London Celebrity @LondonCelebrity. 48m
Oh, it’s awkward. Tara Whitlow tries to
interview West End stars. Miss the live clip? Catch the replay here...ow.ly/QT4Jp
There was something sadistic about installing harsh fluorescent lighting in a breakfast TV studio. Lainie took one horrified stare at her reflection and dove into a makeup chair. She didn’t consider herself that vain, but au naturel was not working for her at ten past six in the morning. She was usually drooling into her pillow at this hour, halfway through a recurring sex dream about James Bond. Daniel Craig’s body. Sean Connery’s voice.
A smiling young woman appeared in the mirror behind her, holding a coffee cup in one hand and a bottle of foundation in the other, and Lainie tried not to actually weep at her feet.
“Hi, I’m Sharon,” said the goddess, handing her the coffee. “Milk and two sugars, was it?”
“Perfect. Thank you.” Lainie drank half of it in one go, while trying not to look directly at the sobering reality check in the mirror. In her head, her skin was not pasty to the point that it had actually acquired a green tinge. She did not have massive dark circles under her eyes. And she definitely didn’t have two huge spots on her forehead.
Outside the open door, she heard the clatter of approaching high heels.
And faintly, in the back of her mind, the theme music for the Wicked Witch of the West.
Sadie Foster appeared in the doorway and posed, one hand propped on her hip as she looked around the room. Her sharp gaze fastened on Lainie, who had to suppress the impulse to lift her palm and cover the spots.
“Oh, right,” Sadie said, with a snotty head-to-toe survey. “The Metronome.” She frowned. “We’ve met, right?”
Said the woman who’d copied Lainie’s answers in acting theory class for a year, and then attempted to maim her. Presumably, in Sadie’s world, other people just blurred into one negligible composite of Not Me.
“A few times, yes.” Lainie knocked back the rest of the coffee in one gulp, mentally swapping it out for a tequila shot.
Sadie swung her handbag onto a nearby table, where an intern was trying to set out a selection of accessories, and sort of...flowed into the chair next to Lainie’s. She had the same ability as Richard to make her body go boneless and effortlessly elegant. She also had a similarly aristocratic, aquiline nose. The pretty-face fairy had been awfully generous where those two were concerned. And had obviously just whacked the good-manners fairy right out of her path.
“I want something like this.” Sadie handed a torn-out magazine page to her own stylist, interrupting the other woman midway through her polite “Good morning.” She nodded at Lainie’s empty cup. “And a coffee. Black. No sugar.”
Lainie, her eyes fixed on the mirror, saw the two stylists exchange glances over her head.
Sadie, oblivious to the undercurrents—and the fact that she was probably going to star in a Facebook rant later that morning—crossed her legs and yawned. “God,” she said, flipping her gold wristwatch around. “Seriously, who would watch TV at this hour of the morning?”
“The studio gets some of its highest ratings between seven and eight in the morning,” Sharon told her, beginning to dab primer onto Lainie’s cheekbones. “A lot of people watch the show while they’re getting ready for work. Hauling the kids out of bed.”
Sadie shuddered. Lainie wasn’t sure whether her nerves were upset by the idea of a nine-to-five, needy offspring, or both.
The bored brown eyes cut in her direction again. “So,” Sadie drawled. “Anything lined up for the end of your run? Rumour has it that might be sooner than scheduled.”
Lainie concentrated on the soothing motions of Sharon’s hands. The cream she was using smelled like coconut. If she closed her eyes, she could pretend she was having a facial. On a desert island. Far, far away from the abrasive blonde presence beside her.
“And that would be just that,” she said calmly. “An unsubstantiated rumour.”
“Not what I heard.” Sadie’s voice was light and malicious. “I would have thought twice, if I were you, before I got into bed with Richard Troy.”
Lainie’s eyes opened, and she met Sadie’s gaze in the mirror.
“Professionally speaking,” the other woman said. She smiled. “Obviously.”
“Obviously.”
