London Celebrity @LondonCelebrity. 10h
West End actor Richard Troy throws scene (and a plate) at the Ivy...goo.gl/Pr2Hax
Almost every night, between nine and ten past, Lainie Graham passionately kissed her ex-boyfriend. She was then gruesomely dead by ten o’clock, stabbed through the neck by a jealous rival. If she was scheduled to perform in the weekend matinee, that was a minimum of six uncomfortable kisses a week. More, if the director called an extra rehearsal or the alternate actor was ill. Or if Will was being a prat backstage and she was slow to duck.
It was an odd situation, being paid to publicly snog the man who, offstage, had discarded her like a stray sock. From the perspective of a broken relationship, the theatre came up trumps in the awkward stakes. A television or film actor might have to make stage love to someone they despised, but they didn’t have to play the same scene on repeat for an eight-month run.
From her position in the wings, Lainie watched Will and Chloe Wayne run through the penultimate scene. Chloe was practically vibrating with sexual tension, which wasn’t so much in character as it was her default setting. Will was breathing in the wrong places during his monologue; it was throwing off his pacing. She waited, and—
“Farmer!” boomed the director from his seat in the front row. Alexander Bennett’s balding head was gleaming with sweat under the houselights. He’d been lounging in his chair but now dropped any pretence of indifference, jerking forward to glare at the stage. “You’re blocking a scene, not swimming the bloody breaststroke. Stop bobbing your head about and breathe through your damn nose.”
A familiar sulky expression transformed Will’s even features. He looked like a spoilt, genetically blessed schoolboy. He was professional enough to smooth out the instinctive scowl and resume his speech, but with an air of resentment that didn’t improve his performance. This was the moment of triumph for his character and right now the conquering knight sounded as if he would rather put down his sword and go for a pint.
Will had been off his game since the previous night, when he’d flubbed a line in the opening act. He was a gifted actor. An unfaithful toerag, but a talented actor. He rarely made mistakes—and could cover them better than most—but from the moment he’d stumbled over his cue, the additional rehearsal had been inevitable. Bennett sought perfection in every arena of his life, which was why he was on to his fifth marriage and all the principals had been dragged out of bed on their morning off.
Most of the principals, Lainie amended silently. Their brooding Byron had, as usual, done as he pleased. Bennett had looked almost apoplectic when Richard Troy had sauntered in twenty minutes late, so that explosion was still coming. If possible, he preferred to roar in his private office, where his Tony Award was prominently displayed on the desk. It was a sort of visual aid on the journey from stripped ego to abject apology.
Although a repentant Richard Troy was about as likely as a winged pig, and he could match Bennett’s prized trophy and raise him two more.
Onstage, Chloe collapsed into a graceful swoon, which was Richard’s cue for the final act. He pushed off the wall on the opposite side of the wings and flicked an invisible speck from his spotless shirt. Then he entered from stage left and whisked the spotlight from Will and Chloe with insulting ease, taking control of the scene with barely a twitch of his eyelid.
Four months into the run of The Cavalier’s Tribute, it was still an undeniable privilege to watch him act.
Unfortunately, Richard’s stage charisma was comparable to the interior of the historic Metronome Theatre. At night, under the houselights, the Metronome was pure magic, a charged atmosphere of class and old-world glamour. In the unforgiving light of day, it looked tired and a bit sordid, like an aging diva caught without her war paint and glitter.
And when the curtain came down and the skin of the character was shed, Richard Troy was an intolerable prick.
Will was halfway through the most long-winded of his speeches. It was Lainie’s least favourite moment in an otherwise excellent play. Will’s character, theoretically the protagonist, became momentarily far less sympathetic than Richard’s undeniable villain. She still couldn’t tell if it was an intentional ambiguity on the part of the playwright, perhaps a reflection that humanity is never cast in shades of black and white, or if it was just poor writing. The critic in the Guardian had thought the latter.
