The Austen Playbook

by Lucy Parker

  “I see the financial potential in the game. How exactly is that going to translate to a theatre adaptation?”

  “One of the investors in the game is a bigwig TV executive and he’s negotiated a deal to broadcast a live, audience-interactive performance of an adapted script.” Charlie started flinging his hands about. Griff had noticed a correlation between the energy of his brother’s hand gestures and the spectacular failure of his money-making ideas. Fortunately, the stream of unsuccessful enterprises never seemed to make the smallest chip in his self-esteem.

  “Audience-interactive,” he repeated with foreboding.

  “The script contains multiple versions of scenes, and the audience will be able to vote through the network app on which direction the play takes as the performance goes on. So the cast will be ready with, say, three different versions of Act Two, Scene 1. And several potential endings.” Charlie shoved his hands through his red hair. “It’ll be fucking brilliant.”

  It sounded like it would be a fucking disaster.

  “Who’s done the script?”

  “They managed to pull Steve Lemmon for it.”

  “Managed” to pull. Lemmon would probably have given the production team a lap dance to land the gig. Griff wouldn’t hire him to write out the phone book, let alone trust him with an overly complicated, technology-dependent production. On live TV.

  “And where does The Henry come into it, exactly?”

  “Country-house setting, actually staged at a historic country estate. The studio ate it up. We have the facilities here to house the core cast during the rehearsal period, which, by the way, they’ll pay us extra for. And there’s enough accommodation in the village for the crew.” Griff could see it coming even before Charlie added, “This might be just the beginning. Letting visitors tour the grounds in summer brings in a pittance, but hiring out The Henry, even parts of the main house, could be a potential goldmine. No more worries about how to fund the upkeep. It’ll pay for itself at last.”

  His eyes were dreamy as his mind wandered off into that rosy future, where the estate wasn’t a crumbling, fund-draining millstone around their necks, and pigs flew over the heads of frolicking unicorns.

  “If I could just pull you back to reality for a moment,” Griff said tensely, “tell me you haven’t actually signed that contract yet.”

  Charlie shuffled one foot. “They were on a tight deadline.”

  Griff closed his eyes briefly, and then held out his hand for the contract. He turned over the first page.

  “It’ll bring in a decent whack of cash,” Charlie insisted, apparently not seeing even one of the pitfalls in this situation. What else was new.

  “What if the public don’t vote? What if the app fails? What if the actors crumble under the enormous pressure of having to learn twelve times as many scenes as an average script and perform on a minute’s notice?” Griff’s eyes narrowed when he saw the way Charlie was looking at him. It suggested more incoming information that he wouldn’t like.

  “In order of your concerns: They will. It won’t. And they won’t. They’re professionals,” his brother said optimistically.

  Pretty obvious which of them didn’t regularly sit through plays that made being stuck in London traffic jams seem like a comparatively organised and enjoyable experience.

  “It could have side benefits where your career is concerned, too.”

  Griff managed, with a lot of effort, not to respond to that one. A script based on a video game, adapted by a gin-soaked has-been. Exactly the professional association he needed. How to lose all bargaining power in one catastrophic, very public flop.

  “If you’re planning to use The Henry in your film, you’ll get to see it in action first, for a show that’s going to be hyped to the max. Living inspiration.”

  Griff continued to leaf through the contract. A muscle started to tic under his mouth.

  “And,” Charlie said, with the air of producing his ace, “to tart up the theatre for its small-screen debut, the TV network is prepared to foot the renovation bill.”

  His hand stilling on the papers, Griff lifted his gaze to his brother’s face, and Charlie’s lips started to curve as he scented victory.

  Although he’d never mastered the skill of quitting while he was ahead.

  With a note of suppressed laughter, he added, “And if all else fails, it means a couple of weeks under the same roof as all the people whose work you’ve ripped to shreds in the Post. Even if the bonnets and murder and shit is a total snooze—” he grinned outright “—the possibilities for entertainment are endless.”

  * * *

  “Lydia Bennet?” Freddy stopped trying to pull the hem of her jumper over her knees and leaned forward. Her talent agency’s office was always cold, and she tended to leave these meetings with another booking she didn’t want, so she usually dreaded coming.

  However, it seemed to be a day for unexpected plot twists.

  “It should be a dream role for you.” Lisa, her agent, was turning a pen over and over between her fingers as she studied Freddy.

  Lydia Bennet, Pride and Prejudice’s archetypal bratty little sister, who had dismal taste in men and wreaked havoc on all around her.

  “If you’re suggesting a temperamental similarity, I’m not overly flattered.”

  “You’re an Austen fan, and The Austen Playbook is straight romantic comedy and cosy mystery, right up your street. This production is already raising a huge amount of interest. Word leaked on social media and people are here for it. The studio is predicting high ratings. It’s such good exposure that even your father might be on board.” Lisa’s smile didn’t reach her eyes.

  Relations could be strained between an agent and a manager in any circumstances, but since he’d contributed half of the talent’s DNA, Rupert felt that he had seniority when it came to professional decisions. Freddy had gone through three agents before she’d found Lisa four years ago, and she did not want Rupert driving this one off as well.