Sharon and her colleague widened their eyes at one another again, and Lainie grimaced. Snarky little scenes like this didn’t help anyone’s reputation.
“You could try the manager at Leather and Lace,” Sadie suggested helpfully. “I’ve heard he’s always looking for trained dancers.” She raised her eyes to Lainie’s forehead. “Or a Proactiv campaign,” she muttered. Loudly.
On the other hand, it would probably give the studio a bit of free publicity if one of their guests mysteriously choked to death on a tube of lipstick.
Sharon coughed. “Tara’s buzzing about the interview,” she said tactfully. She picked up a damp sponge to blend in Lainie’s foundation. “Mr. Troy doesn’t give many mainstream interviews.” She politely didn’t add, “with good reason.” “And she’s been wanting to get Will Farmer on her couch for ages. In a manner of speaking.” She grinned, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively, and then looked mortified as recollection obviously came back to her.
Lainie was too busy going into cardiac arrest to care about the social gaffe. “Sorry?” She pushed her hands down on the arms of the chair, half rising to turn and stare at the red-faced stylist. “What?” Her vocabulary had gone out the window, along with all sense of optimism about the morning.
“Well, that’s embarrassing.” Sharon bit down on a long purple fingernail. “Geez. Sorry.”
“Will’s here? Now?” Hundred shades of horror.
Sharon was visibly taken aback. Sadie looked as if she was mentally bouncing in her chair, clapping her hands with glee.
“Well—yeah. I think so.” The stylist seemed eager to make amends. “I don’t know for sure that he’s arrived, but everyone had the same call time, so I assume he’s down the hall with Casey. I can check?”
“No. No. Thank you. That’s okay.” Lainie breathed out through her mouth. She ignored Sadie, whose sharp little ears had pricked up like a fox terrier.
Pat.
Forget the prison guard gig. The woman should be directing presidential campaigns.
That was two for unfortunate death by lipstick. She reserved the right to adjust the number, depending on how the next couple of hours played out.
“You did know that the interview is with Richard and Will?” Sadie was all fluttery innocence. “Oh...dear.” Laughter threaded her words. “Awkward.”
Lainie entirely agreed with her.
Sadie’s stylist thankfully silenced her with coffee and the latest copy of Vogue, and Lainie let a subdued Sharon get back to work. She couldn’t stop jiggling her crossed leg as the stylist finished her makeup and started on her hair.
Live TV. Will and Richard on one couch. Sadie stirring the pot. Jack—not the brightest bulb at the best of times, and probably hungover at this hour of the morning. She couldn’t see any help coming from that corner.
No potential at all for career-trashing disaster.
Sharon had decided on a no-makeup makeup look, with natural waves in her hair, as opposed to Sadie’s full-on red-carpet glamour. It took gobs of product and a depressingly long time to create the illusion that she’d just woken up attractive.
Sadie was finished first, and was wrapped around a barely conscious Jack when Lainie entered the greenroom. He was sprawled on a couch, head tilted back, eyes at half-mast, seemingly unbothered by the tentacle-like arms that entwined his shoulders. Will and Richard were seated at opposite ends of the other couch, pretending that the other didn’t exist. Will was playing games on his phone. She could hear the tinny theme music. He glanced up when she came in, scowled and then went back to obliterating animated snack food. Richard was reading a newspaper. He didn’t even bother to raise his head.
And these hulking specimens of manhood constituted her past and currently imaginary sex life.
God, she hoped there were pastries on that refreshment table.
There were, so the morning wasn’t a total loss. She went with the one closest to her hand, to be polite. The fact it was oozing the most jam and cream was merely a bonus. She had no compunctions at all about eating her feelings. She took a bite, cupping her hand underneath to catch the cream spillage, and said hello to Jack. He detached his earlobe from Sadie’s teeth and turned to look at her.
“Oh, hey,” he said, with a smile and wink. “How’s it going?”
“Great. Thanks.”
Nope. No idea who she was.
