Stuck fast in her heart.
She had left Bob’s office, a hundred years ago, in a complete strop because she was going to have to put up with Richard Troy out of work hours. And he had changed her life—in every way—for the better.
She had to fix this.
God. She hoped she could fix this. Because if not—
She squeezed her eyes shut. She couldn’t think about that.
She rang Sarah before her sister-in-law left for work. “You’re a subcommittee member for the Literary Society,” she said, without any preliminaries, and Sarah yawned. Lainie heard the sound of clinking china and cereal falling into a bowl.
“Good morning to you too. Was that a question or an accusation? Yes, I am, for my sins. Why? Do you need a book rec? I’ve heard good things about the new Booker Prize winner.”
“And the Literary Society occasionally attends the same events as the Royal Society of the Performing Arts, yes?”
“Again, yes. Unfortunately, I do associate from time to time with the RSPA and the giant stick up their collective derrieres. I repeat: why?”
“I need contact details for the current president of the RSPA. I’ve already tried online. It’s like looking for info on the Secret Service.”
There was a pause and a crunch while Sarah ate a mouthful of her breakfast. “I imagine I can find out for you. Do I want to know what you’re up to?”
“I just...” Lainie stared into her untouched cup of tea. She couldn’t break. She wouldn’t. This was too important. This was the rest of her life. “I need to put something right.”
“I see.” Sarah hesitated. “Didn’t you say Richard was angling for the next chair of the RSPA?”
“Yes. He was. Is.” Lainie sighed and shoved back a loose strand of hair. “Long, ugly story. I’ll fill you in when I know how it’s going to turn out.”
Well. Let it turn out well.
“I’ll hold you to that. Hang on a tick. I’ll make a few calls and get back to you.”
Armed with an address from an amused Sarah, who said it was all jolly fun, really, like a spy film, Lainie splurged and took a taxi to Mayfair. She still had a few hours before she had to be at the theatre for a rehearsal with the other three principals.
Which at this stage was shaping up to be a right barrel of laughs. Will had left two messages on her phone. He’d sounded drunk in the first one and sulkily defensive in the second. She’d deleted them both, cutting him off halfway through an inadequate apology. She’d tried to call Richard, but his phone was off. The landline at his house had rung eight times before a breathless woman had picked up, sounding as if she’d either run up the stairs or been interrupted midorgasm. Fortunately for all of them, she had identified herself as Richard’s housekeeper, thus saving her boss from castration.
No, Mrs. Hunt was sorry, but Richard wouldn’t be available all morning. He was meeting with his agent and a PR team.
Ominous.
Lainie stared bleakly out the car window. As usual, it was raining. The weather was so wet and foggy that she couldn’t even tell where they were for most of the journey. She tried to pick out familiar shops and landmarks, keeping her mind directly in the present, refusing to let it wander down dangerous alleyways that made her stomach feel hollow with anxiety.
Jeremy Steinman, the current president of the RSPA, was a retired barrister who lived in a block of mansion flats. Fortunately, he was at home. She had very little patience for anything else going wrong today. A tall, handsome man in his late sixties, he eyed her with twinkling curiosity as they shook hands. “Not that I’m not gratified to receive a visit from a reigning princess of the London stage,” he said, smiling, “but to what do I owe the unexpected honour?”
Lainie hadn’t really thought this through. She had just needed to do...something. Losing Will had led to an embarrassing, wallowing period of self-pity. Losing Richard was unacceptable. Ditto to treading all over his life goal.
This, at least, she could try to put right.
Her intention had been to assess the situation when she arrived and could see for herself what type of man Steinman was. If he was another Westfield, the mission was futile.
He was not another Westfield. Steinman’s brown eyes were clear and kind. There was a gentlemanly dignity in the way that he regarded her. She put the chances of his groping her knee across the coffee table at zero.