by Lucy Parker
His face was unreadable. “You’ve made your point.”
Not quite. “For the record, you’re behaving exactly the way Will would.”
Not that she would have got Will down here in a million years, PR stunt or no.
A nerve twitched above Richard’s right eyebrow. “Is that blatant insult supposed to make me re-evaluate my life choices?”
She shrugged. “It would make me think twice.”
He said nothing in response, but refrained from openly sneering when they went to greet the women running the cake stall. He even bought a bag of chocolate chip biscuits. He almost immediately handed them off to a thrilled middle-aged woman with a teenage daughter in tow, but it was the gesture that counted.
“I suppose,” she muttered, choosing a plate of small sandwiches for herself from the savoury section, “it would be too much to ask you to judge the jams and chutneys.”
“You suppose correctly.” Richard took her elbow and steered her out of the way of the crowd. “Don’t push your luck.”
But his voice was surprisingly mild.
He even stood still for over twenty photographs with fans before impatience began to flicker at the edges of his smile and temper. Seeing the signs of an impending snap, Lainie excused them with a polite murmur. They each purchased a cup of hot cider—which was very good—and strolled toward a marquee that promised excessively large vegetables.
“Is that a joke?” Richard was reading a sign inscribed Largest Pumpkin Competition. We Hope You’re Having a Gourd Day.
Lainie winced. “Well, it’s a fairly cringe-worthy attempt at one.”
“Not the god-awful pun. The competition itself. There’s actually a contest for the largest pumpkin?”
“Oh, yes. Vegetable size is a cutthroat category, I gather. You know men. Always obsessed with the girth of their courgettes.”
He ignored that and reached for her arm, foiling her attempt to take a sandwich from her plate. As ordered by Pat, he had picked her up outside her flat at an unearthly hour of the morning in order to beat the weekend traffic out of London, and she hadn’t had time for breakfast. She was starving.
“Come on, then.” He towed her toward the entrance of the marquee. Yet again, she was doing her best impression of a tugboat in the wake of the S.S. Troy.
“Arm,” she said, looking wistfully at her sandwiches. “Attached to shoulder joint. And I’m trying to eat here.”
“It’s kind of a dick move to whine at a fund-raiser for cancer patients,” he said without turning his head. “Just saying.”
Touché.
“Jesus,” he said inside the tent. “Look at the size of that thing.”
Lainie looked from an admittedly sizable pumpkin to the gleam of reluctant fascination in Richard’s blue eyes.
Escorting her to a party: no interest. One of her more expensive dresses: totally unimpressed. Acting with her in a play: distinctly underwhelmed.
And then bowled over by a gigantic vegetable.
She chose to be amused.
“Do you think they use a special kind of fertiliser?” Richard went down on his haunches, looking at the pumpkin’s bulbous backside.
Lainie unwrapped her sandwich plate and poked through the contents. “I expect they use hormone therapy. Like with chickens,” she lied, and lifted a triangle of thinly sliced bread, hoping for cheese. Cucumber. Disappointing.
“Do they?”
She rolled her eyes. “I have no idea. Why don’t you ask someone? Do you like cucumber?”
“What?” He glanced at her, distracted. “Oh. Yes. I suppose.”
She handed him the sandwich and went back to her search for cheese. She would also settle for ham and chutney. Someone had got a little carried away on the jam front.
Richard ate the dainty triangle in one bite before he cornered one of the farmers. Presumably to enquire how he too could grow such a large gourd. The elderly man looked as taken aback as she felt.
One of the organisers of the fête stuck her head through the entrance flap of the marquee. Her brow cleared at the sight of them and she came over to update Lainie on their takings so far. Her name was Mary, and she was a nice woman. They had been corresponding by email for several weeks. It was her niece, a young local girl named Lexie, who had recently died. Lainie looked at a photo of a cheerful teenager with pretty brown hair and offered Mary her sincere sympathies. There was a lump in her throat. Lexie had been only a couple of years older than Hannah. So many kids. So much stolen potential.
