The Austen Playbook (London Celebrities #4)(12)

“Thanks.” He pulled another one from her raised hand. “The cast is here, then, are they?” His tone conjured images of empty chocolate boxes, and the aftermath of a party, and missing the bus by thirty seconds, and all of life’s fleeting moments of gloom.

“Dude. You might want to dial it down a notch there. The enthusiasm is embarrassing.”

He caught his finger with the hammer and swore again. She’d always thought he had a very inspiring vocabulary.

“If you’re going to be rude enough to visibly grasp for patience,” she said, “I would suggest keeping your eyes open. At least while you’re whacking nails into a board.”

Ford-Griffin shook the pain from his hand, set the hammer down on the stepladder, and swung himself down. Straightening, he moved his broad shoulders to settle his shirt back into place, and coolly adjusted the knot of his tie with a single jerk of his hand. The only concession he’d made to the heat was to roll up his sleeves, exposing muscled forearms, but there wasn’t a visible bead of sweat on him. The assassin persona was firmly in place. Suave, efficient movements, immaculate clothing, and not a hint as to what was going on beneath the surface.

Freddy quite fancied the impenetrable demeanour. She could imagine several occasions when it would come in handy. For example, when dealing with co-stars who probably sashayed home at night to their coven.

He returned his hammer to the toolbox. “I’m surprised you’ve signed on for this shitshow.”

He didn’t look surprised. She couldn’t imagine him ever looking surprised.

She bent down again to tidy the screws she’d just knocked with her foot. “This production is pure entertainment and escapism. It’s fun, it’s funny, it’s a bit of whodunit, a bit of snogging under the stairs. It’s exactly the variety of light comedy-drama that you’ve been suggesting is my spiritual home for the past five years.” She felt sorry for his staff. They wouldn’t get away with much, with Perceptive Pete here striding around. “If you’re going to make judgmental comments—and I realise it’s what you’re paid for,” she added with silky kindness, “at least be consistent with your own advice.”

The pools-of-mystery eyes narrowed.

She smiled at him from her crouched position. “What’s your name?” she asked suddenly.

“What do you mean, what’s my name?” he said with a slight edge. “If your memory is that bad, good luck learning your lines. The script makes War and Peace look like a novella.”

“I can’t at all tell your opinion of this production. I hope the baffling fact that you’re letting it be staged on your property doesn’t mean I’ll miss out on the joy of a written review. They’re useful to have around if I’m ever in danger of developing self-esteem.” She examined a strange tool with multiple prongs. “I realise we’ve met, but we never got around to using first names. I’m Freddy to everyone but Sadie Foster, who makes a point of using Frederica because she knows it grinds my tits. And since I’ve heard people call you Griff on TV, I’m assuming the ‘J’ in your name stands for something equally unacceptable.”

Sabrina had once offered a number of suggestions on that point, the politest being Jackass. Freddy assumed the obvious eccentricities in the Ford family didn’t extend as far as that.

Firmly, he removed the mystery tool from her grasp before she could follow through on her impulse to test the sharpness of the blades with her thumb. “James.”

“James?” She’d expected at least a Jehoshaphat. Her hand brushed his, and she curled her fingers against the fabric of her skirt. “But you don’t go by that?”

“My father’s name is also James.” The words still had sharp corners. “Apparently my parents didn’t foresee the inconvenience. My grandfather got annoyed by the time I was six months old and started calling me Griff. It stuck.” With derision, he added, “And when I was offered a column in the Post, the editor used the initial in my byline because I wouldn’t let him slap a ‘Dr.’ in front of my name. He thought J. Ford-Griffin sounded credibly intellectual.”

“Whereas, oddly, James Ford-Griffin sounds like both a 110-year-old antiquarian and a Mayfair playboy,” she probably shouldn’t have said out loud.

“Yeah, thanks for that,” he said after a moment. “Unfortunately, the initial bled over into my television work.”

“Should I call you Griff, then?”

“If you have to.” The fervour. The passion. “Although as I will not be reviewing the show, thank fuck, I’ll be steering clear as soon as I’ve made sure the theatre will stay intact for a few weeks.”

“That’s very conscientious of you.”

“I own the property deeds and therefore the responsibility for anything that happens here. And as much as it would be a blessing for British theatre if a beam fell on Dylan Waitely, I’d prefer not to cop the blame for it.”

She finished tidying the mess she’d made of his materials and stood up. He was closer than she’d realised and she ended up seriously invading his personal space. She shifted position so she wasn’t actually breathing into his neck.

“So, your grandfather was Sir George Ford.” And when she thought about it—surely her father would know that, and he could have bothered to drop it into conversation. For all his grumbling about the reviews, he’d never mentioned that the “puffed-up, short-sighted, poisonous bastard” at the Post was the grandson of Henrietta’s lover. She nodded at their surroundings. “If this is the standard for gifts in your family, you must be very popular at Christmas.”