Act Like It

by Lucy Parker

  “Oh.” Lainie darted another glance at him. “Did you?” Her tone was sceptical.

  “The Digital Mail is running a caption contest on the photograph of Richard fondling root vegetables. Last time I checked, they already had three hundred entries. Ninety-nine percent sexual innuendo, obviously.”

  Richard rolled his eyes but couldn’t stop a faint smile when he saw Lainie’s amusement.

  “I’ll have to remember to enter tonight.” She lifted a delicately arched brow at him. “Was there a reason for that polite summons into your lair, by the way? Or did you just feel like showing off your biceps?”

  “I thought you might have questions about Monday,” he said blandly, and watched her expression change.

  “Monday?” she asked suspiciously. She glanced from him to Pat. “Oh, God. Now what?”

  “Your enthusiasm is noted,” Pat said, heavy on the irony. “I’ve booked you both to appear on Wake Me Up London on Monday morning. You’re on at half seven, so you’ll have to be there at six. Get an early night tomorrow. Concealer can only do so much. We’d like to avoid the impression that we work our cast into walking corpses.”

  Lainie was obviously appalled, which perversely made Richard feel better. Bad temper put red flags under her cheekbones and caused her short, straight nose to wrinkle. It was all very ineffectual. She didn’t have the face for intimidation. Her features were deceptively sweet. If she’d thrown tantrums as a child, her parents had probably smiled tolerantly and chucked her under the chin.

  “You want us to do a TV interview? About...this?” Lainie asked, horrified.

  “Could you not gesture directly at me when you say that?” Richard asked. He leaned back against the wall and crossed one ankle over the other. “It’s bad for my self-esteem.”

  She ignored him and continued to address Pat. “I really don’t think that’s a good idea. Neither of us comes across that well in screen interviews anyway, and if we’re supposed to be addressing our...relationship...” She managed to get the word out, but it rolled sourly around her tongue. She looked as if she’d taken a swallow of milk and realised it had gone off about six weeks ago.

  “Speak for yourself, Tig,” he said, and her sea-green eyes turned almost teal with irritation. Personally, he was starting to feel quite relaxed. There was something very soothing about letting Lainie fight their battles. She was so delightfully...flammable. “I always keep my head during interviews.”

  “That’s why you’ve almost driven Lynette Stern into a nervous breakdown, is it? Allow me to send you a link to a clip reel on YouTube. It’s a three-minute Not-Safe-For-Work montage of your polite responses to interview questions. The censored version is one continuous bleep.”

  Richard’s smile grew. “Have you been looking me up on the web?”

  There was an audible click of teeth as Lainie pressed her lips together. She could probably make judicious use of Lynette’s fuck-you emoticons.

  “Ostensibly, the interview is to promote The Cavalier’s Tribute and give an insight into what it’s like to be a young—” Pat eyed them. “Youngish actor in the modern West End.”

  Lainie looked even more annoyed. “Well, I’m younger than Richard.”

  “You’ve always seemed practically infantile to me,” he told her comfortingly, and her fingers closed around the ballpoint pen he’d left on his desk. He suspected he was about two minutes away from having it neatly inserted into his jugular.

  “Obviously, Tara Whitlow is going to broach the relationship angle. I think it’s best if you play for discretion. The less you say, the more the public will infer for themselves. Sadie Foster is likely to be voluble on the subject of her affair with Jack Trenton, so I’d prefer you to present a contrast. You’ve both had media training. I’m sure you’ll behave sensibly.”

  It was admirable, the level of threat Pat could impart without altering the tone of her voice or intensity of her expression.

  “Sadie?” Lainie flung his spare jacket off the desk stool, and he watched as fifteen hundred quid of full-grain leather sailed carelessly into one corner of the room. She sat down and fixed Pat with a furious stare. “Is Sadie Foster in the same interview slot?”

  “And Jack.” Pat casually removed a speck of fluff from her lapel. “It was originally their booking, to promote Les Mis. But the band scheduled to appear at eight had to pull out due to ‘illness’—i.e. one of them has been carted off to rehab. So the producers have extended Sadie and Jack’s slot, and decided to include you and Richard, as well. The Palladium has had enough free publicity recently. We need to keep our end up.”