After Mary had gone, Lainie studied her feet for several moments. She concentrated on her breathing exercises, which had proved a useful tool in more than pacing a monologue. She had regained her composure when an elbow nudged her, making her jump.
“Are you all right?” Richard’s question was abrupt. When she looked up, he was frowning slightly and there was a trace of concern in his eyes. They had darkened to almost indigo.
He also had an air of impatience and wariness, and she felt the subtle shifting of his body as he moved his weight from one foot to the other. His body language screamed of reluctant, uncomfortable male. He obviously suspected her of imminent tears and was ready to dash up the nearest hill if they appeared. Or just order her, in his iciest tones, to stop being so female.
He would probably tell her she was habitually overplaying the sob scene. She almost laughed, and then wondered if she was becoming hysterical.
It must be the oddity of the setting. Standing in a marquee in the Cotswolds with a plate of depleted tea sandwiches, surrounded by pumpkins that would do Cinderella proud for transport, in the company of Richard Troy. Who was holding a plant pot in each hand.
Surreal enough for a Max Ernst painting.
“I’m fine,” she said. In her confusion, the words sounded cold, and he stiffened at the apparent snub. “Thank you,” she added, which seemed to make the situation worse. In a desperate attempt to change the subject, she nodded down at the plants. “What are those?”
He was eyeing his booty with the smug satisfaction of a small boy collecting a box of chocolates from the Tombola.
They were herb seedlings he’d bought. For his window boxes.
Herbs. For his window boxes.
The opening bars of The Twilight Zone were circling her mind on repeat.
A prickling at the back of her neck brought her head around, and she spotted a familiar sight lurking just outside the marquee.
“Photographer,” she said quietly, and her lips accidentally brushed Richard’s earlobe. She shivered involuntarily at the feel of the soft skin there, and he made a strange jerking movement. His shoulder came up as if to shrug off her touch.
He glanced over her head at their Peeping Tom. Then he casually put an arm around her, and she automatically leaned her cheek against his chest. They managed the embrace a bit more organically than their awkward clinch at the benefit. Lainie realised it didn’t seem quite so unnatural today. It was just another role after all. If she could simulate a passionate love for Will in front of a crowded theatre, she could do this. Richard lowered his nose to the top of her head, as if he was pressing a kiss there, and they heard the snapping of the camera. He wasn’t kissing, but she had a sneaking suspicion that he was sniffing, which made her paranoid about the smell of her shampoo and when she’d last used it.
It was surprisingly relaxing, just taking a moment to prop herself up against Richard. She liked the smell of his cologne, and the wool of his coat felt luxuriously soft against her face. Things had been so busy lately, an endless carousel ride of performances and late nights, interviews and appearances, that she hadn’t had the time to just stop and breathe. A manipulative cuddle with Richard seemed to be her best alternative to a spa day, with the sound of his heartbeat subbing in for the soothing oceanic soundtrack at her favourite salon. He had shifted his seedling pots to one arm. The fingers of his free hand were spread against the small of her back and he moved his palm in a slight rubbing, circular motion.
His quick retreat was unnecessary. She was already leaping back when a familiar voice said from behind them, “Lainie?”
Sarah was standing in the entrance of the marquee, watching them with obvious interest. Lainie inwardly groaned at the gleeful speculation on her sister-in-law’s face.
Joining them at the pumpkin display, Sarah extended a brisk hand to Richard. “Hello.” She was openly staring at him and making no excuses about it. “I’m Sarah Graham. Lainie’s least irritating sister-in-law.”
Richard still looked a bit wide-eyed and fur-ruffled, like a startled cat. Lainie had never seen him take so long to pull himself together. He shook Sarah’s hand and made a cordial response. It was almost effusive, for him. She was tempted to feel his forehead for fever, but got the impression he would take off straight through the side of the tent like the Road Runner if she touched him again.
