She’d inserted a link to a trashy online rag that masqueraded as a news site. Against his better judgement, and partly under the warming influence of the whisky, he brought up the page and was greeted with the image of his own scowling face. He winced. Jesus. He looked like his great-aunt Harriet. It was something about the combination of the frown and the emerging beard.
His gaze moved to Lainie. She was standing at his side, her arms crossed over her breasts. With no compunction, he let his eyes linger there. He was willing to bet that dress had been designed on a flat-chested mannequin. His lips pursed in a silent whistle that would undoubtedly have earned him a smack around the ear had he been in feminine company. Lainie’s own expression, as she stared directly into the camera, was heavily disapproving. She looked like she would happily garrotte someone with the chain of her handbag. No prizes for guessing whom. Richard’s lips tilted unwillingly.
His eyebrow rose when he scrolled to the next set of images. They silently chronicled Lynette’s arrival on the scene, Lainie reluctantly cuddling up to him, smelling sweetly and elusively of vanilla, and then the staged peck on her mouth. Her lips had been sticky with gloss and had tasted of synthetic strawberry. Like a throat lozenge. The tableau looked ridiculously fake. Background extras in a C-grade soap could pull off a more convincing display of affection. There was obvious tension, but it was more of the angry than sexual variety. It was bad acting, and it riled his professional ego. The whole situation was bloody distasteful.
It came down to how badly he wanted the chair of the RSPA. He was neither deaf nor self-absorbed to the point of oblivion. He’d heard the murmurings. His media reputation was becoming a millstone around his neck. He was yet to be convinced, however, that the way to redemption was on the arm—and presumably, in public opinion, between the thighs—of an attractive girlfriend. Even if she did moonlight as Mother Teresa in her spare time. His apparent involvement with Lainie seemed more likely to damage her reputation than polish his own.
Surprisingly, the thought irritated him. His eyes returned to the iPad screen. Scissoring his fingers, he enlarged a headshot. His study of her features was less dispassionate than it would have been only hours earlier. He must have been aware that she was a beautiful woman, but symmetrical features, white teeth, glossy hair and generous breasts were a dime a dozen. The women—and men—he’d worked with over the past fifteen-odd years blended into a composite Hollywood ideal. If people couldn’t offer anything beyond genetic blessings and surgical enhancements, either by way of wits or—to be frank—useful connections, their voices didn’t tend to rise above the clamour.
Lainie had been a mild revelation tonight. Jessica Rabbit actually had a personality. And a fairly biting tongue. He shook his head. She was wasted on the simpering legs-and-lashes role they’d given her in The Cavalier’s Tribute. She could probably have made a decent job of Helen. Chloe tended to oversimplify and oversex the calculating, sardonic character.
On the other hand, Chloe wasn’t moronic enough to fall into bed with Will Farmer.
He moved one shoulder abruptly, trying to shake off the unusual feeling of restlessness. After the inane backstage chatter at the theatre, his silent house was usually a refuge. Tonight, his thoughts seemed to echo into the corners of the large comfortable room, coming back to taunt him. For one insane moment he considered going into the kitchen and turning the radio back on.
He flicked over to his calendar and checked his schedule for the rest of the week. The space for Saturday morning was currently fantastically blank. He couldn’t bring himself to insert the change of plan. A village fête. In October. It was like something out of Agatha Christie. Frozen dead bodies and all, probably, considering the weather forecast.
His chin lifted. He eyed the portrait of his father above the fireplace. The old man glared down at him. If Richard squinted, he could almost see the painted moustache quivering with rage.
The fête it was.
Silently, ironically, he saluted his father with the whisky glass and then drained its contents.
Chapter Three
London Celebrity @LondonCelebrity. 3h
A rebound fling? Will Farmer’s bitter rant as Graham and Troy heat up the Metronome...tinyurl.com/puy26gy
A nice person would have let him off the hook. There were no members of the Metronome goon squad lurking around Upper Bidford to bully them into obedience. Even the demands of her job weren’t enough to entice Lynette Stern from the civilised city to a country village with no free Wi-Fi. Lainie could have offered to bluff an excuse while Richard stayed home to enjoy whatever he usually did on a Saturday morning. She assumed it involved excellent espresso and some heavy self-Googling.