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Love on the run: smitten Richard Troy front and centre to support new love at charity 5k...goo.gl/Ny5hFm
It would have helped if she’d got further than the couch part of the couch-to-5k training plan she’d printed off the internet. Lainie crossed the finishing line and immediately dropped her head toward the ground, leaning her hands against her thighs and fiercely rejecting the urge to vomit. She was embarrassingly unfit, but if the chain-smoking, foulmouthed comedian two steps ahead of her could finish with a smile on his face and no visible signs of nausea, then so could she. She straightened with an effort, cringing as her back made an audible cracking sound. Performing in a play was a physical job, for God’s sake. It required stamina. She didn’t even have the excuse of sitting behind a computer all day.
Camera lights flashed as more participants made it over the line. They included several soap actors, a controversial political commentator, a popular abstract artist, and a DJ from Radio 1. The fund-raising committee had managed to put together a respectable hit list of names for the Shining Lights UK 5k, considering that Fun Runs were among the least popular of charitable events. She couldn’t even say the term without an ironic inflection on the first word. What kind of half-witted masochist actually enjoyed running on a drizzly October morning in London? On a weekday, no less, when there were plenty of people about with laptops and coffee cups, observing the mania with perplexity.
Lainie had tried to suggest an alternative—a bake-off, a rock concert—but the director of the foundation was a jogging enthusiast who refused to believe that other people might not share his predilection for spandex. She saw him now, standing by the refreshment table, doing some kind of yoga stretch and looking cool and unfazed. He didn’t even have sweat stains in his armpits. Unnatural.
“Well done!” he called to her. “How was that?”
About thirty-five minutes of pure, wheezing hell, thank you for asking.
“Great,” she said, desperately sucking air into her abused lungs. “Brilliant way to start the day.” If you enjoy unrelenting pain. “I beat my personal best time.”
Which was true, in the sense that she had never run a 5k before and hopefully never would again.
Oh, well. It was all money for worthy coffers.
“Couldn’t agree with you more,” he enthused. “Nothing more invigorating than an early morning run.”
The poor man had obviously never had early morning sex. Or a caramel latte.
He nodded toward the throng of spectators, shivering under their support banners. “Good to see the SOs out in force, as well.”
“The SOs?” she asked blankly, trying to follow the direction of his gaze. Had she failed to swot up on necessary athletic jargon as well? Safety Officers? Sports Officials? Sulky Octopi? She had no idea.
“Significant others. Always helps to have a cheerleader on the sidelines, doesn’t it?” He chuckled. “Yours looks a bit worn around the edges. Dragged him out of bed early, did you?”
Completely at sea, Lainie didn’t respond. Then she finally saw what—or rather whom—he was looking at. Richard was leaning against a pop-up art installation. The enormous statue of a polar bear wore an identical frown and a similar amount of facial hair. The bear was evidently very worried about the status of global warming; a stroppy and still unshaven Richard appeared more concerned with his own warmth, or lack thereof. His hands were thrust in his pockets and he was doing the standing jig-dance of the cold and crabby, bobbing from one foot to the other.
Absently excusing herself from the grinning director, Lainie hurried over to him, blowing on her own ungloved hands. Now that she had stopped running, the chill was creeping in.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, amazed and irritable. This had not, as far as she knew, been on their agreed list of activities, and she couldn’t imagine he was pining for her company. She felt justifiably annoyed with him for turning up when she was a red-faced, snot-nosed mess. Not that she had ever exactly bowled him over when she was a painstakingly curled, professionally made-up siren, either.
Although he hadn’t seemed repelled during that one rain-saturated moment earlier in the week. Which she was never going to think about again. She’d been telling herself so all week.
He hadn’t wanted to kiss her.
Had he?
