Act Like It

by Lucy Parker

  Get a grip.

  “I’ll come right to the point.” Bob sat on the edge of the wide mahogany desk and gestured the other women to sit down with an impatient wiggle of his index finger. Reaching for the iPad on his blotter, he flipped it open and keyed in the password. “I presume you’ve seen this.”

  He held the iPad in front of Lainie’s face and she blinked, trying to bring the screen into focus. She could feel the heavy pulse of her heartbeat, but dread dwindled into confusion when she saw the news item. London Celebrity had struck again, but she wasn’t the latest offering for the sacrificial pit after all.

  It appeared that Richard had dined out last night. The fact that he’d entered into a shouting match with a notable chef and decided to launch a full-scale offensive on the tableware seemed about right. She took a closer look at the lead photograph. Of course his paparazzi shots were that flattering. No piggy-looking eyes and double chins for Richard Troy. He probably didn’t have a bad angle.

  God, he was irritating.

  She shrugged, and three sets of pursed lips tightened. “Well,” she said hastily, trying to recover her ground, “it’s unfortunate, but...”

  “But Richard does this kind of shit all the time,” was probably not the answer they were looking for.

  And what exactly did this have to do with her? Surely they weren’t expecting her to cough up for his damages bill. The spoon in baby Richard Troy’s mouth had been diamond-encrusted platinum. He was old family money, a millionaire multiple times over. He could pay for his own damn broken Meissen. If he had a propensity for throwing public temper tantrums and hurling objects about the room, his management team should have restricted him to eating at McDonald’s. There was only so much damage he could do with paper wrappers and plastic forks.

  “It’s getting to be more than unfortunate,” Lynette said, in such an ominous tone that Lainie decided to keep her opinions to herself on that score.

  Pat at last broke her simmering silence. “There have been eight separate incidents in this month alone.” Three strands of blond hair had come loose from her exquisitely arranged chignon. For most women, that would be a barely noticeable dishevelment. Lainie’s own hair tended to collapse with a resigned sigh the moment she turned away from the mirror. For Pat, three unpinned locks was a shocking state of disarray. “It’s only the second week of October.”

  Lainie thought that even Richard should fear that particular tone of voice from this woman. She flinched on his behalf.

  “Any publicity is good publicity. Isn’t that the idea?” She glanced warily from one mutinous face to the next. It was an identical expression, replicated thrice over. A sort of incredulous outrage, as if the whole class were being punished for the sins of one naughty child.

  Apt, really. If one considered the personalities involved.

  “To a point.” Bob’s nostrils flared. She couldn’t help noticing that a trim wouldn’t go astray there. “Which Troy has now exceeded.” He gave her a filthy look that suggested she was personally responsible for Richard’s behaviour. God forbid.

  “Men in particular,” he went on, stating the loathsome truth, “are given a fair amount of leeway in the public eye. A certain reputation for devilry, a habit of thumbing one’s nose at the establishment, sowing one’s wild oats...” He paused, looking hard at her, and Lainie hoped that her facial expression read “listening.” As opposed to “nauseated.” He sounded like a 1950s summary of the ideal man’s man. Which had been despicably sexist sixty years ago and had not improved since.

  “However,” Bob continued, and the word came down like a sledgehammer, “there is a line at which a likable bad boy becomes a nasty entitled bastard whom the public would rather see hung out to dry in the street than pay to watch prance about a stage in his bloomers. And when somebody starts abusing their fans, making an absolute arse of themselves in public places, and alienating the people who paid for their bloody Ferrari, they may consider that line crossed.”

  Lainie wondered if an actual “Hallelujah” chorus had appeared in the doorway, or if it was just the sound of her own glee.

  She still had no idea why she was the privileged audience to this character assassination, but she warmly appreciated it. Surely, though, they weren’t...

  “Are you firing him?” Her voice squeaked as if she had uttered the most outrageous profanity. Voiced the great unspoken. The mere suggestion of firing Richard Troy was the theatrical equivalent of hollering “Voldemort!” in the halls of Hogwarts. He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Missed.

  Still...

