Greta beamed at them. Her nose was all but twitching as she scented material for her five-past-two gossip slot. Lainie felt Richard’s biceps shifting against her shoulder. She told herself it was an impatient fidget. He probably wouldn’t clock the woman. However tempting it might be.
“I had no idea,” Greta went on, looking from one to the other of them. “Elaine, you sly thing. You didn’t utter a peep when we had our little chat about Will last week.” Her voice was hushed and confidential. An eavesdropper—and there were at least four in Lainie’s direct line of sight—could be forgiven for thinking that she made a habit of phoning Auntie Greta in tears after every romantic disaster.
The “little chat” in question had consisted of Greta ambushing her in the yoghurt section of Waitrose and making snide digs about Will’s obvious preference for silicone.
Richard smiled back at Greta. It was a completely manufactured, calculated movement that had nothing whatsoever to do with genuine feeling. That didn’t lessen the impact. Eyes became more blue, interesting lines and dimples appeared around firm lips, and a face that could be overly severe in repose became almost mythically handsome. Even Lainie’s heart gave an extra thump in response, and she still wanted to upend her cocktail over his smug, shapely head.
“No idea about what?” Richard asked, his words blandly curious. He took another sip from his own glass and managed to skip the aftertaste blench this time. It was a fairly horrible drink.
Greta looked slightly discomposed. She blinked under the dual threat of the smile and the purring lack of response. “Well...” she said, tearing her eyes from Richard’s mouth with some difficulty. Her gaze kept drifting back like a fly unable to pull its feet from sticky spider webbing. She looked meaningfully at Lainie. “I couldn’t help noticing you come in,” she said, with a revolting comradely nudge. “Holding hands.”
The undertone of “Scandal!” was so heavy that one would think Lainie had walked into the room with her hand thrust down Richard’s pants.
“Oh, you know me, Greta.” Richard was still smiling. “Always a gentleman.” He ignored Lainie’s muffled cough and patted her on the shoulder. “She was a bit unsteady on her feet. Light-headedness is fairly common with that particular strain of the virus, I believe. I assume you’ve had your vaccination?” he added with concern. “It’s running rampant in the theatre at the moment.”
Greta tried an uncertain smile, obviously prepared to humour the joke, but at Richard’s persistent look of bland enquiry, she grew restless. With a wary glance at Lainie, perhaps checking for a flush of fever or sprouting pox, she developed an intense need to greet another acquaintance.
Lainie watched her departing back. “I’m speechless,” she said. “I am without speech.”
“If I thought that was remotely true, I would feel considerably more optimistic about my evening.” Richard glanced at his watch. “Christ, we’ve only been here for five minutes. It’s like being stuck in the TARDIS. Time has lost all meaning.”
He turned away to ditch his cocktail glass, thus missing Lainie’s gobsmacked expression. A Doctor Who reference from her second-least-favourite person? Wonders never ceased. How potent were these drinks?
She followed his example and got rid of hers on a side table, watching Richard from between lowered lashes. She could not, for the life of her, imagine him going home after a performance and crashing in front of the TV. She actually couldn’t imagine him existing in a room by himself. It was if he flashed into being inside the doors of the theatre and disappeared again when he left. With occasional sightings of the poltergeist reported on Twitter when he threw plates at people’s heads.
“So, is it solely my presence that offends,” she asked when he returned with obvious reluctance to her side, “or do you just despise people in general?”
He seemed about to resort to sarcasm, but changed his mind and considered her question. A faint frown appeared between his arching black eyebrows. “I do find the majority of people somewhat lacking in intelligence,” he admitted. Eye roll number two. “But they’re more tolerable in isolated groups. En masse, with the addition of alcohol, these occasions tend to be a social experiment in pushing the absolute boundaries of insipidity and vanity.” He looked around the filling room with disdain. “Three-quarters of these people are a walking waste of oxygen. And that’s a conservative estimate.”
“Well, it’s nice to see that success hasn’t gone to your head.” Lainie gave him an exasperated look. “If you hate people and parties so much, why do you bother coming? You could go home and get to bed at a reasonably decent hour. I bet you’re a chronic insomniac,” she said thoughtfully. “It might explain part of the grouchiness. And the dark rings.”