The Austen Playbook

by Lucy Parker

  Seriously—pot and kettle.

  “I haven’t shagged him.” Leaning forward, Freddy rested her cheek on the quilt. “I haven’t shagged anyone, for months. I’m sure it’s bad for my health. My eczema has been flaring. It’s probably sex deprivation.”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “Smugness is not an attractive quality.”

  “Do you like him?” Sabrina asked, curiously, and Freddy played idly with the phone for a few seconds, giving herself time to consider her words.

  “I don’t know. I’m not sure how I feel about him.” She had a track record of falling into lust and crushes and infatuation with dozens of men at the drop of a hat, and emerging from each experience just as quickly and usually unscathed—but this didn’t feel... It didn’t feel quite like that.

  “He’s not your usual sort of man. Physically or in any other respect. You always seem to have a variation of the same type in tow: loud, burly, hairy, and up for a laugh.”

  Fair assessment of her dating history the past few years. She did tend to swipe right on certain key characteristics. “Hmm.”

  “But you fancy him?”

  “Oh yeah,” she said with feeling.

  When she went downstairs—with not even a limp; thumbs up, body—the house was very quiet. Most of the cast were still in bed, since the first rehearsal call wasn’t until eight. A buffet breakfast had been set up on the terrace. The caterers were keeping out of the dining areas in the house to leave them clear for the Ford-Griffins. Freddy did a full sweep of the options, chose a chocolate croissant, and took it through the woods to The Henry. She should use the spare hour to go over her lines. The deadline to be off-book was creeping ever closer, and the prospect of another Springsteen incident was haunting her.

  She stood looking at the theatre in the morning light, listening to the sound of larks in the trees, and breathing deep. A hint of crispness in the air reminded her of autumn and acted on her system like a hit of caffeine.

  She was looking forward to autumn—or she would be, if it weren’t for the looming shadow of The Velvet Room. The first audition was only days away.

  A bird shot out of a cluster of branches nearby with a rustle and flap of wings, seconds before Freddy heard footsteps crunching over the gravel path through the trees. She turned, and her stomach gave one of those delicious little flutters as Griff appeared.

  He had a file tucked under his arm, and a very professional-looking camera bag in his hand. His clothing looked like Savile Row and he was incredibly suave and polished and put-together for an hour when most people were still snoozing. Or getting hot and bothered under the sheets in the probable case of Dylan and whoever he’d smarmed into sharing his bed for this run.

  She wasn’t exactly bowled over by Griff’s expression when he saw her, but there was more resignation there than “Oh, Christ, not her again.” Baby steps. She might even get a smile out of him one of these days.

  She finished the last bite of her croissant as he reached her. “You’re getting an early start.”

  “I need to take some photos of source material in Henrietta’s office, and I’d prefer to do it while the theatre is quiet.” He was frowning at the building, but sliced his attention back to her. “You’re early as well. You didn’t wake up with pain, did you?”

  “No, Dr. Adams’s paracetamol is doing the trick, and I’ve got ibuprofen tucked into my bra just in case.”

  His brows went up at that, and his gaze went down.

  She hesitated, shifting the weight of her script in her arms. She did need to get a jump on rehearsal, but...she’d been hoping to get a glimpse of the office where her grandmother had written The Velvet Room. Who knew, maybe she’d soak up some residual talent from the atmosphere. “Do you mind if I come in with you? I’ll stay out of shot and quiet as a mouse, I promise. You won’t even know I’m there.”

  He made a sound that wasn’t quite a snort. “Somehow, I doubt that very much. Is this an attempt to install yourself as an unpaid production assistant so you can get that look at the material?”

  “Just an interested observer.” Freddy smiled at him, suddenly feeling a little bubble of happiness well up out of nowhere. It was a beautiful day, birds were cheeping, and a man with a majestic nose and the sensitivity of a sledgehammer was frowning at her. For this one moment in time, she had a curious, rare sense of being exactly where she was meant to be. She clung on to the feeling as if it were a balloon that could lift her up and float her away from the approaching troubles below.