  She wondered if it would be mean-spirited to cross her fingers.

  Bob’s return look was disappointingly exasperated. “Of course we’re not firing him. It would cost an absolute bloody fortune to break his contract.”

  “And I suggest you don’t attempt it.” Lynette sounded steely.

  “Besides,” Bob said grudgingly, “nobody is denying that he’s a decent actor, when he confines his histrionics to the script.”

  That was a typical Bob-ism. Pure understatement. Richard Troy had made the cover of Time magazine the previous year. The extravagantly handsome headshot had been accompanied by an article lauding him as a talent surpassing Olivier, and only two critics had been appalled.

  “And if he conducted his outbursts with a bit of discretion,” Bob said, as if they were discussing a string of irregular liaisons, “then we wouldn’t be having this discussion. But Troy’s deplorable public image is beginning to affect ticket sales. The management is not pleased.”

  Lainie couldn’t match his awe of a bunch of walking wallets in suits, but she echoed the general feeling of dismay. If the management weren’t pleased, Bob would make everyone else’s life an utter misery until their mood improved.

  “I’m not sure what this has to do with me,” she said warily.

  “If ticket sales are down, it’s everybody’s problem,” Lynette said pompously, and Pat looked at her impatiently.

  “We need some good publicity for Richard.” She folded her arms and subjected Lainie to an intense scrutiny, which wavered into scepticism. “The general consensus is so overwhelmingly negative that he’s in danger of falling victim to a hate campaign in the press. People might flock to see a subject of scandal, but they won’t fork over hard-earned cash to watch someone they wholeheartedly despise. Not in this competitive market. At least not since it became socially unacceptable to heave rotten vegetables at the stage,” she added with a brief, taut smile.

  Lainie allowed herself three seconds to fantasize about that.

  “How badly have sales dropped?” she asked, wondering if she ought to be contacting her agent. She had a third audition lined up for a period drama that was due to begin shooting early next year, but if there was a chance the play might actually fold...

  An internationally acclaimed West End production, brought down by Richard Troy’s foot-stamping sulks. Unbelievable.

  “We’re down fourteen percent on last month,” Bob said, and she bit her lip. “We’re not going bust.” He sounded a bit put out at having to lessen his grievance. “It would take a pipe bomb as well as Richard’s presence onstage before there was any real threat of that. But we’ve had to paper the house four nights running this month, and we opened to a six-week waiting list. This play has another four months to run, and we want to end on a high. Not in a damp fizzle of insulted fans and critics.”

  Lainie was silent for a moment. It was news to her that management were giving out free tickets in order to fill empty seats. “Well, excuse the stupidity, but I’m still not sure what you expect me to do about it. Ask him nicely to be a good boy and pull up his socks? Three guesses as to the outcome.”

  The tension zapped back into her spine when Bob and Pat exchanged a glance.

  Pat seemed to be debating her approach. Eventually, she commented almost casually, “Ticket sales at the Palladium have gone up ten percent in the last three months.”

  Lainie snorted. “I know. Since Jack
Trenton lost his last remaining brain cell after rehab and hooked up with Sadie Foster.”

  Or, as she was affectionately known in the world of musical theatre, the She-Devil of Soho. Lainie had known Sadie since they were in their late teens. They had been at drama school together. She had been short-listed against her for a role in a community theatre production of 42nd Street, and had found shards of broken glass in the toes of her tap shoes. Fortunately before she’d put them on.

  She was so preoccupied with a short-lived trip down a murky memory lane that she missed the implication.

  “Quite.” Pat’s left eyebrow rose behind the lens of her glasses. She was now leaning on the edge of Bob’s desk, her blunt, fuchsia-painted nails tapping a jaunty little medley on the surface. “And the only genuine buzz of excitement Richard has generated in the past month was when London Celebrity printed photos of the two of you attending the Bollinger party together.” She again stared at Lainie, as if she was examining her limb by limb in an attempt to discover her appeal, and was coming up short.

  The penny had dropped. With the clattering, appalling clamour of an anvil.

