by Lucy Parker
“Oh, I know the type, and I grant you they’re hard to tolerate. There are at least two of them in my class every year, and it’s depressing to know they might not grow out of it.” Sarah was clicking her mouse again, and Lainie wondered what fresh delights she’d found in the news feed. “But he seems to at least trump Will in the romantic sense.”
“Allow me to fall about laughing at the idea of Richard Troy being romantic.”
“Well, I can’t find any love rat rumours. He’s never been involved in any sort of cheating scandal, has he?”
Lainie tried to remember what she knew about Richard’s love life. As little as she’d been able to manage. He’d been linked with a few businesswomen and a high-powered barrister at one point. Never with an actress. Their fake relationship was probably a hard pill for him to swallow in a multitude of ways.
“No, his relationships never seem to last that long, but they at least take place one at a time. As far as I know. And he doesn’t seem to hop from one bed to the next.”
“Surprising, when you think about it.”
“Not really.” Lainie was dismissive. “You would have to have a skin like a rhino to put up with him. Or just no self-esteem at all and a faint aura of desperation.”
“Ouch,” Sarah said, sounding as if she was grinning. “I’m beginning to feel sorry for the man.”
“Said no person who’d actually met him, ever.”
“I wonder what he’s like in bed,” Sarah mused, and Lainie choked on her tea for the second time.
“Sarah! Married woman.”
“I vowed to be faithful, not dead from the waist down. And whatever his faults, you can’t deny your Richard is a bit of a dish.”
“Please never refer to him as ‘my’ Richard again.”
“Well, I admit the chemistry between you isn’t exactly sparking off the screen,” Sarah said—and click, click, click again. “Yeah. No. I’m not getting a ‘let’s split this joint and get naked’ vibe. More of an ‘I vaguely fear contamination’ vibe.”
“Funny you should say that.” Lainie sighed. “Can we change the subject while I’m still able to sleep tonight?”
“Stirring lust?” Sarah asked with interest.
“Creeping horrors. How’s my second-favourite niece doing?”
“Who’s taken top billing this week?”
“Charlotte. She Photoshopped a collage for me involving Will and the T. rex from Jurassic Park. I’ve hung it on my fridge.”
“Obviously Emily needs to up her game. She’s fine. She’s just being a bit...”
“A bit what?”
“A bit thirteen.”
“Enough said.”
“She’s excited about the fête on Saturday, though.”
“Is she? I wouldn’t have thought cake stalls and sack races would be her thing.”
“No, but Johnny Blake is very much her thing. She’s highly impressed that you’ve managed to get somebody semi-cool to open a fête in Little Bottomsworth.”
“Upper Bidford,” Lainie corrected, and tried not to smile. “And Johnny Blake is a sweet kid, as far as these teenage YouTubers go. His mother is a leukemia survivor, so he wanted to support the cause.”
“You know I’m all for the cause. I’m just not sure why we’re fund-raising for the foundation in the remote Cotswolds.”
“There are plenty of events planned in London over the next few months as well, but the villagers in Bidford wanted to help. They lost a seventeen-year-old to non-Hodgkin lymphoma this year.”
“Oh.” Sarah was quiet for a moment. “Dreadful.”
“Yes.”
“Well, we’ll be there, and we’re bringing cakes. I can’t promise they’ll meet the Women’s Institute standards, but...”
“I really appreciate it, Sarah. Thanks.”
“The whole family appreciates what you’re doing with Shining Lights.”
Lainie made a murmuring sound, dismissing not the sentiment but the need for it. Her gaze went inevitably to the framed family portrait above the heat pump, and zoomed in on one face.
Hannah had inherited her freckled cheeks and gap-toothed smile straight from their dad. She and Lainie were also the only ones who had copped his dark red hair. In appearance, their father was basically the lost Weasley. Hannah had stopped talking about dental surgery after Georgia May Jagger and Anna Paquin had made the tooth gap fashionable, but she had always moaned about the freckles.
At least until other problems had made them seem a comparatively petty complaint.
