Pretty Face Page 11

  “Don’t even think about it.”

  “They shouldn’t—”

  “What? Look at my body and mentally halve my brain size? Talk sexist shit in public?” She picked up her fork again, carefully examining the tines. “Wouldn’t have put you down as a hypocrite. A number of other things, but not a hypocrite. For God’s sake, would you please sit down?”

  He did, reluctantly and sensibly, but turned his scowl on her. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

  Lily suddenly remembered why she’d never been going to call him on this.

  “Well?” he pushed, obviously in a foul mood now, despite the soothing, festive atmosphere.

  He was famed for his ice-cold temperament. It was like nobody had ever spent more than five minutes with him. The man started steaming like a kettle on a regular basis.

  She sighed and made a mental apology to Jamie. Not that she was going to let Luc extend his influence anywhere near the usefully loose-tongued teen. “For someone who once referred to me as a Marilyn Monroe impersonator who probably needs direction to tie her shoelaces, you’re awfully quick to judge.”

  There was an extremely long pause. Amazingly, a faint, ruddy tinge spread across his cheeks.

  “Well, I’m glad you’re not going to deny it. I was fairly sure you weren’t a liar as well as tactless.”

  “How the hell,” Luc asked at last, his voice a warning purr, “did you know that?”

  She could almost see him filtering through the people who’d been present that day, weighing company loyalty and likelihood to gossip, and jumping to the right conclusion.

  “You don’t by any chance have a relative or a very youthful admirer who wields an extremely slow tea trolley?”

  She couldn’t help grinning, but made a “lips sealed” zipping motion. “Sorry, Watson, my sources are top secret. And have diplomatic immunity. So don’t go guns-blazing after any more adolescents, please.”

  She wasn’t sure what reaction she expected—probably more anger—but he suddenly returned her smile. The fine lines around his eyes crinkled. Sexily. “The cheeky little bastard. One of your network of spies, is he?”

  Her phone whistled in her clutch with a text message, and Luc nodded at it as he began to eat his dessert, which was enviably boozy and full of chocolate. “Go ahead. Wouldn’t want you to miss any important intel, MI5.”

  It was a text from Trix, with a link to a website. “You’re getting some good press for once,” Lily said, reading. “Bet you’re glad you didn’t right-hook an Oxford undergrad now.” She passed him her phone. “Margo Roy made a statement through her PR rep. You’re great, she’s great, nobody cheated. Trix must have thought I’d be interested,” she added lamely, when he turned a sharp glance on her.

  His face was blank again as he thumbed through the article. His own phone began to ring in his pocket before he’d finished reading, and they copped a sour look from a couple who were obviously trying to have a romantic meal in peace.

  Luc frowned. “I’m sorry, I’m going to have to take this. Are you okay here if I step out for a few minutes?”

  “I imagine I can bear up under the loss of your company for five minutes. I’ll practice being silent. But you’d better take your chocolate with you. I’m not sure my willpower is strong enough to withstand the temptation yet.”

  He was gone so long that Lily had time to finish her depressing dessert, thank the waiter who removed her plate, and check all her emails.

  She was playing Sudoku when the game paused for an incoming call. The next-table lovebirds bristled.

  “Sorry,” she murmured to the neighbours, and “Hi, Peter,” into the receiver.

  “Lily?” her agent queried cautiously.

  “Yes.”

  “Why are you whispering?”

  “Vocal hygiene.”

  “I see. Right, well, terrific news. Kathleen Leibowitz’s casting director has requested your reel for Blithe Spirit next August.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “You’re up for consideration for Edith,” Peter whispered back. It was obviously contagious, like yawning.

  “Doesn’t Kathleen Leibowitz have a blanket moratorium on all TV actors?”

  “Apparently she’s prepared to make an exception for a principal in a Savage play.” There was satisfaction in Peter’s hushed voice. “This is the beginning of good things.”