Richard was taunting Will now, baiting him with both words and snide glances, and looking as if he was enjoying himself a little too much. Will drew himself up, and his face took on an expression of intense self-righteousness.
Lainie winced. It was, down to the half sneer, the exact same face he made in bed.
She really wished she didn’t know that.
“Ever worry it’s going to create some sort of cosmic imbalance?” asked a voice at her elbow, and she turned to smile at Meghan Hanley, her dresser. “Having both of them in one building? If you toss in most of the management, I think we may be exceeding the recommended bastard quota.” Meghan raised a silvery eyebrow as she watched the denouement of the play. “They both have swords, and neither of them takes the opportunity for a quick jab. What a waste.”
“Please. A pair of blind, arthritic nuns would do better in a swordfight. Richard has probably never charged anything heavier than a credit card, and Will has the hand-eye coordination of an earthworm.”
She was admittedly still a little bitter. Although not in the least heartbroken. Only a very silly schoolgirl would consider Will Farmer to be the love of her life, and that delusion would only last until she’d actually met him. But Lainie had not relished being dumped by the trashiest section of London Celebrity. The tabloid had taken great pleasure in informing her, and the rest of the rag-reading world, that Will was now seeing the estranged wife of a footballer—who in turn had been cheated on by her husband with a former Big Brother contestant. It was an endless sordid cycle.
The article had helpfully included a paparazzi shot of her from about three months ago, when she’d left the theatre and been caught midsneeze. Farmer’s costar and ousted lover Elaine Graham dissolves into angry tears outside the Metronome.
Brilliant.
The journo, to use the term loosely, had also complimented her on retaining her appetite in the face of such humiliation—insert shot of her eating chips at Glastonbury—with a cunning little system of arrows to indicate a possible baby bump.
Her dad had phoned her, offering to deliver Will’s balls on a platter.
Margaret Ward, the assistant stage manager, paused to join the unofficial critics’ circle. She pushed back her ponytail with a paint-splattered hand and watched Richard. His voice was pure, plummy Eton and Oxford—not so much as a stumbled syllable in his case. Will looked sour.
Richard drew his sword, striding forward to stand under the false proscenium. Margaret glanced up at the wooden arch. “Do you ever wish it would just accidentally drop on his head?”
Yes.
“He hasn’t quite driven me to homicidal impulses yet.” Lainie recalled the Tuesday night performance, when she’d bumped into Richard outside his dressing room. She had apologised. He had made a misogynistic remark at a volume totally out of proportion to a minor elbow jostle.
The media constantly speculated as to why he was still single. Mind-boggling.
“Yet,” she repeated grimly.
“By the way,” Margaret said, as she glanced at her clipboard and flagged a lighting change, “Bob wants to see you in his office in about ten minutes.”
Lainie turned in surprise. “Bob does? Why?”
Her mind instantly went into panic mode, flicking back over the past week. With the exception of touching His Majesty’s sacred arm for about two seconds—and she wouldn’t put it past Richard to lay a complaint about that—she couldn’t think of any reason for a summons to the stage manager’s office. As a rule, Robert Carson viewed his actors as so many figureheads. They were useful for pulling out at cocktail parties and generating social media buzz, but operated beneath his general notice unless they did something wrong. Bob preferred to concentrate on the bottom line, and the bottom line in question was located at the end of his bank statement.
Margaret shrugged. “He didn’t say. He’s been in a bad mood all day, though,” she warned, and Lainie sighed.
“I could have been in bed right now,” she mused wistfully. “With a cream cheese bagel and a completely trashy book. Bloody Will.”
On the flip side, she could also still have been in bed with Will, enjoying the taste of his morning breath and a lecture on her questionable tastes in literature. From the man who still thought To Kill a Mockingbird was a nonfiction guide for the huntin’, shootin’ and fishin’ set.
Life could really only improve.
