Lainie glanced at him impatiently. At the moment, she was more concerned with getting inside the venue with her toes and pedicure intact. The street outside the Exhibition Centre was manic. A handful of names from the Hollywood A-list had dabbled in the West End this year, and had been nominated for a National Theatre Award tonight. Earls Court was chaos during rush hour at the best of times; the prospect of seeing a movie star in the flesh had provoked complete insanity. She was trying not to feel starstruck herself, whenever the pitch of screams peaked in volume and she saw another familiar face. This might be her first major awards ceremony, but she didn’t have to act like it.
“I’m the one who ended it,” Will went on, dropping his voice as they made it through the doors. It was still loud inside, excited voices laughing and chattering in every direction, but it was no longer deafening away from the added traffic noise and fan hysteria. “Although she didn’t waste time grieving about it,” he added sourly. His fingers spread on her stomach, pulling her to a stop. “Lainie. It wasn’t working. It wasn’t the same.”
The press of stylish, heavily perfumed, glittering bodies formed a barrier that allowed her to push him away without being seen. “Will. I don’t care. Your love life is no longer any of my business. Thank God.”
“We had something really great.”
“We did not. We had good sex, one shared interest and the inevitable result of propinquity. Would you like to add a suitably regretful ‘I made a huge mistake,’ just to complete the cliché?”
“Did you forget to eat before you came?” Will asked coldly. “You’re always a bitch when you’re hungry.”
“Well, gee. Now I really want the makeup sex.”
Will glanced around. A few interested eyes were turning their way, despite the competition of famous faces. “We’ll talk about this later.”
“We’ll talk about this never. Enjoy your evening. Good luck in your category.” Lainie turned away pointedly and latched on to the first acquaintance she saw.
In less dire circumstances, she would never have voluntarily entered into a conversation with the ghastly woman. Six seconds after her falsely cheerful “Hello! I haven’t seen you for ages,” she was being shown the other actress’s Twitter feed, which included fashion commentary from the red carpet outside. It was a rookie mistake to read blogger opinions of your dress while you were still wearing it. Lainie forced a smile and tried to share the amusement. Personally, she thought her own critique was a little harsh. And she was fairly sure there was no e in the word ho unless it was being used in a gardening context.
She was pleased to discover that the awards were a sit-down-around-tables rather than a sit-in-neat-rows event, the important distinction between the two being champagne—and lots of it. Lainie found her table and saw Richard’s name on the place setting beside her own. She wasn’t sure if someone had confirmed their attendance as a couple, or if even the higher-ups in the acting guilds bought into the gutter press’s scandal-mongering. Whatever—she was just relieved that Will hadn’t been put at their table to spice up the evening.
Her left-side neighbour was an icon of the theatre, one of the Royal Shakespeare Company’s living legends. The association with Richard had nudged her into some exalted circles. The elderly actor was so charismatic and genuinely charming that he brushed aside her intimidated shyness without drawing attention to it. He immediately involved her in a fascinating discussion about the current production at the Globe, and Lainie was sipping Perrier-Jou?t when the back of her neck prickled. She sensed Richard’s presence and caught a whiff of his cologne before he slid into the empty seat on her right.
He greeted her companion with a nod and a handshake—the posh gent’s version of rappers raising their chins and bumping fists, Lainie assumed—and then raised an eyebrow at her. “You look very beautiful.”
He looked like a press release for Armani. She did love a good three-piece suit. Richard’s eyes scanned her clinging black gown, resting for an interested moment on the plunging neckline. She hoped he appreciated it. More double-sided tape had been employed in that wrangling job than Santa’s elves used at Christmas.
She met the glint in his blue eyes with a suspicious narrowing of her own.
“Shoes on the right feet and everything,” he added in a congratulatory tone, checking under the table. He opted for a sneaky grope of her knee while he was under there, and she jumped. “Sterling job at covering up the recent psychiatric episode.”
“Translation, please?” Lainie asked, trying not to visibly squirm when playful fingers crept up the sensitive length of her inner thigh. She slapped them away with her clutch. It was gold-plated and apparently useful for more than housing her lipstick and emergency twenty quid.
Richard retrieved his hand and used it to pick up his champagne flute. His throat worked as he swallowed. “I gather that at some point between exiting your car and entering the building, you suffered a brainstorm and decided to rekindle the epic love story. Reports vary as to whether lips and partial nudity were involved, but I imagine the society page of the Sun will fill in the gaps tomorrow.”
Was that sardonic humour in his face—or something else?
Lainie glared at him. “Always happy to provide cheap entertainment. Shall I ask Will to rub himself all over you in full public view, and see how funny you find it?”