by Lucy Parker
“Sorry.” The word was a sigh.
“It grows on you.”
“What happened to Will?” she asked, a faint frown tugging at her brows. “Did he drown?”
There was a long pause. “Not unless he took a very circuitous route home via the Thames.” And, with an edge, “Do you want him?”
She moved her head fractionally on the pillow. It hurt too much to shake. He shifted, and she quickly moved her hand. Gripped a knee. “Don’t go.”
A feather-soft kiss on the tip of her nose, so lightly that it might have been part of the dream. “I’m not. Not yet.”
“‘S it late?”
“Almost midnight.”
“Tired.”
“Sleep, then.” Another light touch on her cheek.
“No. You. Tired.”
“I’m all right. I’m a hardy soul. Unlike those wee weaklings who go to pieces after one workout.”
“It was raining.”
She heard his muffled laugh.
“Play,” she muttered. Worry was niggling at her, but she couldn’t quite...
“Certainly, if you think you’re up to it. I vote for strip poker.”
Her body temperature was still at a level where humour didn’t resonate. “No,” she managed crossly. “Play.”
“Is surviving without you, although only just. Your understudy is rubbish.” He rubbed her fingers. “Don’t worry about it yet. The theatre-going public are still getting their night out and their box of Smarties, and Farmer is leaving the stage in one piece on a regular basis.”
“Don’t hurt him,” she said sleepily. She arched her back against the mattress, impatient with the persistent ache in her joints.
He slid a hand beneath her hips, gently kneading up her spine, and she made a soft sound of relief.
“Don’t moan like that,” he ordered with a husky half laugh. His face was close to hers; she could feel the tickle of his hair against her ear. “It gives me ideas, and the timing is inappropriate.”
“Sicko.” She smiled again without opening her eyes.
“Yes, you are. Hence my hesitation.” His breath fanned her ear as he spoke. “You seem awfully concerned about Farmer there, Tig.” He nudged her cheek with his nose. “You’re obviously delirious in your weakened state. Repeat after me: I have no interest in Will Farmer.”
“No interest,” Lainie murmured obediently, and Richard carefully tucked a piece of hair behind her ear.
“He’s an ugly bastard who doesn’t have a quarter of Richard’s talent.”
“Richard...no talent...”
“We’ll work on the deplorable ad-libbing when you’re better.”
* * *
Four days after her mortifying collapse, Lainie woke in the evening with a clear head. Her aches had dulled and her stomach had settled, and she felt almost like a rational human being again.
Her mother looked up from the armchair at the foot of the bed and smiled. “Feeling a bit better? You’ve lost that dazed look and your colour is better.” She put down her iPad and studied her daughter approvingly. “Yes, definite improvement. You look mildly hungover, which is at least five steps up from yesterday’s corpse.”
Lainie ran her hand over her midriff, grimacing at the clammy feel of her top. “Always supportive, Mum, thanks.” She looked around the bedroom. Despite the endless parade of sweating, tossing, turning and vomiting, it looked cleaner than usual. “Did you vacuum in here while I was out of it?”
“I also dusted, and I rearranged your wardrobe. Trousers at the left end, dresses at the right. This is a very small flat, Lainie.”
“Meaning there was nothing else to do?”
“Meaning it wouldn’t kill you to clean more often.”
“I do clean. On Sundays.” Not every Sunday, but most...well, some.
Rachel propped up the pillows behind Lainie’s shoulders and helped her to sit up. “Do you think you can manage something to eat? I haven’t been able to get more than a cup of instant soup down you the last few days. You won’t have the energy to walk to the loo soon. What about some toast? A boiled egg?”
It had been a long time since her mother had brought her a sickbed tray. Lainie thought back to her school days. “Marmite toast?” she suggested, weighing the suggestion against any lingering nausea. It sounded quite tasty. She must be on the mend.
“Marmite toast it is. I’ll bring you a cup of tea.”
“You’re a goddess among women.”
She was shattered after eating the toast and standing up for a proper shower, but the joy of clean hair was worth the wobbly legs. Lainie lay back against a mound of pillows and carefully combed through the long, wet strands.