On that cheering thought, she made her way out of the wings and backstage into the rabbit’s warren of tunnelling hallways that led to the staff offices. The floors and walls creaked as she went, as if the theatre were quietly grumbling under its breath. Despite the occasional sticking door handle and an insidious smell of damp, she liked the decrepit old lady. The Metronome was one of the oldest theatres in the West End. They might not have decent seating and fancy automated loos, but they had history. Legendary actors had walked these halls.
“And Edmund Kean probably thought the place was an absolute dump as well,” had been Meghan’s opinion on that subject.
Historical opinion was divided on the original seventeenth-century use of the Metronome. Debate raged in textbooks as to whether it had been a parliamentary annex or a high-class brothel. Lainie couldn’t see that it really mattered. It would likely have been frequented by the same men in either instance.
Personally, she voted for the brothel. It would add a bit of spice to the inevitable haunting rumours. Much more interesting to have a randy ghost who had succumbed midcoitus than an overworked civil servant who had died of boredom midpaperwork.
Aware that Bob’s idea of “in ten minutes” could be loosely translated as “right now,” she headed straight for his office, which was one of the few rooms at the front of the theatre and had a view looking out over the busy road. Her memories of the room were associated with foot shuffling, mild sweating and a fervent wish to be outside amid an anonymous throng of shoppers and tourists heading for Oxford Street.
“Enter,” called a voice at her knock, and she took the opportunity to roll her eyes before she opened the door.
Her most convincing fake smile was firmly in place by the time she walked inside, but it faltered when she saw the two women standing with Bob.
“Good. Elaine,” Bob said briskly. He was wearing his usual incorrectly buttoned shirt. Every day it was a different button. Same shirt, apparently, but different button. He had to be doing it on purpose. “You remember Lynette Stern and Patricia Bligh.”
Naturally, Lainie remembered Lynette and Pat. She saw them every week, usually from a safe distance. An uneasy prickling sensation was beginning to uncurl at the base of her neck. She greeted Pat with a mild unconcern she didn’t feel, and returned Lynette’s nod. She couldn’t imagine why the tall sharp-nosed blonde was here for this obviously less-than-impromptu meeting. She would have thought her more likely to be passed out in a mental health spa. Or just sobbing in a remote corner. Lynette Stern was Richard Troy’s agent, and she had Lainie’s sincere sympathies. Every time she saw the woman, there was a new line on her forehead.
It was Pat Bligh’s presence that gave Lainie serious pause. Pat was the Metronome’s PR manager. She ruled over their collective public image with an iron hand and very little sense of humour. And woe betide anyone who was trending for unfortunate reasons on Twitter.
What the hell had she done?
She was biting on her thumbnail. It was a habit she had successfully kicked at school, and she forced herself to stop now, clasping her hands tightly together. She had been in a running panic this morning to get to the Tube on time, and now she wished she’d taken time to check her Google alerts.
Nude photos? Not unless someone had wired her shower. Even as an infant, she had disliked being naked. She usually broke speed records in changing her clothes.
She blanched. Unless Will had taken...
In which case she was going to hit the stage and make short work of borrowing Richard’s sword, and Will was going to find himself minus two of his favourite accessories.
“Sit down, Elaine,” Bob said, his expression unreadable. Reluctantly, she obeyed the order—Bob didn’t do invitations—and chose the most uncomfortable chair in the room, as if in a preemptive admittance of guilt.
Get a grip.
“I’ll come right to the point.” Bob sat on the edge of the wide mahogany desk and gestured the other women to sit down with an impatient wiggle of his index finger. Reaching for the iPad on his blotter, he flipped it open and keyed in the password. “I presume you’ve seen this.”
He held the iPad in front of Lainie’s face and she blinked, trying to bring the screen into focus. She could feel the heavy pulse of her heartbeat, but dread dwindled into confusion when she saw the news item. London Celebrity had struck again, but she wasn’t the latest offering for the sacrificial pit after all.
It appeared that Richard had dined out last night. The fact that he’d entered into a shouting match with a notable chef and decided to launch a full-scale offensive on the tableware seemed about right. She took a closer look at the lead photograph. Of course his paparazzi shots were that flattering. No piggy-looking eyes and double chins for Richard Troy. He probably didn’t have a bad angle.
