“Richard...” Lynette began.
“Not a chance in hell,” came the blunt, chilly response.
Pat folded her arms and leaned back against Bob’s desk as she surveyed him. “I’m aware that you seem to take a perverse pleasure in rendering yourself as obnoxious as is humanly possible.”
A flicker passed over Richard’s face, and Pat went on relentlessly, “But I’m also given to understand that you’re aiming to take over the presidency of the RSPA in the December by-elections. And frankly,” she said, with the distinct air of a poker player producing an unexpected ace, “if you don’t make some small effort to improve your PR profile, ‘not a chance in hell’ would be an equal description of your shot at the chair.”
Richard sat in complete silence. His face was set in grim lines. He, in his turn, was the player who had rested in smug confidence on a hand of two pairs and now found it wasn’t enough to take the round.
Lainie eyed him with some curiosity. So, Richard had his sights set on the Royal Society of the Performing Arts. In her experience, the RSPA was the most stodgy, entitled and ineffectual of the national arts bureaucracies. They seemed to spend most of their time congratulating themselves on their existence, turning down grant applications and generally doing sod-all.
...Seems about right, then.
To her horror, Richard’s gaze on her was turning faintly—and very reluctantly—speculative.
“Forget it,” she said bluntly. “I endorse the first instinct. Not a chance in hell.”
“One month.” Bob was watching her as well, and his own eyes were calculating. “Keep up appearances for at least the next four weeks—”
“False appearances,” Lainie interrupted.
“And I’ll see that half the profits from two evening shows in November are donated to that kiddie cancer charity of yours. What’s it called? Shine a Light?”
“Shining Lights UK,” Lainie corrected automatically. She bit down hard on her lip.
Bugger.
West End ticket prices were daylight robbery. That was thousands and thousands of pounds.
In a last valiant attempt at defiance, she said rather nastily, “You’ve already told me takings are down and you’re having to paper the house.”
Bob pursed his lips and seemed to come to a decision that caused him actual physical pain. “Saturday nights,” he managed to get out. “Cling to Troy like a bloody limpet in public for the next month, and half the profits from the first two Saturday night performances in November go to the sick kids. It’ll look good on the books,” he added reprehensibly.
Lainie’s hand slipped into her pocket and closed tightly around her phone. She knew the photograph on her screen background down to the last freckle on her sister’s nose.
Hannah, my pet. You can still make me do the most insane things.
“All the profits,” she said, and Bob blanched.
There was a long, fraught pause, broken only by the faint sound of Richard’s nails tapping against the sole of his leather boot.
“All the profits,” Bob finally agreed, and he sounded strangled. He looked from her to Richard. “And you’d better be bloody convincing.”
Chapter Two
London Celebrity @LondonCelebrity. 35m
Hot new couple alert!
West Enders Richard Troy and Elaine Graham cuddle up at Pink Ribbon benefit...goo.gl/Ep2m03
It was the noise that was so overwhelming. More so even than the cluster of camera flashes, which left her temporarily reeling and blinded, circles of light pulsing in her vision. The chattering sound as the cameras got their shots, snapping one after another like rapid-fire machine guns. It seemed to run through the crowd of paparazzi in the rhythm of a Mexican wave, each click of a button echoed by its neighbour. And the competing human voices shouting demands—”Richard! To your left, Richard! Richard, to your right! Elaine! Over here, Elaine!”
Trying to bait or cajole or provoke with their commentary: “Looking gorgeous, Elaine! Who are you wearing, Elaine? Are you two dating? Richard, how long have you been together? How does Will Farmer feel about it? Did it start before the breakup?”
Hammering away at them. Rude. Relentless.