“What time is it?”
Her mum looked up from her book. “Almost ten o’clock.” Correctly interpreting the reason for the question, she added, “The show will be over soon.”
“I’ve missed three performances,” she realised, dismayed, and her mother shrugged.
“It was hardly avoidable, darling. You couldn’t even sit up without assistance. I’d say you’re going to miss at least two more while we build your strength back up. You couldn’t possibly make it through three hours onstage like this.”
“They’ll probably revert me to the understudy.”
“Nonsense. Don’t let the post-flu blues take over. You’ll be back to work by the weekend. Put that phone down.”
Lainie didn’t look up from her dialling. “I’m just checking my voice mail.” As she listened to the automated voice, she asked, trying to make the question casual and failing, “Has Richard really been here every day?”
The fake indifference didn’t fool her mother. Rachel looked amused, and more than a little speculative. “He’s not too good at taking no for an answer, is he? Yes, he’s been here every day. Every morning without fail, usually before I was dressed, and each night after the show. I imagine we can expect his charming company shortly.”
Lainie hit the button to listen to her messages and cast her mother a quick, concerned glance. “He hasn’t been rude to you, has he?”
Rachel considered. “No. Not rude. Fairly abrupt, but I gather that’s a personality quirk and not a cause for personal offence. And I think any curtness stemmed from concern about you. He’s looked almost as bad as you have, my sweet. The stubble grows more alarming with each passing day. I assume he doesn’t have to shave for his role.”
“No, they actually add more hair,” Lainie said, deleting a message from Bob. He was definitely not a priority call right now. She traced the pattern on the bedcovers. “Has he been worried?”
She could remember snatches of conversation. Gloriously strong hands. Whispers of kisses. Comfort.
“In his very stoic, sarcastic manner, darling,” Rachel said lightly, “I’d say that was an understatement.” She tilted her head. “Do you know, despite his unfortunate manner, I think you might have done all right there. He’s a step up on Will, who unsurprisingly has been a bloody nuisance.”
Lainie made a face and deleted another unimportant message. “He’s only hovering again because of Richard. He can’t stand him.”
Rachel snorted. “The feeling is clearly mutual. I thought about baby-proofing the room when they were here together. No sharp or heavy objects in easy reach.” Her narrowed eyes were mischievous. “I had thought you shared Will’s dislike.”
The flush that crept into Lainie’s cheeks had nothing to do with fever. She avoided her mother’s amused gaze. “I...it’s complicated.”
“You’re not updating your relationship status on Facebook. I don’t think it’s at all complicated. Unless you go around kissing and cuddling all of your castmates, in which case we need to have a word about priorities. And I don’t recall you muttering anyone else’s name in your delirium.”
“Mum.” Lainie’s face was burning now. She started to reply, but broke off when she heard her agent’s voice. “Message from Carey. Shit. I should have let her know I’ve been sick.”
“Richard rang her.”
Lainie’s head shot up. “Richard rang her?”
“Eye on the ball, that one.”
She wasn’t sure how she felt about that, but Carey’s three-day-old message wasn’t going to pause to let her reflect. She listened, and her hand stilled on the blankets. When Carey’s clipped, businesslike tones came to a halt and she had ended the call with a brief, “I hope you’re feeling better soon,” Lainie glanced at her watch and then tapped the screen to bring up her agent’s number. She followed Carey on Twitter, so she knew she was regularly awake and still working at this time.
“Problem?” Rachel asked, watching her daughter’s impatient fidgeting.
“It’s that period drama I auditioned for,” Lainie told her, putting her finger over the receiver hole in case Carey picked up while she was speaking. “The adaptation of Mollie Blair’s Somerset County. The casting director bumped up the callbacks to this week. They wanted me to come in yesterday.”
“Oh, dear. Can you reschedule?”