God, he was irritating.
She shrugged, and three sets of pursed lips tightened. “Well,” she said hastily, trying to recover her ground, “it’s unfortunate, but...”
“But Richard does this kind of shit all the time,” was probably not the answer they were looking for.
And what exactly did this have to do with her? Surely they weren’t expecting her to cough up for his damages bill. The spoon in baby Richard Troy’s mouth had been diamond-encrusted platinum. He was old family money, a millionaire multiple times over. He could pay for his own damn broken Meissen. If he had a propensity for throwing public temper tantrums and hurling objects about the room, his management team should have restricted him to eating at McDonald’s. There was only so much damage he could do with paper wrappers and plastic forks.
“It’s getting to be more than unfortunate,” Lynette said, in such an ominous tone that Lainie decided to keep her opinions to herself on that score.
Pat at last broke her simmering silence. “There have been eight separate incidents in this month alone.” Three strands of blond hair had come loose from her exquisitely arranged chignon. For most women, that would be a barely noticeable dishevelment. Lainie’s own hair tended to collapse with a resigned sigh the moment she turned away from the mirror. For Pat, three unpinned locks was a shocking state of disarray. “It’s only the second week of October.”
Lainie thought that even Richard should fear that particular tone of voice from this woman. She flinched on his behalf.
“Any publicity is good publicity. Isn’t that the idea?” She glanced warily from one mutinous face to the next. It was an identical expression, replicated thrice over. A sort of incredulous outrage, as if the whole class were being punished for the sins of one naughty child.
Apt, really. If one considered the personalities involved.
“To a point.” Bob’s nostrils flared. She couldn’t help noticing that a trim wouldn’t go astray there. “Which Troy has now exceeded.” He gave her a filthy look that suggested she was personally responsible for Richard’s behaviour. God forbid.
“Men in particular,” he went on, stating the loathsome truth, “are given a fair amount of leeway in the public eye. A certain reputation for devilry, a habit of thumbing one’s nose at the establishment, sowing one’s wild oats...” He paused, looking hard at her, and Lainie hoped that her facial expression read “listening.” As opposed to “nauseated.” He sounded like a 1950s summary of the ideal man’s man. Which had been despicably sexist sixty years ago and had not improved since.
“However,” Bob continued, and the word came down like a sledgehammer, “there is a line at which a likable bad boy becomes a nasty entitled bastard whom the public would rather see hung out to dry in the street than pay to watch prance about a stage in his bloomers. And when somebody starts abusing their fans, making an absolute arse of themselves in public places, and alienating the people who paid for their bloody Ferrari, they may consider that line crossed.”
Lainie wondered if an actual “Hallelujah” chorus had appeared in the doorway, or if it was just the sound of her own glee.
She still had no idea why she was the privileged audience to this character assassination, but she warmly appreciated it. Surely, though, they weren’t...
“Are you firing him?” Her voice squeaked as if she had uttered the most outrageous profanity. Voiced the great unspoken. The mere suggestion of firing Richard Troy was the theatrical equivalent of hollering “Voldemort!” in the halls of Hogwarts. He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Missed.
Still...
She wondered if it would be mean-spirited to cross her fingers.
Bob’s return look was disappointingly exasperated. “Of course we’re not firing him. It would cost an absolute bloody fortune to break his contract.”
“And I suggest you don’t attempt it.” Lynette sounded steely.
“Besides,” Bob said grudgingly, “nobody is denying that he’s a decent actor, when he confines his histrionics to the script.”
That was a typical Bob-ism. Pure understatement. Richard Troy had made the cover of Time magazine the previous year. The extravagantly handsome headshot had been accompanied by an article lauding him as a talent surpassing Olivier, and only two critics had been appalled.
