The Austen Playbook (London Celebrities #4)(3)

“So, how was the show?” The question came from the next booth. The Prop & Cue was always packed to the rafters, as the closest pub to four of the major theatres, and the noise level was usually a continuous loud buzz, but every so often there was an unexpected lull. She could hear the man clearly, speaking in an attractive, melodious voice. “Where does tonight’s review fall on the scale of ‘could do better’ to ‘Jesus God, pass me the brain bleach’? Which poor sod’s career is in the crapper this time?”

“It’s unfortunate in some cases, but I’ve never trashed anyone’s career.”

Freddy raised her head. She knew that second voice. It was deep, with a distinctive curt resonance to it. She’d heard it just this week through her laptop speakers, while watching a Marlowe documentary on her afternoon off.

J. Ford-Griffin. Grumpiest TV presenter in the UK. And the witty wanker behind the scathing theatre reviews in the Westminster Post.

“If they can’t pick themselves up after one person’s criticism, they don’t deserve another person’s accolades.”

She could almost see him saying it, with the same expression he wore when discussing Elizabethan tragedy. The man looked like an assassin in a war film, and would be temperamentally suited to the part.

He probably even orgasmed with a frosty stare off into the middle distance.

Although it was unfair to judge by appearances. Behind the sub-zero remarks and laser eyes, he could be a total marshmallow. Maybe he went home every night, watched Titanic for the hundredth time, and wept sensitively into his pet kitten.

“Masquerade was a pile of tedious crap when it was committed to paper, it should never have made it as far as a stage, and it’s an embarrassment to Henrietta Carlton’s legacy that it’s still being produced. And of all the boring-as-fuck resurrections I’ve had to sit through, this was the worst.”

Across the table, Sabrina’s brows had snapped together. Freddy took a sip of her drink.

“Well, there’s the first few lines set to go. The column’s practically writing itself.” The other voice was tinged with humour. “I hope you have something nice to say, my friend. People will be starting to think you’re a right miserable bastard.”

A snort. “That was established by the time I was old enough to talk.”

Sabrina was still looking unaccountably irate. She was a protective sister, but she didn’t usually go from zero to homicidal at the first hint of professional criticism.

Thoughtfully, Freddy ran her fingertip through the rings of water on the table as the nicer man asked, “Who’s in it?”

“Adrian Blair, as usual blinding the audience with his veneers so they don’t notice the weaknesses in his performance. When the spotlight hits his teeth, it’s like looking directly into the sun.”

Freddy tried to keep quiet, but a tiny squeak made it out of her throat.

“Freddy Carlton.”

She’d been expecting it, but still jumped as those harsh tones spoke her name.

“I’ve interviewed her.” The other voice again. “She’s very...exuberant. Pretty. Lots of hair. Big arse. Not as striking as her sister, but much nicer.”

The night just kept getting better, didn’t it. And she’d just recognised that voice as well. Mystery solved as to why Sabrina had turned a curious shade of purple.

“She must be good,” Nick Davenport added. He was the host of the evening chat show The Davenport Report, and Sabs’s main professional rival. She was currently a presenter for Sunset Britain. Same time, different channel. No love lost. “She’s in everything, isn’t she?”

“She does give that impression.” The reply was so dry that she could imagine wisps of steam rising from ice. “It was a surprisingly variable performance from her tonight. She fumbled a line at one point, and for some reason decided to diverge out of maudlin sentiment into classic rock. Which, to be fair, was an improvement on the actual dialogue.”

Freddy glanced at Sabrina with a shade of irony.

“Even when she had her words straight, she was phoning it in. She’s losing her spark. Until a few years ago, she was still getting kiddie parts, and mostly took roles in musicals and drawing-room comedy. She danced and bounced her way from curtain to curtain, it was exhausting to watch, and audiences bloody loved her. Then she aged into adult characters, switched direction into pretentious bullshit like High Voltage, and obviously hated every moment of it. For some reason, she’s pursuing a determined line in the high-brow dramas, when she’d clearly rather be stamping about in puddles in Singin’ in the Rain.”

Carefully, Freddy set her glass on the table. She suddenly felt as if a hand had reached over and torn off her dress, leaving her sitting here naked and exposed. It was one thing for Akiko, who had known her most of her life and had always been incredibly intuitive, to see right through the real-life character she’d been playing for a long time now. It was very different to have that icy, impersonal voice slicing through all her shields and digging straight into the heart of her private thoughts and fears. Ford-Griffin had said plenty of unflattering things about her in print over the years, but she’d always been able to brush off a bad review. That was solely about her work on one distinct night, and it was often justified. Occasionally even helpful.

To her, that terse speech struck at the issue of who she was—who she’d thought she would be—as a person.