The Austen Playbook

by Lucy Parker

  With a small, muffled half-laugh, Freddy brushed back the hair that had fallen into her face. “Yeah.” She looked at him. “And you’re proud of her.”

  The beam of weak light coming through the small side window fell directly on her father’s face, so she saw the curious expression in his eyes. “Of course, I am,” he said. “She was a brilliant dramatic actress. The best of her generation.”

  “And a groundbreaking playwright.”

  Rupert folded his hands over the head of his walking stick. “The Velvet Room cemented the Carlton name in the history books. And you’re continuing the legacy.” He smiled at her. “My baby girl. I can still remember seeing you up there for your stage debut. ‘The most promising child actor for years,’ that’s what the critics said.”

  She’d had universally good reviews for that performance. It had been before Griff’s time.

  Freddy swallowed hard, because she could remember that time, too, coming off the stage to be swept into her father’s arms and bounced around in triumph. And all the roles that followed, as the expectations became higher and the hugs fewer. “I’m not right for The Velvet Room. I think it’s an amazing piece of work, but to actually act in it—it’s not my sort of play at all.”

  “You’ve always underestimated your ability.”

  No; she’d sublimated her own wants.

  “Dad—”

  “I need to get back to London.” Rupert glanced at his watch. “I’m meeting with Lisa after lunch.”

  His expression didn’t bode well for friendly manager-agent relations.

  “Dad.”

  Rupert turned at the door and gave the room a final scrutiny, glancing over the desk, fixing on the feature wall again. From a distance, the pattern on the tiles looked like Art Deco curlicues; close-up, body parts started to emerge, like a dirty Rorschach test. She hoped he didn’t have his contacts in.

  His eyes locked with hers. “Freddy. We have not worked this long and hard for you to throw away your potential by tap-dancing into obscurity—and early arthritis,” he added drily. “Actors like your grandmother, and Cecily Redcliffe, and Cameron Savage—they didn’t reach iconic status by twirling through a succession of romantic comedies. You paid your dues in the chorus; those productions were a means to an end.” A muscle jumped beside his mouth. “And I have no interest in managing the career of a glorified music-hall performer. I expect you in London on Tuesday morning for the audition. Be there.” He twisted too sharply and had to jerk his stick forward to keep his balance. As he hissed, she saw the pain skitter across his taut features.

  Freddy swallowed on a knot of nausea.

  “Is it that important to you?” She stood in the centre of the room, very still. “The Carlton legacy in the West End?”

  “Yes.”

  One composed word that fell like a ten-ton weight.

  Chapter Eleven

  When her father had gone, Freddy pushed both hands through her hair, gripping it in handfuls above her ears. She released the hold and a violent breath simultaneously.

  A bang outside rattled the ceiling light and the pornographic tiles on the wall. With another sudden surge of anxiety that made her feel like her skin was three sizes too small, she grabbed up her bag and almost ran from the theatre. She needed to be outside, in the sunshine and fresh air, away from this room and its ghosts. And she found she wanted Griff very badly. His arms, his voice, and his way of cutting through the spiralling bullshit and putting things into perspective.

  Unfortunately, it was wraiths of the past inside and the forces of evil outside. She came out of the main doors and dashed headlong into Ferren, who stumbled and grabbed on to her, and they ended up in a tangle of arms and legs on the ground.

  Her hair falling around their faces, Freddy tried to catch her breath, and Ferren blinked up at her. Amusement pushed out momentary surprise. “Why, Freddy, I had no idea you felt this way.”

  She was in no mood for this. His hands had automatically landed on her hips, and swearing under her breath, Freddy managed to pull free of him and get back to her feet. Her dress was now a total write-off. One of them had ripped a large shred into it during the tumble. Her leg was twinging, too, and she checked the stitches.

  “What happened to your leg?” Dropping the annoying jokiness, Ferren lowered his head and his hand to investigate her thigh, and right on cue, Sadie appeared on the path through the trees.

