The Austen Playbook (London Celebrities #4)(2)

“A very talented journalist,” Akiko said loyally.

“Some drunk ginger floozy from the telly?” Freddy suggested at the same time, in a tongue-in-cheek attempt to divert the stream of the conversation.

Sabrina lifted her nose. “Excuse me, baby sister. I am perfectly sober. I can hold a cocktail.”

“You can hold about six in each hand at the TV Awards every year.”

“Entirely different situation.” Sabrina grinned. “Despite that piece of cheek, you wee shite, and even with a spot of Springsteen thrown in, I’m incredibly proud of what you can do. And I’ll even bone up on The Velvet Room, so I’m all set for your star turn in the West End revival next year.”

Freddy felt her smile fade from the inside out. Her heart gave a hard thump of trepidation and shrivelled, and the shadow probably spread to her face. “There’s no guarantee I’ll get a role in it.”

“Of course you will,” Sabrina said, and added with sisterly affection and zero tact, “Talent aside, you’re Henrietta’s granddaughter. Think of the marketing opportunities. Dad’s always got his eye on his investments, and this’ll be a triple coup. A performance royalty from the theatre, commission from your salary, and all the media appearances he’ll be able to milk out of you appearing in Grandma’s tour de force.” Her vivacious features slipped into that barbed wall of sarcasm that usually emerged when they were discussing their father. “Thanks to the offspring who isn’t a massive disappointment, Scrooge McDuck can pour another bucket of gold coins into that vault of millions he’s hoarding.”

Freddy felt a tinge of colour rush into her cheeks, and that knot in her chest twisted. She put down the rest of the chip in her hand.

Akiko folded her hands on the tabletop, studying Freddy with uncomfortably shrewd dark eyes. “You do want a role in The Velvet Room, Freddy?”

“What, Henrietta’s masterpiece? The Carltons’ biggest claim to fame?” Sabrina waved at someone who’d just come into the pub. “Freddy’s always banged on about what a good script it is. She’s almost as bad as Dad on that subject. Although at least she likes it for its artistic merit, not the rewards it generates.”

Akiko was still looking at Freddy.

She weighed her words. “It’s an excellent play. It really does deserve all the accolades.” She hadn’t actually answered Akiko’s question, and from her expression, it hadn’t gone unnoticed. Freddy appreciated the genius of The Velvet Room—but did she really, honestly, want to act in it?

No. She could say it silently, privately, in her own mind, but so far she hadn’t had the balls to say it aloud, even just to Sabrina.

After a moment, she lifted a shoulder. “The most likely director for the new season of The Velvet Room was in the audience tonight. This performance wasn’t exactly a ringing endorsement, was it?”

“You were probably just nervous,” Sabrina said, in a tone that suggested Freddy was eleven years old again and had just embarked on her first debut.

Incidentally, when she had debuted at eleven, she’d remembered every one of her lines.

“I’m sure press night is always terrifying,” Akiko said.

Yes, it was, even after all this time. Doubly so when her family were in the front rows, as well as the dozens of critics, including the dude who’d called her “duller than a pair of safety scissors” in the Westminster Post.

And the scrutiny would have been high tonight, because of the family connection. By choice, Freddy wouldn’t audition for any adaptations of her grandmother’s works. For several reasons, one being that enough of her career had been founded on nepotism. She hadn’t minded exploiting the connection in her teens, but unearned glory wore thin very quickly. With Carltons populating the theatres of London since the days of quills, bustles, and bubonic plague, she didn’t need to provide extra fodder for the critics to discuss the many and varied ways she had built a career on other people’s achievements.

However, her father was her manager, he did think it was good business sense to capitalise on the link, and when the casting call had gone out for Masquerade this season, he’d been dead set on having her in it. And she’d caved, to avoid the argument. As usual.

Akiko cleared her throat. “I’m not sure that unrelenting angst is really your thing, Freddy. I could see the natural glass-half-full sass itching to come out at every woe-laden moment.”

As usual, she’d hit the nail on the head. No, weepy philosophical introspection was not Freddy’s cup of tea, it had become increasingly apparent, and the admittedly mediocre script for Masquerade was so wreathed in despair and gloom that she’d had to listen to P. G. Wodehouse audiobooks in rehearsal downtime to keep up her spirits.

In that respect, The Velvet Room would be just as bad. It was beautifully written, but not exactly abundant with laughs.

It would, however, very likely sweep the National Theatre Awards and look bloody great on a CV.

Which, not so long ago, she’d have jotted down as item one on the priority list. Living up to the family legacy, reaching the highest salary bracket, winning countless Leading Actress awards, crossing over into film, meriting an incredibly long and detailed entry on Wikipedia—who wouldn’t want that?

Who wouldn’t find happiness in all of that?

She smooshed another chip into a greasy pillow between her finger and thumb.