by Lucy Parker
She followed him to where he’d parked the car and had just clicked in her seat belt when she swore under her breath. Her teeth sank into her very full lower lip. “I forgot. I have to swing by home first and feed Cat Richard. Just drop me at the Tube if you like. There’s plenty of time.”
He was beginning to feel as if he was doing surrealist improv.
Starting the car, he pulled smoothly into the traffic flow. At the first intersection, he turned in the direction of Bayswater.
“Cat Richard?” he asked, when they came to a halt behind a double-decker bus.
“My landlady’s ginger tom.” Lainie sounded too calm. He glanced at her. Yes, her eyes were full of laughter. “He’s called Richard. I’m feeding him while she’s away for a few days, and he has to have meals twice a day. Bowel issues.”
This was actually his life.
It was raining more heavily when they pulled up outside the Victorian terrace where she lived. The street looked gloomy and run-down in the murky weather, and she’d better not have been walking here alone from the station at night.
“Do you ever drive?” he asked, as they made a dash for the front door. She pushed the key into the lock and glanced back at him. A raindrop caught on the end of her lashes, which were thick and spiky with mascara.
“No, I don’t even have a license. I’ve never lived farther than a five-minute walk from a Tube station. Thank you for the lift.”
She placed a certain amount of emphasis on that last part, and he said impatiently, “It wasn’t a hint. How do you usually get home at night?”
“I beam myself into my living room like Spock. On the Tube. How do you think?”
“And then you walk home alone from the station?”
Lainie, apparently unaware that there was rain dripping down the back of his collar, turned on the doorstep to face him. People generally reserved that expression for very young and not particularly bright children. Her hand came up to cup his cheek for a moment, and if she felt him stiffen, she ignored it.
“This is Bayswater, your lordship. Not the red light district of Bangkok. Chill. Your car might even still be here when we get back.” Her expression turned slightly rueful. He suspected she was remembering what had happened to his other car in the middle of a picturesque country village. She had the tact not to resurrect that subject.
Pushing open the door, she led the way down a creaking hallway and into the stereotypical living room of an elderly woman. One hearty sneeze would knock over several cramped pieces of furniture and at least two dozen ceramic knickknacks. Lainie disappeared into the kitchen, and he stood in the doorway, watching as she opened the fridge and emerged with an open can of cat food.
Scooping the gelatinous sludge into a metal bowl on the floor, she began to call for the cat. “Richard! Breakfast! Richard! Here, puss, puss, puss!”
Her voice had lowered coaxingly. It was husky and persuasive, with an intriguing edge of command.
“Richard? Come here, baby!”
Jesus.
The cat, which was bloody enormous and did not need to be fed twice a day, appeared at a leisurely stroll. It sniffed the bowl disdainfully and then sat down to lick its leg. Richard assumed they could now leave it to eat in private. He didn’t need visual proof as to what constituted feline bowel issues.
Lainie picked up the cat for a cuddle, tucking its head under her chin, and he saw it properly for the first time.
“What the fuck is wrong with its face?”
She looked offended on the cat’s behalf, but seriously. A cross between Walter Matthau and a sundried tomato.
Lifting the cat slightly away from her, Lainie looked from its grumpy face to Richard. And then back again. She walked over and held it up next to him. “Hmm.”
“Don’t say it.”
“Hashtag twinsies.”
Her laughter seemed to twine around him.
She bent to put the cat down, nudging it toward the food bowl, and turned to Richard. They were so close that he could count the tiny freckles on the bridge of her nose. Her smile faded. Her eyes, beautifully, intensely green, moved to his mouth, and he curled his fingers into fists.
“Richard.” His name again, this time solely for him.
He closed his eyes for a minute, then, without moving a muscle, he deliberately distanced himself. “We’ve wasted enough time. Shall we go?” He could hear the chill in his own voice.
She looked away from him. “Right.” There was a streak of pink under each high cheekbone. “Let’s go.”
