by Lucy Parker
“There comes a moment when the truth must out. Realisation chases away the mist of denial and self-deception, and—you know. And there’s no longer a choice.”
The Velvet Room. Act Two, Scene Three. Words spoken by the character of Anna.
This play—her grandmother’s crowning achievement. As a child, Freddy had watched an old recording of Henrietta performing as Marguerite, and copied her movements, wrapping a tablecloth around her waist to emulate the sweeping skirt of Henrietta’s ballgown.
She stood now, motionless, her palm still pressed against the wood of the door.
Griff might scorn the idea of signs, but personally, she thought it was about time she started listening to what something or somebody was trying hard to tell her.
The truth must out.
She stepped back, just as the door opened. A woman with a clipboard in her hand blinked, momentarily startled, then whipped out a pen. “Hi, there. Freddy Carlton, isn’t it? You’re here to audition?”
It was a rhetorical question. Actor, theatre, audition—it all followed, didn’t it?
Freddy looked over the woman’s shoulder, where she could see the usual scene unfolding, the bark of voices, the atmosphere that seemed to soak up both the nerves of newer performers and the ego of many established stars. She’d done this a hundred times before, sometimes for roles she really wanted, more often for roles she was strongly advised to pursue. She half expected to see her father there, but he’d made a point of not coming to her auditions since she was about fifteen, so she could fully focus. She’d been almost eighteen before she’d stopped looking into the stands and feeling his absence, still wanting her dad.
He was expecting her to report to his office shortly, with positive feedback in hand.
No longer a choice.
“No,” she said to the surprised woman. “Not this time.”
As she strode back the way she’d come, she tugged her phone from her bag and fired off a quick text.
Akiko’s response came back in less than a minute. At the Grantham Collections today. Meet me in the portrait room in half an hour.
* * *
Scores of painted eyes watched from the walls of the gold-painted, high-ceilinged chamber in the centre of the Grantham Collections in Clerkenwell. The longer Freddy stared back at them as she talked, keeping her voice low in the echoing room, the more she could swear some of them were moving in their frames. The stately looking dude with all the white curls had a disapproving little smile that seemed to be growing by the second. Disconcerting.
Akiko listened to her in silence, and when Freddy stopped speaking, gave a quiet whistle. “Oh, my. You’re about to toss the cat amongst the pigeons with a vengeance. Are you sure?”
“No,” Freddy said glumly. “I’m not. And I hope I’m wrong.”
Akiko crossed her legs, bouncing one foot in its stiletto boot. She was wearing a silk shirt and leather trousers, and looked so cool that Freddy felt like a scruffy frizzball sitting next to her in damp leggings, with her matted hair steaming. “How are you going to find out for sure?”
“I don’t know.” Freddy looked at the curly-haired portrait again. “If there’s anyone still living who knows the facts, it’s been so long that I expect they’ll want them to stay buried.”
Akiko followed her gaze. “General Godfrey Reynolds,” she said absently, nodding at the portrait. “Highly decorated commander in the Napoleonic Wars. And responsible for the deaths of many of his soldiers, from what I’ve found out.” Her finely arched brows compressed. “Does he remind you of anyone? It’s been nagging at me for weeks.”
“Dad,” Freddy said abruptly. “He looks a bit like Dad.”
She stood up, suddenly unable to sit still anymore, and stalked in the opposite direction, away from General Reynolds and his judgmental look. The smaller portraits in the far corner were giving off a much friendlier vibe. Akiko followed her, her heels tapping on the floorboards.
“On a lighter note, how are rehearsals going? I can’t wait for the performance.”
“Are you and Elise still coming to see it live?”
Akiko’s wife was a sculptor, and just as much of a darling as her spouse.
“Wouldn’t miss it. We’ll vote too.” She cleared her throat. “How’s Ferren?”
“Charming everyone on the estate who’s never worked with him before.” Freddy tucked her hair behind her ears. “He’s been at his best all weekend. An absolute delight to have around. You’d almost be fooled into thinking he’s turned over a new leaf.”