“And if he conducted his outbursts with a bit of discretion,” Bob said, as if they were discussing a string of irregular liaisons, “then we wouldn’t be having this discussion. But Troy’s deplorable public image is beginning to affect ticket sales. The management is not pleased.”
Lainie couldn’t match his awe of a bunch of walking wallets in suits, but she echoed the general feeling of dismay. If the management weren’t pleased, Bob would make everyone else’s life an utter misery until their mood improved.
“I’m not sure what this has to do with me,” she said warily.
“If ticket sales are down, it’s everybody’s problem,” Lynette said pompously, and Pat looked at her impatiently.
“We need some good publicity for Richard.” She folded her arms and subjected Lainie to an intense scrutiny, which wavered into scepticism. “The general consensus is so overwhelmingly negative that he’s in danger of falling victim to a hate campaign in the press. People might flock to see a subject of scandal, but they won’t fork over hard-earned cash to watch someone they wholeheartedly despise. Not in this competitive market. At least not since it became socially unacceptable to heave rotten vegetables at the stage,” she added with a brief, taut smile.
Lainie allowed herself three seconds to fantasize about that.
“How badly have sales dropped?” she asked, wondering if she ought to be contacting her agent. She had a third audition lined up for a period drama that was due to begin shooting early next year, but if there was a chance the play might actually fold...
An internationally acclaimed West End production, brought down by Richard Troy’s foot-stamping sulks. Unbelievable.
“We’re down fourteen percent on last month,” Bob said, and she bit her lip. “We’re not going bust.” He sounded a bit put out at having to lessen his grievance. “It would take a pipe bomb as well as Richard’s presence onstage before there was any real threat of that. But we’ve had to paper the house four nights running this month, and we opened to a six-week waiting list. This play has another four months to run, and we want to end on a high. Not in a damp fizzle of insulted fans and critics.”
Lainie was silent for a moment. It was news to her that management were giving out free tickets in order to fill empty seats. “Well, excuse the stupidity, but I’m still not sure what you expect me to do about it. Ask him nicely to be a good boy and pull up his socks? Three guesses as to the outcome.”
The tension zapped back into her spine when Bob and Pat exchanged a glance.
Pat seemed to be debating her approach. Eventually, she commented almost casually, “Ticket sales at the Palladium have gone up ten percent in the last three months.”
Lainie snorted. “I know. Since Jack Trenton lost his last remaining brain cell after rehab and hooked up with Sadie Foster.”
Or, as she was affectionately known in the world of musical theatre, the She-Devil of Soho. Lainie had known Sadie since they were in their late teens. They had been at drama school together. She had been short-listed against her for a role in a community theatre production of 42nd Street, and had found shards of broken glass in the toes of her tap shoes. Fortunately before she’d put them on.
She was so preoccupied with a short-lived trip down a murky memory lane that she missed the implication.
“Quite.” Pat’s left eyebrow rose behind the lens of her glasses. She was now leaning on the edge of Bob’s desk, her blunt, fuchsia-painted nails tapping a jaunty little medley on the surface. “And the only genuine buzz of excitement Richard has generated in the past month was when London Celebrity printed photos of the two of you attending the Bollinger party together.” She again stared at Lainie, as if she was examining her limb by limb in an attempt to discover her appeal, and was coming up short.
The penny had dropped. With the clattering, appalling clamour of an anvil.
“You,” Pat confirmed, horrifyingly, “are a publicist’s dream. Probably about as interesting as a shrivelled balloon to the worst of the paps, but Joe and Jane Average think you’re a doll. Blogger commentary was wavering between speculation you’re headed for a breakdown and reluctant fascination. Theatre’s favourite bastard and a reigning sweetheart of the London stage. For five minutes, Richard had never been so popular. But nothing came of it.” This last was uttered accusingly.
Lainie’s mouth opened. And closed. And opened again. “Nothing came of it—” she managed to find her voice to retort “—because nothing happened. We didn’t even speak at that party. We happened to leave at the same time, and not only did Richard pretend he didn’t see me—” her voice was rising in remembered annoyance “—but he failed to notice when his cuff link caught on my dress and tore it. Which meant that I felt obliged to buy the bloody thing. It was custom Jenny Packham, and I didn’t even like it.”