  Lainie’s response to that was short, explicit and unprintable.

  Really, she was growing on him all the time.

  Chapter Four

  London Celebrity @LondonCelebrity. 48m

  Oh, it’s awkward. Tara Whitlow tries to

  interview West End stars. Miss the live clip? Catch the replay here...ow.ly/QT4Jp

  There was something sadistic about installing harsh fluorescent lighting in a breakfast TV studio. Lainie took one horrified stare at her reflection and dove into a makeup chair. She didn’t consider herself that vain, but au naturel was not working for her at ten past six in the morning. She was usually drooling into her pillow at this hour, halfway through a recurring sex dream about James Bond. Daniel Craig’s body. Sean Connery’s voice.

  A smiling young woman appeared in the mirror behind her, holding a coffee cup in one hand and a bottle of foundation in the other, and Lainie tried not to actually weep at her feet.

  “Hi, I’m Sharon,” said the goddess, handing her the coffee. “Milk and two sugars, was it?”

  “Perfect. Thank you.” Lainie drank half of it in one go, while trying not to look directly at the sobering reality check in the mirror. In her head, her skin was not pasty to the point that it had actually acquired a green tinge. She did not have massive dark circles under her eyes. And she definitely didn’t have two huge spots on her forehead.

  Outside the open door, she heard the clatter of approaching high heels.

  And faintly, in the back of her mind, the theme music for the Wicked Witch of the West.

  Sadie Foster appeared in the doorway and posed, one hand propped on her hip as she looked around the room. Her sharp gaze fastened on Lainie, who had to suppress the impulse to lift her palm and cover the spots.

  “Oh, right,” Sadie said, with a snotty head-to-toe survey. “The Metronome.” She frowned. “We’ve met, right?”

  Said the woman who’d copied Lainie’s answers in acting theory class for a year, and then attempted to maim her. Presumably, in Sadie’s world, other people just blurred into one negligible composite of Not Me.

  “A few times, yes.” Lainie knocked back the rest of the coffee in one gulp, mentally swapping it out for a tequila shot.

  Sadie swung her handbag onto a nearby table, where an intern was trying to set out a selection of accessories, and sort of...flowed into the chair next to Lainie’s. She had the same ability as Richard to make her body go boneless and effortlessly elegant. She also had a similarly aristocratic, aquiline nose. The pretty-face fairy had been awfully generous where those two were concerned. And had obviously just whacked the good-manners fairy right out of her path.

  “I want something like this.” Sadie handed a torn-out magazine page to her own stylist, interrupting the other woman midway through her polite “Good morning.” She nodded at Lainie’s empty cup. “And a coffee. Black. No sugar.”

  Lainie, her eyes fixed on the mirror, saw the two stylists exchange glances over her head.

  Sadie, oblivious to the undercurrents—and the fact that she was probably going to star in a Facebook rant later that morning—crossed her legs and yawned. “God,” she said, flipping her gold wristwatch around. “Seriously, who would watch TV at this hour of the morning?”

  “The studio gets some of its highest ratings between seven and eight in the morning,” Sharon told her, beginning to dab primer on
to Lainie’s cheekbones. “A lot of people watch the show while they’re getting ready for work. Hauling the kids out of bed.”

  Sadie shuddered. Lainie wasn’t sure whether her nerves were upset by the idea of a nine-to-five, needy offspring, or both.

  The bored brown eyes cut in her direction again. “So,” Sadie drawled. “Anything lined up for the end of your run? Rumour has it that might be sooner than scheduled.”

  Lainie concentrated on the soothing motions of Sharon’s hands. The cream she was using smelled like coconut. If she closed her eyes, she could pretend she was having a facial. On a desert island. Far, far away from the abrasive blonde presence beside her.

  “And that would be just that,” she said calmly. “An unsubstantiated rumour.”

  “Not what I heard.” Sadie’s voice was light and malicious. “I would have thought twice, if I were you, before I got into bed with Richard Troy.”

  Lainie’s eyes opened, and she met Sadie’s gaze in the mirror.

  “Professionally speaking,” the other woman said. She smiled. “Obviously.”

  “Obviously.”

  Sharon and her colleague widened their eyes at one another again, and Lainie grimaced. Snarky little scenes like this didn’t help anyone’s reputation.