Richard removed one hand from his pocket and held up his phone. “I had my instructions.” It was hard to pull off a tone that snippy through chattering teeth, but he somehow managed. “A message from Pat. Payback for Monday. Either come to Hyde Park to bear witness to your feats of athleticism, or meet Will at the BBC for a joint debate on the impact of social media on the staging of live theatre—i.e. isn’t it a pisser when someone gets a text message or live-Tweets during a performance?” He looked down at her, taking in the yoga pants and zipped fleece jacket. “This seemed like the lesser of two evils. Of course, that was before I knew it was going to be seven degrees outside and you were going to take about thirty-five years to complete the circuit.”
“It was thirty-five minutes, thank you, and I was strictly middle of the pack. Loads of people aren’t even back yet!” She glared at him, and someone took their photo. “Oh, for the love of...” Deep breath. She exhaled and said reluctantly, “I suppose you’d better give me a hug, then. Let them get their shot, so we can leave.”
Richard eyed her with fastidious distaste. “You’re sweaty.”
Give me strength. Or a blunt instrument.
When they’d left her house on Monday morning, she’d been mortified in the car. She’d actually leaned into him. In a kitchen that smelled like cat food. She’d been worried it would add a new level of awkward to their interactions, but fortunately he’d returned to being such a dick that it had been easy to quash any disturbing feelings.
“It’s good for the skin,” she snapped.
“And probably disastrous for cashmere.”
Before she completely lost her temper, Richard leant down and swept her into his arms. To their onlookers, it must have appeared a supportive, affectionate embrace. It even included a cheeky bum-squeeze, which earned him a sharp pinch on the chest.
“Oy,” he said, jumping. He spoke into her hair, his hands still holding tight to her waist. “I’m just following instructions here. Against my chest, hand under bottom, you said. Two easy steps for a successful cuddle.” He anticipated the reflexive action of her right trainer and stepped back out of kicking range. “I’m not sure how you conned Pat into thinking you would be a good, even-tempered influence on me. I’ve clearly underestimated your acting abilities.”
It struck Lainie that this was one of the few times she had seen him smile and mean it. The fact that he was a surly grouch aside, it was often difficult to tell with actors whether an emotion was genuine or an automatic playing to a role. They sometimes couldn’t tell the difference themselves. She knew from experience that spending hours every day pretending to be someone else could become a habit difficult to break. She could go off duty, so to speak, and find herself performing the role of Lainie Graham, which could seem as artificial as any character she inhabited onstage.
Even in her relationship with Will, there had been an element of staginess, as if she’d been watching the love scene play out from afar and judging it with professional criticism. That embrace looked stiff; that comment seemed out of character; the chemistry was a bit lacking there; what would be her motivation for that particular action? No wonder so many marriages failed in the acting profession. Half the time they were unconscious stage productions, and every actor eventually tired of playing the same role.
And no wonder so many actors were in therapy. Fodder for the psychiatrist’s couch, right there.
She shook off her clouded mood. There was something to be said for the dubious pleasure of Richard’s company. It was ironic, given that their relationship was a complete hoax, but she never felt there was much pretence between them. Yes, they put up a show for the cameras, but he didn’t whitewash his actual feelings toward her. And she had no doubt about her own toward him.
Or she hadn’t. Until things had become a little...blurred. She at least recognised the frustration, annoyance, exasperation and reluctant amusement. It was a refreshing emotional catharsis, not having to hold back with him.
Richard Troy: human stress ball.
She ignored the tiny singsong voice that was making almost-kiss taunts.
Right. Not holding back at all.
He seemed to be deriving some emotional benefits from being with her, as well. His expression was one of resigned tolerance when he reached over and caught her hand. “Come on, Tig. I’ll shout you brunch.”
She looked down at herself. “I can’t go out to eat like this.”
“You’re fine. You hardly look like you put in any effort at all.”
She was still trying to work out if that was an insult when they reached his car. The assaulted Ferrari had been swapped out for an equally lush Maserati this week—temporarily, she assumed, unless he just replaced a damaged supercar like it was a pair of ripped tights. His lifestyle was a wet dream for the average British male. He’d also managed to find a prime parking spot. She wondered if the force of Richard’s personality was such that people just upped and left the moment he set his sights on their park.