  In other circumstances, with a different man, and on a day that wasn’t turning to absolute shite, it would be so ridiculous it would border on funny—things going vaudeville on her again—but Freddy wasn’t up for a giggle, and Sadie certainly wasn’t.

  Ferren made a little whistling noise when he saw the vindictive expression aimed in their direction, then went straight into self-preservation mode and hopped it. One minute he was there, the next he’d scarpered into the building, and Sadie was right up in her face, close enough for Freddy to see where she’d messed up the left wing of her eyeliner.

  With that poisoned-honey voice, Sadie said, “Did I, or did I not, just tell you to keep your distance from Ferren?”

  The phrasing was so similar to the infantilising language that Rupert had used in Henrietta’s office that Freddy’s temper finally unravelled. “Oh, go do one, Sadie. Ferren just took one look at you and scuttled back under a rock. Take the hint.”

  Sadie grabbed her arm again, and Freddy yanked it free. She was getting very tired of people pulling her in various directions. “I suggest you concentrate on your relationship with Lionel Grimes. The effort/reward ratio is better. Ferren loses most of his money in casinos and he’s not big on advancing anyone’s career but his own. He might wrangle you a bit part in one of his films, but the most women get to do in those scripts is wave their cleavage about and scream during car chases.”

  A narrow smile spread across Sadie’s face. “Are you insinuating, ever so delicately, that I have to sleep my way up the career ladder?” She shook her head. “Oh, honey. Pot and kettle.”

  Freddy dialled back the force of her response when a rigger walked past them. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Sadie curled her red nails, examining them with a studiedly casual air. “I mentioned, didn’t I, that I just did a run of Cymbeline? I was working under Drew Townseville.”

  Freddy stiffened.

  “It seems to be a popular position.” Sadie looked up through her lashes. “Working under Drew.” There was nothing subtle about the insinuation. “I believe you scored a job with him a few years ago. On High Voltage. Your first big dramatic role, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Freddy said after a pause that felt too long.

  “Quite a change for you at the time.” Sadie flexed her claws again. “You’d mostly been doing musicals until then, hadn’t you?”

  The world seemed to have narrowed to a tunnel between her and Sadie, paved with the memories she’d buried deep, and it was a shock when a new voice intruded, a production assistant calling Sadie back to rehearsal.

  “I’m just coming,” Sadie said sweetly. And, to Freddy: “Anything for the job.”

  The breeze was getting up. It blew renovation dust around Sadie as she disappeared inside, and fluttered the skirt of Freddy’s dress. On autopilot, she looked down. She still needed to get changed.

  It was quiet and shady on the path to the house, which existed in a bubble of calm between the chaos of people and construction at each end. As she passed the grand old oak that marked the halfway point, Freddy had a crazy vision of being able to climb into the huge knothole in the side and disappear into another world, like in Allegra Hawthorne’s books. A world where parents didn’t foist their own ambitions onto their children, and grandmothers were just little old ladies who handed out sherbet lemons and knitted handmade jumpers, and Sadie Fosters were shoved into cannons and fired off into space. And the revelation of secrets turned
out well in the end.

  Griff’s parents were still on the east lawn, directing operations for their expensive flight of fancy, but there was no sign of Griff. Fleetingly, as she let herself in through the side door, Freddy covered her eyes with her hand. From physically craving his presence, she was now glad that she wouldn’t have to see him just yet. She felt bruised, like every encounter in the past hour had torn away yet another raw strip of flesh.

  In her room, she reached into her pocket and pulled out the Violet and Billy love letter she’d hidden there this morning, while Charlie and Griff had been nursing the car back to health.

  She turned it over in her hand, then dropped it on the vanity table.

  A headache was starting to spread from the base of her skull up to her temples.

  She’d just pulled a silk camisole over her head and was reaching for a clean skirt when a hard gust of wind blew through the side window. The curtain snapped out like a matador’s cloak, and several papers on the tabletop went flying. Even Dorothy’s tornado wouldn’t have moved her brick-like script, but the letter got back at her for her theft by sailing straight out through the open door onto her small balcony.

