by Lucy Parker
Lainie turned and saw a florid sixtyish man in a suit approaching. He couldn’t have declared his status any more clearly if he’d pulled out his wallet and offered them a tenner to do a skit. If he wasn’t on some sort of committee, and in it for the tax benefits, she would eat her bargain-price handbag.
“Eric Westfield. Current vice president of the Society,” Richard said close to her ear. He put his hand on her upper arm and gently moved her about six inches away from him. “Could you just...”
“I’m sorry,” Lainie said, “did you just move me? You do realise I’m not actually contagious?” She nodded at a point on the far side of the room. “Would you like me to go and stand over there? Because I think he may still guess that we’re together.”
“We aren’t—”
“I didn’t mean romantically.”
“Richard.” Eric Westfield beamed at them both. The bunched-up cheeks were rather sweet but didn’t go at all with the jaded expression in his eyes.
Richard wiped his face free of impatience and returned the other man’s handshake. “Eric. Good to see you.”
Westfield turned to Lainie. “And I believe this young lady has something to do with the theatre?” He accompanied the question with a roguish twinkle that made her take an instinctive step back.
“Elaine Graham. I’m currently appearing in The Cavalier’s Tribute with Richard.” Shaking his hand, she added sweetly, “When I’m not spreading the plague.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I was going to get in touch this week,” Richard cut in, shooting her a warning look. Well, aren’t we just all politeness when we want something? “We should meet up for a drink sometime. Perhaps Thursday evening if you’re free.”
Thursday was the night his alternate took over the role of Bandero and the rest of the cast breathed a sigh of relief.
“We’ll do that.” Westfield looked chuffed. Not so jaded after all, if he could still be gratified by the prospect of socialising with notoriety. Unless it was the snob value of Richard’s blue blood. Lainie remembered reading that he was seven hundred thirty-second or something in line for the throne.
God help them all in the event of an actual plague. If Harley Street succumbed and the royal family was forced to rely on the aid of the NHS, they would probably drop like flies. Whereas Richard would likely crawl unharmed from the rubble of a nuclear disaster. Like a cockroach.
She tuned out the rest of the conversation going on above her head. It reeked of the stale cigar smoke and ego-bolstering of an old boys’ club. She was vaguely disappointed in Richard. Pandering to the conventions of the Boodles set was almost worse than acting like an ill-mannered, temperamental diva. At least the latter side of his personality seemed honest. In this industry, she could have a certain amount of respect for someone who didn’t paste a fake cover over an obnoxious book, even if she wished she could swap that book for a lighter read.
Richard finally finished his schmoozing, and Westfield kissed her hand before he disappeared into the crowd. She wrinkled her nose. There had been a definite suggestion of tongue against her knuckle.
“You want to be careful,” she said. “One more pump of hot air and his self-importance would have exploded all over the room. Imagine the size of your damages bill then.”
“It’s called regrettable but necessary networking.” Richard took another long-suffering glance at his watch. “I’m sure you occasionally have to employ some of it yourself.”
“No. I generally just employ good manners, no matter whom I’m speaking to.”
“I can’t say I’d noticed.”
“I’m polite, not a saint.” Lainie returned the smile and wave of a former castmate, and hoped he wouldn’t come over. It had been a very long run of a very bad play. “Do you really want a stodgy bureaucratic role?” she asked with genuine curiosity. “I would have thought you would have enough to do.”
“I have no pressing desire to wrangle committee meetings and have my portrait painted for the presidency wall. But I want to see a certain amount of change instituted in arts funding and education, and this is the first step toward achieving that.”
Oh, God. He was going to end up as their Minister of Culture someday.
She hesitated. “Do you really think you’re the political type?” she ventured, trying to think of a way to put it tactfully.
“Meaning?” The enquiry was frosty.
Screw it. “Meaning you have the diplomatic abilities of a tea bag, and a tendency to go off like a rocket at the slightest provocation.”
