The Austen Playbook

by Lucy Parker

  There was no question now that she’d have to. Despite that momentary falter, that surge of guilt and uncertainty, her conscience would never have stood keeping it quiet, and—

  And she was realising that her loyalty to the man beside her was starting to outweigh all others.

  The sheets rustled as Griff pushed up to a half-sitting position, still holding her hand. His touch was comforting—but in the thin beam of moonlight that shone through the crack in the curtains, that odd expression returned to his eyes.

  * * *

  It was barely dawn when Griff woke the next morning, and Freddy was still asleep, one arm slipped beneath his pillow. His arm was tucked around her, his hand pushed up under the T-shirt she’d stolen from his chest of drawers.

  Gently withdrawing his hold, he sat looking down at her. She was breathing quietly and looked peaceful and happy, her worries temporarily unable to reach her.

  A thump outside the door brought his head around. Muffled footsteps paused, and then the shuffling noise continued. Something was so distinctly furtive about it that his eyes narrowed; he glanced at the time and frowned.

  Swinging smoothly out of bed, he went to the door and, grimacing in case the hinges creaked and woke Freddy, pulled it open. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected—a corpse to topple in on him, or a bloodstained victim dragging themselves down the hallway? The Austen Playbook had a lot to answer for; the whodunit atmosphere was pervading the whole bloody estate.

  All he saw was a flash of movement at the end of the hallway, someone creeping back to the other bedroom wing. Freddy’s room was down that corridor, with the rest of the women. It was mostly the male cast who were being housed down this end. Griff’s gaze travelled five doors down, to where Dylan Waitely was sleeping; then back in the direction the mystery figure had crept. Or not sleeping, as the case appeared to be.

  He wondered which poor woman had fallen victim to the line of bullshit this time. Thank God the walls in this place were about three-feet thick. If he had to hear one peep out of Waitely while he was in the throes, he’d reach the end of his tether.

  He returned to bed. Freddy had turned over in her sleep and flung one arm out across his side of the mattress. A small frown tugged between her brows.

  Her phone on the bedside table was still on silent, but no doubt Rupert would be trying to reach her again soon, ready to bully her back to London and renew his efforts to get her into The Velvet Room.

  Very lightly, he laid his palm on her head, moving his thumb in a feathering stroke. For a woman with such a razor-sharp brain, she had one blind spot, and it centred directly on her father.

  In the past few months, Griff had read All Her World three times, and he could recite certain passages in it down to the last very clever phrase. The inference of those words shone out like a beacon. And when Freddy had got over the shock and exhaustion, and the fog of her own misplaced guilt, she’d realise it as well.

  That Rupert Carlton had to have known the true provenance of The Velvet Room all along.

  Freddy murmured something in her sleep and her hand found his. She’d physically shook as she flagellated herself for being torn, for a passing moment, between loyalty and her own deep morality. As she ripped herself apart trying to keep everyone happy. Trying not to hurt anyone she loved.

  Something in his chest shifted, and with his free hand he reached for his own phone on the other table. He scrolled through his contacts. Thanks to Rupert’s ongoing campaign to be as obstructive as possible this year, he had the man’s number saved in his phone, although he’d never had the cause or desire to text him in the past.

  The message he sent was short and to the point.

  I think we need to talk about The Velvet Room. And my great-aunt Violet.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Wednesday—Two days until showtime

  They were up to their ears in trouble-making scripts. Griff flicked over another page of the enormous tome on the grass beside him. Navigating the written version of The Austen Playbook was like trying to follow an instruction manual that had been blown about in the wind and then shoved back into a pile with no respect for page numbers. The scene variations meant that it cut abruptly in places and then skipped ahead nine or ten pages. He wasn’t surprised Freddy was having trouble keeping her lines straight. He was finding it difficult just to prompt her.

  “Act two, scene four, second variation,” he said, feeling like the conductor of an extremely complicated symphony, and Freddy hesitated and then swung into her monologue. A snap of the fingers and he had Lydia Bennet sitting across from him—flighty, flirty, shallow, and, in Freddy’s hands, bringing moments of definite and unexpected pathos.

