Lainie blinked. “What?”
Richard absently wiped up a coffee ring on the table with his napkin. “He was seeing Arnette Hall when he was cast, so I doubt if that was a coincidence.” He sounded totally uninterested. “I don’t think anyone believes Trenton is advancing in his career on the strength of his talent.”
“But...what about Sadie? Weren’t they going out then?”
Richard shrugged. “Since he hasn’t been seen with six-inch nail gouges down his face, I assume not.”
“How do you know this?” Lainie demanded. “And of all the cheek, criticising other people for gossiping.”
“Nobody whispered the latest on dit into my ear over the watercooler. I saw them together at a hotel. If it was supposed to be a secret, they should have chosen somewhere less high-profile than the Goring.” He leaned back and dug into his pocket to remove his wallet, ready to pay the bill. “That wasn’t gossiping. This,” he said, gesturing between them, “is gossiping. Which is why we’re going to stop discussing it.”
“So you didn’t tell anyone?”
He looked disgusted. “What the fuck do I care about Trenton’s personal life? If he has to shag his way through every casting office in the city to get a job, have at it. So long as he doesn’t come within a foot of any production of mine.”
He got up and went to pay for their food, and Lainie stared after him.
Well, honestly.
Outside on the street, she pulled up the hood of her fleece to protect her head against the drizzle, although she suspected her hair was a lost cause. She had now reached the post-exercise stage—admittedly a rare location in which to find herself—where the sweat had dried into a nice crusty sheen of salt on her skin and clothing. It was not pleasant.
“I need a shower.” She grimaced and plucked at her top. She didn’t think she actually smelled. Richard would never have kept quiet to spare her feelings. He would probably have made her sit on a towel and ride with the window open.
“Your pressing urge to traipse around the Tower will have to be put on hold, then.” Richard unlocked the car door and held it open for her. “The British public will be disappointed.”
“Well, I can obviously forget inviting you along when I go, since you seem to rank yourself on the Prince William and Clooney scale of paparazzi interest.” She considered. “We could wear huge hats and sunglasses. Give you the chance to enjoy a day of anonymity. It must be a trial being in possession of such striking good looks and huge, pulsating...talent.”
Richard slid behind the wheel and reached for his seat belt. “I think the idiots wearing sunglasses in pouring October rain would attract their fair share of attention.”
He drove her the short distance to her flat, as it hadn’t occurred to her that she could offer to walk home. Her body considered itself good for cardio for at least a fortnight. She automatically offered him a cup of tea—the English tradition: just finished drinking half a gallon of coffee and hot chocolate, therefore must be time for a cuppa—and was surprised when he accepted.
He followed her up the stairs to her flat, looking around the upper floors with avid interest and a growing frown. When she’d unlocked the door and he was standing in her tiny lounge, he asked rudely, “What pay grade are you on?”
Lainie went into the kitchen and topped up the kettle with water. “We can’t all live in a mansion in Belgravia,” she called back. “It would send the tax brackets haywire.” Either the euphoria was still buzzing from her run or she was growing a thicker skin when it came to Richard. She didn’t feel tempted to slip something more lethal than sugar into his tea. Progress.
She dropped tea bags into a couple of mugs and returned to the lounge while she was waiting for the kettle to boil. Dropping down on the couch, she smothered a yawn and pulled at her jacket again. She would strip it off and shower as soon as he left. There was no way she was getting naked while Richard was one flimsy wall away. “You’ll just have to slum it for a few minutes. I’m sure you’ll survive.”
He sat down at her side, still frowning and obviously missing the subtle hint at his departure. He was subjecting her room and possessions to an intense scrutiny. A belated sense of guest etiquette seemed to return to him, as he offered an unconvincing, “No, it’s...fine. Very...snug.”
She eyed him. “I’m well aware that my entire flat could probably fit into your en suite. There’s no need to strain something trying to be polite. I’m getting used to your particular brand of sledgehammer.”