by Lucy Parker
Sticking with the theme of a one-sided conversation, he didn’t bother to respond to that. He stood, and after a hesitation, reached down a hand. She took it and he pulled her firmly to her feet, then tried to let go of her.
For a person with small fingers, she had a grip like a barracuda’s teeth. Freddy turned his reluctant hand over and frowned down at his knuckles. “What have you done to yourself?”
Scraped off about seven layers of skin, thanks to the endless cast of this travelling circus.
“A chance encounter with Elizabeth Bennet and a pair of pliers in the library.”
“Sounds like Act Two of the play. Murder most foul under the card catalogue.” Freddy was rubbing the sides of his fingers with the tips of hers. Her thoughtful face suggested she had no idea she was doing it. He looked down at where their skin touched. “You don’t mean Maya Dutta went for you with a blunt instrument? She’s much too nice.”
“It wasn’t blunt.” He gestured with his scraped-up, imprisoned hand, and she released it quickly, with a murmured apology. “Apparently she lost her way trying to find the kitchen before dawn, and slammed the library door into my chair while I was cutting a wire.”
“Well, I hope you didn’t grump at her. She’s a very sensitive person.” From distracted smartarse to coolly threatening Mother Hen in one second flat. He hadn’t given her enough credit in those reviews for her chameleon-like abilities.
“With no sense of direction.”
“You’re a little too fond of that expression. I believe you applied it to me, as well.” Freddy nodded at his hand. “Did you put antiseptic on it? The pliers could have been rusty. And you should keep it covered.”
“If you drop the Florence Nightingale act, I won’t make any further comments about the roles you choose.”
“You won’t be able to if you succumb to sepsis.” Freddy jogged a few steps, testing the makeshift fix on her shoe, then smiled at him. “Thanks. You’re my white knight today. I do love when the day throws up an unexpected surprise before I’ve even had my toast.”
They’d travelled at least a hundred metres before he fully realised that he’d ended up on a joint run with her.
“God, I hate running,” she said as they turned at the far-most field and headed back towards the house.
“Why do it then?” He swiped the back of his arm across his forehead. “You don’t seem the type to bother with anything you don’t enjoy.”
Freddy cut him a glance. “Other than in my career choices, you mean?” Her breaths were coming fast and broken. “It’s quick, cheap exercise, and I have to maintain a base level of fitness for the job. If it eventually gives me a bubble butt, bonus.”
He managed to keep his eyes on the road ahead. Focusing on the rhythm of his own breath. Steady in, deep out.
“I tried tennis for a while, but my aim was awful. Balls flying everywhere. Besides, it was right after the director at the Southeastern Playhouse told me I wasn’t thin enough to make it to the top tier, and my flatmate thought I was trying to lose weight to pacify him, so I had to stop the lessons on principle.”
Griff looked at her sharply. “Who was that? Tom Michaelis? I hope you told him where to go.”
“I finished out my contract like the professional I am and haven’t signed one with him since.” Freddy plaited her insane hair without slowing her pace. “It’s all part and parcel of the industry. You don’t get the perks without the bullshit.”
“It’s a fucking joke.”
“If I decide to take one idiot’s opinion to heart, I’m in the wrong business entirely.”
“Was that a dig at Michaelis or at me?”
“It does work on multiple levels, doesn’t it?”
When they reached the front lawn, the yoga disciples had gone, but the TV studio had obviously sent its advance guard to start preparations for the live broadcast. There were so many people about the place it looked like a seaside resort, and vans had left deep ruts in the grass.
“Uh-oh.” Stopping at his side to catch her breath, Freddy planted her hands on her hips and surveyed the chaos and him. “You’ve got Too-Many-People Face, and this is only day two. Maybe you should respect your sanity and work from London for a week or two.”
“We’re in the last preliminary stages for the film before we finalise a deal. Which includes photographing locations and collating research material at Highbrook—”
“You could pay an assistant to do that.”
