It was also the first time she had ever seen him genuinely disconcerted. His eyes flickered to her mouth and then up to her eyes, and he hesitated before opening the car door to let her climb inside.
The journey to her flat in Bayswater was quiet and almost peaceful. It was a stark contrast to the constant bickering earlier in the evening when they’d left the theatre. Lainie, her gaze fastened dreamily on the lights and nightlife out the darkened window, put it down to mutual tiredness. She said very little beyond giving the odd street direction. Richard brought the Ferrari to a stop outside her building, an old Victorian terrace house, and deposited her on her doorstep with a curt “Good night.” She nodded, and watched thoughtfully from the open door as he returned to the car. About thirty seconds later, he stared at her impatiently through the window, and she realised he was waiting for her to go inside so he could leave. With a spark of mischief, she offered a cheerful wave, and his scowl deepened. It was tempting to blow a kiss, for the sheer novelty of seeing his head explode, but she did have her limits.
Grinning, she closed and locked the door, and made her way up the creaking stairs. It was a tidy, warm house, but as comfortably decrepit in its small way as the Metronome was on a grand scale. The carpets definitely needed replacing. Her flat was on the top floor, which was a bugger when she had shopping to carry up, but at least meant she got enough exercise to justify skipping a gym membership.
That was her story, and she was sticking to it.
Her landlady’s fat ginger cat was asleep outside her door and she stopped to stroke his soft fur. He was also called Richard, which had afforded her considerable amusement over the past couple of months, particularly since he had one of those adorably squished, chronically grumpy faces. Human Richard, for all his good looks, was afflicted with a similarly epic case of resting bitch face. He had the elastic features of a natural-born actor, but at the close of a scene, he tended to return to his factory setting of grouch.
Turning on lights and pulling curtains as she went, she set the kettle boiling in the kitchen and hunted out a bag of Yorkshire tea. As she played with the spoon, pressing the bag against the side of the cup in an attempt to speed up the steeping process, she idly wondered what human Richard was going home to. Not a wife and four hopeful children, unless he kept secrets locked tighter than the vaults of MI5. She found it hard to believe any woman would voluntarily cohabit with him. There wasn’t enough money in the world to put up with that level of stress.
She was imagining chandeliers and staff. Perhaps a Jeeves-style butler to murmur approvingly over his choice of evening clothes and help him put his jammies on. Although ten to one, he slept naked.
Her mind temporarily shorted out at that point.
Her clutch vibrated on the table and she went to retrieve her phone, taking her cup along for a sustaining gulp of too-hot tea. Flicking her thumb against the touch pad, she read the text from Sarah: Are you home yet? No chat abbreviations from her sister-in-law, who taught English at her local comprehensive school and had vocal opinions on the subject of lazy spelling.
She curled up on the couch, wedging a cushion behind the small of her back, and dialled the number for Sarah and Niall’s home in Camden.
“If it isn’t the future Mrs. Troy.” Sarah was obviously trying hard not to laugh, and failing dismally.
Lainie sighed. “I see the gossip columnists didn’t waste any time.”
“Oh, no. The photos started appearing an hour ago. London Celebrity is running two consecutive articles on the hot new romance, one in which they have you almost engaged, and the other which writes off the whole thing as a rebound fling. With some fairly sketchy allusions to Will and the timing. I wonder if they were written by the same person, if their staff ever bother to check what the next cubicle is writing, or if they just don’t care.”
“When in doubt, pick C.” Lainie took another sip of tea. Her iPad was resting at the other end of the couch and she pushed it a little farther away with her big toe, in a symbolic gesture of rejection. “Sounds like business as usual, then.”
“Can’t say I think much of the lip-lock, though,” Sarah said disapprovingly. Lainie could hear her mouse clicking. “I’ve seen steamier embraces during church services. He looks like he’s performing CPR on someone he’d secretly rather have left at the bottom of the pool.”
Lainie laughed, but she wasn’t entirely amused. At all, in fact. “Accurate representation by London Celebrity. That’s a first.”
“The atmosphere backstage still a trifle chilly, is it?”
“It’s social Antarctica. If it wasn’t for Chloe, who’s even nice to Richard and is totally oblivious to snubs and any underlying tension, performances would be about as much fun as drinks out with the Borgias.”