Another photographer took their photo as they got into the car. Lainie resisted an insane urge to grin cheekily at her. She felt oddly light. Perhaps there was something to these exercise endorphins after all.
They ate at one of her favourite cafés in Bayswater, a few blocks from her flat. The décor was a bit naff and Ye Old Tea Shoppe, but it served incredible coffee and pancakes. Most of the restaurants in the area seemed to have gone over to the all-organic, all-healthy craze. It had been a personal mission to find one that didn’t sneak greens into every dish, as if they were tricking toddlers into eating their vegetables. Lainie would rather have hips than drink pulverised spinach in her smoothies. She preferred her green food to contain the words mint and chip.
There was good people-watching in the summer, when it was borderline warm enough to sit at the tables outside, but they settled for a cosy table near the wood fire. Lainie looked at Richard thoughtfully as she cut into her pancakes, scooping up an escaping blueberry with her knife.
“What would you usually be doing at this hour of the morning, if you’re not called in for rehearsal or scene changes?” It was half past ten, which in the world of evening theatre was most people’s seven or eight. “Sleeping?”
Richard shrugged and swallowed a mouthful of poached egg. “Depends on what time I got home the night before, and whether I have another work commitment.” He leaned back and picked up his coffee, giving her an unreadable look over the rim. “And obviously if I’m alone—or not.”
She stabbed her fork into a strawberry and ate it with relish. She was fairly sure the berries had come out of a can, but they were still tasty. “A morning quickie sort of bloke, are you?” she asked, going there out of sheer nosiness. “Or is it wham-bam-get-out-my-bed-ma’am?”
He smiled against his will. “I’m sure you won’t be surprised to learn that it’s the latter. I prefer not to actually sleep next to someone if I can avoid it.” He added smoothly, “Although I handle the situation as tactfully as possible, of course.”
“Which, coming from you, probably means your poor girlfriends find themselves standing on the doorstep, wrapped in a bedsheet and clutching their knickers.”
“Only in the summertime. If it’s winter, I let them take a blanket, as well.”
“How about that? A joke.” Lainie was smiling, as well. She poured a bit more syrup on her remaining pancake. “What happened to the barrister? I remember thinking she looked nice.”
“Which barrister?” Richard looked blank.
“Working your way through the profession, are you? That seems a bit risky in your case. With that short fuse, you don’t want a stream of angry exes in the courtroom if you ever have to stand trial. The barrister you dated for like two months, you clod. You, at least, should remember her name. You took her to the Tony Awards. The blonde in the gorgeous Alice Temperley gown. The woman clutching your elbow all night.” She forked up a piece of stewed apple. “You probably sat next to her in the venue. Most likely shared a car ride home. And...”
“Yes, I don’t need the complete itinerary, thank you. You mean Barbara Greer. She’s a judge, not a barrister.”
“My apologies to her honour. Well? What happened?”
“Mind your own business.” He drained his coffee cup.
“Spoilsport.” She finished her plate with a contented sigh and picked up her own drink. Pancakes and hot chocolate were the building blocks of her happy place. “I wouldn’t care if you asked me about my exes.”
“How obliging of you.” He idly twirled his fork between his fingers. “Unfortunately, I would rather insert this into my retina than hear the intimate details of Will Farmer’s sex life.”
“For that, you would have to read Crystalle Hollingswood’s blog.” She wrinkled her nose. “And then you really would want to stab yourself in the eye with a fork.”
Richard was staring out the window and she thought he had stopped listening to her. She’d noticed that if he was bored with a conversation, he switched off and made no effort to disguise his lack of attention. After a few minutes, though, he asked casually, “Still heartbroken?”