  “You could try the manager at Leather and Lace,” Sadie suggested helpfully. “I’ve heard he’s always looking for trained dancers.” She raised her eyes to Lainie’s forehead. “Or a Proactiv campaign,” she muttered. Loudly.

  On the other hand, it would probably give the studio a bit of free publicity if one of their guests mysteriously choked to death on a tube of lipstick.

  Sharon coughed. “Tara’s buzzing about the interview,” she said tactfully. She picked up a damp sponge to blend in Lainie’s foundation. “Mr. Troy doesn’t give many mainstream interviews.” She politely didn’t add, “with good reason.” “And she’s been wanting to get Will Farmer on her couch for ages. In a manner of speaking.” She grinned, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively, and then looked mortified as recollection obviously came back to her.

  Lainie was too busy going into cardiac arrest to care about the social gaffe. “Sorry?” She pushed her hands down on the arms of the chair, half rising to turn and stare at the red-faced stylist. “What?” Her vocabulary had gone out the window, along with all sense of optimism about the morning.

  “Well, that’s embarrassing.” Sharon bit down on a long purple fingernail. “Geez. Sorry.”

  “Will’s here? Now?” Hundred shades of horror.

  Sharon was visibly taken aback. Sadie looked as if she was mentally bouncing in her chair, clapping her hands with glee.

  “Well—yeah. I think so.” The stylist seemed eager to make amends. “I don’t know for sure that he’s arrived, but everyone had the same call time, so I assume he’s down the hall with Casey. I can check?”

  “No. No. Thank you. That’s okay.” Lainie breathed out through her mouth. She ignored Sadie, whose sharp little ears had pricked up like a fox terrier.

  Pat.

  Forget the prison guard gig. The woman should be directing presidential campaigns.

  That was two for unfortunate death by lipstick. She reserved the right to adjust the number, depending on how the next couple of hours played out.

  “You did know that the interview is with Richard and Will?” Sadie was all fluttery innocence. “Oh...dear.” Laughter threaded her words. “Awkward.”

  Lainie entirely agreed with her.

  Sadie’s stylist thankfully silenced her with coffee and the latest copy of Vogue, and Lainie let a subdued Sharon get back to work. She couldn’t stop jiggling her crossed leg as the stylist finished her makeup and started on her hair.

  Live TV. Will and Richard on one couch. Sadie stirring the pot. Jack—not the brightest bulb at the best of times, and probably hungover at this hour of the morning. She couldn’t see any help coming from that corner.

  No potential at all for career-trashing disaster.

  Sharon had decided on a no-makeup makeup look, with natural waves in her hair, as opposed to Sadie’s full-on red-carpet glamour. It took gobs of product and a depressingly long time to create the illusion that she’d just woken up attractive.

  Sadie was finished first, and was wrapped around a barely conscious Jack when Lainie entered the greenroom. He was sprawled on a couch, head tilted back, eyes at half-mast, seemingly unbothered by the tentacle-like arms that entwined his shoulders. Will and Richard were seated at opposite ends of the other couch, pretending that the other didn’t exist. Will was playing games on his phone. She could hear the tinny theme music. He glanced up when she came in, scowled and then went back to obliterating animated snack food. Richard was reading a newspaper. He didn’t even bother to raise his head.

  And these hulking specimens of manhood constituted her past and currently imaginary sex life.

  God, she hoped there were pastries on that refreshment table.

  There were, so the morning wasn’t a total loss. She went with the one closest to her hand, to be polite. The fact it was oozing the most jam and cream was merely a bonus. She had no compunctions at all about eating her feelings. She took a bite, cupping her hand underneath to catch the cream spillage, and said hello to Jack. He detached his earlobe from Sadie’s teeth and turned to look at her.

  “Oh, hey,” he said, with a smile and wink. “How’s it going?”

  “Great. Thanks.”

  Nope. No idea who she was.

  The only free seats were on the four-seater between Will and Richard. With a sigh, and as the lesser of the evils, she sat down beside Richard. She would prefer an indifferent silence to a sulky one. She also preferred his aftershave. Although that was a bit of a misnomer when he clearly hadn’t picked up a razor this week. Chewing on a bite of pastry, she eyed him critically. They hadn’t even put much makeup on him. And he looked fine. Good, even. Bastard.

