by Lucy Parker
“My heart didn’t come into the equation.” She was suddenly quite embarrassed and looked down at the tabletop, swirling heart patterns in the spilled sugar with her fingertip. “It was more about very shallow hormones in the beginning, and my pride later on. I wish it had never happened. It’s a bit of a facer to realise I’m that susceptible to fairly empty good looks. Although he had his moments,” she added out of fairness. “He’s not a complete prick. Put it at ninety-five percent, with wiggle room if his conscience is playing up.”
“It does seem to show an appalling lack of judgement on your part,” Richard agreed coolly, and her mouth twitched.
She could always rely on him not to sugar the pill.
A group of tourists walked by the window, identifiable by their cameras, guidebooks and damp hair. If you spent much time in London, you learned to either carry an umbrella or look into the concept of hats. Or just run really fast to the nearest Tube station.
“They’ve been to the Tower.” She nodded at the plastic gift bag one of the women was carrying. “I haven’t done the tour there since I was about seven. I should make an effort to actually do more things when we have time off. If I get a morning to myself, I end up wasting it on a nap.” Or watching four episodes of Scandal in a row on her laptop, but she could imagine his response to that without vocalising it.
“It’s usually not worth the hassle.” Richard raised his arms above his head and stretched. The joints popped in his shoulders, and his jumper rode up to reveal a slice of pale, tautly muscled belly. She shamelessly enjoyed the view while she finished her hot chocolate.
She was no longer necessarily averse to finding Richard attractive, she realised. It was just very surprising. And should remain at the sensible look-but-don’t-touch stage. If she ever evolved into an outdoorsy person and went on safari, she might admire the dangerous beauty of the lions from a distance, but she for damn sure wouldn’t get out of the car. Or some equally profound metaphor.
“There’s always at least one idiot with a camera,” the hottest old curmudgeon in town finished.
“I assume you’re talking about journalists, not your well-meaning, misguided fans.”
“Either-or.” He frowned. “Both. It’s all nonsense.”
“Let me guess—you became an actor to act, not to become public property. The fame is an unfortunate downside to the craft. Et cetera.”
“It is, to anyone with the gift and instinct for the stage, and not merely a need for constant, slavering attention.” He looked at her scornfully. “Let me guess,” he mimicked. “You share the good news on Facebook when you appear in the gossip columns, you can’t get enough of people asking for your autograph in the street, and you simply adore being asked whom you’re wearing by vapid journalism graduates who couldn’t get a job reporting actual news.”
“We’re awfully snotty about the industry that pays our bills, aren’t we?” Lainie refused to be provoked. She carefully set down her cup in its saucer and popped the free chocolate into her mouth. Moving it to the side of her cheek with her tongue, she added, “Although I forgot for a moment. You don’t actually need vapid press to help you in finding work. It’s easy to be high-and-mighty about the integrity of the craft when you could buy and sell the Metronome with your discretionary income, isn’t it?”
A faint flush rose up Richard’s neck, but she pushed past his obvious annoyance and continued, “And no, I don’t particularly enjoy reading embellished facts and total lies about myself on the internet. But I can only be annoyed about it to a certain point before I become a hopeless hypocrite, since I read magazines and blogs myself.” She ignored his snort. “Most people do. It’s probably been going on since the beginning of time—people have always spied on their neighbours and they’ve always gossiped about public figures. Look at our play. Rumours running rife amongst the court. Your character would achieve fuck all without poking and prying into things that don’t concern him. With the odd stagnant, boring exception,” she finished, staring meaningfully, “to be human is to be nosy. I refuse to believe that even you wouldn’t be secretly interested if you heard something shocking about, say, Jack Trenton.”
“I cannot conceive of any possible circumstance where I would find myself enjoying a cosy gossip about Jack Trenton.”
“No? What if I came to you and said that Jack got his role at the Palladium by sleeping with the director?”
“He did.”
Lainie blinked. “What?”