“My heart didn’t come into the equation.” She was suddenly quite embarrassed and looked down at the tabletop, swirling heart patterns in the spilled sugar with her fingertip. “It was more about very shallow hormones in the beginning, and my pride later on. I wish it had never happened. It’s a bit of a facer to realise I’m that susceptible to fairly empty good looks. Although he had his moments,” she added out of fairness. “He’s not a complete prick. Put it at ninety-five percent, with wiggle room if his conscience is playing up.”
“It does seem to show an appalling lack of judgement on your part,” Richard agreed coolly, and her mouth twitched.
She could always rely on him not to sugar the pill.
A group of tourists walked by the window, identifiable by their cameras, guidebooks and damp hair. If you spent much time in London, you learned to either carry an umbrella or look into the concept of hats. Or just run really fast to the nearest Tube station.
“They’ve been to the Tower.” She nodded at the plastic gift bag one of the women was carrying. “I haven’t done the tour there since I was about seven. I should make an effort to actually do more things when we have time off. If I get a morning to myself, I end up wasting it on a nap.” Or watching four episodes of Scandal in a row on her laptop, but she could imagine his response to that without vocalising it.
“It’s usually not worth the hassle.” Richard raised his arms above his head and stretched. The joints popped in his shoulders, and his jumper rode up to reveal a slice of pale, tautly muscled belly. She shamelessly enjoyed the view while she finished her hot chocolate.
She was no longer necessarily averse to finding Richard attractive, she realised. It was just very surprising. And should remain at the sensible look-but-don’t-touch stage. If she ever evolved into an outdoorsy person and went on safari, she might admire the dangerous beauty of the lions from a distance, but she for damn sure wouldn’t get out of the car. Or some equally profound metaphor.
“There’s always at least one idiot with a camera,” the hottest old curmudgeon in town finished.
“I assume you’re talking about journalists, not your well-meaning, misguided fans.”
“Either-or.” He frowned. “Both. It’s all nonsense.”
“Let me guess—you became an actor to act, not to become public property. The fame is an unfortunate downside to the craft. Et cetera.”
“It is, to anyone with the gift and instinct for the stage, and not merely a need for constant, slavering attention.” He looked at her scornfully. “Let me guess,” he mimicked. “You share the good news on Facebook when you appear in the gossip columns, you can’t get enough of people asking for your autograph in the street, and you simply adore being asked whom you’re wearing by vapid journalism graduates who couldn’t get a job reporting actual news.”
“We’re awfully snotty about the industry that pays our bills, aren’t we?” Lainie refused to be provoked. She carefully set down her cup in its saucer and popped the free chocolate into her mouth. Moving it to the side of her cheek with her tongue, she added, “Although I forgot for a moment. You don’t actually need vapid press to help you in finding work. It’s easy to be high-and-mighty about the integrity of the craft when you could buy and sell the Metronome with your discretionary income, isn’t it?”
A faint flush rose up Richard’s neck, but she pushed past his obvious annoyance and continued, “And no, I don’t particularly enjoy reading embellished facts and total lies about myself on the internet. But I can only be annoyed about it to a certain point before I become a hopeless hypocrite, since I read magazines and blogs myself.” She ignored his snort. “Most people do. It’s probably been going on since the beginning of time—people have always spied on their neighbours and they’ve always gossiped about public figures. Look at our play. Rumours running rife amongst the court. Your character would achieve fuck all without poking and prying into things that don’t concern him. With the odd stagnant, boring exception,” she finished, staring meaningfully, “to be human is to be nosy. I refuse to believe that even you wouldn’t be secretly interested if you heard something shocking about, say, Jack Trenton.”
“I cannot conceive of any possible circumstance where I would find myself enjoying a cosy gossip about Jack Trenton.”
“No? What if I came to you and said that Jack got his role at the Palladium by sleeping with the director?”
“He did.”
Lainie blinked. “What?”
