With an audible intake of breath and a tighter smile, the host tried again. “You’ve gained something of a reputation lately, Richard, for being difficult to work with. There have been reports in the press as to breaches of contract, and details have emerged of a rather nasty email exchange between yourself and the Department for Culture, Media and Sport.”
“Which is a shocking reflection on the state of journalistic ethics in this city. Hacking into government emails.” Lainie shook her head with dismay. Letting go of Richard’s hand, she crossed her legs and leaned forward, clasping her fingers around her raised knee. “What do you think about that?” she asked, with avid, wide-eyed interest. She seemed completely at ease now, after her initial bout of nerves, and ready to have a good natter over a cup of tea.
Even Farmer was starting to look reluctantly amused.
The harassed blonde looked like she needed a large glass of wine.
Richard leaned back and let Lainie have at it. He really had underestimated her.
The interview wound up with a rapidity that surprised no one. As they were ushered off the set, the forgettably named host eyed Lainie’s rear. Probably weighing up the potential cost to her career against the satisfaction of soundly kicking it. Still grinning, Richard moved smoothly between the two women, just in case impulse won out over sanity.
An intern swept them back to the greenroom, where they’d left their belongings.
“Well...thanks,” the teenager said, biting her pierced lip. “That was...great.”
“By ‘great’,” Trenton said thoughtfully, when she’d departed in a hurry, “do you think she means ‘total fucking disaster’?” He grinned and picked up Lainie’s wool coat to help her shrug into it. The uncharacteristically chivalrous gesture annoyed everyone in the room except those immediately involved. Richard bit back a sarcastic comment when he saw Farmer and Sadie scowl. He had no desire to share even a fleeting sentiment with that company.
“For Tara Whitlow’s ego, I mean,” Trenton went on, happily oblivious to his simmering girlfriend. “I personally enjoyed the hell out of it.”
“Well, I did not.” Sadie grabbed Lainie’s arm. “If you’re that ignorant about how to behave in public,” said the woman who’d caused widespread nausea by cleaning Trenton’s eardrum with her tongue, “your management team shouldn’t let you off the leash. It’s our reputations that’ll take the hit from your lack of control.”
To the probable disappointment of all three men, Lainie failed to live up to the clichéd promise of her red hair and merely rolled her eyes in response.
“She’s probably right, though,” she admitted to him privately as they made their way down to the lobby, out of earshot of the others. “That may not be what Pat had in mind when she suggested we present a contrast to Jack and Sadie. I don’t want to sound paranoid, but at times I got the feeling Ms. Whitlow didn’t like us much.”
Her phone trilled, and she dug through her bag. “Ten quid says it’s Pat?”
“No bet.” He held the door to the street open for her. “Watch the step, Tig.”
The nickname slipped out again. He enjoyed the cranky looks it generated. He hadn’t called anyone by a ridiculous nickname since his schooldays, when he’d shared a dormitory with One-Can Murphy and Mouse Philps. His own Eton nickname had been firmly consigned to the history books, never to be spoken again. Suffice to say that he’d paid dearly for the sports day folly of keeping his spare tennis balls in his pockets while wearing overly tight trousers. The entire upper school had thought he’d been a little too excited about winning the house cup. The recent coining of Byron by some moron on Facebook might otherwise have grated, but seemed trivial by comparison.
It was raining again, so they paused under the awning while she opened the text. Silently, she held it up for him to see.
To clear up any confusion on the issue, the point of this unholy alliance is to elevate Richard’s reputation. Not for you to become mutually irritating.
Another beep. He could feel her breath warm against his ear as they read it together.
Fortunately, Tara Whitlow is a renowned twit. Behave like that at the Theatre Awards, and you’re fired. Ditto Troy.
“She must be in a good mood,” Lainie said, but she looked uneasy. She was an innate do-gooder. When the buzz wore off, she would end up mentally rehashing the interview countless times, probably wondering what on earth she’d been thinking.
Richard was slightly curious himself on that point. It had been a very long time since anyone had publicly leapt to his defence, and no one had ever done it with such an air of protectiveness.
Absently, he rubbed the heel of his hand against his chest. The troubled expression in her eyes was making him restless. “Talk about preferential treatment,” he said, with a lightness that didn’t reflect his mood. “The last time I did an interview, Pat texted me a link to a site on medieval torture methods. I should talk to the union.”
He watched her. The air between them felt charged, as if he was attuned to her thoughts and reactions.