It was a gorgeous, gaspingly expensive dress that not been designed for a redhead with breasts. Countless fashion bloggers had agreed with her. It was now the priciest dust-catcher in her wardrobe and probably felt miserably out of place among the high street sale bargains.
Pat ignored her. “If you and Richard were seen out together for a while, if the public believed you were a couple...”
“Let’s just get this straight, shall we?” Lainie looked from one face to the next. She could feel her cheeks burning red and wasn’t sure whether the embarrassment or the fury had top billing. If people thought they could make this kind of...of...shoddy suggestion, things had apparently not changed that much since the good old days when the word actress was synonymous with the word whore. “Are you seriously suggesting I conduct some sort of faux-mance with Richard Troy in the tabloids, for the sole purpose of getting a few more bums in seats?”
Go from genuinely dating Will Farmer to fake-shagging Richard Troy? It seemed like a lateral move.
“Considering that most of the people who would care are well aware I was recently seeing Will,” she pointed out crossly, “I hardly think that jumping into bed with another of my castmates is going to maintain this alleged ‘sweetheart’ image. I can imagine several more likely comments.”
“Well, they would still be more flattering than what’s already being hurled at Troy.” Bob grimaced. “I believe the old epithet ‘Byron’ has been substituted with a simple ‘Dickhead.’”
Lainie couldn’t help snorting again. She’d always suspected that Richard had coined the Byronic comparison himself. He played a little too closely to the stereotype.
“You’ve handled the Will situation like a pro,” Pat cut in, and she sounded warm with approval. Lainie half expected a proud pat on the head. “Public sympathies are entirely in your corner. He helped, of course, by immediately taking up with that inflated tart.”
“Yes, that was fortunate,” Lainie said dryly.
“People want to see you move on—and trade up.”
“Therefore, in a fun twist, I get naked with the most despised actor in London?”
“Nobody is asking you to sleep with him,” Bob said, annoyed, before Pat could reply. He made an impatient gesture. “God forbid. It might put him in a good mood for once. All that brooding method acting completely undone by a fatuous smile.” He tried a placatory smile himself. It was not endearing. “It’s not simply a matter of sales. Everyone’s professional reputation will take the hit of even a minor failure.” He raised both hands, palms up. “All we’re asking is that you salt the mine a bit. Attend a few parties together. Actually speak to one another. Perhaps really push the boat out and hold hands in public. Gossip stirs. Ticket sales rise. Everyone’s happy.”
“I’m not happy.”
“No, but you are employed, and presumably wish to remain so.”
“You can’t threaten my contract because I won’t agree to be pimped out for your profit margins. That’s completely unethical.”
Bob scowled. “I’ve already said that the sex aspect doesn’t come into it. Nobody is ‘pimping’ you out anywhere.”
“No,” she said sweetly. “But that will be the resounding implication when I farm out the story of my unfair dismissal to the media.”
After a moment, Bob said, “I feel almost proud. Our Elaine, all grown up and indulging in a spot of reciprocal blackmail. You were such a sweet little thing when you auditioned for us.”
“And she’ll remain so from the perspective of the public and their disposable income.” Pat looked at Lainie. “You know perfectly well how little it takes to generate a romance rumour. I could do half the work with a simple tip-off. All we’re asking is that you let Richard accompany you to a few select parties and participate in some of your charitable activities. For which I’ve meant to commend you.”
Lainie suspected she wasn’t being congratulated from a humanitarian angle. She choked. “Take Richard along on fund-raising events? I can just imagine it. Richard Troy making chitchat with little old ladies at the village. Standing outside Sainsbury’s with a donation box. Taking part in the 5k Fun Run.”
“He’ll do it,” Lynette spoke up, and Lainie shook her head, totally unconvinced.