“I hope so. I—hi, Carey, it’s Lainie...Yes, just starting to improve, thanks. Look, I just got your message about the Somerset County audition, and...Oh. Is there any chance of rescheduling? I think that...Yes. Yes, I know...I see...Yeah. It is unfortunate.” Lainie scrunched up her face, and Rachel made a sympathetic grimace in response. “Okay...Yes, might as well have a look at it. You never know...Okay, thanks, Carey. Talk to you in a couple of days.”
She ended the call and stared down at the phone. “Crap.”
“No joy, obviously.”
“No. Apparently the producer has a one-shot policy. Show up at your allotted time, or don’t show up at all.”
“I’m sorry, darling.”
Lainie set her phone aside and leaned back against her pillows. She felt completely drained of both energy and enthusiasm. “Me too. I really wanted that role. Even after all my back-and-forth about it.” She sighed. “I confessed my little confidence crisis to Richard.”
“Oh? And what words of wisdom did he offer?”
“He told me to grow a spine and get over it.”
That startled a laugh from Rachel. “He doesn’t beat about the bush, does he?”
“He bulldozes right over the bush.” Lainie hesitated. “I told him about Hannah too.”
“Did you, darling?” Her mother’s smile was a little wobbly. “Good. I’m glad you talk about her. I hope he was sensitive about it.”
Lainie’s eyes were unfocused as she thought about the past—both last year and far more recently. “Yeah. He actually was.”
Rachel nodded, and Lainie put her hand over her mother’s and held it for a moment. Hannah had been her parents’ miraculous late-in-life baby, born ten years after their elder daughter, twenty years after their sons. At the funeral, their dad had called her an unexpected gift, a child they had been blessed to receive and to keep for as long as they had. It was one of the few fragments of speech she could remember from that day, which had passed in an unreal blur. Even when a death was inevitable, when there was theoretically time to mentally prepare, it still...stunned in its reality. She couldn’t imagine what it was like trying to adjust in the case of an accident, when life changed—and vanished—in a split second of tragedy.
“She would be so chuffed about everything you’ve been doing.” Rachel smiled at her. “Not just the charitable work, which, let’s face it, would just bring on more groans about Saint Lainie—” Lainie rolled her eyes “—but all your career success. It would have made her year to read about her big sister in the tabloids. Endless mockery would have ensued.”
“I know. I thought about that on the opening night of the show. That she wasn’t there.”
“Who knows? Maybe she was watching,” Rachel said, and then paused. She made a face. “Or maybe not. Jacobean drama—not really her thing. She was more likely enjoying a free screening of the latest Channing Tatum film.”
Lainie laughed. “She wouldn’t have been all that psyched about a period drama either. She thought the only good thing about my going into drama was that I might eventually be able to introduce her to Zac Efron. Oh, well.” She tapped her phone. “Maybe I would get a few more cool points for a romantic comedy. Carey is sending over a script for an independent film. Onwards and upwards.”
Despite her blithe words, she was still disappointed over the missed audition, and couldn’t hide her glum mood from Richard when he arrived from the theatre.
He stopped in her doorway when he saw her sitting up in bed—and not reaching for a bucket or visibly sweating, which made a nice change. A certain tension seemed to leave his shoulders as he surveyed her. “It moves. It’s alive,” he said drolly, in a very laconic Frankenstein impression.
“Confirmation that comedy isn’t your forte.” Lainie suddenly felt ridiculously shy. She yanked the bedcovers up past the neckline of her skimpy vest top, and he followed the defensive gesture with a quizzical brow. “How was the show?”
“Trying. I’m underpaid, and your stand-in is dire.” He hitched his perfectly creased trousers and sat down on the end of her bed. “And your ex-lover is a blithering idiot.” His sardonic eyes sharpened. “What’s the matter with you?”
“I’m recently recovered from the plague. Pardon me for not looking my best.”
“You look fine. Shampooed and combed is a good look for you. What’s wrong?”
“Why would anything be wrong?” she hedged.
“I have no idea. That’s why I’m asking,” he said impatiently. “I can tell by your face. You must be an absolute liability in a poker game.”
“It’s nothing.” Lainie pulled hard at a loose thread. “Just a job thing.”
“Yes?”