Richard absently wiped up a coffee ring on the table with his napkin. “He was seeing Arnette Hall when he was cast, so I doubt if that was a coincidence.” He sounded totally uninterested. “I don’t think anyone believes Trenton is advancing in his career on the strength of his talent.”
“But...what about Sadie? Weren’t they going out then?”
Richard shrugged. “Since he hasn’t been seen with six-inch nail gouges down his face, I assume not.”
“How do you know this?” Lainie demanded. “And of all the cheek, criticising other people for gossiping.”
“Nobody whispered the latest on dit into my ear over the watercooler. I saw them together at a hotel. If it was supposed to be a secret, they should have chosen somewhere less high-profile than the Goring.” He leaned back and dug into his pocket to remove his wallet, ready to pay the bill. “That wasn’t gossiping. This,” he said, gesturing between them, “is gossiping. Which is why we’re going to stop discussing it.”
“So you didn’t tell anyone?”
He looked disgusted. “What the fuck do I care about Trenton’s personal life? If he has to shag his way through every casting office in the city to get a job, have at it. So long as he doesn’t come within a foot of any production of mine.”
He got up and went to pay for their food, and Lainie stared after him.
Well, honestly.
Outside on the street, she pulled up the hood of her fleece to protect her head against the drizzle, although she suspected her hair was a lost cause. She had now reached the post-exercise stage—admittedly a rare location in which to find herself—where the sweat had dried into a nice crusty sheen of salt on her skin and clothing. It was not pleasant.
“I need a shower.” She grimaced and plucked at her top. She didn’t think she actually smelled. Richard would never have kept quiet to spare her feelings. He would probably have made her sit on a towel and ride with the window open.
“Your pressing urge to traipse around the Tower will have to be put on hold, then.” Richard unlocked the car door and held it open for her. “The British public will be disappointed.”
“Well, I can obviously forget inviting you along when I go, since you seem to rank yourself on the Prince William and Clooney scale of paparazzi interest.” She considered. “We could wear huge hats and sunglasses. Give you the chance to enjoy a day of anonymity. It must be a trial being in possession of such striking good looks and huge, pulsating...talent.”
Richard slid behind the wheel and reached for his seat belt. “I think the idiots wearing sunglasses in pouring October rain would attract their fair share of attention.”
He drove her the short distance to her flat, as it hadn’t occurred to her that she could offer to walk home. Her body considered itself good for cardio for at least a fortnight. She automatically offered him a cup of tea—the English tradition: just finished drinking half a gallon of coffee and hot chocolate, therefore must be time for a cuppa—and was surprised when he accepted.
He followed her up the stairs to her flat, looking around the upper floors with avid interest and a growing frown. When she’d unlocked the door and he was standing in her tiny lounge, he asked rudely, “What pay grade are you on?”
Lainie went into the kitchen and topped up the kettle with water. “We can’t all live in a mansion in Belgravia,” she called back. “It would send the tax brackets haywire.” Either the euphoria was still buzzing from her run or she was growing a thicker skin when it came to Richard. She didn’t feel tempted to slip something more lethal than sugar into his tea. Progress.
She dropped tea bags into a couple of mugs and returned to the lounge while she was waiting for the kettle to boil. Dropping down on the couch, she smothered a yawn and pulled at her jacket again. She would strip it off and shower as soon as he left. There was no way she was getting naked while Richard was one flimsy wall away. “You’ll just have to slum it for a few minutes. I’m sure you’ll survive.”
He sat down at her side, still frowning and obviously missing the subtle hint at his departure. He was subjecting her room and possessions to an intense scrutiny. A belated sense of guest etiquette seemed to return to him, as he offered an unconvincing, “No, it’s...fine. Very...snug.”
She eyed him. “I’m well aware that my entire flat could probably fit into your en suite. There’s no need to strain something trying to be polite. I’m getting used to your particular brand of sledgehammer.”