  “Your father will kick up hell if you show any interest in this project,” Griff said, in the tone of a man who never gave a shit what other people thought of his decisions.

  Mentally, Freddy wound the string of her metaphorical joy balloon around her wrist. It wasn’t going to be whisked away from her, even with a sharp gust of reality. If she acted on her conviction that what her father wanted for her career was not the right path for her, then getting a sneak peek at the film research would be the least of the contention between them. “It’ll be the tip of the iceberg if I make...certain other decisions soon.”

  Griff unlocked the door and held it open for her, and she scooted inside, then followed him as he strode purposefully towards the rear rooms. They turned down a hallway she’d never taken before. There were few windows, and the light was dim, the air a bit musty with dust.

  “What other decisions?” It had been several minutes since she’d spoken, and his question was almost reluctant, with a strange vibe of unfamiliarity, as if he was going against his natural inclinations by asking.

  Freddy glanced at him. He was looking straight ahead, but his head was turned slightly in her direction. “Dad wants me to audition for the new production of The Velvet Room.” Stepping into the room he indicated and turning in an interested circle, she added, “As you predicted so unenthusiastically at The Prop & Cue last year.”

  Griff laid his stuff on an untidy desk that was already piled high with old books and manuscripts. “And what do you want to do?”

  So matter-of-fact, just a straight question, what did she want to do, as if it were as easy as that. It should be as easy as that.

  Still cuddling the mammoth script, she walked around the perimeter of the small room, taking in the details—the peeling wallpaper and dusty shelves. Somehow, she expected there to be something spectacular—magical—about the places where great works of art were created.

  This was just a room.

  She looked closer at the images on the tiled feature wall and hid a smile. Albeit a room that had been decorated according to Sir George’s very particular tastes.

  She didn’t need to absorb the ghosts of her grandmother’s ambition and conviction, anyway. She wasn’t Henrietta. She was Freddy, she did know what she wanted to do, and the only person who could turn wistfulness into action was her.

  She put down the script and sat gingerly on the edge of a rickety stool, mindful of her oath to stay out of the way. “You know Fiona Gallagher is involved with The Austen Playbook?”

  Griff paged through a file. “She’s a major financial backer.”

  Freddy tucked her feet into the rungs of the stool and rested her forearms on her knees. “Fiona’s just picked up the rights for the Allegra Hawthorne stage adaptation, and she’s scouting me for it. I haven’t done a stage spectacular or any comedy for a while, though, so she wants to see how I do with The Austen Playbook.”

  Griff set his file down. His hands were large and strong-looking. “And it’s a job you want?”

  Freddy tapped the back of one heel against the wooden stool leg. “Yes. It is. I’m a huge fan of Allegra Hawthorne, and it’s the sort of role I love.”

  “It’s the sort of role that made you so popular with audiences in the first place,” Griff said levelly. “When you obviously feel passionate about what you’re doing, your performance ha
s a very visceral joy that affects every person in the theatre.”

  For a few seconds, the only sound in the room was the tap tap tap of Freddy’s shoe against the wood. And probably the creaking sound as she tried to close her jaw after it had performed the anatomically difficult feat of dropping to the floor. “Calls me a contagious joy fairy when we’re alone in a dusty backroom. Compares me to a stagnant pond in a London newspaper. Timing, my friend. It’s a beautiful thing.”

  “My judgment in London is based on what you give in London. And for the past few years, that’s been a stream of—for the most part—competent, steady, totally uninspired performances in dramas that seem to suck the life out of you.”

  Well. She’d always known he had the ability to cut to the chase with a few well-chosen words.

  “So, what’s the problem?” Griff asked, coming around to sit on the edge of the desk. “Are rehearsals off to a bad start? Other than the obvious.” He nodded at her leg.

  “The scene changes are going to be a challenge, and it’s taking me longer than usual to get off-book. I’m a bit gun-shy about getting lines wrong now,” she added ruefully.

  “What did happen with Masquerade? You don’t usually make errors like that.”

