He instinctively touched under his eye with the pad of his thumb, and then looked furious with himself for the gesture. He glared at her. “My success has not gone to my head.” He ignored the rest of her insults in favour of the first observation, which seemed to truly offend him. “My personality has not once altered under outside influence.”
“Then I’m genuinely appalled, and your childhood nannies have my intense sympathy. You’ve got a bit of a nerve, don’t you think, accusing other people of vanity? You make Mr. Darcy look like the poster child for low self-esteem.”
“There is a difference between vanity and having a clear idea of your own abilities and potential.”
She grimaced, lifting her hands to her cheeks. “Oh my God. I have never had such a sisterly feeling for Elizabeth Bennet.” She looked at him with both brows raised. “Please tell me that you were misquoted in Time when you referred to theatre as the only true forum for the craft. And that you did not call screen actors ‘fame-mongering puppets with as much understanding of the complexities of drama as Kim Kardashian has of nuclear physics.’”
“The journalist exaggerated, as usual. Although my opinion of the comparative status of theatre against film and television is fairly well-known, I believe,” Richard said, a bit stiffly.
“Yet you obviously watch TV.” She was suddenly feeling defensive about her miniseries ambitions, and was correspondingly cross with herself. Who bloody cared about Richard Troy’s out-of-date elitism? “And I’m frankly amazed that you even know who Kim Kardashian is.”
“I’m not denying the entertainment value of screen productions, nor the importance of their documentary and educational role. But I maintain that the roots and truest expression of drama is in live theatre. With the odd exception, most of the programmes produced for British television are absolute rubbish. And I was once unfortunate enough to share an interview slot with Kim Kardashian.” After a moment, he said grimly, “Don’t even get me started on reality TV.”
She possibly agreed with him on that score. Still—
“You’re going to be perfectly suited for the RSPA,” she said, and it was not intended as a compliment.
“Yes, I am,” he agreed coolly. He looked behind her. “Speaking of which...”
Lainie turned and saw a florid sixtyish man in a suit approaching. He couldn’t have declared his status any more clearly if he’d pulled out his wallet and offered them a tenner to do a skit. If he wasn’t on some sort of committee, and in it for the tax benefits, she would eat her bargain-price handbag.
“Eric Westfield. Current vice president of the Society,” Richard said close to her ear. He put his hand on her upper arm and gently moved her about six inches away from him. “Could you just...”
“I’m sorry,” Lainie said, “did you just move me? You do realise I’m not actually contagious?” She nodded at a point on the far side of the room. “Would you like me to go and stand over there? Because I think he may still guess that we’re together.”
“We aren’t—”
“I didn’t mean romantically.”
“Richard.” Eric Westfield beamed at them both. The bunched-up cheeks were rather sweet but didn’t go at all with the jaded expression in his eyes.
Richard wiped his face free of impatience and returned the other man’s handshake. “Eric. Good to see you.”
Westfield turned to Lainie. “And I believe this young lady has something to do with the theatre?” He accompanied the question with a roguish twinkle that made her take an instinctive step back.
“Elaine Graham. I’m currently appearing in The Cavalier’s Tribute with Richard.” Shaking his hand, she added sweetly, “When I’m not spreading the plague.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I was going to get in touch this week,” Richard cut in, shooting her a warning look. Well, aren’t we just all politeness when we want something? “We should meet up for a drink sometime. Perhaps Thursday evening if you’re free.”
Thursday was the night his alternate took over the role of Bandero and the rest of the cast breathed a sigh of relief.
“We’ll do that.” Westfield looked chuffed. Not so jaded after all, if he could still be gratified by the prospect of socialising with notoriety. Unless it was the snob value of Richard’s blue blood. Lainie remembered reading that he was seven hundred thirty-second or something in line for the throne.
God help them all in the event of an actual plague. If Harley Street succumbed and the royal family was forced to rely on the aid of the NHS, they would probably drop like flies. Whereas Richard would likely crawl unharmed from the rubble of a nuclear disaster. Like a cockroach.