“Looks hopeful. He wants to have us over for dinner a week from Sunday. Smart casual dress.” Richard sounded amused. “He obviously thinks you’re a stabilizing influence on me, Tig.”
“Interesting.” She kissed his ear and smiled against his damp neck. “I would never have guessed he was so insightful.”
Chapter Eight
London Celebrity @LondonCelebrity. 3h
Are things getting serious? Sources say “totally infatuated” Elaine Graham and Richard Troy are spending “almost every night together.”
Lainie’s numerous older brothers were all thick-necked, wide-shouldered, brown-haired and green-eyed. Richard took her word for it that it wasn’t a mirrored reflection of the same large man. To a one, they obviously hated his guts. Compared to the Upper Bidford Women’s Institute, however, they were about as intimidating as Cabbage Patch Kids.
The children were a different story.
“Bear?” said one of the smaller girls. She showed him a dilapidated toy. Most of the fur had been sucked off one ear.
“Bear,” she said again, more insistently.
He wasn’t sure what she was looking for by way of a response. To start with, it wasn’t a bear. It was a cat. Possibly a mouse. Less likely, a squirrel. Definitely not a bear. The kid was related to Lainie, so he suspected she wouldn’t appreciate being corrected on that point.
Gingerly, he took the mystery animal from her. “Cute.”
The lie seemed to satisfy her. To his relief, one of Lainie’s sisters-in-law appeared with a carton of ice cream and a box of waffle cones, and the little girl took off running. He turned the slightly sticky toy over in his hands, wondering where to put it. Through the hot cycle of the washing machine would be his first instinct.
“Can I get you a cup of coffee, Richard?” another woman asked, and he glanced up. She was tall, forty-odd and sharp-featured. Victoria, who was married to Lainie’s eldest brother, Ryan. The one who’d attempted to break Richard’s thumb during their handshake.
“Victoria is a university professor,” Lainie had said in the car, on the way to her parents’ house in Fulham. “She claims to be political, but she’s mostly just stroppy.”
“Black, thank you,” he said. “No sugar.”
A healthy shot of whisky wouldn’t have gone astray either. He couldn’t remember if he’d been nervous the first time he’d stepped onto a West End stage, but he couldn’t have been as uncomfortable then as he felt now, at a one-year-old’s birthday party. As was becoming his new state of normal, his eyes sought out Lainie. She was standing talking to Sarah, who’d been refreshingly pleased to see him. The baby propped on Lainie’s hip was wearing a pink headband, so presumably was not the guest of honour, as the name on the birthday cake had been Cooper. She was bouncing up and down again, but her niece seemed to appreciate the rocking motion more than he had when she’d done it to the springs of his Ferrari.
He’d read an abysmal script a few months ago in which the protagonist had been struck dumb by the apparently sensual sight of his love interest clutching an infant. Watching Lainie sway with the baby, Richard’s main thought was for the welfare of her clothing. These kids had consumed enough food to feed a barracks. It seemed like tempting fate to jiggle one up and down.
She did look beautiful, holding the baby. She had managed to look beautiful holding a sick bucket. She was beautiful, in a way that had nothing to do with a perfect smile, or large breasts, or gorgeous hair, and had everything to do with her.
Although the boobs and hair were a nice perk.
She looked over at him, smiled that perfect smile, and for a moment he couldn’t fucking breathe.
He’d played this, onstage and on film, countless times before age had sharpened his features and his reputation had tarnished his character, and he’d been more frequently cast as the villain than the lover.
He’d had no idea.
Lainie’s gaze shifted down to his hands, where he still held the revolting stuffed animal. Her smile grew. She said something to Sarah, who also looked at him with amusement, and handed her the baby.
He could smell her perfume as she came toward him. Her hair brushed silkily against his cheek as she sat down on the couch at his side and rested her chin on his shoulder for a moment.
“I see you’ve been left in charge of Mister Ed. You should feel privileged. He’s Libby’s favourite.”
“Mister Ed?” Lazily, he rubbed his nose against her cheek.
“Ryan used to watch reruns when he was a kid. He told her it would be a good name for a horse.”
“A horse?” His attention returned to the toy, and he turned it over in his hands. “It’s a cat. I’ll accept a fox at a push.”
“It’s clearly a horse.” She took it away from him and set it down on the coffee table, next to a naked Barbie doll with a shorn head, one leg and an understandably fed-up expression.