It seemed a fairly safe bet that he was not, as a rule, a hugger. He didn’t even have to play that many love scenes onstage. Backtracking through his résumé, he had been frequently typecast as the villain in recent years.
It would be shabby and far too easy to comment on that.
“Where’s Emily?” Lainie asked, interrupting Sarah’s intrigued inspection of Richard’s herb pots. “Were we abandoned for shopping on the high street?”
“No, she’s over at the tea tent. Giggling with her best friend and pretending they’re not spying on Johnny Blake. Whom I can’t help noticing is a scrawny beanpole in serious need of a shower, a comb, and a belt to hold up his trousers. I despair about the current state of teenage hormones.”
“To be fair,” Lainie said, “I believe you had a crush on George Michael when you were at school. He wasn’t exactly a well-coifed bodybuilder, was he?”
“He was adorable.” Sarah wrinkled her nose. “You eighties babies had no sense of style.”
Niall was Lainie’s second-oldest brother and Sarah was a decade her senior, but the age difference had never affected their friendship. They had clicked from the moment Niall had brought her home to meet his family as a university student.
“Says the woman who sat her A-levels in shoulder pads and a bouffant.”
Richard was stirring restlessly. Their mutual exchange of nonsense had provided enough cover for him to resurrect his usual shields. “Who is Johnny Blake?” he asked abruptly, and Lainie frowned at him.
“I introduced you to him when we arrived. He opened the fête.”
“I may only just scrape in as an eighties baby,” he said sarcastically, “but I haven’t quite dwindled into senility yet. I recall the introduction. I’m still awaiting the explanation of his apparent teen idol status.”
“He’s a vlogger,” Sarah explained. “He makes videos on YouTube.”
“Oh. YouTube.”
Henry the Eighth might have used the same tone on a visit to the London slums: “Oh. The common rabble.”
And, well—yes. She supposed that if his experience of YouTube was limited to people posting iPhone footage of his public meltdowns, he was entitled to be jaded. She would have to introduce him to the life-altering joy that was funny cat videos.
They made their way back outside, and Lainie shivered. The sky was an ominous-looking grey now and it was amazing the rain had held off this long. There was a good reason why most village fêtes were held in summer. At least one could be optimistic about a hint of sunshine then.
She was suddenly surrounded by warm, masculine-scented wool. Her eyes, scrunched up against the wind, shot open and encountered Sarah’s equally surprised expression. Richard, now sans his thousand-pound coat and probably freezing in his shirtsleeves, didn’t look at either of them.
Too astonished to speak, Lainie touched a wondering hand to the thick, butter-soft cashmere. Richard’s cheeks were going a bit ruddy in the cold air.
Or was he embarrassed? He looked definitely relieved when a stranger approached them and apologised for interrupting.
Gratitude slid into gathering thunderclouds when the man went on to ask, very apprehensively, if Richard was the owner of the Ferrari parked by the church. Lainie didn’t think he’d moved that quickly since their first dress rehearsal, when Will had been let loose unsupervised with his sword and had found it harder to manoeuvre than anticipated.
She followed him at a less athletic pace, already wincing. She hoped he hadn’t been ticketed. That would make for a fun journey home. It had been a very long couple of hours in the car already this morning. Bob had staged impromptu drinks with VIP guests after the previous night’s show, and none of the cast had got home before 2:00 a.m. Neither she nor Richard functioned well on three hours of sleep and zero cups of coffee.
“My, my,” Sarah said provocatively at her side. “What was that I saw? Could it be? Was that possibly a belated spark of chemistry?”
Lainie shot her a look. “There was a photographer outside.” She heard the defensive thread in her words, and Sarah looked unimpressed.
“Not when I walked in, there wasn’t. Just two smitten-looking people snogging in a sea of pumpkins.”
“We weren’t snogging, and I’m not smitten.” She touched a fingertip to her borrowed coat again. Confused, yes. Smitten, no. “We’re just doing our job.”