Lainie had thought then, and still thought now, that her little sister’s face was adorable. Freckles and all. Hannah had retorted that it was easy to say that when you looked more like Jessica Rabbit than Raggedy Ann.
A wave of grief hit her. She longed intensely for the sound of her sister’s voice. Even at its most high-pitched whine. It almost toppled her where she stood, at least once a day, how much she missed the irascible little brat.
“We all miss her,” Sarah said quietly into the receiver. “She would be really proud, you know.”
“Not that she would admit it in a million years.” Lainie bit her lip. “But, yeah. I know she would.”
“And she would get a huge kick out of this thing with Richard Troy.”
“Her opinion of my taste in men was always low.”
“Well, after Wee Willy and Sir Stamps-A-Lot, we can only assume it’s all uphill from here.”
“We can but hope.”
* * *
Richard could hear voices when he stepped into the foyer. One was female, high-pitched and came with a laugh that would have been invaluable as an air-raid signal during the Blitz. He followed the lingering scent of lavender floor cleaner to the kitchen. Mrs. Hunt had left the radio on for him again. She was convinced it was “friendlier” than coming home to an empty house. Apparently his housekeeper was confusing him with a dog with separation anxiety. Lovely woman. Absolutely no common sense.
He switched the radio off, silencing another paint-stripping peal of laughter. Then he began the arduous process of turning off almost every light on the ground floor. Mrs. Hunt also thought it was friendlier if he came home to a house lit up like a burlesque hall.
His thoughts became considerably more charitable when he reached his study and found a tray on his desk, whisky decanter sitting ready. She’d also laid out a cigar from the box he kept for visitors, mostly uninvited former colleagues of his father. He didn’t smoke, but suspected Mrs. Hunt had formed her conception of actors based on Victorian novels.
Pouring a couple of fingers of whisky, he dropped into the armchair by the window and looked absently out at the dimly lit street. Every few seconds, headlights flashed by and car tyres threw up a silvery splash. It was starting to rain heavily. He sighed, letting the tension drain from his muscles. The adrenaline buzz from the performance had worn off about ten minutes into the charity benefit. He had a perfectly competent assistant whose job it was to quietly disburse money into charitable donations and endowments. He had no problem parting with the cash. His objections lay in having to do it publicly, with second-rate champagne in his hand, for the edification of a bunch of social degenerates with cameras.
His iPad beeped with an incoming text message and Richard rolled his head to the side to look at it. He glanced at the clock on the mantel. It was bound to be from a woman. Men had the judgement to reserve this hour of the morning for sleeping, sex, or live-streaming American sports. Stretching out a lazy hand, he picked up the tablet. He trusted the message wasn’t from the date he’d taken to the Ivy the other night. He’d realised that was a mistake the moment they’d been served with their entrée and she’d pulled out her phone to take a photo of it. She’d uploaded the image to a calorie-counting app, and then refused to eat it based on an arbitrary and almost certainly inaccurate analysis. He thought Gearing’s food was overpriced and barely worth eating too, but not because the man cooked with butter.
The text was from Lynette. A ju
bilant Lynette. She’d actually inserted a smiley face. The last time his agent had used an emoticon on him, he’d just walked out of a live interview. The symbol in question had involved a fist and several fingers, and was probably banned in the district schools.
She’d inserted a link to a trashy online rag that masqueraded as a news site. Against his better judgement, and partly under the warming influence of the whisky, he brought up the page and was greeted with the image of his own scowling face. He winced. Jesus. He looked like his great-aunt Harriet. It was something about the combination of the frown and the emerging beard.
His gaze moved to Lainie. She was standing at his side, her arms crossed over her breasts. With no compunction, he let his eyes linger there. He was willing to bet that dress had been designed on a flat-chested mannequin. His lips pursed in a silent whistle that would undoubtedly have earned him a smack around the ear had he been in feminine company. Lainie’s own expression, as she stared directly into the camera, was heavily disapproving. She looked like she would happily garrotte someone with the chain of her handbag. No prizes for guessing whom. Richard’s lips tilted unwillingly.