The only free seats were on the four-seater between Will and Richard. With a sigh, and as the lesser of the evils, she sat down beside Richard. She would prefer an indifferent silence to a sulky one. She also preferred his aftershave. Although that was a bit of a misnomer when he clearly hadn’t picked up a razor this week. Chewing on a bite of pastry, she eyed him critically. They hadn’t even put much makeup on him. And he looked fine. Good, even. Bastard.
“Is there something on my face?” he asked, without much interest. The paper rustled as he turned the page.
“About ten days’ worth of stubble, I imagine.” Lainie finished her breakfast and licked a glob of apricot jam from her thumb. “I’m marinating in half a can of shine spray here. You could have at least shaved.”
Richard cut his eyes in her direction and then glanced briefly at Will. “Like the Backstreet Boy over there? Pass.”
She was not going to smile.
“I’m not interested in stocks. Or farming.” She leaned forward to look over his raised arm. “I’ll take international news, please.”
“There’s a pile of magazines over there.” Richard turned the page again, interrupting her perusal of the classifieds. “And nobody is reading them.”
“Yes, but then I would have to get up.”
“Great. You can bring me a cup of coffee.”
Lainie propped her elbow on the back of the couch and considered him thoughtfully. “Do we think that’s a good idea?”
He paused, his fingers tightening around the paper. “Do we think what’s a good idea?”
“More coffee. You do get a bit grouchy. It could be caffeine sensitivity. Maybe you should just stick with the one cup. I mean, live TV. They might not be that quick with the bleeper at the crack of dawn.”
A muscle shifted in his jaw. “I haven’t had any coffee yet.”
“Oh.” She looked at him sympathetically, wondered if a patronizing pat on the arm would be going too far. She risked it anyway. “Bad night’s sleep?”
“No.”
“Huh.” Swinging her legs up beneath her, she rested her chin on her arm and frowned. “So—it’s just you, then.” She paused, counting to three in her head, and then asked helpfully, “Should we talk about that?”
“Take the bloody paper.”
“Thank you.”
A production assistant stuck her head through the door a few minutes later. “On in fifteen,” she said, looking a bit flustered. “Someone will come to escort you to the set in ten minutes.”
Lainie finished scanning the world news and flipped to the arts section. There was a new review of The Cavalier’s Tribute in the theatre column. She wasn’t mentioned. But—
“Do you think The Cavalier’s Tribute is thematically comparable to Chicago?” she asked Richard, who was sitting with one ankle propped on the opposite knee again, frowning into space.
“I think Tom Reynolds should stick to reviewing at his intellectual level,” he responded, still glowering. “Which would be open mic night at the local pub and the occasional panto.”
Lainie lifted an eyebrow at his sour tone. “Cheer up. He called you ‘gruff and overtly masculine.’ That could be a compliment. And things could be way worse. I could be sucking on your ear in public.”
They watched as Sadie touched her tongue to Jack’s chin dimple, and simultaneously grimaced.
“Did you know, by the way?” Lainie asked suddenly. She lowered her voice, although she doubted if Will could hear her over the obnoxiously raised volume of his game. “About Will being here too?”
Richard’s expression was difficult to interpret. His eyes moved from Will’s lowered head and busy thumbs to Lainie’s face. There was a sardonic twist to his mouth, so she expected a biting response.
“No,” he said after a moment. “I wouldn’t have sprung that on you if I’d known.”
Huh. Sensitivity. That was new.
“Although it’s probably to our benefit. If Farmer has to open his mouth without a script in his hand, everyone in his vicinity comes off well by comparison.”
...And they returned to their regularly scheduled programming.
When another assistant arrived, clipboard in hand, Sadie retracted her tongue from Jack’s face, Will reluctantly killed his game, and Richard touched his hand to the small of Lainie’s back to guide her out into the hallway. She shivered and sped up.
The Wake Me Up London studio was decked out in tones of yellow and orange to look perky and refreshing. The lights were intensely bright, presumably to give the effect of sunshine, despite the dim sky outside. It was more like being in a sunbed.