  Lily’s stomach jumped, but the rush of nerves didn’t dampen her growing smile. She was still trying to keep it under wraps a few minutes later, when she ended the call and went in search of Luc.

  He was in the foyer, off the phone now and striding back in the direction of the restaurant. “Hell,” he said when they met halfway. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to just abandon you in there.”

  “It’s fine. Is everything okay?”

  Stupid question. He was clearly hanging on to the last threads of his temper.

  “We’re short a leading lady.”

  “What?”

  “That was Bridget’s agent. She’s quit.”

  Two rounds of good news in ten minutes. The universe did like her. Although it wasn’t so flash for him. Or the production as a whole.

  Lily abandoned the whispering. “But—this role…it could be the biggest performance of her career. Why would she bail?”

  “In her opinion, the biggest role of her career will involve running around in circles screaming while Los Angeles disappears under a tidal wave.”

  “She can’t take a film role. That would be in total violation of her contract.”

  “Yes, it would. However, by the time that fact is thrashed out in court, we’ll be casting for the next production run. And Bridget’s flight to the States left half an hour ago, which makes it a little difficult to either force her back to rehearsal or have her killed.”

  “I don’t think homicide, however justified, would do much for your PR problems.”

  “Good point.” Luc released a long breath, rested his hands on his waist and looked down at the floor. Eventually, he exhaled again and nodded towards Lily’s phone. “It’s a good thing Margo is feeling charitable. Because I’m about to require a monumental favour.”

  He said nothing more while he walked her back to her room, but stopped her when she opened the door and turned to say good-night.

  “By the way, MI5.” Humour flickered briefly across his face. “Before I get caught up in what’s likely to be a complete shitstorm of hassle—I’m sorry.”

  She cocked her head.

  “I’m sorry for what was repeated to you after that casting meeting. I’m sorry that I said it in the first place. I’m very sorry that it’s such an everyday occurrence to you that you barely blink an eye when a couple of little fuckers make totally inappropriate comments almost to your face. I wholeheartedly apologise for being a prejudiced, sexist dick.”

  She was too taken aback to respond for a moment; then, slowly, she smiled.

  “It’s all right,” she whispered. “You wouldn’t believe the things I said about you behind your back.”

  Chapter Six

  The tug of the spotlight was strong. Apparently not even the beauties of Italy and the sole company of a gorgeous husband could win out against the temptation of returning to the stage. Margo Roy and Alberto Ferreti were coming back to London, and she was taking over as leading lady in 1553.

  Lily was feeling a hundred different emotions at once about that, and she had no idea what Luc was thinking. She kept glancing at him as they drove. They’d left Oxford before ten o’clock, after eating breakfast separately in their rooms. Well, she’d eaten toast and more fruit salad, silently mourning the death of coffee, but she suspected he’d spent most of the time saying icy things into a phone receiver. Or possibly coaxing things, as difficult as that was to imagine. It was no secret that Margo had been offered the role of Mary weeks ago and had turned it down. A few people in the cast who particularly disliked Bridget had mentioned the fact multiple times over the weekend a
t Aston Park. Bridget’s complexion had become increasingly purple.

  Margo had obviously changed her mind. Whether it was to benefit her own career or a sacrifice for Luc, she had already signed an emailed contract.

  “They’re flying into London tonight,” Luc had said briefly, before turning his attention to the tricky road conditions.

  Snow was falling lightly again. It was soft and pretty, and totally at odds with her turbulent thoughts.

  From the perspective of her career, this was one of the best things that could have happened. She was going to be working with one of the best actors in the business. And public interest in the play was about to go sky-high, partly because Margo had considerably stronger pull power than Bridget, and mostly because it was going to get Luc and Margo back in the same room.

  And that was the part that was making her just a little bit twitchy, with absolutely no justification.

  She relieved her tension with a period of active vocal exercise, which involved belting out the current playlist on her phone. It was ninety-five percent Michael Bublé Christmas, with a bit of Bon Jovi and Adele thrown in as a palette cleanser.