“If you say so.” Sarah pushed back a strand of limp blond hair, side-eyed her and added wickedly, “Although I still think he’s dishy.”
“Then help yourself. I won’t tell Niall that his wife is a shameless and mentally impaired hussy.”
“Oh dear.” Sarah came to a sudden stop, and her brown eyes opened wide. “I’m guessing Richard didn’t inscribe his own car door as a fashion statement?”
“What?” Lainie asked blankly.
She followed the direction of Sarah’s troubled gaze, and her heart sank. Richard and his hapless messenger stood in the midst of a murmuring crowd, all of whom were gathered in a circle around the Ferrari, gaping as if it were a murder scene. The unfortunate victim in the case was the driver’s side door, which had been tagged. Fairly explicitly, and in deep gouges with a key.
“I’m also assuming that Dick is not meant as a chummy nickname.”
“Probably not when it’s wedged between an expletive and the word head, no.”
Lainie regretted ever getting out of her warm bed and pyjamas. She didn’t really want to look at Richard, but forced herself to do so. His lips were pressed together so tightly they had almost disappeared. The nerve ticking in his jaw was like a timer on a volatile bomb. She was surprised he hadn’t already exploded. This was a positive show of restraint, and one she doubted would last.
Catching sight of the same photographer in the crowd of onlookers, happily snapping photos and probably planning a weekend break in Biarritz on the profits, she shook off the horrified inertia and went to Richard’s side.
Up close, the damage to the prohibitively expensive car was even worse. And the message was offensive to the point of repulsion. Lainie grimaced. She might have called Richard at least one of those names in the privacy of her head—and possibly on the phone to a long-suffering relative—but this was just...foul. Insulting, abusive vandalism. Considering where they were, and why they were here, it was sick.
Mary from the Women’s Institute obviously agreed. She looked appalled as she stammered an apology to Richard, making hesitant allusions to local tearaways.
“There’s a youth centre in Brickford...”
An offer to reimburse him for the damages was made with obvious dread, an emotion silently echoed by Lainie. A sharp finger was poking at her own conscience on that score. It might not have been her idea that Richard tag along to her charity events, but it was still because of her that he was here.
God knew what it would cost to restore a carved-up Ferrari. Almost certainly more than she could afford if she wanted to continue feeding and clothing herself.
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br /> She heard a muffled giggle, hastily hushed. More than a few people, in fact, seemed to be finding amusement in the incident.
Proof in action of Richard’s unfortunate public image.
For a woman who usually wanted to skewer Richard with a blunt pencil, she was strangely annoyed by the general air of “serves him right.” When she looked at him standing to one side, alone, with the skin taut around his eyes and mouth, she felt almost...protective. He would give short shrift to any offer of sympathy, so she kept her mouth shut and settled for placing a tentative hand on his elbow. Even that she expected to be rejected with some force.
He barely seemed to notice her touch. His glaring attention was fixed on his poor sexy, wounded car. She could hear the low, harsh sound of his breathing and feel the muscles quivering in his arm. He looked and sounded so much like a bull about to charge that she experienced a fanciful pulse-jump when the wind whipped her long red ponytail in front of his face like a flag. Hastily retrieving her hair, she tucked it into the collar of her—his—coat. She felt additionally guilty about wearing it now. It might be easier to face public insult and property destruction if he wasn’t freezing his balls off at the same time.
“I don’t suppose,” Richard at last spoke, very tightly, “that anyone saw it being done?”
Nobody had seen it done. Or if they had, they weren’t prepared to admit it.
“You should file a police report,” Sarah said, the voice of calm reason, and Mary immediately offered to summon the local constable.
Lainie, keeping a wary eye on the avidly interested paparazzo, said dubiously, “I doubt if there’s much they can do, without witnesses...unless you have CCTV footage?”
They did have CCTV surveillance, but the camera was directed at the front of the church, not the rear side where Richard had parked.
