Act Like It

by Lucy Parker

  “Hence the charity.” Richard’s face was unreadable. “You launched Shining Lights yourself?”

  “Not exactly. I made a general nuisance of myself in some very influential buildings to get a few balls rolling, but it’s a subject that unfortunately hits close to home for a lot of people. They came forward, a foundation was established and things have taken off from there. We have a great director. Albeit a slightly misguided one when it comes to organising a Fun Run during the coldest autumn in five years.” She took back her phone, rubbing her thumb over the screen.

  “It’s admirable.”

  “It isn’t, really.” Lainie touched the corners of Hannah’s smile. It had been so long since she’d seen that smile in the flesh. Far longer than eighteen months. “It was...self-preservation. I needed to do something. If I didn’t do something constructive, I would have done something destructive. I was so mad. So angry, and I just...itched for action.”

  She bit down hard on her lip. “In drama, you know, and on the screen, it’s all so...clean. The courageous patient, still smiling and joking on their deathbed. Going peacefully when the time comes. It’s not always like that. Not that Hannah wasn’t brave.” She clenched her hand. “She was always brave, even when she was a toddler. She tried to climb the tree outside our house in Clapham when she was three because she wanted to see the bird’s nest on the top branch. But she was angry. She was angry, and bitter, and terrified until the moment she died. And there was nothing to say. How can you possibly make it better? I knew what was going to happen, she knew what was going to happen and there was no way to stop it. And in the end, she’d be alone. I was holding her hand when it happened.”

  A different hand, a healthy, masculine hand, reached across and closed over hers.

  Slowly, her palm rotated and she curled her fingers around his. “She still had to go alone.”

  Richard was stroking her knuckles in slow circles, trying to relax the tension there. She could hear him breathing in the minutes that followed her outburst. The combination of the sound and the touch, both steady and rhythmic, helped bring her back to herself.

  She stirred, releasing his hand to self-consciously push back her hair. “Sorry. I didn’t realise that was still bottled up.” She managed a grim smile. “Apparently exercise has an unsettling effect on me. I knew there was a reason I avoid it.”

  “No. I’m sorry.” He said it very simply, very matter-of-factly. “I am very sorry, Lainie.”

  She studied him. “Yes. I can see that you are.” On impulse, and to their mutual surprise, she leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. Her lips nudged against his jaw, and the stubble there was rough and raspy.

  Richard caught her upper arm as she started to pull back. He held her there, poised above him, his eyes—shockingly blue, full of questions—searching hers. She steadied herself with a hand on his belly and could feel a pulse thrumming under the soft fibre of his shirt. He seemed to make up his mind on a silently debated issue, and acted with his usual swiftness once he’d come to a decision. Her startled gasp was lost inside his mouth when he moved his hand up to her head, tangling his fingers in her hair and bringing her face to his in a rough, open kiss.

  His other hand shaped the line of her shoulder and upper back, sliding down her rib cage to press firmly at the base of her spine. She gave under the pressure, her body coming down to rest half on top of his. Her leg jerked and she almost bumped her knee into an increasingly sensitive place, startling a muffled grunt from him. Without breaking contact with her mouth, he released her hair to grip her thigh, gently raising it and manoeuvring her leg across his lap. They both made tiny, urgent sounds of need at the new and intimate contact.

  Lainie stroked the sides of Richard’s neck, slid her fingers up to touch his earlobes. She cupped his jaw, feeling the muscles working beneath the warm skin, and attempted to angle the direction of his head. His kiss was both demanding and coaxing, playfully daring a response from her even as he took what he wanted.

  Her lashes were fluttering as she kissed him back, and she was acutely aware of the barrage of sensation. The fierce, silky friction of his tongue against hers. The shivering stroke of nerves as his fingers burrowed under her fleece jacket, tickling her hip and tummy, sliding upward to brush the side of her breast.

  A hint of sanity returned at that touch. Not because she was conflicted about a man touching her breasts. Her feelings were quite clear on the subject. Lovely in a sexual situation. Necessary evil during a medical exam. Sharp uppercut to the jaw in any other circumstances.