The kettle whistled before he was obliged to answer, and she went out to make the tea. She didn’t think he would appreciate her pug mug, so she let him have her grandmother’s Royal Doulton cup. After a pause, she added a handful of digestive biscuits to a plate. She might be finding him more tolerable, but she wasn’t wasting the chocolate hobnobs.
He looked preoccupied when she handed him the pretty cup. The look he gave her when she sat down again was sharp and penetrating. “I didn’t hurt your feelings, did I? About your flat just now?”
She came to a stop midbite of her biscuit. It grew soggy between her teeth and half of it crumbled into her lap. Coughing, she took a quick sip of tea. “Where did that come from?” she asked when her throat was clear. She brushed the crumbs from her knee into her cupped hand and deposited them into a tissue. Why did he continually make her feel like such a scruff?
“Did I?” he persisted. He had taken off his coat and pushed up the sleeves of his jumper. His forearms were ropy with muscle and dusted with a light covering of dark hair. It looked softer than the coarse hairs in his eyebrows, which were currently compressing wrinkles above the high bridge of his nose. He was being serious. He really wanted to know.
Lainie stroked her thumb around the rim of her mug. “No. You didn’t hurt my feelings.” She smiled faintly. “You make me hopping mad, though. And I wish you would have more consideration for other people’s feelings in general.”
In the interests of honesty, she added, “I’m not exactly soft-spoken myself, in case you haven’t noticed. I can handle your acid remarks. I even—very occasionally—enjoy them. It’s mostly when they’re directed at other people that I balk. Especially when the balance of power is clearly on your side.”
Richard was resting his arms on his knees, looking down into his own cup. The short black curls were tumbling against his forehead. His resemblance to the ideal of a romantic poet had never been more evident. “I’m aware,” he said finally, in a low voice, “that I can be...difficult to get along with. And I don’t always make allowances for individual circumstances. I expect people to just take anything I say and fire back.” The corner of his mouth tilted. “As you do.” He turned his head and fixed her with that intent blue stare. “I wouldn’t want you to think I always intentionally aim to hurt.”
Had there been a slight emphasis on the word you?
Lainie bit her lower lip thoughtfully. She wasn’t quite sure how to answer. “I don’t think you’re a bad person, Richard. Perhaps a little more flawed than most,” she teased, and he grimaced, “but I shall rise above that and keep a thick skin where you’re concerned.”
“Thank you,” he said dryly.
“And if you really do hurt my feelings, I’ll immediately and enthusiastically cry so you’re aware of the fact.”
He looked faintly appalled at even the joking suggestion—and generally uncomfortable with the way the conversation had turned. She could relate.
He leaned forward to put his cup on the coffee table and picked up the script that was lying there. The first page of the historical saga was scrawled and underlined with her notes. His initial movements were artificial—he was acting again, moving them out of an awkward impasse, and the script was the closest prop to hand. But his idle glance swiftly focused into intent interest. She conquered her first instinct, which was to snatch the papers out of his hand and sit on them, and settled for watching him warily from behind a sip of tea.
Richard flipped through a few pages of the miniseries pilot, skim-reading with a practised eye. “Are you doing this?” he asked, still reading. There was definite disapproval in his voice, and she bristled. This was currently her sore spot, and she was sensitive to the slightest jab at it. He glanced up when she didn’t reply, giving her an ironic look. “Yet another talented stage actor decamps for the cheap thrills of television, I see.”
She had stuck on the opening adjective. “Talented?” she repeated, astonished and totally ignoring the rest of his hoary old prejudices.
“That’s what I said.” He paused. “Well, within certain parameters.”
“Which you may keep to yourself. I’d prefer my nice shiny compliment to remain untarnished, thank you.”
Richard raised the script. “You should have a good chance of getting another West End role when The Cavalier’s Tribute’s run ends. Has the experience begun to pall?”
