Sadie Foster appeared in the doorway and posed, one hand propped on her hip as she looked around the room. Her sharp gaze fastened on Lainie, who had to suppress the impulse to lift her palm and cover the spots.
“Oh, right,” Sadie said, with a snotty head-to-toe survey. “The Metronome.” She frowned. “We’ve met, right?”
Said the woman who’d copied Lainie’s answers in acting theory class for a year, and then attempted to maim her. Presumably, in Sadie’s world, other people just blurred into one negligible composite of Not Me.
“A few times, yes.” Lainie knocked back the rest of the coffee in one gulp, mentally swapping it out for a tequila shot.
Sadie swung her handbag onto a nearby table, where an intern was trying to set out a selection of accessories, and sort of...flowed into the chair next to Lainie’s. She had the same ability as Richard to make her body go boneless and effortlessly elegant. She also had a similarly aristocratic, aquiline nose. The pretty-face fairy had been awfully generous where those two were concerned. And had obviously just whacked the good-manners fairy right out of her path.
“I want something like this.” Sadie handed a torn-out magazine page to her own stylist, interrupting the other woman midway through her polite “Good morning.” She nodded at Lainie’s empty cup. “And a coffee. Black. No sugar.”
Lainie, her eyes fixed on the mirror, saw the two stylists exchange glances over her head.
Sadie, oblivious to the undercurrents—and the fact that she was probably going to star in a Facebook rant later that morning—crossed her legs and yawned. “God,” she said, flipping her gold wristwatch around. “Seriously, who would watch TV at this hour of the morning?”
“The studio gets some of its highest ratings between seven and eight in the morning,” Sharon told her, beginning to dab primer onto Lainie’s cheekbones. “A lot of people watch the show while they’re getting ready for work. Hauling the kids out of bed.”
Sadie shuddered. Lainie wasn’t sure whether her nerves were upset by the idea of a nine-to-five, needy offspring, or both.
The bored brown eyes cut in her direction again. “So,” Sadie drawled. “Anything lined up for the end of your run? Rumour has it that might be sooner than scheduled.”
Lainie concentrated on the soothing motions of Sharon’s hands. The cream she was using smelled like coconut. If she closed her eyes, she could pretend she was having a facial. On a desert island. Far, far away from the abrasive blonde presence beside her.
“And that would be just that,” she said calmly. “An unsubstantiated rumour.”
“Not what I heard.” Sadie’s voice was light and malicious. “I would have thought twice, if I were you, before I got into bed with Richard Troy.”
Lainie’s eyes opened, and she met Sadie’s gaze in the mirror.
“Professionally speaking,” the other woman said. She smiled. “Obviously.”
“Obviously.”
Sharon and her colleague widened their eyes at one another again, and Lainie grimaced. Snarky little scenes like this didn’t help anyone’s reputation.
“You could try the manager at Leather and Lace,” Sadie suggested helpfully. “I’ve heard he’s always looking for trained dancers.” She raised her eyes to Lainie’s forehead. “Or a Proactiv campaign,” she muttered. Loudly.
On the other hand, it would probably give the studio a bit of free publicity if one of their guests mysteriously choked to death on a tube of lipstick.
Sharon coughed. “Tara’s buzzing about the interview,” she said tactfully. She picked up a damp sponge to blend in Lainie’s foundation. “Mr. Troy doesn’t give many mainstream interviews.” She politely didn’t add, “with good reason.” “And she’s been wanting to get Will Farmer on her couch for ages. In a manner of speaking.” She grinned, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively, and then looked mortified as recollection obviously came back to her.
Lainie was too busy going into cardiac arrest to care about the social gaffe. “Sorry?” She pushed her hands down on the arms of the chair, half rising to turn and stare at the red-faced stylist. “What?” Her vocabulary had gone out the window, along with all sense of optimism about the morning.
“Well, that’s embarrassing.” Sharon bit down on a long purple fingernail. “Geez. Sorry.”
“Will’s here? Now?” Hundred shades of horror.
Sharon was visibly taken aback. Sadie looked as if she was mentally bouncing in her chair, clapping her hands with glee.
“Well—yeah. I think so.” The stylist seemed eager to make amends. “I don’t know for sure that he’s arrived, but everyone had the same call time, so I assume he’s down the hall with Casey. I can check?”
“No. No. Thank you. That’s okay.” Lainie breathed out through her mouth. She ignored Sadie, whose sharp little ears had pricked up like a fox terrier.
Pat.
Forget the prison guard gig. The woman should be directing presidential campaigns.