Richard absently wiped up a coffee ring on the table with his napkin. “He was seeing Arnette Hall when he was cast, so I doubt if that was a coincidence.” He sounded totally uninterested. “I don’t think anyone believes Trenton is advancing in his career on the strength of his talent.”
“But...what about Sadie? Weren’t they going out then?”
Richard shrugged. “Since he hasn’t been seen with six-inch nail gouges down his face, I assume not.”
“How do you know this?” Lainie demanded. “And of all the cheek, criticising other people for gossiping.”
“Nobody whispered the latest on dit into my ear over the watercooler. I saw them together at a hotel. If it was supposed to be a secret, they should have chosen somewhere less high-profile than the Goring.” He leaned back and dug into his pocket to remove his wallet, ready to pay the bill. “That wasn’t gossiping. This,” he said, gesturing between them, “is gossiping. Which is why we’re going to stop discussing it.”
“So you didn’t tell anyone?”
He looked disgusted. “What the fuck do I care about Trenton’s personal life? If he has to shag his way through every casting office in the city to get a job, have at it. So long as he doesn’t come within a foot of any production of mine.”
He got up and went to pay for their food, and Lainie stared after him.
Well, honestly.
Outside on the street, she pulled up the hood of her fleece to protect her head against the drizzle, although she suspected her hair was a lost cause. She had now reached the post-exercise stage—admittedly a rare location in which to find herself—where the sweat had dried into a nice crusty sheen of salt on her skin and clothing. It was not pleasant.
“I need a shower.” She grimaced and plucked at her top. She didn’t think she actually smelled. Richard would never have kept quiet to spare her feelings. He would probably have made her sit on a towel and ride with the window open.
“Your pressing urge to traipse around the Tower will have to be put on hold, then.” Richard unlocked the car door and held it open for her. “The British public will be disappointed.”
“Well, I can obviously forget inviting you along when I go, since you seem to rank yourself on the Prince William and Clooney scale of paparazzi interest.” She considered. “We could wear huge hats and sunglasses. Give you the chance to enjoy a day of anonymity. It must be a trial being in possession of such striking good looks and huge, pulsating...talent.”
Richard slid behind the wheel and reached for his seat belt. “I think the idiots wearing sunglasses in pouring October rain would attract their fair share of attention.”
He drove her the short distance to her flat, as it hadn’t occurred to her that she could offer to walk home. Her body considered itself good for cardio for at least a fortnight. She automatically offered him a cup of tea—the English tradition: just finished drinking half a gallon of coffee and hot chocolate, therefore must be time for a cuppa—and was surprised when he accepted.
He followed her up the stairs to her flat, looking around the upper floors with avid interest and a growing frown. When she’d unlocked the door and he was standing in her tiny lounge, he asked rudely, “What pay grade are you on?”
Lainie went into the kitchen and topped up the kettle with water. “We can’t all live in a mansion in Belgravia,” she called back. “It would send the tax brackets haywire.” Either the euphoria was still buzzing from her run or she was growing a thicker skin when it came to Richard. She didn’t fee
l tempted to slip something more lethal than sugar into his tea. Progress.
She dropped tea bags into a couple of mugs and returned to the lounge while she was waiting for the kettle to boil. Dropping down on the couch, she smothered a yawn and pulled at her jacket again. She would strip it off and shower as soon as he left. There was no way she was getting naked while Richard was one flimsy wall away. “You’ll just have to slum it for a few minutes. I’m sure you’ll survive.”
He sat down at her side, still frowning and obviously missing the subtle hint at his departure. He was subjecting her room and possessions to an intense scrutiny. A belated sense of guest etiquette seemed to return to him, as he offered an unconvincing, “No, it’s...fine. Very...snug.”
She eyed him. “I’m well aware that my entire flat could probably fit into your en suite. There’s no need to strain something trying to be polite. I’m getting used to your particular brand of sledgehammer.”