  “Shit.” In her cami and knickers, Freddy scrambled out onto the balcony and looked over the balustrade, then saw the paper lodged in the ivy that ran up the wall. Bracing her foot on the railings, she stretched her arm as far as she could.

  Just out of reach.

  Cautiously, she pushed on the next rung of the railing, testing its strength. As much as she was growing to love Highbrook, she didn’t trust any part of it not to suddenly crumble. The iron seemed to be solidly bolted, so she stepped up, and, clinging to top-most railing with one hand, reached out over the abyss. It suddenly seemed vitally important to at least accomplish this. She was making a royal fuckup of enough things so far. Her fingertips touched the edge of the letter, and knocked it farther away. With a frustrated noise, she made a snatch for it, her supporting foot wobbling on the rail.

  “What the fuck are you doing?”

  It was an action replay of the situation when he’d caught her in the tree, only with the outrage meter dialled up a thousand-fold.

  And thanks to Griff’s impression of an angry lion, she almost toppled head-first into the patio below. At least it would have lessened the annoyance of her itchy stitches. They’d have been rather overshadowed by a broken leg and cracked skull.

  Hands seized hold of her waist just as she caught hold of the letter. He hauled her back onto the comparative solidity of the balcony, and she turned into his arms.

  It was not a romantic hug. He was furious. Cool, tall, usually frostily controlled Griff had been replaced by a man with sparking eyes and too-quick breathing.

  “Are you out of your mind?” he snapped, herding her back inside. “Every time I turn around, you’re scrambling about like an accident-prone spider monkey. Were you not listening when we told your entire disruptive, melodramatic, pain-in-the-arse company to be careful about leaning on the railings on this side of the house? You could have broken your bloody neck.”

  That was it. Freddy’s own leash snapped. She didn’t appreciate being yelled at under any circumstances, but she’d absolutely had it today. She was tired of being dictated to, and censured, and judged and found wanting. She was bubbling over with troubles and she didn’t know what to do about her father or the audition or the letters, and her skin felt dirty after the sucker-punch from Sadie, and—

  This day had begun so bloody blissfully in the early hours of the morning, and even now she was looking at him and holy shit, the feelings, but the intense sexual connection between them was edged with cutting antagonism. The emotions were bleeding together and becoming a churning whirlpool in her chest. Explosion imminent. She smacked the letter she was clutching down on the bedside table and pushed the clock on top of it to weight it down.

  Griff looked like he was being battered by a similarly complex mix of reactions. His temper was obviously fuelled by genuine concern—he’d run his hand over her arm and touched her hair, as if reassuring himself, against his will, that she was still intact—but he was also just pissed off in general and taking it out on her.

  Well, fuck that. He wasn’t the main target of her own built-up worry and anger, either, but he’d put himself in the firing line, so—bring it.

  “The only reason I almost fell was because you marched out there and screamed in my ear,” she retorted, propping one hand on her hip and suddenly remembering she was wearing nothing but silk and lace.

  Whatever. He’d seen her in less just a few hours ago. She was not abandoning her position on the battlefield in order to put a skirt on.

  “Heard of knocking?” she added sarcastically, and his eyes narrowed.

  “I did knock. Several times. You would have heard me if you hadn’t been trying to throw yourself off the balcony.” He swore again, every muscle in his upper body rigid with tension. “I seem to spend half my fucking life dragging someone I care about out of one reckless act after another. It only takes a second to think before you hurl yourself into—”

  “I am not your parents.” She might be warmed by that “care about” comment later, but given the rest of his little speech, probably not. “And I’m not your child or your bloody pet spaniel either, so don’t talk to me like I just had my brain excised. I’m not and will never be some selfish burden in anyone’s life that they have to rescue, thank you. I make my own decisions—”

  “When you’re not blindly following other people’s inclinations to avoid a confrontation.”