  Luc looked pained.

  “Hey.” Lily paused in her carolling. “I can sing.”

  “Amazingly,” he agreed, “you can. I just wish you’d sing something else.”

  Obligingly, she switched to Boney M, and got an audible groan.

  “Try not to sound totally gobsmacked, by the way,” she said, returning to the Canadian vocal gloriousness. “I told you that everything on my skills sheet is true. I’ve wanted to go into theatre since I was sixteen. I obviously took singing and dance.”

  “I shouldn’t be that surprised,” Luc conceded. “A lot of people have radically different singing and speaking voices.”

  She was determinedly in the festive Bublé zone; there was no space for annoyance.

  “Your father’s estate is nearby, isn’t it?” he asked out of the blue, probably to put a stop to her decking the halls with boughs of holly.

  She frowned through the fogged-up side window, trying to see where they were. “Mmm. Yeah, it’s only about twenty minutes away, near Chesham.”

  “Is he there or in London at the moment?”

  “Or in Monte Carlo or Zanzibar? You never know with Jack. But I think he is at Kirkby. He texted me a while ago that he was heading there for some kind of pre-Christmas schmoozing.”

  “Your dad texts?” Luc was suddenly amused. “I think mine still uses a rotary dial.”

  “Jack usually wrangles the latest iPhone a month before it goes on sale.” Which was one bit of canny networking she wouldn’t mind him sharing with his loving daughter.

  “Are you going to Kirkby for Christmas?”

  There was a full cast rehearsal until the late afternoon of Christmas Eve, but their Saint Nick of a director had grudgingly agreed to a day off on Christmas Day.

  “No.” She’d never spent Christmas at Kirkby. She couldn’t even imagine it. Eating Brussels sprouts while Charlotte averted her eyes. It sounded like the recipe for a stomach ache in more than one respect. “Jack’s going to Venice to finalise a business deal.”

  He had offered to fly Lily out as well, but she would literally be in and out, and she knew what he was like in dedicated work mode. She’d see him for five minutes and then end up eating Christmas dinner in a hotel dining room. Same deal with her mother, who was on tour in Austria. She’d rather curl up on the couch with Trix and The Wizard of Oz.

  “Do you want to stop by now, then, and say hello?”

  She looked up. “Seriously? I thought you’d be itching to get back to London to start knocking lawyers’ heads together.”

  He bit back a smile. “Such a way with words you have. That’s exactly why I’m prepared to procrastinate for a couple of hours. Right now, I’m liable to say things I’ll regret. I need some breathing space.” He nodded towards the upcoming exit. “Yes? No?”

  “Well.” She would like to see her father before Christmas. She’d figured it would be the New Year before they managed to match their schedules. Or that she’d see him for ten minutes on his way to the airport. “I’ll have to check if Lady Charlotte is home.” She reached for her phone to send the text.

  Luc navigated the turn off the motorway. “Why?”

  Because she wasn’t allowed in the house if her father’s wife was there. It wasn’t something they usually vocalised. To misquote Captain Barbossa, it was more what you’d call guidelines than an actual rule.

  “Um…”

  He shot her a disbelieving glance. “Are you seriously telling me that you’re banned from the grounds when her Ladyship is gracing the place with her presence?”

  “She’s not the Wicked Stepmother from panto. If I showed up unannounced, I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t lower the drawbridge and release the hounds. It’s just always been kind of an understanding, that Jack keeps me a separate part of his life and doesn’t rub her face in it. Which I do get.”

  Although it hadn’t been quite so easy to understand as a child, why she couldn’t go to her dad’s other houses.

  “That Lamprey keeps you his dirty little secret, you mean.” Luc was pissed off again. On her behalf. It was very warming. Slightly alarming.

  “Well, it’s hardly a secret, is it?” she pointed out. “It all gets dredged up as muddy backstory every time someone takes a photo of me with a new man.”