Tara Whitlow, formerly of the BBC entertainment beat, was smiling into the cameras, rounding up a segment on student fashion designers. She tossed her curls over her shoulders and beamed as she teased the upcoming interview. The director cut to an ad break, and her smile faded. She rolled her shoulders, stretching out her neck, and stood up to greet them as they were herded onto the set. Her smile was perfunctory as she shook hands with them all, and Lainie didn’t miss the shrewd stare that accompanied her own introduction. That couldn’t bode well.
“Fantastic,” Tara said. “If we could have Will, Lainie and Richard over here, and Sadie and Jack on the opposite couch, please.”
Lainie glanced at Richard as they reluctantly followed the directive. The moment her bottom hit the cushions and she saw the blinking red light of a camera, nerves struck. She really, really did not enjoy interviews. Richard’s sarcastic comment about Will’s inability to communicate off-script hit a little close to home.
Richard returned her a wry look, and then looked again, his blue eyes narrowing on her face.
She was physically trembling, literally vibrating with tension. This never happened onstage.
The surprise she’d felt at his earlier, almost friendly remark was nothing to her astonishment when he casually reached out and took her hand in his. His fingers felt strong and rough as he linked them through hers, pulling her wrist over to rest against his thigh.
She let out a slow breath through her mouth.
“All right?” he asked evenly, and she nodded. She wrapped her thumb across his. Sitting up straighter, she ignored a poisonous look from Will. Her nerves had gone from a rolling boil to a slow simmer. For all his many and varied defects, there was something very reassuring about having Richard at her side, when he was on her side. He was unflappable in these situations.
Mostly because he didn’t care, but still.
The director cued them in, the cameras moved into position, and Sadie went from zero to sixty: sulky diva to big eyes and innocent dimples.
“I’m delighted to have with me this morning five of the brightest young stars in the West End firmament,” Tara said. “From the Metronome, Richard Troy, Elaine Graham and Will Farmer, and from the Palladium, Sadie Foster and Jack Trenton. Welcome, all! Thank you for being here today.”
“Thank you for having us.” Sadie offered the obligatory response.
“I’m doubly appreciative because I know free time is a scarcity when you’re in the middle of a performance run. When we announced you would be stopping by the studio this morning, we had a lot of interest on Twitter about what it’s like to work on the West End. Can you tell us a bit about that, what it’s like behind-the-scenes? What does the average day look like for a principal player?”
Sadie and Will fielded that one, jumping in with a pack of PR-friendly lies that made the theatres sound like something out of an Enid Blyton book. All jolly midnight feasts and togetherness. As opposed to a hard, professional grind and a social atmosphere that could be like navigating a snake pit. If one of them came out with a smarmy “There’s no ‘I’ in team,” she was pulling a Richard and walking out.
The questions continued, with the PR puppets continuing to supply most of the answers. Sadie had a habit of inserting little side remarks even when Tara directly addressed someone else, so as to keep herself in the shot. Lainie kept a smile on her face and wished she were back at work. At the actual Metronome, not the sunshine-and-rainbows My Little Pony version Will was spinning.
For the first five minutes, Tara kept the interview focused on the performances. It was obviously polite opening filler, since anyone actually interested in the plots of the plays could look them up in five seconds on Wikipedia. Lainie waited, cynically and on edge, for the inevitable.
They came back from another ad break, and Tara’s smile turned syrupy.
Here we go.
“I imagine things can become fairly intimate,” Tara said, her eyes moving meaningfully between the two couches, “when you’re working so closely together. And little birds have been Tweeting that there’re a few love stories happening off-script, so to speak.”
“Have they?” Sadie couldn’t have looked more coy if she’d put a finger to pursed lips and gazed wordlessly into the distance. She reached out and placed a gentle hand on Jack’s knee. “I try not to look at social media too much.”
Richard raised his eyes to the ceiling, and Lainie bit back a smile. Stress was bubbling at the base of her throat, and it really wanted to emerge as a nervous giggle.