  But she was usually wearing a lace bra in a sexual situation. Or, at the very least, separate cups of cotton. Not a clammy sports bra that gave her an epic case of mono-boob. Her generous assets were currently squished and flattened into a veritable shelf. It was not a sight she wanted to expose to Richard. And she still needed a shower.

  And for God’s sake, she was making out with Richard Troy. In the privacy of her flat. Where there was not the slightest excuse of a lurking photographer, unless the paparazzo had Spider-Man abilities to scale a three-storey building with no handy trees or drainpipes.

  This would probably be a good time to remove her tongue from his mouth.

  She pulled her head away and watched his eyes open. They otherwise stayed where they were, staring at one another and breathing heavily. His chest and belly pushed up into hers with each inhalation. It was extremely difficult to keep her fingers away from his shirt buttons.

  When Richard spoke, his voice was a growly, sexy rumble. “Bad idea?”

  He was still tracing slow, sliding circles on her bare stomach. She placed her hand over his to still the movement. “I’m only guessing,” she said, “but I’d say disastrous.” She looked regretfully at the impressive body sprawled under hers. “I think this situation is messy enough already, don’t you?”

  “Sadly, the situation seems to have been aborted before it had a chance to get messy, but I take your point.” Richard lifted her off him completely, helping her to sit up. In the process, she made another accidental attempt to unman him with her kneecap. He dodged back out of harm’s way, the momentum carrying him all the way to a standing position. “Christ! You should come with some kind of warning label.”

  “Sorry.” She picked up her abandoned mug and took a fortifying gulp of lukewarm tea. Tea for shock: that was the idea, although she had always preferred wine after a stressful experience. She looked at the wall clock. Maybe not at half past eleven in the morning. Good Lord. She had almost seduced Richard on her couch, and it wasn’t even noon. This was the day for all kinds of personal firsts.

  “Could you stop knocking back cold tea like it’s straight bourbon?” Richard asked her testily. “It’s not the most flattering reaction to a kiss.”

  Was that what he considered a garden-variety kiss? Having a woman crawl all over him while he stuck his hands up her sweaty workout clothes? She didn’t want to know the answer, so she kept her snarky internal response to herself.

  Richard sighed and pushed a hand through his rumpled black curls. “Do we need to have the hackneyed ‘so sorry—big mistake—won’t happen again’ conversation, or may we just take it as read?”

  “No, I think that about covers it.” Lainie summoned an unamused smile. “We did promise Pat we’d practise being nicer to each other. I think we can check that one off for today.”

  “Indeed.”

  She pulled at her top, suddenly impatient to be clean and dressed, and back in control. “I should have a shower.”

  “Since I assume I’m not being invited to either observe or participate, I’ll accept my dismissal and push off.” Richard bent to pick up his keys from the coffee table and hesitated, playing with them in his hand. Briefly, his gaze moved past her to focus on the bookshelf. His eyes flickered, darkening, before he visibly pulled himself together. “Do you want a lift to work today?”

  “I can take the Tube.”

  “You have functional legs and there are coi
ns jingling in your pockets, so I expect you can. However, you don’t have to, as I’m offering a lift. Yes or no?”

  She didn’t want to be childish and silly about it. Lainie nodded. “Yes, okay. Thanks.”

  “Good. I’ll be outside at twenty to four. Don’t be late. Oh, and Tig?” Richard turned at the door. “Ten out of ten for effort, but the execution could do with some work.”

  She drew in a sharp breath, but before she could retort, he added innocently, “But then, you’ve never run a 5k before, have you?”

  Left alone in her lounge, listening to the echo of his footsteps, she reluctantly smiled.

  * * *

  Outside in the street, Richard stood motionless, his eyes fixed sightlessly on the crumbling stone fence. The rain had dwindled to a light drizzle, but the air bit icily into his skin. He exhaled a long, slow breath.

  Shit.

  A couple of young women approached, pushing covered prams. One of them glanced at him with passing curiosity, and he grimaced, angling his body away from view with a discreet movement. He should probably count himself lucky it was almost winter. Right now, he was reaping the benefits of bulky, concealing clothing and nature’s version of a cold shower.

