Joining them at the pumpkin display, Sarah extended a brisk hand to Richard. “Hello.” She was openly staring at him and making no excuses about it. “I’m Sarah Graham. Lainie’s least irritating sister-in-law.”
Richard still looked a bit wide-eyed and fur-ruffled, like a startled cat. Lainie had never seen him take so long to pull himself together. He shook Sarah’s hand and made a cordial response. It was almost effusive, for him. She was tempted to feel his forehead for fever, but got the impression he would take off straight through the side of the tent like the Road Runner if she touched him again.
It seemed a fairly safe bet that he was not, as a rule, a hugger. He didn’t even have to play that many love scenes onstage. Backtracking through his résumé, he had been frequently typecast as the villain in recent years.
It would be shabby and far too easy to comment on that.
“Where’s Emily?” Lainie asked, interrupting Sarah’s intrigued inspection of Richard’s herb pots. “Were we abandoned for shopping on the high street?”
“No, she’s over at the tea tent. Giggling with her best friend and pretending they’re not spying on Johnny Blake. Whom I can’t help noticing is a scrawny beanpole in serious need of a shower, a comb, and a belt to hold up his trousers. I despair about the current state of teenage hormones.”
“To be fair,” Lainie said, “I believe you had a crush on George Michael when you were at school. He wasn’t exactly a well-coifed bodybuilder, was he?”
“He was adorable.” Sarah wrinkled her nose. “You eighties babies had no sense of style.”
Niall was Lainie’s second-oldest brother and Sarah was a decade her senior, but the age difference had never affected their friendship. They had clicked from the moment Niall had brought her home to meet his family as a university student.
“Says the woman who sat her A-levels in shoulder pads and a bouffant.”
Richard was stirring restlessly. Their mutual exchange of nonsense had provided enough cover for him to resurrect his usual shields. “Who is Johnny Blake?” he asked abruptly, and Lainie frowned at him.
“I introduced you to him when we arrived. He opened the fête.”
“I may only just scrape in as an eighties baby,” he said sarcastically, “but I haven’t quite dwindled into senility yet. I recall the introduction. I’m still awaiting the explanation of his apparent teen idol status.”
“He’s a vlogger,” Sarah explained. “He makes videos on YouTube.”
“Oh. YouTube.”
Henry the Eighth might have used the same tone on a visit to the London slums: “Oh. The common rabble.”
And, well—yes. She supposed that if his experience of YouTube was limited to people posting iPhone footage of his public meltdowns, he was entitled to be jaded. She would have to introduce him to the life-altering joy that was funny cat videos.
They made their way back outside, and Lainie shivered. The sky was an ominous-looking grey now and it was amazing the rain had held off this long. There was a good reason why most village fêtes were held in summer. At least one could be optimistic about a hint of sunshine then.
She was suddenly surrounded by warm, masculine-scented wool. Her eyes, scrunched up against the wind, shot open and encountered Sarah’s equally surprised expression. Richard, now sans his thousand-pound coat and probably freezing in his shirtsleeves, didn’t look at either of them.
Too astonished to speak, Lainie touched a wondering hand to the thick, butter-soft cashmere. Richard’s cheeks were going a bit ruddy in the cold air.
Or was he embarrassed? He looked definitely relieved when a stranger approached them and apologised for interrupting.
Gratitude slid into gathering thunderclouds when the man went on to ask, very apprehensively, if Richard was the owner of the Ferrari parked by the church. Lainie didn’t think he’d moved that quickly since their first dress rehearsal, when Will had been let loose unsupervised with his sword and had found it harder to manoeuvre than anticipated.
She followed him at a less athletic pace, already wincing. She hoped he hadn’t been ticketed. That would make for a fun journey home. It had been a very long couple of hours in the car already this morning. Bob had staged impromptu drinks with VIP guests after the previous night’s show, and none of the cast had got home before 2:00 a.m. Neither she nor Richard functioned well on three hours of sleep and zero cups of coffee.
“My, my,” Sarah said provocatively at her side. “What was that I saw? Could it be? Was that possibly a belated spark of chemistry?”
Lainie shot her a look. “There was a photographer outside.” She heard the defensive thread in her words, and Sarah looked unimpressed.
“Not when I walked in, there wasn’t. Just two smitten-looking people snogging in a sea of pumpkins.”
“We weren’t snogging, and I’m not smitten.” She touched a fingertip to her borrowed coat again. Confused, yes. Smitten, no. “We’re just doing our job.”