Akiko’s snort was delicate and ladylike, but spoke volumes.
“Exactly,” Freddy said. “It’s only a matter of time before he goes flying off the rails. I just hope it doesn’t happen until after the performance, because right now, the Ford-Griffins desperately need this show to come off. And Jesus God, I hope Sabrina isn’t caught up in the crash.”
“She’ll be broadcasting live from the estate on Friday, won’t she?”
“Yes.” Freddy winced. “With Nick Davenport. Speaking of cats among the pigeons, wait for the fur and feathers to fly there. So much for a relaxing lead-up to the show. I hope they don’t put anyone off. It needs to go well,” she said again, and realised Akiko was smiling at her. “What?”
“You.” Akiko’s face was gently teasing. “Smitten kitten.”
Freddy was mortified to feel her cheeks warming. Bloody Griff. He really had turned her into a blusher. “I just—want things to go well for him.”
“I can see that. I think it’s lovely.” Akiko tugged affectionately on one of her curls. “I think you’re lovely, and you bring so much happiness to the rest of us that if there’s any justice, the world will shower it back on you soon. I suppose you’ve gone all in, no holds barred?”
Freddy coughed. “Um—are you asking if I’ve slept with him?”
“This is me you’re talking to, not Sabs. I’m not that nosy. I’m talking emotions, my lovely. Are you falling for him?”
“Head-first. I suppose you’re going to tell me to be cautious?”
“No. I’m not. Under that bubbly personality, you have a very good head on your shoulders, and sound instincts, and anyone who earns your affection is bound to be worthy of it.” Akiko hesitated. “I know you feel like your family don’t always respect your opinions, but Sabrina doesn’t mean to patronise you. It’s the age gap. She can’t help still seeing you as her baby sister, and she worries about you where Rupert is concerned.” A hint of grimness. “Her own relationship with him is so distant that I think she’s afraid you’ll get hurt, too.”
Freddy flinched. “With some justification, I expect.” She ran her gaze blindly across the portraits in front of them. “I’ve been a total pushover where Dad’s concerned. I do know that. And I’ve made some bad decisions.”
“Cut yourself some slack. It’s been the two of you working on your career since you were eleven. It’s a hard cycle to break.” Akiko’s voice gentled. “I know you’ve carried some guilt over what happened to him. Quite unnecessarily, but the mind isn’t always rational. Neither is the heart.”
Freddy swallowed. “If what I think is true, it’s going to be a massive blow to him.” Understatement. “And coming right after the news that I ditched the audition... I can’t honestly see what things are going to be like between us from now on.”
“If it’s true, things are going to be difficult for a while. But regardless, you can’t live your life trying to fulfil whatever dream Rupert has. I think you have to do what you have to do.” Akiko nudged Freddy’s arm. “And it sounds like you’ll have a hand to hold if you need it.”
Freddy looked down at where she was holding her own hands, her fingers knotted together. “I don’t know what Griff will want. He’s not exactly an open book. And he’s very self-sufficient.”
“If he doesn’t want you, he’s an idio
t. And based on his TV shows and columns, he’s clearly not a fool. And as far as self-sufficiency goes, just because you do a good job of being by yourself, it doesn’t mean you wouldn’t also make a good partner. If you’re a complete person in yourself, that usually makes for the best kind of partnership. Still you, but a partner-in-crime, a buddy to have your back.”
Freddy smiled a little. “I’ve been super jealous, you know, of you and Elise this past year or so. I thought it would be so great, to have that. To know what it’s like.”
Akiko lifted a brow. “And what is it like?”
A tiny little glow of warmth amidst the tension that had sunk deep into every muscle and bone in her body. “Right now, a whole bunch of confusion, but—I think it could be the best thing ever. I—”
Her voice cut off abruptly as one of the portraits on the wall suddenly came into focus. She stared, wondering if she’d finally caved into the stress and gone crackers.