“The audition for Somerset County was brought forward to yesterday, and obviously I missed it as I had my head in the loo at the time. Apparently the producer is not big on second chances.”
“You spoke to Carey?”
“Yes. Nothing doing.”
“Who’s producing?”
She told him, and he nodded. “I’ve worked with him before. Fairly superhuman expectations of his cast and crew, and no patience with delays. He would have very little time for an actor who succumbed to illness anywhere near his set.”
“Swell.” Lainie reflected that they must have got on quite well together, being equally intolerant of normal human failings. She didn’t say so aloud. Richard had actually been very—shockingly—patient with her during the past few days.
Typically dismissive of an unfortunate circumstance that couldn’t be altered, Richard shrugged. “You can concentrate on your stage career.”
“Yes,” she said, deciding not to mention the possible rom-com yet. She could imagine his opinion of that, and it would be short, aggravating and mostly comprised of four-letter words.
He was studying her with a slight frown. “But you wanted it.”
“Yes.” She moved irritably. He was probably about two seconds from pulling out a sarcastic violin. A little mood music for her pity party. “Never mind. It is what it is.”
“How philosophical of you.” He looked preoccupied.
She tried to lighten the topic. “I suppose my new horizontal take on the traditional bow made a few headlines.”
Richard seemed to make an effort to focus his attention on her. “I expect the charmer who filmed the whole thing on his camera phone can afford an upgrade to a better model this week. By the way, your dear friend Greta French whispered to her live audience about your mysterious long-standing disease. She fears your public collapse is a sign the end is nigh.”
Lainie tried to be outraged, but her sense of humour got the better of her. She saw Richard’s mouth twitch, and gave into a giggle.
He smothered a yawn, and she shook her head. “I realise it would be beneath your dignity to confess that you’re knackered, but you need to get to bed. You look like you haven’t slept for a week.”
“Feels like it too,” he surprised her
by admitting. He rolled his neck in a slow stretch and sighed. “Yeah. Bed. I’ll get on that.” One eye opened. “I assume I’m still not being invited to get on yours?”
“You are, as usual, correct.” Lainie reached out and rubbed his stubbly jaw. “And, for God’s sake, shave. My neighbours will think you’re a drug dealer. My professional reputation has been embarrassed enough for one week.”
Richard nudged aside her hand and stood up, groaning when a joint cracked in his knee. “Our fake relationship is prematurely aging me.” He leaned over the bed, his face hovering inches from her nose.
“Can I help you?” she asked politely, and shivered when their breath mingled.
He eyed her mouth. “I’m considering whether it would be worth the risk of infection.”
“I think that ship has sailed. You’ve been rubbing up against my germs for days.”
“Well, in that case...”
His lips parted hers, warm and firm, his hand supporting the back of her head.
“Well?” she managed huskily when he pulled away a fraction. Her fingers were knotted in the collar of his shirt.
He looked down at her. “Results inconclusive, pending further investigation.”
His mouth returned to hers, and she made a slight sound that might have meant anything. Protest. Need. Gratification. Doubt.
With her forehead leaning against his, she drew in a shaky breath. “Still just...rehearsal, yes?”
“Mmm.” He nipped at the bow of her upper lip. His eyes were at lazy half-mast, a glittering glimpse of blue. “‘Merely corroborative detail, intended to give artistic verisimilitude to an otherwise bald and unconvincing narrative,’” he murmured in agreement, à la The Mikado.
“I love it when you talk musical theatre to me.”
Chapter Seven
London Celebrity @LondonCelebrity. now
We’re live-Tweeting tonight from the red carpet of the National Theatre Awards. Follow along for the best—and worst—dressed!
“Smile,” Will said warningly in her ear, as he followed his own advice. A trio of camera flashes went off, and a misguided young woman behind the crowd barrier proclaimed her love for him. He raised a lazy hand and waved to the cluster of predominantly female spectators. Silly screaming ensued. Will’s star had risen recently after a series of guest appearances in a popular American drama. His hand tightened on Lainie’s waist when she tried to step away. “People will think we aren’t such good friends after all.”