  “I seem to be getting over my dislike of confrontation.” Freddy curled her hands into fists. “Maybe I haven’t always done the right thing.” Her voice cracked slightly and she paused to take a jagged breath. “Maybe I’ve let people walk over me, and I’ve tried too hard to make everybody happy, and I’ve made mistakes, but at least I don’t have some sort of...of God complex.”

  When that betraying thread of tears feathered into her fury, Griff’s hand twitched, his body moving, and she instinctively knew that his instinct had been to hold. Comfort. Protect. But the anger had ignited fast and furiously, and it was still burning brightly in them both.

  “If people would recognise reality when it’s front of them and stop orbiting in dreamland, I wouldn’t have to chase after them like a fucking nanny-goat, if that’s what you’re implying.”

  “I’m not implying anything. I’m flat-out stating that you’re a control freak. I know how stressful it must be, being the guardian of this place, especially when your parents are being wilfully irresponsible, but there’s someone else on the property with a vested interest.”

  “Charlie?” Griff made a noise in his throat that was so dismissive it infuriated her. She knew what it was like to be written off as the family flirt, the sunny one, the flaky one, good for a laugh but you wouldn’t rely on them in a crisis. And Griff was short-changing himself, being a wanker about his brother and driving that distance between them when it didn’t need to be there.

  “Yes. Charlie. Have you actually given him the opportunity to help you? To be a support?”

  “Give Charlie an inch and he runs a mile, and starts a hot-air ballooning enterprise in the backyard. My parents’ genes out themselves regularly when he feels inspired to ‘help.’”

  “You know, if you recognised his talents, he might not feel like such a failure. He bloody worships you, and you treat him like he has the intellectual capacity of a houseplant.”

  “And what talents would those be?”

  “I don’t know, maybe the fact he fixed your car in about ten minutes flat this morning? The way he lit up like a Christmas tree when he started talking about engines and mechanics?”

  “Cars are Charlie’s choice of expensive hobby. And they’re an even worse financial investment than my parents’ miniatures.” That sneer was grating on her last
nerve. “You’re very warm in my brother’s defence. That comment about there being ‘just me’ didn’t last long, did it?”

  “Despite all evidence to the contrary, I refuse to believe that your dickhead streak runs this deep. What did you just say about recognising reality when it’s right in front of you? I don’t want to fuck your brother, you wanker. But I like him, and more importantly, I assume you love him, and you’re both just wasting your relationship.” She was breathing too shallowly, thanks to his dick remarks. “It might be exhausting cleaning up everyone’s messes, but believe me, you get tired of being dictated to nonstop by people who only see what they want to see. I come from a family of personalities who think their way is the only way, and I recognise another one when I’m looking at him.”

  There was a sharp glint in Griff’s dark, cynical eyes. “And I come from a family of dreamers, who choose to believe that the future will just work itself out, while someone else cleans up the mess.”

  And apparently he recognised another one when he looked at her. Freddy lifted her chin. There was truth in that, but anyone who thought that was her sum total was not what she needed. In his turn, he obviously thought she might not be what he wanted. Another sting of tears threatened, and she bit them back.

  She’d never been good at holding on to temper; when she flared, it was intense and short-lived. The anger was already starting to recede, and a deep, unhappy hollowness was taking its place.

  “And believe me,” he added, with an unpleasant bite, his bastard side out in force, “I know all about your family’s desire to have their own way.”

  Freddy looked up, trying to bring her focus back into the room and out of her head. God forbid she start orbiting in dreamland right in front of him. His words registered and she caught her breath. Did he think, too, that—“What?”

  “Your father has finally achieved his objective.” Griff had retreated deep into that hateful, impenetrable coldness. When he was like this, the man who’d been so intimate and affectionate with her in bed did seem like something from a dream. “Having pushed through his plans to adapt All Her World into the most biased biographical film on record, he’s pulled in several favours in order to discredit me and my production company, and the studio has decided not to saturate the market. Your grandmother suddenly isn’t quite interesting enough to merit both projects.”