She darted forward and crouched in front of one of the lowest mounted frames. It was a moody, atmospheric depiction of a woman, her skin painted with such a luminescent light against the greyness of the background that she seemed to glow.
“Portrait of My Love,” Freddy read out from the sparse plaque below the picture.
“Romantic, isn’t it?” Akiko knelt at her side. “Although I always think there’s something sad about it. The tones. There’s a darkness. I suspect it was painted in tribute, to a love that was no longer with him in body.”
Freddy touched a fingertip to the plaque. “William Gotham.”
“Achieved some success as a landscape artist in the seventies,” Akiko recalled from memory. “But really came into vogue as a portraitist in the eighties. He was the ‘it’ painter for the highest of high society. Made a mint. This piece is very different from his commission work, though. I think it’s his finest portrait. I wish I knew more about the subject, but he was very private. I couldn’t find much information about his life outside of his work.”
“I can probably fill in some of the gaps for you,” Freddy said. “That’s Violet Ford.”
Griff’s great-aunt had been painted in profile, but Freddy had seen her hovering in the background of enough photos of Henrietta in the past week that she knew that asymmetric bob-cut, the shape of that enigmatic smile, and the unmistakable nose, the latter identical to Griff’s. She tapped the etched name again.
“And this, I imagine, is her Billy.”
* * *
Freddy wasn’t sure exactly how she’d ended up at Tower Bridge. After she’d left Akiko and the beautiful portrait of Violet at the Grantham Collections, she’d intended to head straight back to Highbrook. She wasn’t quite ready to face her father yet, and anyway, Maf had only given her leave until three o’clock.
But somehow she’d ended up asking the taxi driver to change directions. This one was more patient with her flip-flopping decisions than the last, and just whistled cheerfully as he delivered her as close to the bridge as they could get in the traffic.
The sky was still grey and heavy, and a few more raindrops fell on Freddy’s already ruffled head when she slowed her footsteps and stood at the railing, close to where Violet Ford had fatally crashed her car decades ago.
The back of her neck prickled. With a strange surge of adrenaline, Freddy spun around, and her breath caught as her eyes met Griff’s.
Chapter Thirteen
Standing on Tower Bridge with his blond head darkened by rain, Griff was staring at her, equally taken aback. He recovered faster than she did. Crossing the distance between them with his long stride, he somehow managed to move them so his body was blocking most of the wind.
“Of course I’d randomly find you on Tower Bridge,” he said. “I don’t know why I was surprised. What are you doing here?”
“What are you doing here?” Freddy could do nothing but parrot his enquiry. She was at a loss for words. For God’s sake—she’d been having a weird feeling all day about events slipping into motion, but it was just getting spooky now. “I didn’t know you were coming up to London today.”
“Likewise. I had a series of meetings about the film.” That explained the suit. He always dressed smartly, but in a dress jacket he maxed out on the fanciable scale.
“How—” A horn blared, cutting her off, and the traffic noise seemed to increase in volume. “What did—” Another horn blast, and the wind whistled past them.
With a frustrated sound, she grabbed Griff’s hand impulsively and started power-walking back to a less chaotic spot.
They ended up standing by a railing in a pocket of comparative calm on St. Katharine Docks.
She was wheezing. The Austen Playbook was a lot of fun, but it wasn’t very physically demanding. With all these talky, nondancing shows lately and her lack of morning runs, she really was out of condition.
She’d have some serious work to do if Fiona Gallagher liked what she saw in the performance and cast her in the Anathorn musical.
If. If, if, if. Everything was an “if” right now.
“So—how did it go? Your meetings?” She studied Griff anxiously and had to catch her breath all over again when he reached out and very lightly touched the end of a curl that had gone fluffy against her cheek. He seemed surprisingly unfazed by her yanking him about like a tugboat.
His hand dropped as they looked at each other, his eyes searching hers.
“At this stage, the Henrietta film remains on the backburner.” Griff pushed back the edges of his jacket to tuck his hands into his trouser pockets. “So, we move an alternative project forward.”