  He could still feel Lainie’s soft skin under his fingers, the quivering of her stomach, the faint etching of stretch marks on the curve of her hip. Pale and perfect. Her breath had been warm against his neck, hitching when he touched her.

  As a teenager, he’d been covered with acne, angry at life, and stuck at an all-boys boarding school. He was no stranger to sexual frustration.

  It was more than that. He was...God, he was bonding with her.

  Feelings—warm, strong, nauseating feelings—were springing up all over the place, unfurling in his chest, his gut, his groin. Sinking in deep with their little hooks.

  Her obvious pain had reached out and grabbed him around the throat. He’d wanted her in his arms. Would have settled for holding her hand. Then she’d kissed him—on the cheek, for God’s sake—and just about shocked his brain out of his skull. If he actually got her into bed, he might not survive the night. He looked up at the dull, overcast sky. Or late morning, as the slightly embarrassing case may be.

  Bob’s half-cocked plan was proving unexpectedly dangerous.

  It had been a sour reality check, catching sight of Farmer’s complacent grin over her shoulder. The digital photo frame on her bookshelf had been innocent enough until then, passing through a series of holiday snaps. Offering intriguing insights into Lainie’s choice of swimwear. She did fairly spectacular things to a halter-neck.

  They had looked good together. Smiling and pretty, healthy and happy. For a feckless little shit who dipped his wick all over London, Farmer had looked pretty far gone. He wasn’t a good enough actor to fake it. Lainie’s chin had rested on his shoulder, her eyes laughing into the camera.

  He remembered, suddenly, interrupting a kiss in a back hallway on opening night. She had pulled free of Farmer, blushing. Richard had barely registered the scene, had felt nothing beyond fleeting contempt. Another of Farmer’s brainless, easy conquests. That was all he’d seen.

  He shook his head, a single, sharp movement, and left the narrow strip of lawn that functioned as a garden. Beeping the lock on the Maserati, he slid behind the wheel. He checked his watch. The panel beater was dropping off the Ferrari at one o’clock. His phone rang through the wireless system and he hit the answer button on the steering wheel.

  “Troy.”

  There was a burst of static, then a voice that sounded like someone doing a bad impression of the Prince of Wales. “Is it Mr. Richard Troy, the renowned actor, I’m speaking to?”

  No. It’s Helen of Troy, the mythical homewrecker. Richard curbed his impatience with difficulty. “It is, but it won’t be for much longer if you use that description again.”

  “Noted.” The speaker wasn’t flustered. “This is Anthony Sutcliffe from the London Arts Quarterly. We’re addressing the Grosvenor Initiative and its likely effects on cultural awareness, and I’d like to follow up on the views you expressed in your recent interview with Terry Gregson. Could we set up a time to meet? This week, for preference.”

  “I do have an assistant who handles my interview schedule.” With Lainie’s voice stuck maddeningly in his head, he tried to remain polite. “May I ask how you got my private number?”

  “I did contact your assistant, Mr. Troy, but I understand you prefer to personally handle questions concerning Sir Franklin.”

  Richard had been reaching for his iPad to bring up his calendar, but now sat back. “I don’t believe I discussed my father with Gregson.”

  “No.” Sutcliffe sounded amused. “It was very circumspect of him, wasn’t it? But I’m sure you’ll agree that your father’s legacy is relevant, to say the least. It’s clearly going to have an impact on your own political path, which is one of the things I’d like to talk about.”

  Sutcliffe was correct. His father’s...legacy, for lack of a better word, was relevant to the subject at hand, and it would certainly haunt his steps in any kind of political arena. Richard was prepared for that. He had to maintain a strong public presence, so simple avoidance wasn’t feasible; however, the right application of insipid, meaningless diplomacy would disappoint anyone hoping for dirt. He’d encountered Sutcliffe’s work in the past, and the man wasn’t a threat. His self-confidence outstripped his actual ability.