  “You,” Pat confirmed, horrifyingly, “are a publicist’s dream. Probably about as interesting as a shrivelled balloon to the worst of the paps, but Joe and Jane Average think you’re a doll. Blogger commentary was wavering between speculation you’re headed for a breakdown and reluctant fascination. Theatre’s favourite bastard and a reigning sweetheart of the London stage. For five minutes, Richard had never been so popular. But nothing came of it.” This last was uttered accusingly.

  Lainie’s mouth opened. And closed. And opened again. “Nothing came of it—” she managed to find her voice to retort “—because nothing happened. We didn’t even speak at that party. We happened to leave at the same time, and not only did Richard pretend he didn’t see me—” her voice was rising in remembered annoyance “—but he failed to notice when his cuff link caught on my dress and tore it. Which meant that I felt obliged to buy the bloody thing. It was custom Jenny Packham, and I didn’t even like it.”

  It was a gorgeous, gaspingly expensive dress that not been designed for a redhead with breasts. Countless fashion bloggers had agreed with her. It was now the priciest dust-catcher in her wardrobe and probably felt miserably out of place among the high street sale bargains.

  Pat ignored her. “If you and Richard were seen out together for a while, if the public believed you were a couple...”

  “Let’s just get this straight, shall we?” Lainie looked from one face to the next. She could feel her cheeks burning red and wasn’t sure whether the embarrassment or the fury had top billing. If people thought they could make this kind of...of...shoddy suggestion, things had apparently not changed that much since the good old days when the word actress was synonymous with the word whore. “Are you seriously suggesting I conduct some sort of faux-mance with Richard Troy in the tabloids, for the sole purpose of getting a few more bums in seats?”

  Go from genuinely dating Will Farmer to fake-shagging Richard Troy? It seemed like a lateral move.

  “Considering that most of the people who would care are well aware I was recently seeing Will,” she pointed out crossly, “I hardly think that jumping into bed with another of my castmates is going to maintain this alleged ‘sweetheart’ image. I can imagine several more likely comments.”

  “Well, they would still be more flattering than what’s already being hurled at Troy.” Bob grimaced. “I believe the old epithet ‘Byron’ has been substituted with a simple ‘Dickhead.’”

  Lainie couldn’t help snorting again. She’d always suspected that Richard had coined the Byronic comparison himself. He played a little too closely to the stereotype.

  “You’ve handled the Will situation like a pro,” Pat cut in, and she sounded warm with approval. Lainie half expected a proud pat on the head. “Public sympathies are entirely in your corner. He helped, of course, by immediately taking up with that inflated tart.”

  “Yes, that was fortunate,” Lainie said dryly.

  “People want to see you move on—and trade up.”

  “Therefore, in a fun twist, I get naked with the most despised actor in London?”

  “Nobody is asking you to sleep with him,” Bob said, annoyed, before Pat could reply. He made an impatient gesture. “God forbid. It might put him in a good mood for once. All that brooding method acting completely undone by a fatuous smile.” He tried a placatory smile himself. It was not endearing. “It’s not simply a matter of sales. Everyone’s professional reputation will take the hit of even a minor failure.” He raised both hands, palms up. “All we’re asking is that you salt the mine a bit. Attend a few parties together. Actually speak to one another. Perhaps really push the boat out and hold hands in public. Gossip stirs. Ticket sales rise. Everyone’s happy.”

  “I’m not happy.”

  “No, but you are employed, and presumably wish to remain so.”

  “You can’t threaten my contract because I won’t agree to be pimped out for your profit margins. That’s completely unethical.”

  Bob scowled. “I’ve already said that the sex aspect doesn’t come into it. Nobody is ‘pimping’ you out anywhere.”

  “No,” she said sweetly. “But that will be the resounding implication when I farm out the story of my unfair dismissal to the media.”

  After a moment, Bob said, “I feel almost proud. Our Elaine, all grown up and indulging in a spot of reciprocal blackmail. You were such a sweet little thing when you auditioned for us.”

  “And she’ll remain so from the perspective of the public and their disposable income.” Pat looked at Lainie. “You know perfectly well how little it takes to generate a romance rumour. I could do half the work with a simple tip-off. All we’re asking is that you let Richard accompany you to a few select parties and participate in some of your charitable activities. For which I’ve meant to commend you.”