  Freddy lifted a shoulder. “I don’t know. I just—blanked. They’d just announced the new year-long run of The Velvet Room, and of course my father was—is—dead set on having me in it. The definitive Carlton play. I’d always wanted to be in it, myself,” she said slowly. “Ever since I was a little girl. Even through my early teens. I wanted to be just like Henrietta. And then—”

  “And then?” Griff was regarding her very steadily, and something about his calm presence—and frankly, his no-bullshit responses—made it easy to say things to him that she never said aloud.

  “My career is moving in the direction everybody expects me to follow—the classical dramas, the high-brow, serious, top-of-the-tree works that the big names in the arts discuss over champagne at posh parties. It was Henrietta’s domain as an actor, and then as a writer.” She bit down on the inside of her lower lip. “It would have been my father’s if he hadn’t been hurt.”

  “How did it happen?” There was an unexpected shade of gentleness in the question, and Freddy felt a sudden burn at the back of her eyes.

  “It was a freak accident. I was just a toddler. My mother had died the year before. Dad was playing Iago at the Majestic, and our nanny brought me and my sister along to see him at rehearsal. A set toppled backstage, and I was standing right under it. Dad was coming offstage and he just—dove for me. I was too young to remember anything about it.”

  “You weren’t hurt?” Griff reached forward and, just for a second, touched her hand. As he straightened, their faces passed close together, their eyes locked, and Freddy felt as if her breath was stuck in her throat.

  Then he retreated, and the picture frame unfroze.

  She exhaled. “N-no. No. Not even a bruise. But it badly damaged Dad’s back. He couldn’t walk at all for a few months, and even now he can be on his feet for only a short time before he has to rest, or he gets a lot of pain. It pretty much put paid to his career on the stage. He couldn’t cope with the physical demands.”

  But Rupert Carlton had grown up taking the perks and prestige of his position in the West End for granted, and he had found a way to keep a foothold. First through the success of his biography on Henrietta, which had led to multiple book contracts for other members of acting royalty, and then through his daughter.

  “Is that why you’re forcing yourself to take roles you don’t really enjoy?” Griff, as always, cut straight to the heart of the matter. “Because of a misplaced sense of guilt? Do you feel responsible for the accident?”

  “In some ways,” Freddy admitted. “It’s hard not to feel that way, when I was the...impetus. Logically, I know it was an accident, I was a child, and it wasn’t my fault, but part of the reason my father has invested in my career is because of what happened to his own, and I was a factor in that equation. I’ve found it difficult to look at what he’s helped me achieve so far, and know he wants for me what he couldn’t have for himself, and contemplate turning around and saying, ‘No, ta, not for me.’” She blew out a long, frustrated breath. “But it was me, as well. I really thought that was what I wanted. Until I actually had a go at it, and realised I’d been much happier doing the musicals, the stage spectaculars, the comedies. I like to make people happy, I like to hear laughter and see them leave smiling and humming the songs. I like popular fiction of all kinds, and I think it’s just as important as the lit that gets taught in class. I got to go back to my roots for the royal charity performance and it was like changing shoes and realising you’ve been walking around wearing the wrong size. I still enjoyed myself in a lot of those dramas—”

  “I suspect you have a knack for finding some form of enjoyment in most situations,” Griff said, and although the words had a sardonic ring, there was the faintest smile in his eyes.

  The corners of her mouth lifted. “Parts of life are shit enough. I look for the light where I can find it. And some of those shows were great. It makes a big difference when you’ve got a good rapport in the cast. I had a blast doing shows like 1553 and Becket Season.”

  “And clearly loathed shows like High Voltage.”

  Freddy’s smile slipped, and her stomach clenched. There were times when it had been hard to find even a thin beam of light to stand in. “No, High Voltage was not a high point.”

  Griff’s eyes narrowed on her face, not missing a trick, as usual.

