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  “No.”

  She had handed in her resignation over a month ago, about five minutes after her contract had expired, but she had no intention of telling her bosses she was hoping to do a career U-turn into theatre. It was highly probable that Luc Savage was going to send her packing at the first opportunity. Considering the first impression she’d apparently made on him, she had no idea why his people had called her agent to request a face-to-face, but she would hold on to this chance tooth and nail.

  The West End had been her ultimate goal for ten years. Savage was one of the best directors in the business and this production was going to be a sell-out. She wanted to be a part of it.

  She tried to keep her attention focused on Steve’s continued mutterings, and on Ash, who was rubbing his thumbs over her knees in a way that had nothing to do with sex, scripted or otherwise, and everything to do with a good friend and the tense rigidity of her body. She kept her eyes away from the clock.

  She never rushed scenes, but today—

  Places to go, auditions to nail, self-important arsebags to convince.

  She didn’t want to end up in a panicked rush. One thing her father had taught her was that a player didn’t cede advantage to the enemy before the game had even begun.

  “Right.” Steve raised a hand. “Let’s get this in the bag. Think sexy. Think silent.”

  They wrapped the scene in a record fourteen minutes, with one brief hiccup near the end when Ash tried his hand at improvisation and attempted to scoop his shoulders under her legs. They both went flying off the edge of the desk, which broke Lily’s tension so effectively that she cry-laughed her way to a reapplication of mascara.

  At least Steve was gratified. “Nice one,” he said, with considerably more enthusiasm than he’d shown for their actual performance. “Gag reel gold.”

  Lily was still grinning when she left the set, tying the sash on her robe, and followed a limping Ash back to the dressing rooms. Several doors were open and Ben Farley’s new hoverboard had left a trail of destruction. Daily deliveries from the post room usually involved cool freebies for the teenage cast and reminders from the in-house legal team for everyone else.

  Ash pointedly rubbed his knee.

  “Well, I’m sorry, but give me a bit of warning next time you decide to go all Cirque du Soleil. Preferably about six months in advance, so we have time to stretch first.” Shivering, she unlocked her door. The studio heating was aimed at those wearing four layers of wool, not thin polyester and a flesh-coloured thong. “I suggest a few yoga classes before you try that recreationally.”

  Ash flicked water from his bottle at her. He followed her into her dressing room for his usual post-shoot routine of lounging and eating her crisps. After arranging the folds of his dressing gown with exaggerated care, he poked nosily through a stack of her fan mail—which was now vetted by an unfortunate intern. She got a lot of hate mail about Gloria’s antics, and had the honour of receiving the most dick pics in CTV history.

  Lily flung off her own robe and did a mad, chilly dash for her clothes. She pulled up her black jeans with one hand, via a few jerky hip movements that turned into an impromptu foxtrot when she lost her balance, and scooped up her phone to thumb the home button. There were two missed calls, one from her agent.

  “Please don’t cancel,” she said aloud as she dialled her voicemail, and Ash looked up at once.

  “Hey, hey. Who’s got herself a new man, then?” He put about fourteen crisps in his mouth and didn’t bother to chew or swallow before he continued, “Which poor sod is it this time? Tell Uncle Ash.”

  Lily listened to the message from Peter. Thank God. Just confirming the time and place. Two o’clock at Savage Productions in Southbank. “Luc Savage.”

  She flicked a soggy crumb from her sleeve when Ash almost succumbed to death by crisp explosion.

  “Luc Savage?” Ash repeated, still coughing. He swiped at his mouth and chin. “You’re shagging Luc Savage?”

  She wasn’t sure whether she or Savage was the one who ought to take offense.

  “Not if he was the last man on the planet.” Lily shrugged into her jacket and gave up the idea of finding two matching socks as laughable. The room looked like several dozen people had physically exploded their clothes from their bodies.

  Ash hooked an arm over the back of the couch, turning to face her fully. “Have you scored a West End audition, you clever girl? How the hell did you wrangle that?”

  Not flattering, but valid.