“I could, if I wanted it done incorrectly and too slowly.”
Freddy made a humming noise in her throat. “According to London Celebrity, control freaks are at much greater risk for arthritis, impotence, and pattern baldness. Just so you know.”
“As long as you have a reliable source.”
Another van pulled into the driveway, this one emblazoned with familiar branding, and his lips thinned. Leaving Freddy stretching out her hamstrings on the grass, Griff intercepted the man who emerged from the back compartment holding an enormous box. “The invoice. May I see it?”
“Morning.” The deliveryman’s cheerful expression survived Griff’s curt demand. Yet another of life’s optimists. It was far too early in the morning for them. The man leaned the box against the back door and juggled to get the form out. “Here you go. Fifty bottles of—”
“No.” Griff had scanned the form in one grim sweep. “Return the whole order, thanks.”
“But—” The man’s protest was cut off by a bright greeting from the direction of the house, and Griff turned as his mother jogged down the front steps.
Skirting past a member of the studio crew with an absent-minded smile, Carolina Griffin joined him by the van. “Oh, good. I didn’t think these would get here until Monday.”
She reached for the box, and Griff put a restraining hand on it to prevent her taking it from the deliveryman’s grasp. His patience was down to a silken thread, and he didn’t bother to keep the edge from his voice. “You’re meant to be on a spending ban until you’ve used up the materials you already have. And this brand is too expensive. You were going to find alternative suppliers for the paint and fabrics.”
“Were we?” Carolina was determinedly vague. “But these ones are just right. We’ve started a new series. Based on the Allegra Hawthorne books. They’re very popular, you know. With adults, too. People will love the new houses.”
Yes, they would. His parents’ dollhouses—and “houses” was a broad term for the castles and cathedrals and intricately detailed worlds they created in their workshop—were pieces of art, that would likely become heirlooms if they weren’t played with into disrepair. There was a waiting list of purchasers, and they always sold. Unfortunately, the high price tags were wiped out by the exorbitant sums Carolina and James spent on materials. In the last series, they’d used semi-precious jewels, handmade Nottingham lace, and Murano glass. Add in the cost of labour, and they were probably paying about fifty quid an hour for the privilege of running their business. He could see where Charlie got his financial nous.
Directing his mother far enough away from the van that they wouldn’t air every detail of their respective bank accounts to a nationwide courier, he kept his words low and cool. “The roof needs fixing. The entire house needs rewiring. The utility bill is increasing every month. Half the place is mortgaged, and most of my assets are invested in the production company, which may or may not pay dividends. Charlie blows his disposable income on cars and nightclubs, and the trust Sir George set up is almost empty. There are no endless vaults of gold for you and Dad to dip into. If we want to keep this property, you need to pull a bank job or exercise some common sense. Either option is fine with me.”
“Oh, these people are paying for the renovation costs.” As usual, Carolina had selective hearing and chose to ignore ninety-percent of what he was saying. It was a technique he frequently utilised himself, and
like most things in life, it was extremely irritating when the tables were turned.
“They’re paying to renovate The Henry. They’re not going to patch up the rest of the estate as a goodwill gesture. And as Charlie signed a profit-share contract for the rental of the space, instead of negotiating a fixed fee, any payment we receive beyond that is going to rely on strong audience engagement throughout the broadcast.”
From what he’d seen of the preparation process so far, he wasn’t anticipating a hefty cheque.
“Something always turns up.” Carolina’s gaze had turned inward, which usually meant she was mentally placing tiny artworks and papering miniature walls. “Like last year, when the plumbing went. Or was it the year before? God, wasn’t that ghastly. All those cold showers. But it got sorted.”
“It was three years ago. And it got sorted,” he said crisply, “because I mortgaged my flat. It’s taken me this long to pay it off.”
“That’s wonderful,” his mother murmured. “You’ve always been so clever, Jamie. Oh, brilliant, your father’s finished the new design.”