  “Anyway,” she said, determinedly bringing herself back to the present. “It’s crunch time. The Velvet Room audition is next week. If I get that role, it’ll be a year-long commitment. Likewise, if I managed to land a part in Anathorn, the Allegra Hawthorne show. They’re expected to open around the same time. It could come down to an either/or choice, and I know which direction Dad will expect me to take.”

  She sat straighter on the stool. “And I know where my heart is pushing me. But it’s not always that easy to go after your own happiness at the expense of someone else’s.” The glumness was starting to drag at her again, and she strove for a lighter note. “And sometimes it rebounds badly. Look at Lydia Bennet. Essentially, she only behaved in a way that dozens of misguided, self-centred teenagers would, and ended up stuck in eternal punishment. Although, in our play, possibly put out of her misery with a poisoned cocktail.”

  Which was what she needed to concentrate on in the meantime. Present preoccupations first. With a start, she checked her watch, and then relaxed. It felt like she was existing in a bubble in this room with Griff, in a curious mixed atmosphere of both warm safety and building tension, but Maf would happily produce a sharp pin and reintroduce reality if Freddy were late.

  She tipped her head back to stretch out her neck. The ceiling was embedded with more of Sir George’s saucy carvings. “It’s nice to know I can continue my art education here,” she said, with a slight wobble in her voice. “I feel like Highbrook is really going to expand my artistic horizons. I’ve been trying to perk things up by developing some proper outside hobbies. My online dating profile was very sparse and made me feel like a one-note person.”

  Griff had started setting up a tripod and looked at her over the ring light he was adjusting. “Online dating?”

  “Apps. You could give them a go. You might find some like-minded misanthropes. We all have our interests.”

  He photographed a series of small objects—a cigarette case, a medal, a small ceramic statue. When he removed a jewellery case from a locked safe and opened it, she couldn’t resist getting up and peeking over his shoulder.

  “Oh,” she said, and faint lines appeared at the corners of his eyes as he came very close to forgetting himself and properly smiling.

  “Were you expecting diamonds?”

  “I wasn’t expecting
that.” Freddy bent to get a closer look at the earrings, and what the quartz had been carved into. Even when she was in dance training and at peak flexibility, she’d never tried that position. It looked gravity-defying. “Your grandad was a right old rip under the Ye Olde Country Squire appearance, wasn’t he? From the tales I’ve heard about the Wythburn Group, it was probably love at first sight with Henrietta.”

  “If you believe in it.” The derision on that one all but bounced off the peeling wallpaper.

  “I don’t, as it happens.” Freddy straightened and turned. Her body was almost touching his, and he went very still. “I believe that...something can happen quite fast, though. Once in a while. Maybe even just once.”

  When she looked into his eyes, they were wells of darkness with a flicker of warm heat. She could smell whatever he used in the shower; it was spicy and masculine, and it made her want to lean in and inhale against his neck.

  He touched his fingertips to a curl at her temple. She hadn’t expected him to make a move, unless it was to direct her back to the stool of silence—which had unexpectedly turned into a therapy chair—and it startled her so much that she twitched. His thumb rested, feather-light, against her cheek. Ever so slightly, just a fragment of motion, he stroked, and the shiver that went through her in response was a hard, shocking jolt.

  With her nails digging into the wooden surface of the desk, Freddy rose an inch onto her toes to put their faces at a closer level. When she spoke, she was surprised her voice sounded so normal. “Do you mind if I test out something?”

  His own voice was crisp, but that burn of amber was still in his eyes. “Are you asking to kiss me as a social experiment?”

  “Well.” Freddy tipped her head. “You are a pro at research.”

  Their eyes still locked, neither of them lowering their lashes, their breath mingled and held as she leaned forward and touched her mouth lightly to his. She didn’t move for a few seconds, just feeling the sensation of his lips against hers. Then slowly, she started to kiss him, pressing softly, parting slightly. He was kissing her back while they continued to stare at each other. It was measured, cataloguing, feeling-in-the-dark—and yet, conversely, somehow the most intimate moment she’d ever had with a man. It was as if he was looking right into her, seeing something she hadn’t even known was there, laid bare. Breaking her open.