His eyebrow rose when he scrolled to the next set of images. They silently chronicled Lynette’s arrival on the scene, Lainie reluctantly cuddling up to him, smelling sweetly and elusively of vanilla, and then the staged peck on her mouth. Her lips had been sticky with gloss and had tasted of synthetic strawberry. Like a throat lozenge. The tableau looked ridiculously fake. Background extras in a C-grade soap could pull off a more convincing display of affection. There was obvious tension, but it was more of the angry than sexual variety. It was bad acting, and it riled his professional ego. The whole situation was bloody distasteful.
It came down to how badly he wanted the chair of the RSPA. He was neither deaf nor self-absorbed to the point of oblivion. He’d heard the murmurings. His media reputation was becoming a millstone around his neck. He was yet to be convinced, however, that the way to redemption was on the arm—and presumably, in public opinion, between the thighs—of an attractive girlfriend. Even if she did moonlight as Mother Teresa in her spare time. His apparent involvement with Lainie seemed more likely to damage her reputation than polish his own.
Surprisingly, the thought irritated him. His eyes returned to the iPad screen. Scissoring his fingers, he enlarged a headshot. His study of her features was less dispassionate than it would have been only hours earlier. He must have been aware that she was a beautiful woman, but symmetrical features, white teeth, glossy hair and generous breasts were a dime a dozen. The women—and men—he’d worked with over the past fifteen-odd years blended into a composite Hollywood ideal. If people couldn’t offer anything beyond genetic blessings and surgical enhancements, either by way of wits or—to be frank—useful connections, their voices didn’t tend to rise above the clamour.
Lainie had been a mild revelation tonight. Jessica Rabbit actually had a personality. And a fairly biting tongue. He shook his head. She was wasted on the simpering legs-and-lashes role they’d given her in The Cavalier’s Tribute. She could probably have made a decent job of Helen. Chloe tended to oversimplify and oversex the calculating, sardonic character.
On the other hand, Chloe wasn’t moronic enough to fall into bed with Will Farmer.
He moved one shoulder abruptly, trying to shake off the unusual feeling of restlessness. After the inane backstage chatter at the theatre, his silent house was usually a refuge. Tonight, his thoughts seemed to echo into the corners of the large comfortable room, coming back to taunt him. For one insane moment he considered going into the kitchen and turning the radio back on.
He flicked over to his calendar and checked his schedule for the rest of the week. The space for Saturday morning was currently fantastically blank. He couldn’t bring himself to insert the change of plan. A village fête. In October. It was like something out of Agatha Christie. Frozen dead bodies and all, probably, considering the weather forecast.
His chin lifted. He eyed the portrait of his father above the fireplace. The old man glared down at him. If Richard squinted, he could almost see the painted moustache quivering with rage.
The fête it was.
Silently, ironically, he saluted his father with the whisky glass and then drained its contents.
Chapter Three
London Celebrity @LondonCelebrity. 3h
A rebound fling? Will Farmer’s bitter rant as Graham and Troy heat up the Metronome...tinyurl.com/puy26gy
A nice person would have let him off the hook. There were no members of the Metronome goon squad lurking around Upper Bidford to bully them into obedience. Even the demands of her job weren’t enough to entice Lynette Stern from the civilised city to a country village with no free Wi-Fi. Lainie could have offered to bluff an excuse while Richard stayed home to enjoy whatever he usually did on a Saturday morning. She assumed it involved excellent espresso and some heavy self-Googling.
Clearly, she was not a nice person. Because she had rarely enjoyed any sight more than that of Richard Troy at a village fête, wedged between two of the more terrifying representatives of the local Women’s Institute. He looked as if he’d accidentally fallen through a portal into the third circle of hell.
A young woman with questionable maternal instincts shoved her defenceless infant into Richard’s arms, ignoring his furious response while she unearthed her phone. While she took a series of images, musing aloud on the best one for Instagram, Lainie wandered over to appreciate the spectacle at close range. It was debatable who looked more wrathful: Richard, or the infant he was dangling at arm’s length like a mud-splattered football.