She patted his arm and made a beeline for the terrace, where his father had just appeared, waving a roll of paper.
With a taut reminder that murder had unpleasant consequences, even if it would solve three of his most pressing problems, Griff turned around and almost bumped into Freddy, who had taken off her shoes and was padding barefoot towards the house.
“The patch job fell apart,” she said, holding up the remains of the cable tie in one hand, “but it did the trick. Thanks again for the save.” Some of the animation had faded from her face, and there was a shadow of trouble in her eyes as she darted a brief glance at his mother’s departing back. She gestured with her shoes at the delivery van, where the driver was still waiting with the overpriced, unnecessary supplies and an increasing air of impatience. “Are you going to accept the shipment?”
“No, I’m not.” Coolly, he steered her around the extension cord some idiot had left on the grass, before she could stand on the plug. “Eavesdropping. What would Jane Austen say?”
A slight smile curled Freddy’s mouth. Without makeup, she still had naturally red lips and doe eyes. She ought to be racking up a stream of Disney musicals on her CV. She was adept at producing that guileless look endemic among fictional princesses and children’s entertainers. “She’d probably be taking notes. Your complex character would appear in her next classic.”
“As the villain, I suppose.” He was already striding towards the van, but he turned back, just for a second, as her words drifted after him.
“Not sure yet,” she said. “Whenever I think I know the story, you turn the page on me.”
* * *
“The guy’s bloody minted and she’s already binned him once. He’s at a house party with ten other birds. Just crack on with someone else, you fucking mug.”
Fitzwilliam Darcy, ladies and gentlemen. Your iconic romantic hero.
“If you don’t stick to the fucking script, I’m going to knock your fucking teeth in,” Tarik Khan shot at Dylan. “It’ll be fucking dark before we even break for lunch at this rate, arsehole.”
And Captain Wentworth, such a legendary way with words. So eloquent. So achingly tender.
Freddy exchanged glances with Maya, who was looking equally fed-up, but was less likely to say so. “Can we please all just stick to the script?” she asked, pulling her sticky camisole away from her stomach. She was sweating like mad, and seriously regretting wearing polyester.
Everyone in the first half of Act One had been allowed on The Henry stage for a read-through, while the actors whose characters didn’t come in until later scenes were having their first costume fitting. The whole cast had been enamoured by their first proper look at the theatre, to the point where even Dylan and Sadie had remained silent for about forty-five seconds. The mood hadn’t lasted. It was sweltering hot, and the standing fans the crew had set up were only cooling down the people standing directly in front of them. It had taken just one stumbled line in the first ten minutes of the read for tempers to flare.
The construction crew were doing finishing touches to the mainstage arena, so the dialogue was punctuated by drills and hammers, which wasn’t helping to mellow the atmosphere.
Maf had ducked outside for a few minutes to take a call, so all the kiddies in the sandpit had started throwing their toys.
“Yeah? Try it, dick,” Dylan said to Tarik, ignoring Freddy’s interjection.
“Oh my God,” Maya muttered, rubbing her hand over her forehead. “It’s like being back at school.” Her angular cheeks were flushed red and she was fanning herself with a call sheet.
Freddy had tried that earlier using her script, and just about knocked herself unconscious. Each deadweight copy was probably the equivalent of an entire tree. And on current form, it was going to be performance night before they’d even managed one pass of it.
“Sit down.” Maf stalked back into the stands. Barring a few frizzy curls at her temples, she looked totally unfazed by the heat. “You’re not being paid this salary grade to act like snot-nosed first years at drama college. All you’re required to do is plant your arse on a chair and read the lines someone has typed in a nice large font for you. If you’re confused as to which part you should be reading, it’s the line under the bright yellow highlighter. If that’s still too difficult, see me during the lunch break and I’ll give you the name of a decent neurologist.”
