“For that, you would have to read Crystalle Hollingswood’s blog.” She wrinkled her nose. “And then you really would want to stab yourself in the eye with a fork.”
Richard was staring out the window and she thought he had stopped listening to her. She’d noticed that if he was bored with a conversation, he switched off and made no effort to disguise his lack of attention. After a few minutes, though, he asked casually, “Still heartbroken?”
“My heart didn’t come into the equation.” She was suddenly quite embarrassed and looked down at the tabletop, swirling heart patterns in the spilled sugar with her fingertip. “It was more about very shallow hormones in the beginning, and my pride later on. I wish it had never happened. It’s a bit of a facer to realise I’m that susceptible to fairly empty good looks. Although he had his moments,” she added out of fairness. “He’s not a complete prick. Put it at ninety-five percent, with wiggle room if his conscience is playing up.”
“It does seem to show an appalling lack of judgement on your part,” Richard agreed coolly, and her mouth twitched.
She could always rely on him not to sugar the pill.
A group of tourists walked by the window, identifiable by their cameras, guidebooks and damp hair. If you spent much time in London, you learned to either carry an umbrella or look into the concept of hats. Or just run really fast to the nearest Tube station.
“They’ve been to the Tower.” She nodded at the plastic gift bag one of the women was carrying. “I haven’t done the tour there since I was about seven. I should make an effort to actually do more things when we have time off. If I get a morning to myself, I end up wasting it on a nap.” Or watching four episodes of Scandal in a row on her laptop, but she could imagine his response to that without vocalising it.
“It’s usually not worth the hassle.” Richard raised his arms above his head and stretched. The joints popped in his shoulders, and his jumper rode up to reveal a slice of pale, tautly muscled belly. She shamelessly enjoyed the view while she finished her hot chocolate.
She was no longer necessarily averse to finding Richard attractive, she realised. It was just very surprising. And should remain at the sensible look-but-don’t-touch stage. If she ever evolved into an outdoorsy person and went on safari, she might admire the dangerous beauty of the lions from a distance, but she for damn sure wouldn’t get out of the car. Or some equally profound metaphor.
“There’s always at least one idiot with a camera,” the hottest old curmudgeon in town finished.
“I assume you’re talking about journalists, not your well-meaning, misguided fans.”
“Either-or.” He frowned. “Both. It’s all nonsense.”
“Let me guess—you became an actor to act, not to become public property. The fame is an unfortunate downside to the craft. Et cetera.”
“It is, to anyone with the gift and instinct for the stage, and not merely a need for constant, slavering attention.” He looked at her scornfully. “Let me guess,” he mimicked. “You share the good news on Facebook when you appear in the gossip columns, you can’t get enough of people asking for your autograph in the street, and you simply adore being asked whom you’re wearing by vapid journalism graduates who couldn’t get a job reporting actual news.”
“We’re awfully snotty about the industry that pays our bills, aren’t we?” Lainie refused to be provoked. She carefully set down her cup in its saucer and popped the free chocolate into her mouth. Moving it to the side of her cheek with her tongue, she added, “Although I forgot for a moment. You don’t actually need vapid press to help you in finding work. It’s easy to be high-and-mighty about the integrity of the craft when you could buy and sell the Metronome with your discretionary income, isn’t it?”
A faint flush rose up Richard’s neck, but she pushed past his obvious annoyance and continued, “And no, I don’t particularly enjoy reading embellished facts and total lies about myself on the internet. But I can only be annoyed about it to a certain point before I become a hopeless hypocrite, since I read magazines and blogs myself.” She ignored his snort. “Most people do. It’s probably been going on since the beginning of time—people have always spied on their neighbours and they’ve always gossiped about public figures. Look at our play. Rumours running rife amongst the court. Your character would achieve fuck all without poking and prying into things that don’t concern him. With the odd stagnant, boring exception,” she finished, staring meaningfully, “to be human is to be nosy. I refuse to believe that even you wouldn’t be secretly interested if you heard something shocking about, say, Jack Trenton.”
“I cannot conceive of any possible circumstance where I would find myself enjoying a cosy gossip about Jack Trenton.”
“No? What if I came to you and said that Jack got his role at the Palladium by sleeping with the director?”
“He did.”