“Will he?” she asked ironically. “Because you haven’t mentioned his cooperation in this little scheme, and it sounds about as likely as an ice cream van in hell to me.”
“He’ll do it,” Lynette repeated firmly.
“Well, I won’t.” Lainie cast Bob a scathing glance. “This was your idea, wasn’t it? A load of bollocks with an unsavoury hint of lechery. It has your handiwork all over it.”
“It’s a solid plan,” Bob said, unoffended. “The public loves a mismatch. The bad boy redeemed by the company ingénue.”
“I am not the company ingénue,” she snapped.
“Well, the role of femme fatale has been adequately filled by Chloe, poppet.” Bob managed a decent leer. “More than adequately, I should say.”
“Why don’t you rope her in, then?”
“Don’t think I didn’t consider it. But Chloe’s rep isn’t exactly spotless at the moment either. And she’s too old for him.”
“She’s thirty-nine.”
“Might as well be fifty-nine in this industry. We’re trying to clean up Richard’s image, not add toy boy to his list of sins.”
“I don’t know how you sleep at night.”
“Usually on top of a nubile blonde,” Bob fired back, but the words were more wistful than lascivious.
“Endeavour not to become a complete stereotype of a stage manager. I’m not doing it. I have a huge family and at least a handful of friends, most of whom read the gossip sites. What on earth would they think if they saw me ‘holding hands’ with Richard Troy at a launch party?”
“If you’re an actress worth the moderately high salary we pay you, they’ll think you’re having a mild flirtation with an eligible bachelor.”
“Eligible bachelor. Insert derisive laugh here. My brothers would probably stage an intervention.”
Giving her up as a hopeless hysteric, Bob turned to vent his frustration on Lynette. “Where the hell is Troy? The run-through must have finished at least five minutes ago.”
Lynette’s expensively made-up face assumed a pseudo-apologetic “boys will be boys” expression. She probably pasted it on out of sheer habit by now. Before she had time to offer an unconvincing excuse, Richard himself opened the door and came in without knocking.
“My God,” Lainie murmured. “Perfectly on cue and he’s not even being paid for it.”
Richard spared her one unamused glance before he directed his attention to Bob. The piercing intensity of his blue eyes was entirely due to their depth of colour. The look within was lethargic and bored; Richard appeared as astonished as anyone else that he was actually awake and functional. “Yes?”
“Troy, do come in.” The thinning hairs across Bob’s scalp almost bristled with indignant static. Lainie wouldn’t be surprised if his comb-over rose in the air like an enraged rooster. “Take a seat. Make yourself at home.”
“Yes?” Richard repeated, unimpressed. He took in the presence of Lynette and Pat, and a brief grimace twisted his mouth. Lainie, he continued to ignore.
“Sit down, Richard.” Pat used a tone that Lainie suspected was usually reserved for her cocker spaniels. After a tense few seconds, Richard hitched his trousers—seriously, who wore Tom Ford to a morning rehearsal, anyway?—and did sit. Naturally, in the most comfortable chair. It was a beautiful fluid motion that ended in the casual propping of one ankle over the opposite knee. She could whip out her iPhone camera and sell the resulting image to Vogue.
“You rang, sire.” Richard’s voice was sardonic. It wasn’t entirely clear whom he was addressing, which underlined the insult. In the glare of natural light, his short black curls were struck through with tinges of blue. A few locks lay in careful disarray on his bony forehead. Lainie wondered if he followed in Byron’s footsteps and slept in curlers.
“You’re about three decades too old for that tone of voice,” Pat told him in deflating accents. “Zip it.”
Lainie hid a smile and encountered a dangerous flash of blue.
“Apologies,” Richard drawled. “Do tell why I’ve been summoned into the great presence.” He quirked a brow at Bob, and the stage manager glowered, his cheeks flushing an angry crimson. Richard looked directly at Lainie for the first time. “And why, if one might ask, is the scorned lover here also?”
It was clear he was not referring to her role in the play.
Pillock.