When they walked back out into the rain, his bloody hands were shaking.
Chapter Five
London Celebrity @LondonCelebrity. now
Love on the run: smitten Richard Troy front and centre to support new love at charity 5k...goo.gl/Ny5hFm
It would have helped if she’d got further than the couch part of the couch-to-5k training plan she’d printed off the internet. Lainie crossed the finishing line and immediately dropped her head toward the ground, leaning her hands against her thighs and fiercely rejecting the urge to vomit. She was embarrassingly unfit, but if the chain-smoking, foulmouthed comedian two steps ahead of her could finish with a smile on his face and no visible signs of nausea, then so could she. She straightened with an effort, cringing as her back made an audible cracking sound. Performing in a play was a physical job, for God’s sake. It required stamina. She didn’t even have the excuse of sitting behind a computer all day.
Camera lights flashed as more participants made it over the line. They included several soap actors, a controversial political commentator, a popular abstract artist, and a DJ from Radio 1. The fund-raising committee had managed to put together a respectable hit list of names for the Shining Lights UK 5k, considering that Fun Runs were among the least popular of charitable events. She couldn’t even say the term without an ironic inflection on the first word. What kind of half-witted masochist actually enjoyed running on a drizzly October morning in London? On a weekday, no less, when there were plenty of people about with laptops and coffee cups, observing the mania with perplexity.
Lainie had tried to suggest an alternative—a bake-off, a rock concert—but the director of the foundation was a jogging enthusiast who refused to believe that other people might not share his predilection for spandex. She saw him now, standing by the refreshment table, doing some kind of yoga stretch and looking cool and unfazed. He didn’t even have sweat stains in his armpits. Unnatural.
“Well done!” he called to her. “How was that?”
About thirty-five minutes of pure, wheezing hell, thank you for asking.
“Great,” she said, desperately sucking air into her abused lungs. “Brilliant way to start the day.” If you enjoy unrelenting pain. “I beat my personal best time.”
Which was true, in the sense that she had never run a 5k before and hopefully never would again.
Oh, well. It was all money for worthy coffers.
“Couldn’t agree with you more,” he enthused. “Nothing more invigorating than an early morning run.”
The poor man had obviously never had early morning sex. Or a caramel latte.
He nodded toward the throng of spectators, shivering under their support banners. “Good to see the SOs out in force, as well.”
“The SOs?” she asked blankly, trying to follow the direction of his gaze. Had she failed to swot up on necessary athletic jargon as well? Safety Officers? Sports Officials? Sulky Octopi? She had no idea.
“Significant others. Always helps to have a cheerleader on the sidelines, doesn’t it?” He chuckled. “Yours looks a bit worn around the edges. Dragged him out of bed early, did you?”
Completely at sea, Lainie didn’t respond. Then she finally saw what—or rather whom—he was looking at. Richard was leaning against a pop-up art installation. The enormous statue of a polar bear wore an identical frown and a similar amount of facial hair. The bear was evidently very worried about the status of global warming; a stroppy and still u
nshaven Richard appeared more concerned with his own warmth, or lack thereof. His hands were thrust in his pockets and he was doing the standing jig-dance of the cold and crabby, bobbing from one foot to the other.
Absently excusing herself from the grinning director, Lainie hurried over to him, blowing on her own ungloved hands. Now that she had stopped running, the chill was creeping in.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, amazed and irritable. This had not, as far as she knew, been on their agreed list of activities, and she couldn’t imagine he was pining for her company. She felt justifiably annoyed with him for turning up when she was a red-faced, snot-nosed mess. Not that she had ever exactly bowled him over when she was a painstakingly curled, professionally made-up siren, either.
Although he hadn’t seemed repelled during that one rain-saturated moment earlier in the week. Which she was never going to think about again. She’d been telling herself so all week.
He hadn’t wanted to kiss her.
Had he?