  Speaking of which, she’d be surprised if…

  With her thumb, she switched from messages to the net.

  Yes. Good old London Celebrity. Never failed to spy an opportunity for clickbait.

  Luc Savage and Lily Lamprey spotted leaving Oxford hotel, fuelling speculation as to why Margo Roy sought a bit of Continental consolation. Sources say the director and his leading lady were “all over each other.”

  Just your basic blatant lie, then. “All over each other” was apparently code for “walked eight feet apart and spoke to other people on their phones.” The site was slipping—someone had missed an ideal opportunity to use the words “illicit weekend.” The LC reporters usually loved their flowery clichés.

  And to be strictly accurate, she was not the leading lady. She would be located safely under both Margo and Freddy in the programme.

  Unenthusiastically, she flicked through the article. She never understood why they listed in excruciating detail what she was wearing. If people had eyes to read the words, they could see for themselves in the thirty-five near-identical photos that she was wearing a black wool coat, tights, pointed ankle boots and “just a hint of makeup.”

  She was wearing quite a lot of makeup. Her brain had refused to turn off last night and it showed in her under-eye bags today. Luc braked to let a van turn into a side road, and she held up the phone for him to see.

  He dismissed it with a passing glance. “Inevitable. They’ve been running around like ants hoarding crumbs ever since Margo’s elopement. I think this would make you my sixth rebound fling.” He caught her knee-jerk reaction and rolled his eyes. “In the press. Not literally. Christ.”

  No. She couldn’t really imagine him casually flinging. Constantly meeting and making plans with new people took a certain amount of time and effort. Making a half-arsed commitment to someone so that you didn’t go home to an empty bed at night was probably much more convenient. It was a bleak picture that was continuing to emerge, his so-called epic romance.

  He was right, though. These kinds of blog posts had been inevitable since the first rumours had leaked of her casting. The highly unlikely casting that was still provoking “What the fuck?” reactions from anyone who’d seen even ten minutes of Knightsbridge. In the past week, she’d seen headlines linking her with almost every man involved with the production. She’d have to have a personal assistant and a time machine to manage that many dates.

  Her agent and Amelia kept repeating, ad nauseam, that she had to expect that level of scepticism and derision until opening night. At which poin
t, Amelia confidently believed, she would silence the nasty speculation in the only way possible: by taking the stage and killing it.

  No pressure.

  “‘When you consider her predecessor,’” she read aloud, “‘the talents that Lily displays so amply on Knightsbridge are obviously equally potent in real life. It’s nice to see a girl who knows how to use her biggest assets to advantage.’” She scrolled back up to the byline. “Cheers, Claire Barham. Really flying the flag for your fellow woman there.”

  Luc accelerated again. “The press is going to make false allegations left and right, but you can’t let it affect your performance.”

  You’d better not let it affect your performance was the emphatic subtext.

  “You already know how good you’re going to have to be.” He didn’t soften the warning. “A lot of critics will be taking their seats on opening night salivating at the prospect of seeing a car crash firsthand.”

  It was amazing, really, that people didn’t hire him out for motivational speaking.

  “People don’t like to be proven wrong. You have to be so good that even a hint of a critical review will just look like sour grapes.” Without looking away from the windscreen, Luc reached out and touched her hand briefly. She hadn’t realised she was restlessly plucking a hole in the loose threads of her tights. “You can do it.”

  He sounded so sure now. And she didn’t want to disappoint him.

  “The rumours will die down eventually,” he said, a little too evenly. “They’ll move on, pick on someone else.”

  Their eyes met.

  “Right,” she said. “It’s just one of those things.”

  “Occupational hazard.”

  “Happens all the time.”

  She turned Michael Bublé back on, but didn’t feel like singing along this time. She looked back at her phone. “We’re all good. Charlotte is out for the day.”

  “Good.”

  She had the distinct impression they would have been going on to Kirkby even if her father’s wife had been standing at the front windows with a pair of binoculars and a flamethrower.