Lynette glanced from one to the other of them. “I’m not sure their acting skills are up to it,” she said frankly to Pat.
The other woman’s lips tightened in a thin line. “If you don’t keep a civil tongue in your head, Richard, you’re going to find yourself booked for joint interviews with Will every week for the next two months. Keep your mouth shut for five minutes and listen.”
The threat must be appalling. Richard obeyed.
Pat outlined their scheme far more succinctly than Bob had managed with Lainie, but by the time she had finished speaking, the look on Richard’s face registered somewhere between scorn and black amusement. He twisted in his chair to stare at Lainie.
She glared back. “I hope you don’t think this is my idea. I’ve seen what happens when you leave the house. I might as well paste on a few feathers, slap a target on my forehead and take a stroll during duck season.”
“And I hope you don’t think I want to be publicly associated with a woman who—presumably in a state of complete sobriety—took her clothes off for Will Farmer.”
Lainie’s fingers closed into fists in her lap.
“A hit, a very palpable hit,” Pat quoted under her breath. Then, louder: “And...back to your corners, ladies and gents. That’s quite enough of that, thank you.” She actually waved a finger at them. Lainie was beginning to think she had missed her calling as a primary school teacher. Or a prison guard. She imagined that much of the same skill set was required in either occupation.
“Richard...” Lynette began.
“Not a chance in hell,” came the blunt, chilly response.
Pat folded her arms and leaned back against Bob’s desk as she surveyed him. “I’m aware that you seem to take a perverse pleasure in rendering yourself as obnoxious as is humanly possible.”
A flicker passed over Richard’s face, and Pat went on relentlessly, “But I’m also given to understand that you’re aiming to take over the presidency of the RSPA in the December by-elections. And frankly,” she said, with the distinct air of a poker player producing an unexpected ace, “if you don’t make some small effort to improve your PR profile, ‘not a chance in hell’ would be an equal description of your shot at the chair.”
Richard sat in complete silence. His face was set in grim lines. He, in his turn, was the player who had rested in smug confidence on a hand of two pairs and now found it wasn’t enough to take the round.
Lainie eyed him with some curiosity. So, Richard had his sights set on the Royal Society of the Performing Arts. In her experience, the RSPA was the most stodgy, entitled and ineffectual of the national arts bureaucracies. They seemed to spend most of their time congratulating themselves on their existence, turning down grant applications and generally doing sod-all.
...Seems about right, then.
To her horror, Richard’s gaze on her was turning faintly—and very reluctantly—speculative.
“Forget it,” she said bluntly. “I endorse the first instinct. Not a chance in hell.”
“One month.” Bob was watching her as well, and his own eyes were calculating. “Keep up appearances for at least the next four weeks—”
“False appearances,” Lainie interrupted.
“And I’ll see that half the profits from two evening shows in November are donated to that kiddie cancer charity of yours. What’s it called? Shine a Light?”
“Shining Lights UK,” Lainie corrected automatically. She bit down hard on her lip.
Bugger.
West End ticket prices were daylight robbery. That was thousands and thousands of pounds.
In a last valiant attempt at defiance, she said rather nastily, “You’ve already told me takings are down and you’re having to paper the house.”
Bob pursed his lips and seemed to come to a decision that caused him actual physical pain. “Saturday nights,” he managed to get out. “Cling to Troy like a bloody limpet in public for the next month, and half the profits from the first two Saturday night performances in November go to the sick kids. It’ll look good on the books,” he added reprehensibly.
Lainie’s hand slipped into her pocket and closed tightly around her phone. She knew the photograph on her screen background down to the last freckle on her sister’s nose.
Hannah, my pet. You can still make me do the most insane things.
“All the profits,” she said, and Bob blanched.
There was a long, fraught pause, broken only by the faint sound of Richard’s nails tapping against the sole of his leather boot.
“All the profits,” Bob finally agreed, and he sounded strangled. He looked from her to Richard. “And you’d better be bloody convincing.”