  “You assume that I wasn’t headhunted for my sheer overwhelming talent.” She perched on the edge of the couch to do an inventory of her handbag. Wallet, throat lozenges, breath mints. All necessary. Condoms, which she emphatically wouldn’t need today, but which she wasn’t leaving in her dressing room again, after the balloon animal incident. There were several hazards to working with teenage boys and man-children.

  “From this role? By Luc Savage? Not unless he’s having a midlife crisis and putting on a musical production of Gentlemen Prefer Blondes. We know you can act, and that you’re a life-winning, joy-spreading delight, but—and don’t take this the wrong way—less privileged folk might be under the impression that you’re a complete twit.”

  “Savage’s summary was slightly more colourful, but that was the gist, yes.”

  “Have you already auditioned? One of the brutal ones, was it? You should have told me. I’ve got a tried-and-tested remedy. Involves a stamp in your passport and a lot of Spanish booze.”

  “I’m sure I’d enjoy having my stomach pumped in Barcelona as much as the next person, but it wasn’t a direct mauling. I got the character assassination secondhand.”

  “Explain, por favor.”

  “Jamie in catering has been temping over at Savage Productions. He served the Lord and Commander his tea and biscuits the other afternoon.” Lily wrapped the chain of her necklace around her finger. “During a casting meeting. Apparently I look like I’d need direction to put my shoes on.”

  “Fuckwit.” Ash scowled and ran a hand through his tousled hair. That was some serious bed-head. Or desk-head, to be accurate. Their characters tended to have quickie sex on the sly. Usually in the study. Occasionally in a car. Once in a baptismal font. “Do I need to storm down there and throw some punches?”

  “I appreciate the gesture, but I don’t think watching you get beaten to a pulp would cheer me up enough to make it worthwhile.”

  “I beg your pardon.” Ash made a lazy fist and waved it about. “I lift a tenth of my own body weight with these bad boys.”

  “In what, shopping bags at Harrods?” She dodged the dive he made for the sensitive spot on her ribs.

  “Hey.” Ash caught her hand. “Lily. Forget whatever Savage said. The man obviously doesn’t know a thing about you. What’s the sum total? A few clips of Gloria giggling and gyrating? He hasn’t even spoken to you yet.”

  “That’s partly what worries me.”

  Ash considered that. “Well, it could be worse,” he offered feebly. “You could have a really strong accent to iron out. You could be mute. Some people can’t speak at all. There are people who’d love to have a porn voice.”

  “I’m going to need my crisps back now.”

  Chapter Two

  Luc Savage looked like Gregory Peck, circa some dapper time between Roman Holiday and To Kill A Mockingbird. There was more bulk in the shoulders, silver in the hair and darkness in the soul; otherwise, the resemblance was uncanny. Lily had seen him once before, at an opening night for another director’s play. The theatre had been full of famous faces that night, and the production distractingly bad, and she hadn’t paid him any particular attention. Her mental image of him had been formed more closely and recently by Jamie’s faithfully repeated insults, so she’d been expecting something more along the lines of an orc.

  Any resemblance to Old Hollywood charm ended at his bone structure.

  He stood in the doorway to his office, surveying her. When she’d arrived, his
secretary had also done a head-to-toe sweep, and then shaken her head in apparent disbelief, which hadn’t built Lily’s confidence.

  She stared back at him, directly into his unimpressed grey eyes. She had put a stranglehold on her nerves during the long wait, dialling back from jiggling knees to a bit of subtle nail-picking.

  Yet all of a sudden, she wasn’t nervous at all.

  This was Luc Savage. Award-winning, career-making, ego-curdling Luc Savage. Get-in-my-way-and-I’ll-crush-you-like-a-bug Luc Savage. And her driving instinct was to touch the tips of her boots to his—and then stand her ground until he stepped back first.

  Her spine prickled.

  After a long pause that was too charged to be awkward, he stepped forward and extended a hand. “Luc Savage.”

  She glanced down at his fingers wrapped around hers. “Lily Lamprey.”

  They released each other’s hands; their eyes met again.