“I’m aware I’ll have to work on controlling my temper,” he said even more stiffly.
“And the playpen behaviour?”
He looked seriously annoyed now. “Such as?”
“Such as chucking expensive china at irate chefs. If the food was that bad, why didn’t you just ask for a new plate?”
He made a sound of intense irritation in his throat. “I may have a quick fuse, but I do have some idea of how to conduct myself in a public place. I have never thrown a plate or any other object at anyone. The closest I’ve come is hurling a truly appalling script at the wall, and I don’t recall any material damage to either. Unfortunately, in the case of the script.”
“Then what happened at the Ivy?”
“Randolph Gearing has held a grudge since I gave his first restaurant in Primrose Hill a bad review. It was a throwaway remark on the radio, and he needs to learn how to accept criticism. Nor was it my choice to dine at the Ivy the other night. My companion thought it was the place to be seen,” he added with a slight sneer. “Gearing picked a fight, he threw a plate and I merely responded. With words, not actions, violent or otherwise.”
“I see.” Lainie studied him. “I hate to imagine the task of the police if somebody eventually snaps and has better aim with a platter. Your list of enemies must be reaching to the floor by now. Have you tried counting to ten?”
“I wouldn’t have to lose my temper if people weren’t such morons.”
“I would suggest going with a different quote when you open your campaign speech.”
Richard suddenly swore under his breath, and Lainie saw Lynette weaving toward them through the crowd. She was also wearing a little black dress, but it was decidedly littler than Lainie’s. And her shoes were fabulous. Lainie eyed them covetously. Evidently, even a commission from Richard’s salary was more profitable than her own earnings.
“A photographer from Tatler is circling.” The theatrical agent looked them up and down critically, exactly as if she were a parent grooming her children for their school pictures. She looked about three seconds away from licking her thumb and smoothing back Richard’s errant curl. “In a moment, I want you to put your arm around Lainie, Richard, and say something into her ear. Lainie, you look up at him and laugh. Then kiss her. A peck. Playful. Affectionate.”
“This is not a sitcom,” Lainie snapped. “I am not going to mindlessly giggle and pucker up on cue. We agreed to attend events and hold hands. Done and done.”
“No,” Lynette said with barely leashed temper. Maybe Richard was rubbing off on her. “You agreed to foster a certain impression.” She looked around at a few interested faces and lowered her voice. “Which is not being fulfilled by the two of you standing three feet apart, glowering at one another. Only the most diehard romantic and the clinically brain-dead would be seeing hearts and flowers.”
A camera flash went off nearby and Lainie spotted the photographer turning in their direction.
With a sigh that almost parted her hair, Richard lifted his arm and slid it around her waist. Pulling her up against him, he smiled down at her and the creases reappeared around his sardonic blue eyes. His warm breath gently fanned her ear when he ducked his head and whispered, “You’re habitually overplaying the death scene.”
Her own eyes sparking retribution, she returned his smile. And laughed, light and tinkling, like an absolute idiot. She could feel herself tensing, knowing what was coming n
ext, and had to steel herself not to physically lean back from his mouth.
It was the most sexless, unexciting kiss she’d had since primary school, when a seven-year-old boy had kissed her on a dare and then run off screaming to stick his face in the drinking fountain. Eric Westfield had used more tongue on the back of her hand. After a couple of seconds, there was another camera flash, and Richard removed his lips from her person, looking equally bored.
“There,” said their proud surrogate mother. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?” She smiled cajolingly at an unimpressed Lainie. “And you look great. Love the dress.” Which was not exactly convincing, when her own was clearly nicer. “Doesn’t she look nice, Richard?” Lynette prompted him, again with the parental nagging.
Richard spared Lainie’s dress another brief glance. “Hmm,” he said, and Lynette looked as if a few silent prayers for patience were taking place behind her bland expression.
“It’s fortunate you’re so attractive,” she said to Lainie, with a certain amount of relief.
It would obviously be too much to expect the great actor to lower his lips to a plain face.
