“Will...”
“I mean, come on, Lainie. Troy. A city full of single blokes, and you pick the biggest wanker in the West End.”
“It’s a sorely contested title. And we’ve agreed this is none of your business. Now move, please. I need to be caffeinated, and you need to resume typing dodgy little comments in Mabel’s ear.”
Will raised his hands in surrender and stepped away, and she moved around him, reaching into her pocket for the key to her dressing room.
He started back up the stairs, pausing at the top to call down, “And it’s Ethel. I saw her passport when we went to Paris for the day.”
Ethel? The discarded trophy wife and wannabe glamour model, Ethel.
Quelle horreur.
*
Pat was almost out the door when she suddenly came to a halt and retreated back into the dressing room.
Richard looked up from the script he’d been reading before her unwelcome interruption. He didn’t bother to mark his place this time. From a promising first act, it had descended into melodramatic, historically improbable crap.
He smothered a yawn. God, he was tired. He’d had about three hours of sleep last night. The extra shot of espresso in his afternoon coffee was ineffective. He checked his watch. If Pat would kindly sod off, he could fit in a thirty-minute power nap. After her latest mandate, making herself scarce was the least she could do. He wondered if Lainie had received the news yet.
“Was there something else?” The question was pointed rather than polite.
Pat was smiling to herself. With one manicured finger, she smoothed back the immaculate blond hair above her temple. “That should put an extra cat among the pigeons.” The observation was both clichéd and obscure. When he merely blinked slowly, uninterested, she added, with a nod toward the door, “Lainie and Will. A rather intense little tête-à-tête in the hallway.” She looked thoughtful. “It might be about time for a statement from that corner. Perhaps I’ll drop a few words in ears.”
Richard had stopped listening to her. He was already on his feet. He wasn’t going along with this farce so Lainie could pull a U-turn and dive back between Farmer’s sheets. As Pat watched with great interest, he yanked open the door and strode out into the hallway. He was just in time to see Farmer’s flat feet clumping up the stairs, probably on his way to the greenroom to sexually harass the catering assistants. It wasn’t going to be necessary to speed him on his way.
It had been a trying day all round.
Lainie was walking toward him, headed for her dressing room farther down the corridor. She looked pleased with herself. A tiny smile tugged at her lips. Her red lipstick was almost the exact shade of her hair. She lifted her head and faltered when she encountered his narrowed gaze.
Richard debated speech, and then simply lifted her by the elbows and transferred her to his own dressing room. She didn’t come quietly.
The stream of protest came to an abrupt halt when she caught sight of Pat. A vivid blush spread up from her neck. She was definitely a natural redhead. Completely unable to maintain a distance between her emotions and her complexion. Given their line of work, she ought to be thankful for the camouflaging qualities of greasepaint.
“Hello, Pat,” she said stiffly, and then shot Richard a nasty look, as if he was responsible for the other woman’s presence.
“Lainie.” Pat smiled at her. “I hear things went well this morning.”
“Oh.” Lainie darted another glance at him. “Did you?” Her tone was sceptical.
“The Digital Mail is running a caption contest on the photograph of Richard fondling root vegetables. Last time I checked, they already had three hundred entries. Ninety-nine percent sexual innuendo, obviously.”
Richard rolled his eyes but couldn’t stop a faint smile when he saw Lainie’s amusement.
“I’ll have to remember to enter tonight.” She lifted a delicately arched brow at him. “Was there a reason for that polite summons into your lair, by the way? Or did you just feel like showing off your biceps?”
“I thought you might have questions about Monday,” he said blandly, and watched her expression change.
“Monday?” she asked suspiciously. She glanced from him to Pat. “Oh, God. Now what?”
“Your enthusiasm is noted,” Pat said, heavy on the irony. “I’ve booked you both to appear on Wake Me Up London on Monday morning. You’re on at half seven, so you’ll have to be there at six. Get an early night tomorrow. Concealer can only do so much. We’d like to avoid the impression that we work our cast into walking corpses.”