“You don’t find it raises an issue, having relationships in what is, after all, your workplace?” Tara’s voice was a little sharper behind the sugary gloss. Lainie would have been interested to know what she was like behind closed doors, or in the opinions of the studio interns.
“As you said, it’s a workplace. We’re professionals, and we don’t bring our personal lives into the job.” Sadie crossed her long legs and leaned back, smiling at Jack. He looked uncomfortable. Maybe he wasn’t sure how to act when Sadie wasn’t actually plastered to his face. “I think it’s fairly natural that actors fall in love. You spend so many hours together, and you have something fundamental in common, which is always a strong beginning.” She shrugged and smiled. Lainie was going to have to revise her opinion of Sadie’s acting skills, because she was almost likable in this persona. “Add in a strong dose of chemistry, and, well...”
“And I suppose it doesn’t hurt when you’re acting out love scenes every night,” Tara said, with a knowing smirk.
Sadie laughed. “It’s only acting, of course, but—well, let’s just say it can be more fun with certain people.”
“But potentially risky, I would think, if you hit a bump in the road offstage and have to maintain a consistent performance?” Tara looked directly at Lainie and Will, but again it was Sadie who piped up.
“I imagine it could be a challenge, but I think anyone serious about their career would be able to put the job first. I can’t speak from experience, though.” She stroked a circle on Jack’s leg with her fingertips. “This is new territory for me. Meeting Jack was an...extraordinary experience for me. I can’t imagine making a habit of dating my costars.” Demurely, she looked up between her lashes. Straight at Lainie.
Zing.
Lainie could imagine the pings as the #WMULondon Tweets picked up their momentum.
Tara’s smile was more genuine now. She must have visions of high ratings dancing in her head. Pushing back her hair, she turned to the Metronome couch. “At the risk of being shockingly tactless,” she said hopefully, “I understand things might have been a little...challenging at the Metronome recently, from a personal perspective.”
“In what way?” Richard asked politely.
Tara’s pause lasted only a fraction of a second, but she definitely hesitated. Straightening her back, she smiled again, narrowly. “Your recent breakup, Elaine and Will, was fairly well publicised. You’ve clearly managed to carry on in a professional capacity, but it can’t have been easy. Especially when things have taken a...shall we say, unexpected new direction?” Her gaze went pointedly to Lainie’s and Richard’s entwined hands, and then returned to Lainie’s face. “There’s been a lot of speculation about your new relationship, Elaine, particularly when it’s—well, fishing in the same pond, to put it bluntly. How are you dealing with that? And you, Will? It must be difficult for you.”
Although the amazing Ethel and her magically disappearing knickers must soften the blow.
Will’s fatuous expression was meant to be sensitive and long-suffering. She recognised it from his regular attempts at emotional blackmail when things hadn’t been going his way. “Breakups are never easy,” he said, lifting one broad shoulder. “But Lainie and I are still very good friends.”
That trite cliché that covered up all manner of hurt feelings and homicidal impulses.
“No truth to the rumours of friction between you and Richard, then?” Tara pushed.
Richard shifted lazily at Lainie’s side, and Will flushed. “As Sadie said,” he replied after a moment, “we’re all professionals.”
Tara made a sympathetic little grimace at the camera, in lieu of just inserting the subtitle Heartless Tart under Lainie’s close-up.
“It seems quite...fast, though,” she said to Lainie, really picking up a stick and beating that dead horse into the ground. “When did you first realise that your feelings for Richard went beyond those of a colleague?”
(A) When we spoke directly to one another for the first time, and I almost shanked him, and (B) Mind your own fucking business.
Lainie could feel the heat in her own cheeks. She was not going to be made out to be the cheater here. Whatever she said in response would likely have been cross, blunt and definitely not Pat-sanctioned, but before she had a chance to land herself in hot water, Richard spoke up in a slow drawl.
* * *
“The last time I checked,” Richard said, keeping his tone very light, “Lainie was a grown woman, capable of making her own decisions.”
