Lainie was unmoved. He might as well get the strop out of his system, so she didn’t have to put up with it all night. “There’s no question that you’re the strongest actor in The Cavalier’s Tribute,” she said, shrugging. “You’re well aware you’re in a supporting role and stealing the spotlight from Will every night, with very little effort.”
That produced a tiny smirk. She ignored it and went on, “But your nomination was for Richard III, not Bandero. It was an arts festival role that ran for three nights, and,” she finished bluntly, “your performance was subpar.”
“Oh, was it?” Richard asked dangerously.
She wasn’t impressed by the intimidating tone. “Yes, it was. And you know it. I saw that production on the opening night. It was the most mediocre, half-assed performance you’ve ever turned out. I bet you anything you like that you were more convincing during am-dram productions in your teens. I wouldn’t have believed it was you behind the costume if your name hadn’t been on the playbill.” She held his wrathful gaze. Her own was calm and measuring. “You still deserved to be nominated. Your worst performance is better than most actors will achieve on their best night. But it would have been a biased travesty if you’d won. What happened?”
“What do you mean, what happened?” he asked rather nastily. “I lost. Deservedly, according to you.”
“And you agree with me.” Lainie spoke confidently. “I know how seriously you take the profession. You’re a solid self-critic. And it must have gone against the grain to skate over a role like you did with that production. What happened?”
He was silent, glaring down at the table. She thought he wasn’t going to answer, but finally he said coolly, “I was told about half an hour before curtain on opening night that a friend from university had committed suicide that morning.”
“Oh God.” Lainie reached out and closed her fingers around his fist.
He gently detached her hold. “It was irresponsible timing on behalf of the messenger, but it was my own failure that I let it affect my performance. The entire production was resting on my ability to convince in the leading role, and I let down every other person on, behind and in front of that stage.” He raised one shoulder and let it fall. “Mea culpa.”
“What did you say the other day about having superhuman expectations? Jesus, Richard. For all intents and purposes, your friend had died thirty minutes ago. I think you can cut yourself some slack. It was understandable you would be distracted.”
“Perhaps. But not very professional.” Richard hesitated. “It hit hard. Not just because of the loss of Derek, although that was a tragedy that should have and could have been avoided if his friends had realised in time. But his death recalled another...situation.”
“Yes?” Lainie prompted quietly.
Looking at his set face, she was unsure if he would have gone on, even if Lynette Stern hadn’t taken that moment to interrupt. The agent put a red-tipped hand on Richard’s shoulder and he stiffened, his expression closing. Lainie felt the intimacy between them shut down as if an iron gate had been lowered.
“Richard,” Lynette said briskly. “Good. Harlan Powell is looking for you. Hello, Lainie, how are you?”
“Fine, thanks.” Lainie was still looking at Richard.
“He can’t be looking very hard,” he said to Lynette. “Since I haven’t moved from my designated seat.”
Lynette ignored the acerbic response. She tugged at Richard’s arm, making him scowl. “He wants to discuss a potential role at the Globe. He’s over at the bar.”
“Of course he is.” Richard looked irritated, but he rose to his feet. His eyes rested on Lainie. “I’ll be back,” he said briefly, and she nodded.
She was watching him walk away, and she jumped when Lynette touched her arm.
“Mind if I sit?” the agent asked, and then draped herself on Richard’s vacated chair before Lainie had time to answer. It was a swooning movement that contrived to look impossibly elegant, but Lainie suspected Lynette’s dress was so tight she couldn’t bend at the middle.
“Help yourself,” she said ironically.
The agent seemed to think the invitation also applied to Richard’s champagne flute. “Thank God for the bubbly,” she said, downing about a hundred pounds’ worth of booze in one gulp. “I think I actually felt new wrinkles forming during Eliza Pimm’s speech. These events make the Hundred Years’ War seem like a momentary blip in time.”
“You’ll be sorry Richard didn’t win,” Lainie said neutrally.
“Mmm.” The other woman eyed her shrewdly. “He was rubbish in that role. Some bloody moron blindsided him with the news of a school friend’s death right before he went on. He pulled it together well enough, considering the circumstances. The average theatregoer might not have noticed a problem, especially if they weren’t familiar with his usual work. Even some of the critics were fooled.”