  “Is he being difficult?” Freddy asked bluntly. This show did sound like something she’d enjoy a hell of a lot more than anything she’d done in recent memory. It also sounded like something her father would dismiss as time-wasting froth.

  Lisa set the pen down on her desk and steepled her fingers. “Rupert is a very savvy manager.” Tactful. Clearly only the very surface of her opinion. “The casting call is going out in six months for The Velvet Room.” Lisa watched her narrowly.

  She’d learned by rote to manufacture and hide emotion, but she couldn’t stop herself reaching up to tuck the hair behind her ears. Nervous tic 101.

  “He wants to see you playing Marguerite.”

  Marguerite, one of the most iconic characters in twentieth-century drama. The character created and first played by Henrietta. Clever, cynical, morally ambiguous Marguerite. The literary creation who walked the line between sacrifice and cunning so narrowly that when the curtain went down, the audience was divided on whether they’d witnessed the evolution of a transformative heroine or had their emotions jerked on puppet strings by a master manipulator.

  One of the most difficult characters in British theatre to carry off successfully, and one of the most emotionally draining performances written into a script.

  Her nails dug into her palms. “I know.”

  This endless run of Masquerade had clarified several things for Freddy, and every time she thought about doing a year-long stint in The Velvet Room, she ended up eating an entire family-sized bar of chocolate.

  Masquerade had been forced to close last Saturday afternoon because of a fire in a nearby building, and she’d spontaneously decided to buy a last-minute ticket for the matinée of Singin’ in the Rain. She’d loved every minute of it. She’d realised about halfway through that her feet were unconsciously tapping out the steps.

  Her friend at the Westminster Post wi
th the cutting comments and disturbing eyes had been quite right on press night: she would rather be twirling through puddles than trying to dramatic-monologue her way to a supreme National Theatre Award and the highest tier of industry cred.

  At some point during the past five years, she’d become another cog in the West End machine. Constantly driving for more. Always looking to the next step. Feeling that pure, intrinsic joy of performing slipping through her fingers with every calculated career move.

  After a moment of silence Lisa said, “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Where’s your head at right now?” She reached for the cup of tea on her desk. “Not just professionally. Full package. How are you feeling?”

  Freddy turned the words over in her mind, testing them, and voiced them slowly. “I guess...at times lately... I feel like Freddy, the performing doll. With multiple people holding the strings and all pulling in different directions.” She ran her thumbnail down the seam of her leggings. “I’ve done nothing but theatre for over twelve years. I’ve had no real outside interests in the past. I’ve never had a hobby that’s completely unrelated to the job.” Most of her friends were involved in the industry. So were a lot of the people she dated. She sometimes wished she had someone who just...saw her. Saw just the person. Not the actor, not the characters. Not the commodity. “I’m just feeling a bit boxed in.”

  “Do you need a complete break?” Lisa asked neutrally. “Because that’s what I’m hearing.”

  “I don’t want to stop performing. I do love it. I always have.” But she wasn’t sure that she wanted to live solely for it anymore. She wanted to do productions that she wholeheartedly enjoyed, she wanted a passion outside of theatre, and really—she just wanted to be happy.

  She also wanted other people to be happy, and it often seemed to be an either/or choice.

  She physically shook off the strain that had crept into her shoulders. “I’m making better use of my days off. Expanding my horizons.” She ticked off on her fingers. “So far, art history lessons are a success, I’m surprisingly good at mug-painting, biscuit-decorating was a catastrophe but I ate the evidence, and I’m crossing all team sports off the list.”

  It was so simple to make small, fun changes that came with no consequences and affected her happiness only in the short-term. So complicated to make the big, permanent change that would really push her life in a new direction.

  “How about developing a hankering for country walks and historic architecture?” Lisa picked up a thick sheaf of paper. “Because that’s another reason I think you should take the role in The Austen Playbook. Which they’re offering upfront. No audition required.”

  Apparently everyone saw her as Lydia material. How alarming.

  “I think the role will expand your fan base considerably, and it could lead to a major professional opportunity, which we’ll get to in a tick, but it’s also a switch in routine that could do you a lot of good on a personal level. The show will be televised live from Highbrook Wells in Surrey, and—”

  “The Henry Theatre?” Freddy looked up sharply. “It’s opening to the public?” The Henry featured in the biography her father had written about her grandmother, and Freddy remembered gazing avidly at a photo of it as a little girl.

  “As a one-off, at least. I don’t know what the future plans are. It was built for your grandmother, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes. Henrietta had an affair with the owner of Highbrook Wells, and he was so smitten he commissioned a boutique theatre on his lawn for her.”

  There were countless things that Freddy admired about her grandmother, but the affair with a married man wasn’t one of them. In other circumstances, however, being given a personal theatre would be fucking epic. The most romantic thing a man had ever done for Freddy was to bring her a cheeseburger when she’d had late-night rehearsal. Which, to be fair, had really done it for her.