“You do realise you’re holding a baby, not a leaking bucket?” she asked conversationally, and he gave her a look that could splinter wood. “Against your chest, hand under his bottom. Honestly. You must have had a cuddle before.”
“Yes, but women don’t appreciate a hand under their bottom until I’ve at least bought them dinner,” he retorted, and the WI president tittered into her jam scone.
Lainie pulled out her own phone and also took a picture. “Like I’m going to miss this opportunity,” she said in response to his glare. “If the acting thing doesn’t pan out, I can always hock this photo to the tabloids as evidence of your secret love child.” She flipped the screen around to see how the image had turned out. Wow. Portrait of an Irate Actor.
The mother laughed as she retrieved her son. The baby was well wrapped and adorably squishy in his furry onesie. “My husband would probably come after him with a meat cleaver. That’s him over there.” She nodded toward the field where a rugby match was taking place against the neighbouring village. Lainie had no idea which player she was pointing at, but they were all equally well-endowed in the thigh department.
“Now there are two reasons to keep it.” Lainie wiggled her phone at Richard, and he scowled at her.
“Delete it.”
“Not a chance. I may make it my screensaver. I especially like the smear of drool on your shoulder.”
He looked down at his coat and swore, swiping at the stain with his hand.
“Sorry,” Lainie apologised pointedly to the group of women clustered about them. “His manners are a work in progress.” She grabbed Richard’s arm and dragged him away. “It’s not the most promising beginning for your career in rubber-stamping and paper-pushing, is it? I think charming elderly women and chucking babies under the chin is part of the job description.”
“I’m campaigning for the presidency of the RSPA, not running for mayor in the sticks.” He cast a scornful look around the village green. The fête had opened an hour earlier, the ribbon cut by a bashful-looking Johnny Blake. Away from his vlogging camera, he was as awkward as the next teenage boy, but the young girls in the crowd had seemed to appreciate his stammered speech. And it was nice of him to make an obvious effort when he was out of his comfort zone.
Unlike some males twice his age.
Richard was poking at a chipped teapot on
the table for the white elephant stall. “This is junk,” he said, without even bothering to lower his voice.
“It’s a white elephant stall. That’s kind of the point. And who are you, the Antiques Roadshow?” Lainie cast a quick, embarrassed look around. She would estimate the ratio of people staring at Richard to be about ninety percent. It was too much to hope they were all hard of hearing. “If you could develop some sort of filter and a volume button in the next thirty seconds, it would really help me out.”
“Exactly how long do we have to stay?” Richard stared in disbelief as a pig walked past with a blue prize ribbon around its neck.
“Until the last cup of tea is drunk and we’ve helped with the cleanup.” Lainie was rapidly losing her sense of humour about the situation. “These people are kindly giving up their time, money and goodwill to help out a charity that means a lot to me. And sulking at a fund-raiser for children with cancer is a total dick move. FYI.”
Once again, Richard reddened slightly. A week ago, she wouldn’t have thought him capable of changing colour without the aid of cosmetics. He thrust a hand through his tumbled black curls and looked away from her. All broody in an open-necked white shirt, and set against a pastoral background, he looked like a still from Wuthering Heights. She refused to be softened by the image. He could look as handsome as he wanted; it didn’t make his behaviour any more attractive.
And he needed a shave. There was a fine line between designer stubble and scruffiness.
“Of course I’ll support the cause,” he muttered, and then added impatiently, “but I don’t see why we can’t just write a cheque.” He repeated his derisive survey of the merrymaking. “You’ll be lucky to break a thousand quid with this lot.”
Lainie wasn’t sure whether “this lot” referred to the fairground goods for sale or the villagers themselves. It was offensive either way.
“Because there are dozens of people here who care enough to want to contribute—” and a good hundred more who’ve come along for the sole purpose of seeing your sour face, thanks to the social media grapevine “—and they can’t all afford to just ‘write a cheque.’” She had the satisfaction of seeing his flush deepen. “And all of these events help raise the profile of the charity. We’re trying to turn a spotlight on Shining Light. Not on the fact that Richard Troy has opened his fat wallet for something more philanthropic than a new sports car.”
