?”

  “He’s had a stroke.”

  His mind levelled out and went completely blank. Then, flatly, he said, “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “Hudson Warner just rang. He can’t get through to Lily’s phone.”

  “No. I told her to keep it off until after the performance.” He felt as if he’d gone on autopilot.

  “He’s still on the line,” Amelia said. “And he wants to speak to you. I’ve transferred the call to the props office.”

  Adrenaline started to kick-start Luc’s brain again. “Fuck.” He bit the word out. It was the only venting of emotion he could allow himself. “Which hospital is he in?”

  “He’s—”

  He didn’t even let her finish; he was functioning on instinct and there was only one possible course of action. “Alert Kirsten,” he said sharply to David. “Quickly. Tell her she’s going on tonight.”<
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  “Luc—”

  “We’re opening with an understudy?” David looked horrified. “On press night?”

  “We don’t have a bloody choice. And you’re in charge as of now.”

  “What? Where are you—”

  “I’m taking Lily to the hospital.” He ran through a rapid-fire mental checklist. “You’ll have to change Elizabeth’s first cue in the second act. Kirsten’s repeatedly had trouble with it in rehearsal; we’ll play it safe. Let Magalie and the wardrobe team know. Padma—” He spoke to the hovering, wide-eyed assistant. “Has Kirsten been through hair and makeup?” The answer had better fucking well be yes. He’d run a policy of full understudy preparation for years, ever since one of his Lady Macbeths had come down with violent food poisoning during intermission. He’d rather keep the understudies on a higher pay grade than issue mass refunds of tickets.

  “Uh, yes. Yes, she has,” Padma stammered.

  Margo was looking between them with worried eyes. “Luc. You can’t leave. There’s an audience out there full of investors and critics and press who are expecting you to be here. You have to be here.”

  “My active role in this production ends after tonight.”

  “Yes. After tonight.” Margo was obviously juggling concern and utter disbelief. “You’re expected to be here. We need you here.”

  The words came from the very heart of him. “Lily will need me more.”

  “Luc—” Amelia tried again.

  Margo’s eyes held his, and finally, he saw the glitter of recognition and resignation. “I see.” There was a wealth of meaning in the words. She added softly, “And you need to be with her.”

  It was as if a final door was closing between them, a sort of mutual silent apology for everything they had never been to each other.

  “Yes,” he said. “I need to be with her.”

  “Luc.” Amelia finally broke through with sheer exasperation. “Luc. He’s dead.”

  He was very aware of his own heartbeat in that instant. “What?”

  She visibly swallowed. “It happened about an hour ago. He was on a flight to Chicago. There was a doctor on board who did everything she could, but apparently he died within minutes. They couldn’t resuscitate him.” She hesitated. “He was a fairly elderly man…”

  “Where is he now?”

  “Luc, he’s gone.”

  “His body.” His voice was terse and impatient, and he took a deep breath. “Where have they taken Jack’s body?”

  “They landed in Chicago about twenty minutes ago. Warner’s making arrangements to have his body returned to London on the next available flight.”

  “Luc.” David gestured at the clock. “I’m very sorry to hear about this, but there are two thousand people out there expecting to see a play that’s been hyped into the stratosphere, and the curtain is due to go up in fifteen minutes. If we’re making changes, we need to make them now. Am I alerting Kirsten?”

  Luc stood in silence, breathing slowly in and out, trying to clamp down on his racing mind. She would be shattered. However fragmented her relationship with Jack was, it would devastate her. The cracks in their history could make the loss even more difficult to bear.

  And if he did this… If he did this, she would be furious. Absolutely, justifiably furious. He bowed his head, debating, second-guessing his decision. At last—”No.”

  “No?” Amelia repeated. “But—”

  He spoke through the knot of tension in his stomach. “There’s nothing Lily can do, and nobody she needs to support. Her mother’s out of the country as well.” She had slipped that piece of news in over breakfast, and tried to pretend that it hadn’t bothered her. “And she’s not close to her father’s wife. It’ll be hours before the return flight touches down. She can’t even go to—sit with him yet. This is her shot. If she doesn’t appear for the press tonight, she’s out of the reviews, she’s probably out of contention for casting negotiation with other theatres. All the hard work, almost none of the payoff.” Harshly, he made the call. “Don’t tell her.”

  “Luc…” Amelia was shaking her head, but Margo nodded.

  “If there’s nothing she can do right now, all you’re doing is sabotaging her future. And we can’t open this level of production with an understudy. It’ll undermine everyone’s performance.”

  Luc shot her a look, then addressed David, Amelia and Padma. “She’s not told until later. I want that order down the line. Jack Lamprey is a public figure.” He clenched his jaw. “Was a public figure. If this isn’t out in the media already, it’s only a matter of time. I want Lily kept in a bubble tonight. This news does not reach her. Is that clear?”