  “The whole cast and crew will move to Highbrook Wells and the nearest village for the weeks preceding the broadcast date. You’ll stay in the main house, with access to guest facilities, and rehearse directly in the theatre.” Lisa tapped her fingers on the script. “You should know that Fiona Gallagher is one of the backers, and she’s also just bought the UK production rights for the adaptation of Allegra Hawthorne’s Anathorn series.”

  Freddy caught her breath. Allegra Hawthorne was the current It Girl of the popular fiction world. Her series of fantastical novels had stayed at number one on the Sunday lists for months on end. The books were romantic and fun, rife with intrigue and humour, and Freddy loved them. There had been rumours churning for a while that they were going to be adapted into a musical.

  If there was one role in the entire scope of theatre that she’d love to win, that was it.

  “When I met with Fiona this week, she expressed interest in you for a role in the show,” Lisa said, and Freddy finally remembered to exhale. “She remembers your performance in Matilda in your teens. But she’s noted that you’ve veered away from musicals the past few years.”

  Freddy pulled at a loose seam in her leggings. “Carltons are serious performers,” she quoted, allowing the thick rope of irony to wrap around her words, in the privacy of the office.

  “I’m not concerned with Carltons plural. I don’t deny that your surname is a boon when it comes to placing you in work, but you’ve built goodwill with the public and your peers on your own merits. And if the lighter projects are where your heart lies...”

  “When is the Anathorn musical likely to go into production?”

  “They’re moving it quickly along the pipeline. It’s likely to coincide with the run of The Velvet Room.”

  Of course it was.

  Everything in her life right now seemed to be arriving at a distinctive, definitive crossroads.

  “I see.”

  That sick feeling was dragging at Freddy again, comprised largely of frustration—with the situation, and with herself. Rationally, she did realise that she wasn’t obliged to follow in her family’s footsteps simply because they’d eased her path for her. And...and she didn’t have to fulfil the dreams that had been snatched from her father in his own career.

  But when it came to actually acting on that realisation—

  She visualised the hurt and disappointment she would cause, and she bottled it. Time and again.

  “Fiona wants to see how your comedic timing has held up, and The Austen Playbook would be a good chance to dust off your skills. She’ll be in the audience for the live performance, and she’s notorious for making quick, instinctive decisions. If she likes what she sees...” Lisa looked at Freddy meaningfully. “It doesn’t hurt to leave your options open.”

  Again, she waved the absolute brick of paper she was holding. “It’s a win all round, as far as I’m concerned. A high-profile production, you’re tailor-made for the role, and you’ll get a break from London for a few weeks. At a country estate. Very lush.” She grinned. “Very Austen.”

  Shaking off her troubled preoccupation, Freddy suddenly focused on the papers. “Hold up. What is that?”

  “The Austen Playbook script.” Lisa set it down in front of Freddy, who was surprised the desk didn’t immediately collapse in a whump of splinters and dust.

  She stared down at it, then incredulously at Lisa. “That’s one copy of the script? It’s massive. For God’s sake. How long is the play? Twelve hours?”

  “We arrive at the one snag.” Lisa tapped a manicured finger on the topmost page. “It’s an audience-interactive play.”

  “What does that mean? The public heckles? We bring people onstage for magic tricks?”

  “Interactive with the viewing audience at home, who will be voting through the studio app on multiple-choice options for how they want the play to proceed. So you would have to learn different variations of each scene.”

  Freddy reached forward and flipped through a few pages. “And
enact them with how much warning?”

  “A few minutes, I imagine.” Lisa cocked her head. “Are we daunted to the point we’ve lost interest?”

  Freddy turned over another page, reading some of the highlighted dialogue for Lydia. A tingle of excitement was beginning to fizz in her middle.

  A sense of anticipation that she hadn’t felt in an age.

  She still had no idea what she was going to do about her father and The Velvet Room, especially when the dilemma had now exploded with the addition of the Anathorn opportunity, but in the meantime...

  It was a truth universally acknowledged that an actor in a rut must be in want of a spot of murder, mayhem, and true love.

  Chapter Three

  Present day

  If a crew were doing establishing shots of Highbrook Wells today, it would look so impossibly lovely under the endless blue sky that cynics would assume the scene had been filmed in the tropics. In the warm light, the decrepit parts of the main house took on a charmingly lived-in appearance, the gardens smelled divine, and there were even two peacocks strutting about the lawn.

  One of the avian variety. One of a more ubiquitous species.

  Far from his usual habitat, a prime example of the classic Homo sapiens fuckboy, in rampant mating phase.

  Paradise always did contain its share of snakes. “Dylan.”

  Dylan Waitely turned on hearing his name. The moment he spotted Freddy, he stood up straighter and did something that elongated his shoulders. His expression wavered between a smirk and a frown.

  The struggle to remember her name was real.

  They’d only debuted in the same production of Oliver! back in the day, played wife and husband in an eight-month run of 1553 a few years ago, and stage-snogged in front of royalty. Easily forgotten.