The kettle whistled before he was obliged to answer, and she went out to make the tea. She didn’t think he would appreciate her pug mug, so she let him have her grandmother’s Royal Doulton cup. After a pause, she added a handful of digestive biscuits to a plate. She might be finding him more tolerable, but she wasn’t wasting the chocolate hobnobs.
He looked preoccupied when she handed him the pretty cup. The look he gave her when she sat down again was sharp and penetrating. “I didn’t hurt your feelings, did I? About your flat just now?”
She came to a stop midbite of her biscuit. It grew soggy between her teeth and half of it crumbled into her lap. Coughing, she took a quick sip of tea. “Where did that come from?” she asked when her throat was clear. She brushed the crumbs from her knee into her cupped hand and deposited them into a tissue. Why did he continually make her feel like such a scruff?
“Did I?” he persisted. He had taken off his coat and pushed up the sleeves of his jumper. His forearms were ropy with muscle and dusted with a light covering of dark hair. It looked softer than the coarse hairs in his eyebrows, which were currently compressing wrinkles above the high bridge of his nose. He was being serious. He really wanted to know.
Lainie stroked her thumb around the rim of her mug. “No. You didn’t hurt my feelings.” She smiled faintly. “You make me hopping mad, though. And I wish you would have more consideration for other people’s feelings in general.”
In the interests of honesty, she added, “I’m not exactly soft-spoken myself, in case you haven’t noticed. I can handle your acid remarks. I even—very occasionally—enjoy them. It’s mostly when they’re directed at other people that I balk. Especially when the balance of power is clearly on your side.”
Richard was resting his arms on his knees, looking down into his own cup. The short black curls were tumbling against his forehead. His resemblance to the ideal of a romantic poet had never been more evident. “I’m aware,” he said finally, in a low voice, “that I can be...difficult to get along with. And I don’t always make allowances for individual circumstances. I expect people to just take anything I say and fire back.” The corner of his mouth tilted. “As you do.” He turned his head and fixed her with that intent blue stare. “I wouldn’t want you to think I always intentionally aim to hurt.”
Had there been a slight emphasis on the word you?
Lainie bit her lower lip thoughtfully. She wasn’t quite sure how to answer. “I don’t think you’re a bad person, Richard. Perhaps a little more flawed than most,” she teased, and he grimaced, “but I shall rise above that and keep a thick skin where you’re concerned.”
“Thank you,” he said dryly.
“And if you really do hurt my feelings, I’ll immediately and enthusiastically cry so you’re aware of the fact.”
He looked faintly appalled at even the joking suggestion—and generally uncomfortable with the way the conversation had turned. She could relate.
He leaned forward to put his cup on the coffee table and picked up the script that was lying there. The first page of the historical saga was scrawled and underlined with her notes. His initial movements were artificial—he was acting again, moving them out of an awkward impasse, and the script was the closest prop to hand. But his idle glance swiftly focused into intent interest. She conquered her first instinct, which was to snatch the papers out of his hand and sit on them, and settled for watching him warily from behind a sip of tea.
Richard flipped through a few pages of the miniseries pilot, skim-reading with a practised eye. “Are you doing this?” he asked, still reading. There was definite disapproval in his voice, and she bristled. This was currently her sore spot, and she was sensitive to the slightest jab at it. He glanced up when she didn’t reply, giving her an ironic look. “Yet another talented stage actor decamps for the cheap thrills of television, I see.”
She had stuck on the opening adjective. “Talented?” she repeated, astonished and totally ignoring the rest of his hoary old prejudices.
“That’s what I said.” He paused. “Well, within certain parameters.”
“Which you may keep to yourself. I’d prefer my nice shiny compliment to remain untarnished, thank you.”
Richard raised the script. “You should have a good chance of getting another West End role when The Cavalier’s Tribute’s run ends. Has the experience begun to pall?”
“No.” Lainie tried not to sound defensive. “I love the theatre. But I don’t see anything wrong in stretching myself. Trying other mediums.” It was true. She just wished her confidence extended beyond the sentiment to her actual abilities. Her eyes narrowed. “I seem to remember the Great Troy lowering himself to do a few films back in the day. And I know you did at least one guest spot on TV.” She had watched it on YouTube over breakfast the other morning. And Richard had been nominated for a BAFTA eight years ago for one of those films.
“Naturally. I would hardly air my criticisms of an industry without experiencing it firsthand, would I?”