His eyes were fixed coolly on the vapid blonde host. Thwarted ambition, he suspected. She had Hollywood signs in her pupils and was obviously straining at the bit in this second-rate studio. If she had the slightest bit of self-awareness, she would realise that attempting to slut-shame another woman on live television was not going to win her any popularity points. He shrugged off the additional, more unfamiliar level of anger. If he did feel...protective toward Lainie, it was all part and parcel of the role they were playing. “I don’t really think she needs to apologise for a private relationship between two unattached, consenting adults, do you?”
The host, whose name he’d temporarily forgotten, was taken by surprise. Perhaps she was unfamiliar with the reciprocal aspect of an interview, where her guests actually responded to her classless questions with more than Farmer’s brand of arse-kissing.
“Do you have a partner?” he asked conversationally, and she blinked.
“Well, I—yes,” she said, further startled and not recovering well.
“But naturally it’s your first and only relationship. You haven’t dated other people in the past. None.” He maintained eye contact. “I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt. I wouldn’t like to be irresponsible and just throw around implications of hypocrisy.”
The suspiciously taut skin around the blonde’s eyes quivered and attempted to crease. Lainie’s warm fingers momentarily convulsed around his hand.
After a long pause, in which he heard a stifled giggle from someone in the crew, the host pressed her lips together and switched her line of attack. He could almost hear the cranking sounds as the catapult turned in his direction.
“As opposed to throwing plates?” she asked with pseudo-sweetness. She was scrambling to regain control. “Or public temper tantrums? The Metronome has been hitting the headline recently with rumours of internal conflict and diva behaviour. Would you care to address that?”
He lifted a brow. “Which aspect in particular? Or should I begin with the plate-tossing and work my way forward?”
The blonde opened her mouth, but Lainie cut in. “Unfortunately,” she said, “it’s all true.” She turned to look at him, and he watched the mischievous twinkle come into her eyes. His gaze moved briefly to her mouth, which was lifting into a cheeky smile. “I am a world-class diva. If I miss a cue or forget my lines, I just take it out on the props. Start chucking plates around the stage. Vases. Goblets. If I’m really frustrated, I’ll drop-kick the silverware into the stalls.” She winked at their visibly hostile host. “It’s an extra ten points if you land a silver spoon in the royal box.”
Trenton laughed suddenly, and Sadie directed a malevolent stare at the poor bastard.
With an audible intake of breath and a tighter smile, the host tried again. “You’ve gained something of a reputation lately, Richard, for being difficult to work with. There have been reports in the press as to breaches of contract, and details have emerged of a rather nasty email exchange between yourself and the Department for Culture, Media and Sport.”
“Which is a shocking reflection on the state of journalistic ethics in this city. Hacking into government emails.” Lainie shook her head with dismay. Letting go of Richard’s hand, she crossed her legs and leaned forward, clasping her fingers around her raised knee. “What do you think about that?” she asked, with avid, wide-eyed interest. She seemed completely at ease now, after her initial bout of nerves, and ready to have a good natter over a cup of tea.
Even Farmer was starting to look reluctantly amused.
The harassed blonde looked like she needed a large glass of wine.
Richard leaned back and let Lainie have at it. He really had underestimated her.
The interview wound up with a rapidity that surprised no one. As they were ushered off the set, the forgettably named host eyed Lainie’s rear. Probably weighing up the potential cost to her career against the satisfaction of soundly kicking it. Still grinning, Richard moved smoothly between the two women, just in case impulse won out over sanity.
An intern swept them back to the greenroom, where they’d left their belongings.
“Well...thanks,” the teenager said, biting her pierced lip. “That was...great.”
“By ‘great’,” Trenton said thoughtfully, when she’d departed in a hurry, “do you think she means ‘total fucking disaster’?” He grinned and picked up Lainie’s wool coat to help her shrug into it. The uncharacteristically chivalrous gesture annoyed everyone in the room except those immediately involved. Richard bit back a sarcastic comment when he saw Farmer and Sadie scowl. He had no desire to share even a fleeting sentiment with that company.
