Lifting the cat slightly away from her, Lainie looked from its grumpy face to Richard. And then back again. She walked over and held it up next to him. “Hmm.”
“Don’t say it.”
“Hashtag twinsies.”
Her laughter seemed to twine around him.
She bent to put the cat down, nudging it toward the food bowl, and turned to Richard. They were so close that he could count the tiny freckles on the bridge of her nose. Her smile faded. Her eyes, beautifully, intensely green, moved to his mouth, and he curled his fingers into fists.
“Richard.” His name again, this time solely for him.
He closed his eyes for a minute, then, without moving a muscle, he deliberately distanced himself. “We’ve wasted enough time. Shall we go?” He could hear the chill in his own voice.
She looked away from him. “Right.” There was a streak of pink under each high cheekbone. “Let’s go.”
When they walked back out into the rain, his bloody hands were shaking.
Chapter Five
London Celebrity @LondonCelebrity. now
Love on the run: smitten Richard Troy front and centre to support new love at charity 5k...goo.gl/Ny5hFm
It would have helped if she’d got further than the couch part of the couch-to-5k training plan she’d printed off the internet. Lainie crossed the finishing line and immediately dropped her head toward the ground, leaning her hands against her thighs and fiercely rejecting the urge to vomit. She was embarrassingly unfit, but if the chain-smoking, foulmouthed comedian two steps ahead of her could finish with a smile on his face and no visible signs of nausea, then so could she. She straightened with an effort, cringing as her back made an audible cracking sound. Performing in a play was a physical job, for God’s sake. It required stamina. She didn’t even have the excuse of sitting behind a computer all day.
Camera lights flashed as more participants made it over the line. They included several soap actors, a controversial political commentator, a popular abstract artist, and a DJ from Radio 1. The fund-raising committee had managed to put together a respectable hit list of names for the Shining Lights UK 5k, considering that Fun Runs were among the least popular of charitable events. She couldn’t even say the term without an ironic inflection on the first word. What kind of half-witted masochist actually enjoyed running on a drizzly October morning in London? On a weekday, no less, when there were plenty of people about with laptops and coffee cups, observing the mania with perplexity.
Lainie had tried to suggest an alternative—a bake-off, a rock concert—but the director of the foundation was a jogging enthusiast who refused to believe that other people might not share his predilection for spandex. She saw him now, standing by the refreshment table, doing some kind of yoga stretch and looking cool and unfazed. He didn’t even have sweat stains in his armpits. Unnatural.
“Well done!” he called to her. “How was that?”
About thirty-five minutes of pure, wheezing hell, thank you for asking.
“Great,” she said, desperately sucking air into her abused lungs. “Brilliant way to start the day.” If you enjoy unrelenting pain. “I beat my personal best time.”
Which was true, in the sense that she had never run a 5k before and hopefully never would again.
Oh, well. It was all money for worthy coffers.
“Couldn’t agree with you more,” he enthused. “Nothing more invigorating than an early morning run.”
The poor man had obviously never had early morning sex. Or a caramel latte.
He nodded toward the throng of spectators, shivering under their support banners. “Good to see the SOs out in force, as well.”
“The SOs?” she asked blankly, trying to follow the direction of his gaze. Had she failed to swot up on necessary athletic jargon as well? Safety Officers? Sports Officials? Sulky Octopi? She had no idea.
“Significant others. Always helps to have a cheerleader on the sidelines, doesn’t it?” He chuckled. “Yours looks a bit worn around the edges. Dragged him out of bed early, did you?”
Completely at sea, Lainie didn’t respond. Then she finally saw what—or rather whom—he was looking at. Richard was leaning against a pop-up art installation. The enormous statue of a polar bear wore an identical frown and a similar amount of facial hair. The bear was evidently very worried about the status of global warming; a stroppy and still unshaven Richard appeared more concerned with his own warmth, or lack thereof. His hands were thrust in his pockets and he was doing the standing jig-dance of the cold and crabby, bobbing from one foot to the other.