  In some ways Lydia’s personality was the extreme edge of Freddy’s own blithe, flirtatious side, but the character lacked her fundamental strength and generosity. She was obviously in her element with this show, though, and enjoying the material—if they could work out where they were in it.

  “I think you’re doing the third variation.” He flipped over another few pages, looking for the lines she was reciting. “This is the one where Wickham goes ahead with the affair with Mrs. Elton.”

  “Shit.” Freddy sat up straighter and reached for the script. The breeze lifted the edges of the pages and fluttered the hem of her skirt. He’d met her for her lunch break on the grass at the edge of the south woodland. They were sitting facing each other at the base of a towering oak, their legs entwined at the ankles. “We’re two days out from the show and I’m still not completely off-book. So much for my decisive gesture, walking out of The Velvet Room audition. I wouldn’t rate my chances at being offered Marguerite even if I’d stayed. And I’m not exactly going to blow Fiona Gallagher away. At this rate, I’d be lucky if I got a role as third tree on the left.”

  “You’re almost word-perfect with the lines. It’s just keeping track of the bloody jumping around.” He studied the page critically. “Although you can possibly play the odds on which of these variations the public is likely to vote for. I’d be surprised if they vote in any of the options that mess with the Elizabeth/Darcy love story.” Running his fingertips around her ankle bone, Griff added drily, “Unless Waitely pisses everyone off so much they decide it’s best that Darcy drowns in the lake.”

  “Dylan’s much better as Darcy than I thought he’d be. Well,” Freddy amended, “at least, he’s nailed the pre-first-proposal, arrogant, nose-in-the-air Darcy. He’s less believable as the more approachable, sacrifice-pride-for-love Darcy. I still put the possibility of him joining the fictional body count at about twenty percent.” She let one of her knees fall to the side as his fingers advanced farther up her leg. “Lydia’s definite whodunit bait. I give myself a fifty-percent chance of an early exit to the green room. Although I think she has a lot of built-up anger by that point and I fancy myself more in the role of unveiled murderer than poisoned corpse, so I’m hoping people vote for the third variation in the final choice. Tell your friends.” She wriggled at his touch. “Actually, I’m hoping people vote, full stop.”

  “Yes.” With everything up in the air with the film project and Rupert as yet ignoring both Freddy’s calls and Griff’s private message, the bills for his parents’ latest extravagance were pressing and the larger the cheque from the Austen crowd, the better. “Charlie’s enlisted everyone he knows to watch and vote on Friday, so that should bring in half of London.”

  “Fingers crossed the other half tune in for the chance to fictionally off Dylan, then.” Freddy squirmed again as his fingers reached the skin at the top of her inner thigh. It was unbelievably soft, silkier than the fabric of the very brief briefs she wore. When he touched her there, she made that little purring sound in her throat that had a similar effect to a physical stroke on his own flesh. The wash of lust was a welcome release from the feeling of being constantly on edge.

  Swiftly moving his hands down, Griff cir
cled his fingers around each of her ankles and pulled. Fortunately, she’d grown up performing athletic manoeuvres in the musicals she loved, so she ended up where he’d intended. In his lap, her legs fully wrapped around his waist, and not sprawled on her back with the wind knocked out of her.

  She immediately looped her arms around his neck. She was so damn affectionate, so unhesitatingly generous with her touches and her laughter; and entwined with the intense sexual attraction between them, Griff found a bone-deep comfort in her presence that he’d never experienced. Never realised he wanted. He cupped the back of her head and kissed her neck, the spot below her ear that made her hum and melt into him.

  “I may not be the best person to help you rehearse,” he murmured to her throat, and felt the vibration as she spoke, low and husky.

  “Call it practice for the Wickham kiss in the first act.”