The kettle whistled before he was obliged to answer, and she went out to make the tea. She didn’t think he would appreciate her pug mug, so she let him have her grandmother’s Royal Doulton cup. After a pause, she added a handful of digestive biscuits to a plate. She might be finding him more tolerable, but she wasn’t wasting the chocolate hobnobs.
He looked preoccupied when she handed him the pretty cup. The look he gave her when she sat down again was sharp and penetrating. “I didn’t hurt your feelings, did I? About your flat just now?”
She came to a stop midbite of her biscuit. It grew soggy between her teeth and half of it crumbled into her lap. Coughing, she took a quick sip of tea. “Where did that come from?” she asked when her throat was clear. She brushed the crumbs from her knee into her cupped hand and deposited them into a tissue. Why did he continually make her feel like such a scruff?
“Did I?” he persisted. He had taken off his coat and pushed up the sleeves of his jumper. His forearms were ropy with muscle and dusted with a light covering of dark hair. It looked softer than the coarse hairs in his eyebrows, which were currently compressing wrinkles above the high bridge of his nose. He was being serious. He really wanted to know.
Lainie stroked her thumb around the rim of her mug. “No. You didn’t hurt my feelings.” She smiled faintly. “You make me hopping mad, though. And I wish you would have more consideration for other people’s feelings in general.”
In the interests of honesty, she added, “I’m not exactly soft-spoken myself, in case you haven’t noticed. I can handle your acid remarks. I even—very occasionally—enjoy them. It’s mostly when they’re directed at other people that I balk. Especially when the balance of power is clearly on your side.”
Richard was resting his arms on his knees, looking down into his own cup. The short black curls were tumbling against his forehead. His resemblance to the ideal of a romantic poet had never been more evident. “I’m aware,” he said finally, in a low voice, “that I can be...difficult to get along with. And I don’t always make allowances for individual circumstances. I expect people to just take anything I say and fire back.” The corner of his mouth tilted. “As you do.” He turned his head and fixed her with that intent blue stare. “I wouldn’t want you to think I always intentionally aim to hurt.”
Had there been a slight emphasis on the word you?
Lainie bit her lower lip thoughtfully. She wasn’t quite sure how to answer. “I don’t think you’re a bad person, Richard. Perhaps a little more flawed than most,” she teased, and he grimaced, “but I shall rise above that and keep a thick skin where you’re concerned.”
“Thank you,” he said dryly.
“And if you really do hurt my feelings, I’ll immediately and enthusiastically cry so you’re aware of the fact.”
He looked faintly appalled at even the joking suggestion—and generally uncomfortable with the way the conversation had turned. She could relate.
He leaned forward to put his cup on the coffee table and picked up the script that was lying there. The first page of the historical saga was scrawled and underlined with her notes. His initial movements were artificial—he was acting again, moving them out of an awkward impasse, and the script was the closest prop to hand. But his idle glance swiftly focused into intent interest. She conquered her first instinct, which was to snatch the papers out of his hand and sit on them, and settled for watching him warily from behind a sip of tea.
Richard flipped through a few pages of the miniseries pilot, skim-reading with a practised eye. “Are you doing this?” he asked, still reading. There was definite disapproval in his voice, and she bristled. This was currently her sore spot, and she was sensitive to the slightest jab at it. He glanced up when she didn’t reply, giving her an ironic look. “Yet another talented stage actor decamps for the cheap thrills of television, I see.”
She had stuck on the opening adjective. “Talented?” she repeated, astonished and totally ignoring the rest of his hoary old prejudices.
“That’s what I said.” He paused. “Well, within certain parameters.”
“Which you may keep to yourself. I’d prefer my nice shiny compliment to remain untarnished, thank you.”
Richard raised the script. “You should have a good chance of getting another West End role when The Cavalier’s Tribute’s run ends. Has the experience begun to pall?”
