Absently excusing herself from the grinning director, Lainie hurried over to him, blowing on her own ungloved hands. Now that she had stopped running, the chill was creeping in.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, amazed and irritable. This had not, as far as she knew, been on their agreed list of activities, and she couldn’t imagine he was pining for her company. She felt justifiably annoyed with him for turning up when she was a red-faced, snot-nosed mess. Not that she had ever exactly bowled him over when she was a painstakingly curled, professionally made-up siren, either.
Although he hadn’t seemed repelled during that one rain-saturated moment earlier in the week. Which she was never going to think about again. She’d been telling herself so all week.
He hadn’t wanted to kiss her.
Had he?
Richard removed one hand from his pocket and held up his phone. “I had my instructions.” It was hard to pull off a tone that snippy through chattering teeth, but he somehow managed. “A message from Pat. Payback for Monday. Either come to Hyde Park to bear witness to your feats of athleticism, or meet Will at the BBC for a joint debate on the impact of social media on the staging of live theatre—i.e. isn’t it a pisser when someone gets a text message or live-Tweets during a performance?” He looked down at her, taking in the yoga pants and zipped fleece jacket. “This seemed like the lesser of two evils. Of course, that was before I knew it was going to be seven degrees outside and you were going to take about thirty-five years to complete the circuit.”
“It was thirty-five minutes, thank you, and I was strictly middle of the pack. Loads of people aren’t even back yet!” She glared at him, and someone took their photo. “Oh, for the love of...” Deep breath. She exhaled and said reluctantly, “I suppose you’d better give me a hug, then. Let them get their shot, so we can leave.”
Richard eyed her with fastidious distaste. “You’re sweaty.”
Give me strength. Or a blunt instrument.
When they’d left her house on Monday morning, she’d been mortified in the car. She’d actually leaned into him. In a kitchen that smelled like cat food. She’d been worried it would add a new level of awkward to their interactions, but fortunately he’d returned to being such a dick that it had been easy to quash any disturbing feelings.
“It’s good for the skin,” she snapped.
“And probably disastrous for cashmere.”
Before she completely lost her temper, Richard leant down and swept her into his arms. To their onlookers, it must have appeared a supportive, affectionate embrace. It even included a cheeky bum-squeeze, which earned him a sharp pinch on the chest.
“Oy,” he said, jumping. He spoke into her hair, his hands still holding tight to her waist. “I’m just following instructions here. Against my chest, hand under bottom, you said. Two easy steps for a successful cuddle.” He anticipated the reflexive action of her right trainer and stepped back out of kicking range. “I’m not sure how you conned Pat into thinking you would be a good, even-tempered influence on me. I’ve clearly underestimated your acting abilities.”
It struck Lainie that this was one of the few times she had seen him smile and mean it. The fact that he was a surly grouch aside, it was often difficult to tell with actors whether an emotion was genuine or an automatic playing to a role. They sometimes couldn’t tell the difference themselves. She knew from experience that spending hours every day pretending to be someone else could become a habit difficult to break. She could go off duty, so to speak, and find herself performing the role of Lainie Graham, which could seem as artificial as any character she inhabited onstage.
Even in her relationship with Will, there had been an element of staginess, as if she’d been watching the love scene play out from afar and judging it with professional criticism. That embrace looked stiff; that comment seemed out of character; the chemistry was a bit lacking there; what would be her motivation for that particular action? No wonder so many marriages failed in the acting profession. Half the time they were unconscious stage productions, and every actor eventually tired of playing the same role.
And no wonder so many actors were in therapy. Fodder for the psychiatrist’s couch, right there.
She shook off her clouded mood. There was something to be said for the dubious pleasure of Richard’s company. It was ironic, given that their relationship was a complete hoax, but she never felt there was much pretence between them. Yes, they put up a show for the cameras, but he didn’t whitewash his actual feelings toward her. And she had no doubt about her own toward him.
Or she hadn’t. Until things had become a little...blurred. She at least recognised the frustration, annoyance, exasperation and reluctant amusement. It was a refreshing emotional catharsis, not having to hold back with him.
Richard Troy: human stress ball.
She ignored the tiny singsong voice that was making almost-kiss taunts.