Richard removed one hand from his pocket and held up his phone. “I had my instructions.” It was hard to pull off a tone that snippy through chattering teeth, but he somehow managed. “A message from Pat. Payback for Monday. Either come to Hyde Park to bear witness to your feats of athleticism, or meet Will at the BBC for a joint debate on the impact of social media on the staging of live theatre—i.e. isn’t it a pisser when someone gets a text message or live-Tweets during a performance?” He looked down at her, taking in the yoga pants and zipped fleece jacket. “This seemed like the lesser of two evils. Of course, that was before I knew it was going to be seven degrees outside and you were going to take about thirty-five years to complete the circuit.”
“It was thirty-five minutes, thank you, and I was strictly middle of the pack. Loads of people aren’t even back yet!” She glared at him, and someone took their photo. “Oh, for the love of...” Deep breath. She exhaled and said reluctantly, “I suppose you’d better give me a hug, then. Let them get their shot, so we can leave.”
Richard eyed her with fastidious distaste. “You’re sweaty.”
Give me strength. Or a blunt instrument.
When they’d left her house on Monday morning, she’d been mortified in the car. She’d actually leaned into him. In a kitchen that smelled like cat food. She’d been worried it would add a new level of awkward to their interactions, but fortunately he’d returned to being such a dick that it had been easy to quash any disturbing feelings.
“It’s good for the skin,” she snapped.
“And probably disastrous for cashmere.”
Before she completely lost her temper, Richard leant down and swept her into his arms. To their onlookers, it must have appeared a supportive, affectionate embrace. It even included a cheeky bum-squeeze, which earned him a sharp pinch on the chest.
“Oy,” he said, jumping. He spoke into her hair, his hands still holding tight to her waist. “I’m just following instructions here. Against my chest, hand under bottom, you said. Two easy steps for a successful cuddle.” He anticipated the reflexive action of her right trainer and stepped back out of kicking range. “I’m not sure how you conned Pat into thinking you would be a good, even-tempered influence on me. I’ve clearly underestimated your acting abilities.”
It struck Lainie that this was one of the few times she had seen him smile and mean it. The fact that he was a surly grouch aside, it was often difficult to tell with actors whether an emotion was genuine or an automatic playing to a role. They sometimes couldn’t tell the difference themselves. She knew from experience that spending hours every day pretending to be someone else could become a habit difficult to break. She could go off duty, so to speak, and find herself performing the role of Lainie Graham, which could seem as artificial as any character she inhabited onstage.
Even in her relationship with Will, there had been an element of staginess, as if she’d been watching the love scene play out from afar and judging it with professional criticism. That embrace looked stiff; that comment seemed out of character; the chemistry was a bit lacking there; what would be her motivation for that particular action? No wonder so many marriages failed in the acting profession. Half the time they were unconscious stage productions, and every actor eventually tired of playing the same role.
And no wonder so many actors were in therapy. Fodder for the psychiatrist’s couch, right there.
She shook off her clouded mood. There was something to be said for the dubious pleasure of Richard’s company. It was ironic, given that their relationship was a complete hoax, but she never felt there was much pretence between them. Yes, they put up a show for the cameras, but he didn’t whitewash his actual feelings toward her. And she had no doubt about her own toward him.
Or she hadn’t. Until things had become a little...blurred. She at least recognised the frustration, annoyance, exasperation and reluctant amusement. It was a refreshing emotional catharsis, not having to hold back with him.
Richard Troy: human stress ball.
She ignored the tiny singsong voice that was making almost-kiss taunts.
Right. Not holding back at all.
He seemed to be deriving some emotional benefits from being with her, as well. His expression was one of resigned tolerance when he reached over and caught her hand. “Come on, Tig. I’ll shout you brunch.”
She looked down at herself. “I can’t go out to eat like this.”
“You’re fine. You hardly look like you put in any effort at all.”