This whole evening was beginning to feel exhausting.
“Don’t you think Lainie’s pretty?” Lynette had turned into a stuck record.
Richard was eyeing Lynette’s neck, and Lainie wondered if he was valuing her diamonds or indulging in a strangulation fantasy. “I hadn’t really thought about it,” he said, and she scowled at him.
That was no less flattering than her opinions of him, but really. “Have you ever actually spoken to a woman before? Because with charm like that, I can’t imagine where your new nickname came from.”
His lips tightened. Evidently that one was rankling a little.
“Play nice, kiddies. Remember, you’re smitten,” Lynette warned, and then thankfully took herself off before either one of them could give in to a murderous impulse.
Another camera flashed and people turned to look their way, whispering to one another. A few partygoers entirely gave up on manners and just openly pointed. Richard’s affectionate smile looked more like a grimace from where she was standing. “You can hold my hand,” he said, as if he were the Queen bestowing a knighthood.
She ignored his raised palm. “No, thank you.”
His smile became even more horrifying. “Just take my damn hand. Two more circles of the room, a donation at the door, and we can get the hell out of here.”
It was the prospect of going home to her bed, kettle and chocolate stash that sealed the deal. Suppressing a sigh, she held the tips of his fingers. He rolled his eyes and wrapped a warm, rough hand around hers.
“Why, hello. Fancy seeing you two here. Together.”
They turned to greet the newcomers with identical fixed smiles.
“Two more circles of the room” was easier said than accomplished when they were stopped by friends, colleagues and nosey parkers every two steps, but they finally made it to the exit, where they each made a pledge to the cause. Lainie was impressed against her will by the size of Richard’s donation. He was many things—few of them complimentary—but he wasn’t mean.
In the financial sense. In terms of attitude, half a dozen stage assistants reduced to tears would disagree with her.
They left by the side entrance of the hotel, where only a handful of photographers lay in wait. A valet brought Richard’s car around and received a generous tip but no verbal acknowledgment. Richard didn’t even look at the friendly young man.
When the valet had moved away to take another guest’s keys, she shook her head. “You could have at least said thank you.”
“To whom?”
“The valet.”
Richard shrugged. “I thank people when they do me a favour. He’s paid to do a job. For which I gave him additional compensation.”
“Because it would kill you to just say a quick ‘thanks’ when people work hard to make your life easier?”
Under her steady regard, his high cheekbones took on a very faint tinge of red. He said nothing in response, but when the valet walked back past them, he held up the keys. “Appreciate it,” he said, and the kid blinked and grinned.
“No worries, sir.”
Richard looked at her with a raised brow. “Satisfied?”
She was, oddly. For the first time—ever, possibly—she gave him a genuine smile.
It was also the first time she had ever seen him genuinely disconcerted. His eyes flickered to her mouth and then up to her eyes, and he hesitated before opening the car door to let her climb inside.
The journey to her flat in Bayswater was quiet and almost peaceful. It was a stark contrast to the constant bickering earlier in the evening when they’d left the theatre. Lainie, her gaze fastened dreamily on the lights and nightlife out the darkened window, put it down to mutual tiredness. She said very little beyond giving the odd street direction. Richard brought the Ferrari to a stop outside her building, an old Victorian terrace house, and deposited her on her doorstep with a curt “Good night.” She nodded, and watched thoughtfully from the open door as he returned to the car. About thirty seconds later, he stared at her impatiently through the window, and she realised he was waiting for her to go inside so he could leave. With a spark of mischief, she offered a cheerful wave, and his scowl deepened. It was tempting to blow a kiss, for the sheer novelty of seeing his head explode, but she did have her limits.
Grinning, she closed and locked the door, and made her way up the creaking stairs. It was a tidy, warm house, but as comfortably decrepit in its small way as the Metronome was on a grand scale. The carpets definitely needed replacing. Her flat was on the top floor, which was a bugger when she had shopping to carry up, but at least meant she got enough exercise to justify skipping a gym membership.