“No.” Lainie tried not to sound defensive. “I love the theatre. But I don’t see anything wrong in stretching myself. Trying other mediums.” It was true. She just wished her confidence extended beyond the sentiment to her actual abilities. Her eyes narrowed. “I seem to remember the Great Troy lowering himself to do a few films back in the day. And I know you did at least one guest spot on TV.” She had watched it on YouTube over breakfast the other morning. And Richard had been nominated for a BAFTA eight years ago for one of those films.
“Naturally. I would hardly air my criticisms of an industry without experiencing it firsthand, would I?”
“Just as a side note, you’re the most infuriating person to have an argument with.”
He looked surprised. “We’re not having an argument. We’re discussing your immediate future in your chosen occupation.” He flipped through another couple of pages of the script and considered her shrewdly. “I suppose it’s only fair that you get the screen bug out of your system. This doesn’t seem like complete trash.”
“I do not have the screen—”
“Have you been offered the role or are you still auditioning?”
She hesitated. “I had—have,” she corrected hastily, “a callback for a third audition next week.”
“Had or have?”
“Have. I have another audition next week.”
She didn’t like the way he was looking at her.
“You’re faltering.”
“I am not. I’m just...” Lainie realised she was chewing on her thumbnail again and removed her hand with an exasperated sound. She sighed. “I have...reservations.”
“About the role? Don’t do it, then. Listen to your instincts.”
“Yes, well, my instincts are telling me it’s a great role, and I would be rubbish in it.”
His eyebrows went up. “You’re nervous.”
She set her chin mutinously.
“Get over it.” Richard was uncompromising. His eyes didn’t leave her face. “You wouldn’t get a callback if they didn’t think you had the right potential for the part. If you get it, and you want it, you do it well. And you believe you can do it well. There’s no room in this industry for self-sabotage. There are plenty of people who will claw you down at the first opportunity. If you let them, you shouldn’t be there. Time to look into teaching.”
Lainie was silent.
“You’re a competent actor. Grow a spine and act like it.”
“I seem to have downgraded from ‘talented.’” She looked at him. “You don’t believe in coddling, do you?”
“Do you need to be coddled?”
Sometimes. Particularly at certain times of the month. But not, apparently, when it came to her career. Sarah’s sympathy for her nerves, when they’d spoken about it on the phone, had made her feel even more uncertain. Richard’s dictatorial straight talk made her sit a little taller.
She looked from the script to his cool expression. “Thanks.”
“For the record, I still think you would be better off sticking to the stage.” He carefully returned the script to the coffee table. “And I think you’ve misinterpreted the character’s emotional response on the second page.”
His eyes went to her phone, also lying on the table. “Is that a relative?” he asked idly, looking at Hannah’s photo on her screen background.
Lainie’s gaze also went to the freckled smile. “That’s my little sister. Hannah.”
“Cute.”
“Yes, she was.”
He stopped moving. “Was?” he asked after an extended pause.
Lainie picked up the phone, wrapping her fingers around it. It was a protective gesture, as if she could physically hold her sister’s memory close, safeguarding it from any insensitive response.
“She died from cervical cancer.” She never whitewashed the circumstances; she wasn’t going to hedge about her sister’s life and death to avoid a conversational gaffe. “About eighteen months ago, when she was sixteen. She was one of the youngest reported cases.”
For at least thirty seconds, he said nothing at all. She knew; she was counting in her head. Stress tic. Eventually, and very, very gently, he reached over and took the phone from her resisting grip. He turned it over to look more closely at the photo.
“She looks like you,” he said, and Lainie smiled faintly.
“I always thought so. She didn’t.”
“It’s the eyes. Green as the sea and full of devils. She looks like a handful.”
“Are you implying, by any chance, that it runs in the family?”
“Would I be so uncivil?”
Her smile grew. “She was a handful. She was a moody, stroppy little piece of work with too many piercings and at least one tattoo Mum didn’t know about. She could get under my skin like no one else on earth.” Her eyes turned ironical on him. “At the time.” She added calmly, “And she was the relentless, pesky, foulmouthed light of my life.”
“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 coins 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.