  Game on.

  Savage’s eyebrow rose, just a little. He tilted his sleek dark head in the direction of the open door. “Take a seat.”

  With one simple gesture, he managed to suggest that it wasn’t strictly necessary to curtsey, but feel free. Sadly, she was far too ambitious to do a Queen’s Guard salute, outside of her sarcastic imagination.

  She had an inkling their opinion of one another was not going to improve much over the next painful minutes.

  Inside his office, she sat down gingerly on one of the guest chairs. The room had probably been decorated by an expensive firm; the colour scheme was an inoffensive grey and cream, and the furnishings were impersonal. Generic landscapes on the walls where she might have expected framed playbills and signed photographs. If there had been a sentimental framed shot of Margo Roy on his desk until recently, it had obviously been confined to a bin, but she somehow doubted it. He didn’t exactly exude romance. And he was well-versed in the icy “No comment” when it came to public speculation about his private life.

  As someone who had been accused of sleeping with most of her male costars, all of whom were married or in committed relationships, Lily had no issue with giving the metaphorical finger to prying paparazzi. But there was a way to do it without coming across like a dick and attracting rebound bad press. Case in point: Margo, who seemed to have supplied all of their charisma as a couple and who actually smiled occasionally. Savage obviously subscribed to the Victoria Beckham school of posing. Margo was probably well rid.

  There were still shock waves over that split. They’d been the West End power couple. The modern-day Burton and Taylor. Minus all the heavy drinking and extracurricular sex. She assumed.

  Lily released a deep breath and leaned back, and almost had a heart attack when the ergodynamic chair unexpectedly reclined. She flailed her way back to an upright position. If she’d ever deluded herself that she was an elegant, graceful woman, this day would have been a sad wake-up call. Her cheeks burned.

  Savage managed to sit down like a normal person. “You all right there?” he asked blandly, and he was just an odious, odious man.

  His fingertips came down to rest on her resumé, and she nodded at it. Don’t blush. “You’ll notice gymnastic and acrobatic training listed under special skills. As you can see, I’m a tragic loss to the circus profession, but I just couldn’t get past the clown phobia.”

  The corner of his mouth flickered. She couldn’t tell if it was amusement or derision. She could guess, however.

  “I see athletic training,” he agreed, glancing down the list of mostly true skills. The archery was a bit of a stretch, and consisted of an episode of Knightsbridge when Gloria had got drunk, crashed the duchess’s birthday party, and shot a flaming arrow into the pile of presents. Ash had eventually snatched the bow from Lily in exasperation and completed the shot so they could break for lunch. It seemed unlikely that Elizabeth I was going to be pinging arrows into the audience, however, so she couldn’t see that particular lie being exposed.

  “I also see screen experience. Several film roles. Voice training.” His own voice turned slightly ironic on that one and he slanted a look at her, but surprisingly refrained from pointing out the obvious.

  She couldn’t exactly deny the problem. If she wasn’t paying attention, her speaking voice tried to slip into a register somewhere between film noir and a chipmunk. Teenagers in the street, checkout operators at the supermarket, men on the Tube—half the strangers she met thought she was trying to be sexy, which either weirded people out or resulted in unwelcome offers. The other half thought she had a brain the size of a Tic Tac. Years of voice lessons had widened her range, but it still wasn’t ideal.

  “What I’m not seeing is stage experience,” he finished coolly. “If this is up-to-date, you haven’t set foot on a stage since you finished at the London Institute, apart from one stint in a celebrity panto. I don’t think I need to point out the difference between performing in the West End and doing a bit of look-out-he’s-behind-you for charity.”

  She studied him thoughtfully. “It’s a lost art, condescension. Most workplaces are so PC these days that you just don’t get patronised in quite the same way.”

  This time, both of his eyebrows came up. If he wasn’t careful, he was going to have an actual expression soon.

  “This would be my first major stage role, yes. And I assume the only reason you’re even considering me is because I come with a TV following.” Most people despised her character, who had a solid track record of inserting herself between popular couples on the show. Sometimes literally. But Knightsbridge itself was a money-spinner, and she was at least…memorable, apparently. “I’m not deluding myself that I’d have got through your front door if you couldn’t exploit my name for ticket sales.”

