Oh, bullshit. He must be more tired than he’d thought.
Lainie smiled suddenly, and his heart actually thumped. He gritted his teeth and a muscle jumped in his jaw. He wanted to turn on his heel and walk away, like a fucking coward, and the impulse struck fiercely at his pride.
“As you called the union president an incompetent prick during your last interview, that might be counterintuitive.”
A few years ago, he had participated in a black-and-white short film for the Royal Shakespeare Company. He’d had to communicate the passage of Lear’s descent into madness solely through the alteration of his facial features. He had found that less difficult than it was to keep his expression bland now.
“The current president has a brain,” he said shortly.
Unfazed by his sharp tone, Lainie gave him a distracted smile and began to text a reply to Pat. He was even more unsettled by the blasé response.
He checked his watch. They had to be at the theatre for a rehearsal at twelve. It was way too early to arrive yet. He didn’t care. “I’ll drive you to the theatre,” he said abruptly, and Lainie also checked the time on her phone.
Casting him a slightly curious look, she hesitated, and then shrugged. “All right. I do need to talk to Olivia about my second costume change.”
She followed him to where he’d parked the car and had just clicked in her seat belt when she swore under her breath. Her teeth sank into her very full lower lip. “I forgot. I have to swing by home first and feed Cat Richard. Just drop me at the Tube if you like. There’s plenty of time.”
He was beginning to feel as if he was doing surrealist improv.
Starting the car, he pulled smoothly into the traffic flow. At the first intersection, he turned in the direction of Bayswater.
“Cat Richard?” he asked, when they came to a halt behind a double-decker bus.
“My landlady’s ginger tom.” Lainie sounded too calm. He glanced at her. Yes, her eyes were full of laughter. “He’s called Richard. I’m feeding him while she’s away for a few days, and he has to have meals twice a day. Bowel issues.”
This was actually his life.
It was raining more heavily when they pulled up outside the Victorian terrace where she lived. The street looked gloomy and run-down in the murky weather, and she’d better not have been walking here alone from the station at night.
“Do you ever drive?” he asked, as they made a dash for the front door. She pushed the key into the lock and glanced back at him. A raindrop caught on the end of her lashes, which were thick and spiky with mascara.
“No, I don’t even have a license. I’ve never lived farther than a five-minute walk from a Tube station. Thank you for the lift.”
She placed a certain amount of emphasis on that last part, and he said impatiently, “It wasn’t a hint. How do you usually get home at night?”
“I beam myself into my living room like Spock. On the Tube. How do you think?”
“And then you walk home alone from the station?”
Lainie, apparently unaware that there was rain dripping down the back of his collar, turned on the doorstep to face him. People generally reserved that expression for very young and not particularly bright children. Her hand came up to cup his cheek for a moment, and if she felt him stiffen, she ignored it.
“This is Bayswater, your lordship. Not the red light district of Bangkok. Chill. Your car might even still be here when we get back.” Her expression turned slightly rueful. He suspected she was remembering what had happened to his other car in the middle of a picturesque country village. She had the tact not to resurrect that subject.
Pushing open the door, she led the way down a creaking hallway and into the stereotypical living room of an elderly woman. One hearty sneeze would knock over several cramped pieces of furniture and at least two dozen ceramic knickknacks. Lainie disappeared into the kitchen, and he stood in the doorway, watching as she opened the fridge and emerged with an open can of cat food.
Scooping the gelatinous sludge into a metal bowl on the floor, she began to call for the cat. “Richard! Breakfast! Richard! Here, puss, puss, puss!”
Her voice had lowered coaxingly. It was husky and persuasive, with an intriguing edge of command.
“Richard? Come here, baby!”
Jesus.
The cat, which was bloody enormous and did not need to be fed twice a day, appeared at a leisurely stroll. It sniffed the bowl disdainfully and then sat down to lick its leg. Richard assumed they could now leave it to eat in private. He didn’t need visual proof as to what constituted feline bowel issues.
Lainie picked up the cat for a cuddle, tucking its head under her chin, and he saw it properly for the first time.
“What the fuck is wrong with its face?”
She looked offended on the cat’s behalf, but seriously. A cross between Walter Matthau and a sundried tomato.