  Lainie suspected she wasn’t being congratulated from a humanitarian angle. She choked. “Take Richard along on fund-raising events? I can just imagine it. Richard Troy making chitchat with little old ladies at the village. Standing outside Sainsbury’s with a donation box. Taking part in the 5k Fun Run.”

  “He’ll do it,” Lynette spoke up, and Lainie shook her head, totally unconvinced.

  “Will he?” she asked ironically. “Because you haven’t mentioned his cooperation in this little scheme, and it sounds about as likely as an ice cream van in hell to me.”

  “He’ll do it,” Lynette repeated firmly.

  “Well, I won’t.” Lainie cast Bob a scathing glance. “This was your idea, wasn’t it? A load of bollocks with an unsavoury hint of lechery. It has your handiwork all over it.”

  “It’s a solid plan,” Bob said, unoffended. “The public loves a mismatch. The bad boy redeemed by the company ingénue.”

  “I am not the company ingénue,” she snapped.

  “Well, the role of femme fatale has been adequately filled by Chloe, poppet.” Bob managed a decent leer. “More than adequately, I should say.”

  “Why don’t you rope her in, then?”

  “Don’t think I didn’t consider it. But Chloe’s rep isn’t exactly spotless at the moment either. And she’s too old for him.”

  “She’s thirty-nine.”

  “Might as well be fifty-nine in this industry. We’re trying to clean up Richard’s image, not add toy boy to his list of sins.”

  “I don’t know how you sleep at night.”

  “Usually on top of a nubile blonde,” Bob fired back, but the words were more wistful than lascivious.

  “Endeavour not to become a complete stereotype of a stage manager. I’m not doing it. I have a huge family and at least a handful of friends, most of whom read the gossip sites. What on earth would they think if they saw me ‘holding hands’ with Richard Troy at a launch party?”

  “If you’re an actress worth the moderately high salary we pay you, they’ll think you’re hav
ing a mild flirtation with an eligible bachelor.”

  “Eligible bachelor. Insert derisive laugh here. My brothers would probably stage an intervention.”

  Giving her up as a hopeless hysteric, Bob turned to vent his frustration on Lynette. “Where the hell is Troy? The run-through must have finished at least five minutes ago.”

  Lynette’s expensively made-up face assumed a pseudo-apologetic “boys will be boys” expression. She probably pasted it on out of sheer habit by now. Before she had time to offer an unconvincing excuse, Richard himself opened the door and came in without knocking.

  “My God,” Lainie murmured. “Perfectly on cue and he’s not even being paid for it.”

  Richard spared her one unamused glance before he directed his attention to Bob. The piercing intensity of his blue eyes was entirely due to their depth of colour. The look within was lethargic and bored; Richard appeared as astonished as anyone else that he was actually awake and functional. “Yes?”

  “Troy, do come in.” The thinning hairs across Bob’s scalp almost bristled with indignant static. Lainie wouldn’t be surprised if his comb-over rose in the air like an enraged rooster. “Take a seat. Make yourself at home.”

  “Yes?” Richard repeated, unimpressed. He took in the presence of Lynette and Pat, and a brief grimace twisted his mouth. Lainie, he continued to ignore.

  “Sit down, Richard.” Pat used a tone that Lainie suspected was usually reserved for her cocker spaniels. After a tense few seconds, Richard hitched his trousers—seriously, who wore Tom Ford to a morning rehearsal, anyway?—and did sit. Naturally, in the most comfortable chair. It was a beautiful fluid motion that ended in the casual propping of one ankle over the opposite knee. She could whip out her iPhone camera and sell the resulting image to Vogue.

  “You rang, sire.” Richard’s voice was sardonic. It wasn’t entirely clear whom he was addressing, which underlined the insult. In the glare of natural light, his short black curls were struck through with tinges of blue. A few locks lay in careful disarray on his bony forehead. Lainie wondered if he followed in Byron’s footsteps and slept in curlers.