That was her story, and she was sticking to it.
Her landlady’s fat ginger cat was asleep outside her door and she stopped to stroke his soft fur. He was also called Richard, which had afforded her considerable amusement over the past couple of months, particularly since he had one of those adorably squished, chronically grumpy faces. Human Richard, for all his good looks, was afflicted with a similarly epic case of resting bitch face. He had the elastic features of a natural-born actor, but at the close of a scene, he tended to return to his factory setting of grouch.
Turning on lights and pulling curtains as she went, she set the kettle boiling in the kitchen and hunted out a bag of Yorkshire tea. As she played with the spoon, pressing the bag against the side of the cup in an attempt to speed up the steeping process, she idly wondered what human Richard was going home to. Not a wife and four hopeful children, unless he kept secrets locked tighter than the vaults of MI5. She found it hard to believe any woman would voluntarily cohabit with him. There wasn’t enough money in the world to put up with that level of stress.
She was imagining chandeliers and staff. Perhaps a Jeeves-style butler to murmur approvingly over his choice of evening clothes and help him put his jammies on. Although ten to one, he slept naked.
Her mind temporarily shorted out at that point.
Her clutch vibrated on the table and she went to retrieve her phone, taking her cup along for a sustaining gulp of too-hot tea. Flicking her thumb against the touch pad, she read the text from Sarah: Are you home yet? No chat abbreviations from her sister-in-law, who taught English at her local comprehensive school and had vocal opinions on the subject of lazy spelling.
She curled up on the couch, wedging a cushion behind the small of her back, and dialled the number for Sarah and Niall’s home in Camden.
“If it isn’t the future Mrs. Troy.” Sarah was obviously trying hard not to laugh, and failing dismally.
Lainie sighed. “I see the gossip columnists didn’t waste any time.”
“Oh, no. The photos started appearing an hour ago. London Celebrity is running two consecutive articles on the hot new romance, one in which they have you almost engaged, and the other which writes off the whole th
ing as a rebound fling. With some fairly sketchy allusions to Will and the timing. I wonder if they were written by the same person, if their staff ever bother to check what the next cubicle is writing, or if they just don’t care.”
“When in doubt, pick C.” Lainie took another sip of tea. Her iPad was resting at the other end of the couch and she pushed it a little farther away with her big toe, in a symbolic gesture of rejection. “Sounds like business as usual, then.”
“Can’t say I think much of the lip-lock, though,” Sarah said disapprovingly. Lainie could hear her mouse clicking. “I’ve seen steamier embraces during church services. He looks like he’s performing CPR on someone he’d secretly rather have left at the bottom of the pool.”
Lainie laughed, but she wasn’t entirely amused. At all, in fact. “Accurate representation by London Celebrity. That’s a first.”
“The atmosphere backstage still a trifle chilly, is it?”
“It’s social Antarctica. If it wasn’t for Chloe, who’s even nice to Richard and is totally oblivious to snubs and any underlying tension, performances would be about as much fun as drinks out with the Borgias.”
“He can’t be as bad as Wee Willy, though,” Sarah said firmly, and Lainie almost snorted tea through her nose.
“Have I mentioned lately that I love you and Niall?” she asked, as she lunged for an old dusting rag to mop up the mess.
“Yeah, we’re quite fond of you too. And don’t avoid the question.”
“I wasn’t aware you’d asked one.”
“It was implied in the statement. I refuse to believe that Troy can be as big a waste of testosterone as your genitally challenged ex. Bad temper aside—and having seen a bit of what you put up with in the media, I’m not sure I entirely blame him—”
“Blame him. There are people who deal with a lot more hassle from the media than Richard, and he perpetuates most of his bad press himself. If he kept his head down, he wouldn’t be half as interesting. And it isn’t only dodgy photographers who come under his fire. He’s rude to almost everyone. Ask his dresser. Ask my dresser. Ask the girl who delivers the morning papers.”