  “Exploit?”

  “Make sound economic use of?” she suggested helpfully, and his face retreated further into the Ice Age.

  “I don’t recall that many past difficulties in filling seats.”

  Oops. Three minutes into the meeting and she’d already trodden on his ego. At this rate, she wouldn’t even get to read the first line of her monologue. After the short-notice call, she’d stayed up until one in the morning re-memorising it, in case she needed a prepared piece. Fortunately, she’d had minimal lines to learn for the show today. Faster, harder, Oh God, yes, and Of course I love you, darling, but he needs me didn’t require a lot of mental effort.

  “In spite of not having trolled the soap opera sets for staff before.”

  She was beginning to see why there had been a recent spate of tabloid articles about his abrasive management style. Instead of looking down his nose at the vocally challenged, maybe he ought to direct his energy into his people skills.

  “It’s not a soap opera,” she felt obliged to point out on behalf of her pay cheque.

  It was unquestionably a soap opera.

  “It’s a period drama.”

  It was Dynasty with feather boas and Charlestons instead of shoulder pads and hairspray.

  The abruptness with which he changed the subject spoke volumes. “Would you rather stand or stay sitting to read?” He picked up the sheaf of typed script that she’d been trying not to make sneak glances at.

  She’d already had to sign confidentiality papers stating that she wouldn’t discuss any content from the play, should the audition be unsuccessful. The playwright, Benjamin Starkey, had won the Methven Prize eight times, six more times than anyone else in the UK, and 1553 was his first new play in four years. It was going straight to the West End, it was attached to Savage Productions, and it was reopening the Queen Anne. They were taking secrecy to an extreme to keep up the promotional momentum; this was the first time Lily had seen any of the dialogue she was reading for.

  “I’m fine like this.” Considering the balance issues she’d had so far today, completing such difficult tasks as dressing herself and planting her arse on a chair, she wouldn’t tempt fate by walking around. Out of habit from table reads at CTV, she reached down to unzip her boots and pulle
d up her socked feet to sit cross-legged.

  Savage handed her the script excerpt, about five pages of dialogue. “This is from the penultimate scene, the first and only time that Jane, Mary and Elizabeth are alone together. The play is a character study, not a historical narrative. The individual journey of each woman is key. Elizabeth has fewer scenes than her sister and cousin, but she has to hold her own against two very strong personalities. The weight of expectation is on her. In 1553, she was a pawn in the game. Eventually, she’ll take the throne. This is the future Virgin Queen, a master tactician—and a young woman in a very precarious position. The actor who takes this role needs to find the heart of Elizabeth, latch on to and hold the audience’s sympathy. If we do this right, every core character will have the loyalty and empathy of the room, torn three ways.”

  He opened a small cupboard that turned out to be a mini-fridge—and God, he kept chocolate cake in his office, like a relatable person with a shit diet.

  Fortunately, he didn’t offer her any cake, as she probably would have taken it. He pulled out two bottles of water, tossed one to her, and cracked the seal on the other. “I’ll give you a minute to skim through the scene.”

  She read with the script propped on her lap, absently clutching the water bottle to her chest and picking at the label. She was hyperaware of him for about thirty seconds, listening to the sounds as he drained his bottle of water. She could hear him breathing. Then she became lost in the writing. She read it through once and reached into her bag to snag a pen. Belatedly, after she’d already scrawled a few words, she looked up at him. “Sorry, do you mind if I jot down some notes?”

  He was watching her closely, his expression unreadable. “Do what you need to do.”

  After a moment, she clicked off the pen and looked up. “Right.”

  “I’ll read for Jane and Mary.” He nodded at the nearby tripod. “All auditions are recorded, so you’re aware. No one outside the management team will see the footage.”

  If there was one thing she was used to, it was reading lines in front of a camera, but never in front of someone who could blackball her theatrical career with one phone call.