  Griff stopped kissing her neck, lifted his head, and looked at her. She’d been drawing patterns on his back, but the moment the words left her mouth, she stilled. Delicately clearing her throat, she ventured, “Er...delete last comment and insert something really sexy that doesn’t mention snogging another man?”

  “If you want to kill the mood so you can get back to work,” Griff said, unable to hold back a smile at her comically chastened expression, “I suggest you just throw the mug of cold tea in my face.”

  She took his face in both hands, smacked a kiss on his mouth, and crawled back to a safe distance to reach for the script again.

  “Is there a kiss with Wickham?” he asked idly, stretching out his legs.

  “Mmm.” She flipped through the pages, looking for the right scene.

  “And Wickham would be the model who keeps sauntering around the grounds taking selfies, would he?”

  “Sounds plausible.” Finding her place, Freddy smoothed out the script and glanced up at him through her lashes. “It’s just another scripted gesture. A bit awkward the first time, and then it becomes part of the routine. About as passionate as boiling an egg.”

  Griff leaned back against the tree trunk and closed his eyes. “I’m sure.”

  “He uses too much lip balm. It’s like pressing my mouth against a melted candle.”

  “Is it.”

  “He has bad breath, too.”

  “Good.”

  “And the one time I thought he was scowling at me, it turned out to be a false alarm. He had something in his eye. He just smiles all the time, like some sort of unhinged clown. Where’s the fun in that?”

  She squeaked and started to giggle when, lightning-fast, eyes still closed, he tossed a stray bread roll at her. Grinning, he lay listening to her read lines, but when her voice trailed away, and she obviously thought he’d dropped off, he cracked open an eye.

  For the fifth time in the past hour, she was checking her silent phone. She’d called Rupert back this morning, and several times since, and obviously thought she was getting the silent treatment over the missed audition. Rupert switching up his usual steamroller attitude for a touch of passive-aggression.

  Griff had very few good things to say about Rupert Carlton in general, and an even bigger bone to pick with him now, but he especially did not fucking like the way the man treated Freddy.

  Freddy, in turn, was obviously not very impressed with his own parents’ priorities.

  It was going to be a bloody awkward Christmas dinner this year.

  When Freddy went back to rehearsal, Griff went in search of his brother and found him in the garage, working on his latest project.

  “Hey,” Charlie said, frowning into a shoddy-looking engine. “How goes the production? Is it going to soar on Friday and keep us here for another Christmas?”

  “Provided everybody remembers which scene they’re in, we can only hope.”

  “I should have negotiated a fixed fee,” Charlie muttered.

  Griff studied the car he was working on, then looked around the garage he rarely bothered coming into. His brother had neat, labelled boxes of tools and parts, and all manner of machinery tided away. It looked like a professional workshop. “There would be no immediate cash injection coming in at all if you hadn’t organised it.” Then he said, “Charlie,” and at the seriousness of his voice, Charlie set down a tool and reached for an oil-stained rag.

  “What’s going on?” he asked, wiping his hands.

  Automatically, out of habit, Griff started cataloguing words in his mind, sifting through the information he should share with Charlie, the parts that were best left for him to deal with himself. No. His mouth twisted wryly. Delegation. Not so much acting lessons as life lessons with Freddy Carlton. Opening up to the people he cared about. Asking for help when he needed it. “There are some things you should know. About Great-Aunt Violet, and Henrietta Carlton. And the film. The gateposts just shifted radically. But there’s a problem, and it’s going to affect Freddy.”

  Charlie put down the rag and sat on a metal step. “I’m listening.”

  Thursday—One Day until Showtime

  “Waitely!” Maf stopped pacing up and down the front of the stage like an angry tiger and turned on Dylan, who stared back at her sulkily. Whipping the pen from behind her ear, she pointed it at him. “Are you suffering from some unpleasant digestive disorder?”

  His lips pinching together, Dylan propped his hands on his hips. “What?” Sweat was beading on his forehead, dripping down into his eyes. They were all feeling the heat, in more than one respect. One day left until the curtain rose and the TV cameras rolled.