“Do you have a Plan B?”
He cocked his head, still looking down at her penetratingly. “I always have a Plan B.” A shade of Snooty Critic in the response that brought an impulsive twitch to her lips, but the tension immediately racketed back up again.
“What about Highbrook? Will it be—enough?”
“No.” Fleetingly, Griff’s jaw went taut, but he was very calm now. “It won’t be enough. The property will go. I don’t see any way around it.”
“Right.” Freddy’s mind was whirling. She opened her mouth, closed it. Reached out to rest her fingertips against his stomach, grounding herself. She could feel the rhythm of his steady breaths. She didn’t know how to say this. If—bloody ifs again—she was wrong, it was opening up a false avenue of hope for Griff. And if she was right, the implications for her own family...
He suddenly cupped her cheek, rubbing the pad of his thumb along her cheekbone. “You didn’t say why you’re back in the city.” His voice was deep and seemed to curl around her spine. They’d drawn closer together. “Don’t you have rehearsal today?”
People walking past shot them an idle, curious look, but Freddy was too worried, and too overwhelmed by being back with him, to care about onlookers.
“I organised a partial day off today in my contract.” She closed her eyes briefly, and his fingers moved in a stroke against the sensitive skin of her neck. When she looked up again, a frown was starting to grow in his expression. “For my audition. For The Velvet Room.”
His small movements, that little touch that was making her breath stutter, didn’t falter, but she could sense him go very watchful. “I forgot that was today.” He was emitting jaguar vibes again. “How was it?”
“I got as far as the door into the stands at the Metronome. And then I bailed.”
Griff’s brows shot up. “You walked out?”
“I barely walked in.” Slowly, she reached up and slipped her fingers through his, entwining their hands. Not for an expedient dash through the streets this time. Just to have that connection, that surprising, incredible sense of wordless support. It was like being able to breathe just a little easier, having that contact back again. “You remember that line in The Velvet Room, when Anna says there’s a moment you just know, and there’s no choice anymore, y
ou have to act? The truth has to come out. I reached that moment.”
“And what did you know?”
Freddy lifted her gaze from her fixed study of his shirt buttons. “That I’ve reached the turning point where my career is concerned. Either I keep doing things I regret to try to meet my father’s expectations, or I grow up and take control of my life.” She bit her lip, then, on impulse, reached up and touched her mouth to the corner of his, and he turned his head so that his cheek slid against hers, moving in a gentle, thoughtful nuzzle.
She realised how hard she was gripping him, and tried to relax her tense knuckles. “There’s something else... Well, a lot else, if we’re talking about you and me.” She was starting to babble. “But...if there’s something I think has happened that’s wrong, I can’t just keep quiet, can I, even—” Her voice faltered, and she cleared her throat. “Even if some of the consequences won’t be good.”
“Freddy.” Griff’s own voice was very steady, but there was both concern and calculation in his eyes. She suspected he was mentally treating her like one of the medieval puzzles she’d seen him discuss on TV, examining all the angles, deciphering her. “I was an absolute bastard to you on Friday. I shouldn’t have lost my temper, and I sure as hell shouldn’t have taken it out on you.” He traced the line of her jaw with a gentle knuckle, and then pressed his mouth briefly to the curve of her cheek under her eye. He seemed equally uncaring of anyone who might see them. “I’m sorry.”
His scent and his warmth were clouding her mind, and she turned her head to catch his mouth. The kiss was hard and searching, his hair damp between her fingers as she slipped her arms around his neck, his hands making her shiver as he stroked the small of her back through the thin fabric of her short dress.
Someone wolf-whistled nearby. They broke the kiss, but their faces were still close together, Griff’s nose touching hers. She shifted her hand to trace the high bridge of it, his profile bringing back the memory of Billy Gotham’s painting, and the things she needed to share with him. Even if she was wrong. “I wasn’t exactly nice to you on Friday, either.”