She was still trying to work out if that was an insult when they reached his car. The assaulted Ferrari had been swapped out for an equally lush Maserati this week—temporarily, she assumed, unless he just replaced a damaged supercar like it was a pair of ripped tights. His lifestyle was a wet dream for the average British male. He’d also managed to find a prime parking spot. She wondered if the force of Richard’s personality was such that people just upped and left the moment he set his sights on their park.
Another photographer took their photo as they got into the car. Lainie resisted an insane urge to grin cheekily at her. She felt oddly light. Perhaps there was something to these exercise endorphins after all.
They ate at one of her favourite cafés in Bayswater, a few blocks from her flat. The décor was a bit naff and Ye Old Tea Shoppe, but it served incredible coffee and pancakes. Most of the restaurants in the area seemed to have gone over to the all-organic, all-healthy craze. It had been a personal mission to find one that didn’t sneak greens into every dish, as if they were tricking toddlers into eating their vegetables. Lainie would rather have hips than drink pulverised spinach in her smoothies. She preferred her green food to contain the words mint and chip.
There was good people-watching in the summer, when it was borderline warm enough to sit at the tables outside, but they settled for a cosy table near the wood fire. Lainie looked at Richard thoughtfully as she cut into her pancakes, scooping up an escaping blueberry with her knife.
“What would you usually be doing at this hour of the morning, if you’re not called in for rehearsal or scene changes?” It was half past ten, which in the world of evening theatre was most people’s seven or eight. “Sleeping?”
Richard shrugged and swallowed a mouthful of poached egg. “Depends on what time I got home the night before, and whether I have another work commitment.” He leaned back and picked up his coffee, giving her an unreadable look over the rim. “And obviously if I’m alone—or not.”
She stabbed her fork into a strawberry and ate it with relish. She was fairly sure the berries had come out of a can, but they were still tasty. “A morning quickie sort of bloke, are you?” she asked, going there out of sheer nosiness. “Or is it wham-bam-get-out-my-bed-ma’am?”
He smiled against his will. “I’m sure you won’t be surprised to learn that it’s the latter. I prefer not to actually sleep next to someone if I can avoid it.” He added smoothly, “Although I handle the situation as tactfully as possible, o
f course.”
“Which, coming from you, probably means your poor girlfriends find themselves standing on the doorstep, wrapped in a bedsheet and clutching their knickers.”
“Only in the summertime. If it’s winter, I let them take a blanket, as well.”
“How about that? A joke.” Lainie was smiling, as well. She poured a bit more syrup on her remaining pancake. “What happened to the barrister? I remember thinking she looked nice.”
“Which barrister?” Richard looked blank.
“Working your way through the profession, are you? That seems a bit risky in your case. With that short fuse, you don’t want a stream of angry exes in the courtroom if you ever have to stand trial. The barrister you dated for like two months, you clod. You, at least, should remember her name. You took her to the Tony Awards. The blonde in the gorgeous Alice Temperley gown. The woman clutching your elbow all night.” She forked up a piece of stewed apple. “You probably sat next to her in the venue. Most likely shared a car ride home. And...”
“Yes, I don’t need the complete itinerary, thank you. You mean Barbara Greer. She’s a judge, not a barrister.”
“My apologies to her honour. Well? What happened?”
“Mind your own business.” He drained his coffee cup.
“Spoilsport.” She finished her plate with a contented sigh and picked up her own drink. Pancakes and hot chocolate were the building blocks of her happy place. “I wouldn’t care if you asked me about my exes.”
“How obliging of you.” He idly twirled his fork between his fingers. “Unfortunately, I would rather insert this into my retina than hear the intimate details of Will Farmer’s sex life.”
“For that, you would have to read Crystalle Hollingswood’s blog.” She wrinkled her nose. “And then you really would want to stab yourself in the eye with a fork.”
Richard was staring out the window and she thought he had stopped listening to her. She’d noticed that if he was bored with a conversation, he switched off and made no effort to disguise his lack of attention. After a few minutes, though, he asked casually, “Still heartbroken?”