  “Unless you require the medic to be summoned, could we aim for haughty rather than nauseated, please?” Maf shoved her hand through her mass of grey hair, which had been so heavily moussed and sprayed that it followed the movements of her fingers and ended up sticking straight out.

  Everybody was more seamless with their lines today; the prompter had to interject only once. But tempers were short and the rising pressure had joined forces with the vividly hot sun outside. The adorable, atmospheric theatre had become the choking, claustrophobic theatre. Even with the ventilation system pumping away, it was like being trapped in an oven.

  Sadie smirked and fluttered her hand up to examine her nails. With a silent refrain of “What Would Griff Do?” in her head, Freddy had been determined to remain cool in the face of Sadie’s continued digs, take the superior road and blank her, but she was more inclined right now to do a “What Would Rocky Balboa Do?” and just punch her in the nose.

  “Freddy.” Maf’s tone was so censorious that for an insane second Freddy thought the director had plucked that thought right out of her head. “I know I demanded a rounded characterisation from you, but I think you’re overplaying Lydia’s mental state in this scene. At this point, she’s not tragically torn in her decision. She’s faced few consequences of her behaviour, and the scale of her ambition might be comparatively limited, but she’s prepared to be ruthless in carrying it out.”

  Sadie wandered past Freddy, speaking in a low voice. “Are you sure you didn’t fuck Steve Lemmon, as well? It’s like he tailor-made this role for you.”

  Summoning the last reserves of her patience, Freddy managed to keep her eyes and attention on Maf, ignoring the serpent slithering in hip-swaying circles around her. “Tone down the indecision. Got it.”

  She couldn’t help her gaze straying to the chair in the stalls where she’d left her stuff. Her phone was on silent, but it was starting to look like her father didn’t plan to call her back. Which was out of character, to say the least. He didn’t make a habit of ringing her for chummy family chats, but he didn’t usually ignore her, either. He’d consider that highly unprofessional behaviour between a manager and his client. She’d expected him down here in person by now, with several things to say on the subject of The Velvet Room.

  “Right,” Maf snapped. “Break for thirty minutes, before I fire someone. And Sadie, for Go
d’s sake, would you stop flowing about in circles? You look like a concussed squid.”

  Sadie had just flowed around Maya a couple of times, murmuring something to her. Her face took on an unflattering undertone of purple. Even she wouldn’t mess with Maf, so she resorted to a sniff, followed by a meaningful look at Maya.

  Who was shaking. Physically trembling.

  Sharply, Freddy looked at where Sadie was slinking towards the most comfortable chair, next to the air vent, and then back at Maya, who was almost jogging towards the outside door.

  Taking the steps two at a time, she grabbed her phone and followed Maya out into the sunshine, catching her up at the catering tent. She stood for a moment, watching her castmate join the line for food and reach for a plate with unsteady hands.

  “I didn’t think you liked shellfish,” she said, as Maya piled shrimp salad on a plate.

  Maya jumped so hard she dropped the serving spoon she was holding. “Oh—Freddy.” She looked down at the food. “Oh. No. I’m just...” For someone who was such a brilliant actor onstage, she was absolutely rubbish at pretence as soon as she stepped out of character.

  “Fetching a food plate for our lazy resident squid?” Freddy asked bluntly. “Who is a total fiend for shrimp.”

  Maya opened her mouth, then closed it. She swallowed.

  Freddy took the plate from her before she dropped it as well, and, surveying the options, plunked on a few more spoonfuls from dishes she knew Her Majesty deemed acceptable for consumption. Then she walked over to an unoccupied bench, where they were unlikely to be overheard, and Maya automatically followed her, looking dazed. Freddy handed the full plate back. “What does Sadie have on you?”

  She was just about at the end of her rope with the intrigues and skulduggery around this place. What was it about Highbrook? It was like the moment people entered the gates, they tumbled into some weird gameshow. Unethical Choices. Will it be door number one, plagiarism? Does door number two and a spot of adultery tickle your fancy? No, she’s going for door number three. It’s blackmail, folks.