  He could—probably should—just agree to a meeting. The Arts Quarterly had a fairly minimal readership, but it was all useful networking. Unfortunately, the journalist had picked a bad time to make demands. He was in no mood to be cooperative.

  “No.”

  “I beg your pardon?” The tinge of complacent malice had disappeared from Sutcliffe’s voice. He was startled.

  “No.” Richard contemplated the terrace house again. The windows were shadowed, offering no glimpse of its inhabitants. “I don’t particularly want to discuss my father, his political viewpoint, or anything else with you. If necessary, you can paraphrase the Radio 4 interview. I believe I made my position quite clear.”

  “May I ask why you’re refusing?”

  Journalists. They were like dogs at dinnertime—always hopeful of falling scraps.

  He considered. “No. You may not. Enjoy the rest of your day.”

  It wasn’t until he was stalled in busy Park Lane traffic that he let his mind release from its frozen trap. The hinges tended to slam shut at any drift into parental territory.

  It was incredibly irritating that he was such a textbook cliché of dysfunctional wealth.

  They were memories. Ephemeral. Powerless.

  As he drove home, the scent of Lainie—perfume, sugar and temptation—seemed to linger in the air.

  Chapter Six

  London Celebrity @LondonCelebrity. 3h

  The curtain goes up; the actress goes down. Elaine Graham’s dramatic collapse at the Metronome caught on camera...ow.ly/QT4Qh

  Lainie entirely blamed the rain-splattered Fun Run. She never exercised, and she never got sick. Then she ran a 5k and had to take to her bed like an ailing spinster. Coincidence? She thought not.

  It began innocently enough with a mild headache before the evening show. Fortunately, Meghan’s handbag contained enough pills and potions to stock a small pharmacy, and Lainie was able to pinch a couple of ibuprofen tablets. The stash also included a jumbo-sized box of condoms. Meghan’s usual workday must be a lot more exciting than her own.

  Instead of improving after the medication, the nagging ache in her temples became a full marching band of drummers by the second act.

  Will had picked a bad night to behave like a complete tosser.

  Things seemed slightly off from the first line of the opening scene. Lainie was jumpy and fidgety, and for the first time ever, the adrenaline rush didn’t wear off after the curtain had risen. She continued to be hyper-aware of her senses: the dust motes dancing in the beams of stage lighting, the swishing silk o
f her skirts, the smell of paint and turpentine from the backdrop touch-ups that afternoon.

  Will was even worse. He was speaking too loudly, moving a little too deliberately, and he’d turned handsy. Every time they had a scene together, he was right up in her face and touching her as much as possible.

  The unacknowledged catalyst for all of the upheaval was Richard. Richard, and herself, and the odd new vibe between them. To give him his due, he wasn’t really doing anything to be provocative. His performance was a lot more consistent than hers or Will’s. But the episode on the couch that morning seemed to have crashed through an invisible barrier. The tension between them was humming. It was as if there was an electric wire that connected her gaze to his, and when their eyes met—sparks.

  Bob, in a hurried word at intermission, congratulated her on putting up a good show of chemistry. “But maybe tone it down a notch during performances. You’re supposed to be passionately in love with Geoffrey at the moment, not eyeing up Bandero’s codpiece.”

  Margaret was even more blunt: “You are aware that the entire audience is waiting for the plot twist where you boot Will off the stage and fall on Richard like a rampaging tiger?”

  If the theory of Lainie and Richard as a couple had bothered Will, the visual evidence of their attraction was proving too much for him. He had never played his antagonism toward Richard’s character with such convincing fervour. Richard, in his turn, was slowly being driven to react. There was a subtle edge to his voice as he spoke his lines, and that small show of disquiet was so unusual for him that Lainie was taken aback.

  The crowning misfortune was that Richard’s character was present onstage when she threw herself at Will for their love scene. Her own character, Julietta, was defiant and uncaring of an audience to her passion. Lainie did not share her nonchalance. She had always felt awkward kissing Will within five feet of Richard, even when the latter had been a more distant thorn in her side. The audience was at least separated from the action by a certain amount of physical distance and the metaphorical fourth wall. It gave an illusion of privacy under the hot lights.