“I think we just got pulled up in front of the headmistress,” Greg Stirling murmured to Maya, who flushed and didn’t answer; in the increasingly stressful atmosphere, she’d drawn into herself. Greg didn’t seem to notice the lack of response. He was one of several TV actors in the cast, and so far, high-maintenance. His personal assistant was arriving by train shortly, which was fortunate, because he’d run a production assistant ragged this morning, and the girl had escaped half an hour ago and not returned. He was playing Mr. Knightley, so was meant to be secretly in love with Sadie’s Emma, but clearly nobody had run a chemistry test between him and Sadie. They’d been cold and wooden with each other all morning.
With Maf keeping a firm hold on the reins, the read-through progressed, but not smoothly. There were productions when the chemistry clicked from the beginning and everyone’s personality slotted into place like pieces coming together in a puzzle. And there were the rocky-road jobs, a mess of disparate methods and temperaments thrown together into a jumble, sometimes resulting in unexpected brilliance, but always bumpy.
“Good,” Maf said to Freddy at one point. “But more. More. I wanted you for this role because you have the inner reserves to give depth to this version of Lydia. You have the substance as well as the fizz and flirtation. Find the pathos, the side the audience will connect to. She’s transitioning here from the young girl she was to the adult woman she’ll become. She’s still vibrant, still defiant, but regret underpins her every action in these scenes. And the crossroads later, the decision she makes—or the audience makes for her—will entirely determine the outcome of her character.”
Over her shoulder as she moved on, she tossed out, “Unless the public decides to give you the cyanide cocktail, in which case you’re out by intermission and can have a cuppa in the green room until the curtain call.”
“Which I expect you would find disappointing.” Sadie made her jump. Freddy hadn’t seen her coming at all. Maybe she’d started materialising out of thin air. Like a demon in a horror film, gathering in strength. “Being so very dedicated to your career.”
Freddy finished winding her hair into a sweaty topknot and turned to face her. “If you have something to say, could you put it into plain words, please, instead of floating in and out making cryptic statements? It’s like being in a Greek tragedy.”
Sadie’s PA had been darting in periodically with blotting pads and foundation touch-ups so, fittingly, Emma Woodhouse
looked a lot more pampered and put-together than any of the other women. She was also off-book already, which Freddy should appreciate for the sake of overall progress, but was petty enough to find annoying. Sadie smiled that cat-smirk again. “I’m just admiring the energy that some people expend for the sake of the job.”
Giving up on the non-conversation, Freddy turned to move away before she was provoked into saying something that would bring the directorial wrath down on her head, but Sadie moved at the same moment. Their feet tangled, they both tried to step back, and they collided with a pillar.
Instead of grabbing on to Freddy when she felt herself falling, Sadie gave her a shove. Freddy landed on the wooden boards on her hip, which would have cut the damage short at a bruise, but apparently it was the day for painful encounters with tools. A builder had left a screwdriver beneath a stool, and the end gouged a slice out of her thigh. She squeaked and grabbed at her leg with both hands, instinctively squeezing above and below the cut to combat the sharp bite of pain. Sadie had managed to steady herself against the carved pillar and was still on her feet. Of course.
“Oh, nasty.” Greg came to kneel by her, inspecting Freddy’s bleeding thigh. “Might need a stitch or two.”
“Good to see you’re putting that fictional medical degree to use, doc.” Dylan elbowed the resident soap doctor out of the way and took his turn examining the patient. He reached out, and Freddy slapped his hand away.
“I can definitely do without the grope, thank you,” she said, finding her voice after the initial shock.
“I was going to check your pulse,” he said, affronted.
“Is that your standard line?” Freddy shot him a look. “My pulse is fine.”
Dylan grinned, and suddenly rubbed her head in a gesture that was almost brotherly. “Takes more than a minor impaling to dampen your spirit, Carlton. You’re a good ’un, really.”
She hissed quietly at the increased burn from the cut. Her skin was blanching white under her clenching fingers.