  David and Padma nodded, but Amelia frowned. “Are you sure about this, Luc? It’s her dad. She has a right to know.”

  “Whatever happens onstage, her night is going to end in pain and grief. She should at least have this.”

  Amelia took a deep breath. “Okay. I’ll put the word out quietly. You’ll tell her? After?”

  “Yes. I’ll tell her.” Luc balled his right hand into a loose fist. Keeping this from Lily, acting behind her back on such an intensely personal matter, was a physical crawling sensation on his skin. It was a betrayal at a fundamental level, but the only thing he could protect now was her career. Her performance tonight would go a long way towards silencing the worst of the industry prejudice. Her career was important to her; it might seem like nothing for a while when she heard about her father, but eventually it would matter to her.

  Maria rounded the corner from the back offices in a clatter of heels. “I just heard. Tell me we’re not opening with Kirsten.”

  “Lily doesn’t know,” Amelia said. “And she won’t know until after the show.”

  Maria’s eyes narrowed. “It’s out in the press. People will assume she knows.” It was as if she had a PR machine tattooed on her forehead; Luc could almost see her inputting the facts and clanking out possible outcomes. “Still works. We can spin the public sympathy vote. Strong work ethic. The show must go on. Kept a stiff upper lip and rocked it anyway. I can use this. No show tomorrow, thank God. We’ll have to think about next week. Might be best to pull her for five or six performances. There’s a line between brave and callous that you don’t want to straddle.”

  Rolling his eyes, Luc turned away. “I need to speak to Warner, get the facts, ask him not to break the news to Lily. Props office?”

  Amelia nodded. As he walked past her, she caught his arm. “Luc,” she murmured, “I don’t think Lily’s going to thank you for this.”

  He was damn sure she wouldn’t.

  *

  Lily could only think of one reason why Dan St. James would be calling her, tonight of all nights, and her heart was a heavy thump against her ribs when she answered. “What? What’s wrong with Trix?”

  Trix ought to be backstage at the Old Wellington right now, and Lily couldn’t imagine why she would be with Dan under any circumstances, but—

  Dan’s voice was smooth and deep. “Ah. A question with many possible answers.”

  She curled her fingers tighter into her throat for support. “Has something happened to Trix?”

  “Trix?” he repeated blandly. “No. Why? Has she been talking about me?”

  The dissipating rush of anxiety left her with unsteady legs and emerging anger. “Why are you calling me?”

  “Call it a peace offering of sorts. I heard the news and wanted to express my condolences personally. I’m sure you had all sorts of hopes about tonight—”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  There was a small pause. When he spoke again, she could hear the fizz of surprise behind the malice. “Your father, of course.”

  For long seconds, she physically felt as if the costume was strangling her. Her nails dug into soft skin under the ruff.

  “It sounds as if it was very quick, at least—”

  With shaking hands, she ended the call. Fumbling, she brought up a web browser an
d ran a news search, hoping, hoping…God…

  The top results almost cut her off at the knees.

  She was trembling so badly that she clicked on the wrong link at first, had to backtrack to the ones that said her dad was dead.

  She read a paragraph, two, three—and had to drop the phone and press her forehead against the edge of the table. She took a deep breath, and another, swallowing down on the ball of nausea.

  She wasn’t sure how long it was before she straightened and picked up the phone, selected her contacts list and scrolled until she found Hudson Warner’s number. He was supposed to be in Chicago with Jack.

  She closed her eyes when he answered. “Hud?”

  “Lily.” Hudson’s voice was thick with suppressed emotion. “Did you get my flowers? I’m sorry again that I can’t be there toni—”

  “Hudson.”

  He broke off the stream of unconvincing pleasantries. “Oh, hell. You know.”

  She couldn’t speak. When she got words out, they cracked, all of her training shot. “It’s true, then.”

  “It’s true, pet. I’m sorry.” Hudson cleared his throat several times. “It was very quick, Lily. Seconds. He didn’t suffer. I swear to God.”

  “Is he—” She pressed her palm over her face. Oh God, she wanted Luc. She’d never wanted anyone’s arms so badly in her life. “Where is—”

  “He’s here with me in Chicago. I’ve arranged for his…I’ve arranged a return flight. He’ll be home by tomorrow night.”

  No. He wouldn’t. He’d never be home again.

  A heavy knock on her door was followed by the shout of: “Ten minutes, Lily!”

  “Was that your stage call?” Hudson asked, startled. “I thought Savage must have decided to break the news and take you out of tonight’s show after all. Are you sure you’re up to this? I don’t think anyone would expect you to—”

  She was existing in a strange, cold bubble where reality couldn’t quite penetrate. The meaning of those statements didn’t immediately register. When it sank in, it was as if frozen fingers slipped around her heart and closed tight.