“No.” Lainie tried not to sound defensive. “I love the theatre. But I don’t see anything wrong in stretching myself. Trying other mediums.” It was true. She just wished her confidence extended beyond the sentiment to her actual abilities. Her eyes narrowed. “I seem to remember the Great Troy lowering himself to do a few films back in the day. And I know you did at least one guest spot on TV.” She had watched it on YouTube over breakfast the other morning. And Richard had been nominated for a BAFTA eight years ago for one of those films.
“Naturally. I would hardly air my criticisms of an industry without experiencing it firsthand, would I?”
“Just as a side note, you’re the most infuriating person to have an argument with.”
He looked surprised. “We’re not having an argument. We’re discussing your immediate future in your chosen occupation.” He flipped through another couple of pages of the script and considered her shrewdly. “I suppose it’s only fair that you get the screen bug out of your system. This doesn’t seem like complete trash.”
“I do not have the screen—”
“Have you been offered the role or are you still auditioning?”
She hesitated. “I had—have,” she corrected hastily, “a callback for a third audition next week.”
“Had or have?”
“Have. I have another audition next week.”
She didn’t like the way he was looking at her.
“You’re faltering.”
“I am not. I’m just...” Lainie realised she was chewing on her thumbnail again and removed her hand with an exasperated sound. She sighed. “I have...reservations.”
“About the role? Don’t do it, then. Listen to your instincts.”
“Yes, well, my instincts are telling me it’s a great role, and I would be rubbish in it.”
His eyebrows went up. “You’re nervous.”
She set her chin mutinously.
“Get over it.” Richard was uncompromising. His eyes didn’t leave her face. “You wouldn’t get a callback if they didn’t think you had the right potential for the part. If you get it, and you want it, you do it well. And you believe you can do it well. There’s no room in this industry for self-sabotage. There are plenty of people who will claw you down at the first opportunity. If you let them, you shouldn’t be there. Time to look into teaching.”
Lainie was silent.
“You’re a competent actor. Grow a spine and act like it.”
“I seem to have downgraded from ‘talented.’” She looked at him. “You don’t believe in coddling, do you?”
“Do you need to be coddled?”
Sometimes. Particularly at certain time
s of the month. But not, apparently, when it came to her career. Sarah’s sympathy for her nerves, when they’d spoken about it on the phone, had made her feel even more uncertain. Richard’s dictatorial straight talk made her sit a little taller.
She looked from the script to his cool expression. “Thanks.”
“For the record, I still think you would be better off sticking to the stage.” He carefully returned the script to the coffee table. “And I think you’ve misinterpreted the character’s emotional response on the second page.”
His eyes went to her phone, also lying on the table. “Is that a relative?” he asked idly, looking at Hannah’s photo on her screen background.
Lainie’s gaze also went to the freckled smile. “That’s my little sister. Hannah.”
“Cute.”
“Yes, she was.”
He stopped moving. “Was?” he asked after an extended pause.
Lainie picked up the phone, wrapping her fingers around it. It was a protective gesture, as if she could physically hold her sister’s memory close, safeguarding it from any insensitive response.
“She died from cervical cancer.” She never whitewashed the circumstances; she wasn’t going to hedge about her sister’s life and death to avoid a conversational gaffe. “About eighteen months ago, when she was sixteen. She was one of the youngest reported cases.”
For at least thirty seconds, he said nothing at all. She knew; she was counting in her head. Stress tic. Eventually, and very, very gently, he reached over and took the phone from her resisting grip. He turned it over to look more closely at the photo.
“She looks like you,” he said, and Lainie smiled faintly.
“I always thought so. She didn’t.”
“It’s the eyes. Green as the sea and full of devils. She looks like a handful.”
“Are you implying, by any chance, that it runs in the family?”
“Would I be so uncivil?”
Her smile grew. “She was a handful. She was a moody, stroppy little piece of work with too many piercings and at least one tattoo Mum didn’t know about. She could get under my skin like no one else on earth.” Her eyes turned ironical on him. “At the time.” She added calmly, “And she was the relentless, pesky, foulmouthed light of my life.”