“For Tara Whitlow’s ego, I mean,” Trenton went on, happily oblivious to his simmering girlfriend. “I personally enjoyed the hell out of it.”
“Well, I did not.” Sadie grabbed Lainie’s arm. “If you’re that ignorant about how to behave in public,” said the woman who’d caused widespread nausea by cleaning Trenton’s eardrum with her tongue, “your management team shouldn’t let you off the leash. It’s our reputations that’ll take the hit from your lack of control.”
To the probable disappointment of all three men, Lainie failed to live up to the clichéd promise of her red hair and merely rolled her eyes in response.
“She’s probably right, though,” she admitted to him privately as they made their way down to the lobby, out of earshot of the others. “That may not be what Pat had in mind when she suggested we present a contrast to Jack and Sadie. I don’t want to sound paranoid, but at times I got the feeling Ms. Whitlow didn’t like us much.”
Her phone trilled, and she dug through her bag. “Ten quid says it’s Pat?”
“No bet.” He held the door to the street open for her. “Watch the step, Tig.”
The nickname slipped out again. He enjoyed the cranky looks it generated. He hadn’t called anyone by a ridiculous nickname since his schooldays, when he’d shared a dormitory with One-Can Murphy and Mouse Philps. His own Eton nickname had been firmly consigned to the history books, never to be spoken again. Suffice to say that he’d paid dearly for the sports day folly of keeping his spare tennis balls in his pockets while wearing overly tight trousers. The entire upper school had thought he’d been a little too excited about winning the house cup. The recent coining of Byron by some moron on Facebook might otherwise have grated, but seemed trivial by comparison.
It was raining again, so they paused under the awning while she opened the text. Silently, she held it up for him to see.
To clear up any confusion on the issue, the point of this unholy alliance is to elevate Richard’s reputation. Not for you to become mutually irritating.
Another beep. He could feel her breath warm against his ear as they read it together.
Fortunately, Tara Whitlow is a renowned twit. Behave like that at the Theatre Awards, and you’re fired. Ditto Troy.
“She must be in a good mood,” Lainie said, but she looked uneasy. She was an innate do-gooder. When the buzz wore off, she would end up mentally rehashing the interview countless times, probably wondering what on earth she’d been thinking.
Richard was slightly curious himself on that point. It had been a very long time since anyone had publicly leapt to his defence, and no one had ever done it with such an air of protectiveness.
Absently, he rubbed the heel of his hand against his chest. The troubled expression in her eyes was making him restless. “Talk about preferential treatment,” he said, with a lightness that didn’t reflect his mood. “The last time I did an interview, Pat texted me a link to a site on medieval torture methods. I should talk to the union.”
He watched her. The air between them felt charged, as if he was attuned to her thoughts and reactions.
Oh, bullshit. He must be more tired than he’d thought.
Lainie smiled suddenly, and his heart actually thumped. He gritted his teeth and a muscle jumped in his jaw. He wanted to turn on his heel and walk away, like a fucking coward, and the impulse struck fiercely at his pride.
“As you called the union president an incompetent prick during your last interview, that might be counterintuitive.”
A few years ago, he had participated in a black-and-white short film for the Royal Shakespeare Company. He’d had to communicate the passage of Lear’s descent into madness solely through the alteration of his facial features. He had found that less difficult than it was to keep his expression bland now.
“The current president has a brain,” he said shortly.
Unfazed by his sharp tone, Lainie gave him a distracted smile and began to text a reply to Pat. He was even more unsettled by the blasé response.
He checked his watch. They had to be at the theatre for a rehearsal at twelve. It was way too early to arrive yet. He didn’t care. “I’ll drive you to the theatre,” he said abruptly, and Lainie also checked the time on her phone.
Casting him a slightly curious look, she hesitated, and then shrugged. “All right. I do need to talk to Olivia about my second costume change.”
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.