  “Is there something on my face?” he asked, without much interest. The paper rustled as he turned the page.

  “About ten days’ worth of stubble, I imagine.” Lainie finished her breakfast and licked a glob of apricot jam from her thumb. “I’m marinating in half a can of shine spray here. You could have at least shaved.”

  Richard cut his eyes in her direction and then glanced briefly at Will. “Like the Backstreet Boy over there? Pass.”

  She was not going to smile.

  “I’m not interested in stocks. Or farming.” She leaned forward to look over his raised arm. “I’ll take international news, please.”

  “There’s a pile of magazines over there.” Richard turned the page again, interrupting her perusal of the classifieds. “And nobody is reading them.”

  “Yes, but then I would have to get up.”

  “Great. You can bring me a cup of coffee.”

  Lainie propped her elbow on the back of the couch and considered him thoughtfully. “Do we think that’s a good idea?”

  He paused, his fingers tightening around the paper. “Do we think what’s a good idea?”

  “More coffee. You do get a bit grouchy. It could be caffeine sensitivity. Maybe you should just stick with the one cup. I mean, live TV. They might not be that quick with the bleeper at the crack of dawn.”

  A muscle shifted in his jaw. “I haven’t had any coffee yet.”

  “Oh.” She looked at him sympathetically, wondered if a patronizing pat on the arm would be going too far. She risked it anyway. “Bad night’s sleep?”

  “No.”

  “Huh.” Swinging her legs up beneath her, she rested her chin on her arm and frowned. “So—it’s just you, then.” She paused, counting to three in her head, and then asked helpfully, “Should we talk about that?”

  “Take the bloody paper.”

  “Thank you.”

  A production assistant stuck her head through the door a few minutes later. “On in fifteen,” she said, looking a bit flustered. “Someone will come to escort you to the set in ten minutes.”


  Lainie finished scanning the world news and flipped to the arts section. There was a new review of The Cavalier’s Tribute in the theatre column. She wasn’t mentioned. But—

  “Do you think The Cavalier’s Tribute is thematically comparable to Chicago?” she asked Richard, who was sitting with one ankle propped on the opposite knee again, frowning into space.

  “I think Tom Reynolds should stick to reviewing at his intellectual level,” he responded, still glowering. “Which would be open mic night at the local pub and the occasional panto.”

  Lainie lifted an eyebrow at his sour tone. “Cheer up. He called you ‘gruff and overtly masculine.’ That could be a compliment. And things could be way worse. I could be sucking on your ear in public.”

  They watched as Sadie touched her tongue to Jack’s chin dimple, and simultaneously grimaced.

  “Did you know, by the way?” Lainie asked suddenly. She lowered her voice, although she doubted if Will could hear her over the obnoxiously raised volume of his game. “About Will being here too?”

  Richard’s expression was difficult to interpret. His eyes moved from Will’s lowered head and busy thumbs to Lainie’s face. There was a sardonic twist to his mouth, so she expected a biting response.

  “No,” he said after a moment. “I wouldn’t have sprung that on you if I’d known.”

  Huh. Sensitivity. That was new.

  “Although it’s probably to our benefit. If Farmer has to open his mouth without a script in his hand, everyone in his vicinity comes off well by comparison.”

  ...And they returned to their regularly scheduled programming.

  When another assistant arrived, clipboard in hand, Sadie retracted her tongue from Jack’s face, Will reluctantly killed his game, and Richard touched his hand to the small of Lainie’s back to guide her out into the hallway. She shivered and sped up.

  The Wake Me Up London studio was decked out in tones of yellow and orange to look perky and refreshing. The lights were intensely bright, presumably to give the effect of sunshine, despite the dim sky outside. It was more like being in a sunbed.

  Tara Whitlow, formerly of the BBC entertainment beat, was smiling into the cameras, rounding up a segment on student fashion designers. She tossed her curls over her shoulders and beamed as she teased the upcoming interview. The director cut to an ad break, and her smile faded. She rolled her shoulders, stretching out her neck, and stood up to greet them as they were herded onto the set. Her smile was perfunctory as she shook hands with them all, and Lainie didn’t miss the shrewd stare that accompanied her own introduction. That couldn’t bode well.