by Lucy Parker
“Men in particular,” he went on, stating the loathsome truth, “are given a fair amount of leeway in the public eye. A certain reputation for devilry, a habit of thumbing one’s nose at the establishment, sowing one’s wild oats…” He paused, looking hard at her, and Lainie hoped that her facial expression read “listening.” As opposed to “nauseated.” He sounded like a 1950s summary of the ideal man’s man. Which had been despicably sexist sixty years ago and had not improved since.
“However,” Bob continued, and the word came down like a sledgehammer, “there is a line at which a likable bad boy becomes a nasty entitled bastard whom the public would rather see hung out to dry in the street than pay to watch prance about a stage in his bloomers. And when somebody starts abusing their fans, making an absolute arse of themselves in public places, and alienating the people who paid for their bloody Ferrari, they may consider that line crossed.”
Lainie wondered if an actual “Hallelujah” chorus had appeared in the doorway, or if it was just the sound of her own glee.
She still had no idea why she was the privileged audience to this character assassination, but she warmly appreciated it. Surely, though, they weren’t…
“Are you firing him?” Her voice squeaked as if she had uttered the most outrageous profanity. Voiced the great unspoken. The mere suggestion of firing Richard Troy was the theatrical equivalent of hollering “Voldemort!” in the halls of Hogwarts. He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Missed.
Still…
She wondered if it would be mean-spirited to cross her fingers.
Bob’s return look was disappointingly exasperated. “Of course we’re not firing him. It would cost an absolute bloody fortune to break his contract.”
“And I suggest you don’t attempt it.” Lynette sounded steely.
“Besides,” Bob said grudgingly, “nobody is denying that he’s a decent actor, when he confines his histrionics to the script.”
That was a typical Bob-ism. Pure understatement. Richard Troy had made the cover of Time magazine the previous year. The extravagantly handsome headshot had been accompanied by an article lauding him as a talent surpassing Olivier, and only two critics had been appalled.
“And if he conducted his outbursts with a bit of discretion,” Bob said, as if they were discussing a string of irregular liaisons, “then we wouldn’t be having this discussion. But Troy’s deplorable public image is beginning to affect ticket sales. The management is not pleased.”
Lainie couldn’t match his awe of a bunch of walking wallets in suits, but she echoed the general feeling of dismay. If the management weren’t pleased, Bob would make everyone else’s life an utter misery until their mood improved.
“I’m not sure what this has to do with me,” she said warily.
“If ticket sales are down, it’s everybody’s problem,” Lynette said pompously, and Pat looked at her impatiently.
“We need some good publicity for Richard.” She folded her arms and subjected Lainie to an intense scrutiny, which wavered into scepticism. “The general consensus is so overwhelmingly negative that he’s in danger of falling victim to a hate campaign in the press. People might flock to see a subject of scandal, but they won’t fork over hard-earned cash to watch someone they wholeheartedly despise. Not in this competitive market. At least not since it became socially unacceptable to heave rotten vegetables at the stage,” she added with a brief, taut smile.
Lainie allowed herself three seconds to fantasize about that.
“How badly have sales dropped?” she asked, wondering if she ought to be contacting her agent. She had a third audition lined up for a period drama that was due to begin shooting early next year, but if there was a chance the play might actually fold…
An internationally acclaimed West End production, brought down by Richard Troy’s foot-stamping sulks. Unbelievable.
“We’re down fourteen percent on last month,” Bob said, and she bit her lip. “We’re not going bust.” He sounded a bit put out at having to lessen his grievance. “It would take a pipe bomb as well as Richard’s presence onstage before there was any real threat of that. But we’ve had to paper the house four nights running this month, and we opened to a six-week waiting list. This play has another four months to run, and we want to end on a high. Not in a damp fizzle of insulted fans and critics.”
Lainie was silent for a moment. It was news to her that management were giving out free tickets in order to fill empty seats. “Well, excuse the stupidity, but I’m still not sure what you expect me to do about it. Ask him nicely to be a good boy and pull up his socks? Three guesses as to the outcome.”
The tension zapped back into her spine when Bob and Pat exchanged a glance.
Pat seemed to be debating her approach. Eventually, she commented almost casually, “Ticket sales at the Palladium have gone up ten percent in the last three months.”
Lainie snorted. “I know. Since Jack Trenton lost his last remaining brain cell after rehab and hooked up with Sadie Foster.”
Or, as she was affectionately known in the world of musical theatre, the She-Devil of Soho. Lainie had known Sadie since they were in their late teens. They had been at drama school together. She had been shortlisted against her for a role in a community theatre production of 42nd Street, and had found shards of broken glass in the toes of her tap shoes. Fortunately before she’d put them on.
She was so preoccupied with a short-lived trip down a murky memory lane that she missed the implication.
“Quite.” Pat’s left eyebrow rose behind the lens of her glasses. She was now leaning on the edge of Bob’s desk, her blunt, fuchsia-painted nails tapping a jaunty little medley on the surface. “And the only genuine buzz of excitement Richard has generated in the past month was when London Celebrity printed photos of the two of you attending the Bollinger party together.” She again stared at Lainie, as if she was examining her limb by limb in an attempt to discover her appeal, and was coming up short.
The penny had dropped. With the clattering, appalling clamour of an anvil.
Don’t miss ACT LIKE IT by Lucy Parker
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Copyright © 2015 by Laura Elliott
Author’s Note
Like several of the West End theaters in this book, Elisabetta Canali and her alter ego Edmund Cane are fictional. You won’t find the Canali necklace among London’s jewel collections—which might be fortunate!
Acknowledgments
To my editor, Deborah Nemeth, and the whole team at Carina Press: thank you so much for your support, patience and hard work.
To Hallie Sweet and Jennifer Margaret Holmes, the real-life speech therapists who put together a treatment plan for a fictional character: thank you for your time and expertise, and for taking on a fairly unusual brief without hesitation!
To my friends, whether I’ve known you for years or I’ve gotten to know you online: I’m surrounded by talent and humor and kindness, and you make everything better.
To my family: you’re always my strongest source of support and you get me through the tough times. I love you and I can’t thank you enough.
And to everyone who reads this book: thank you. It means more than I can say.
Also available from Lucy Parker
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Act Like It
About the Author
Lucy Parker lives in the gorgeous Central Otago region of New Zealand, where she feels lucky every day to look out at mountains, lakes and vineyards. She has a degree in art history, loves museums and art galleries, and doodles unrecognizable flowers when she has writer’s block.
When she’s not writing, working or sleeping, she happily tackles the towering pile of to-be-read books that never gets any smaller. Thankfully, there’s always another story waiting.
Her interest in romantic fiction began with a preteen viewing of Pride and Prejudice (Firth-style), whic
h prompted her to read the book, as well. A family friend introduced her to Georgette Heyer, and the rest was history.
She loves to talk to other readers and writers, and you can find her on Twitter, @_lucyparker, or on her website, www.lucyparkerfiction.com.
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ISBN-13: 9781488020131
Pretty Face
Copyright © 2017 by Laura Elliott
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