The Austen Playbook (London Celebrities #4)(32)

Freddy rubbed at her leg as she stood up from the low brick wall in the Highbrook rose garden, where she was taking her lunch break. Two days post-screwdriver, she must be starting to heal, because the stitches were itching. She threw the rest of her sandwich on the grass for the resident peacock to find on his rounds—the feathered one, not Dylan, who had been flirting with her all morning and getting increasingly handsy. He was more likely to get a knee in his dick than a bite of her ham and cheese.

A production assistant rushed past, holding a clipboard. “Five more minutes,” the harried-looking man said. He jerked his chin back in the direction of the theatre, with an exaggerated grimace. “I’d stay out here in the peace and quiet as long as possible if I were you. It’s all kicking off back there.”

“Oh God. What now?” The morning rehearsal had been a flat-out disaster. They’d had their first attempt at the random scene selection, with Maf acting as the voice of the viewing public and giving them four minutes’ warning which version they were enacting. The whole thing had collapsed in seconds. Half the cast couldn’t find their place even with their scripts right in front of their faces, and Dylan had combined the lines from two different scene variants, which had thrown everybody off completely. Freddy had delivered a very dramatic, affecting line about the death of a character who then entered from stage left, alive and well.

This was the point in rehearsals where the production always looked like an ugly old patchwork quilt, random bits thrown together and coming apart at the seams. It was usually a smoothly oiled machine by opening night, but the words “live TV” were hovering in the air like a disaster beacon. And the advent of Fiona Gallagher was hanging over the night for Freddy like a spectre. A very influential, potentially career-changing spectre.

The crew guy rolled his eyes. “The understudies have arrived and nobody knows where to put them, the Wicked Baron’s people are traipsing about taking location shots for some film—” Freddy tried not to be amused “—and Greg Stirling’s done a runner.”

Freddy stopped casually peering around for a glimpse of the Wicked Baron, and turned sharply. “What?”

“Ostensibly,” her informant said, making significant movements with his eyebrows, “he’s been paged back to the soap sets in London. But—” he made a meal of looking around in all directions, and Freddy caught herself doing the same thing “—I heard that he’s fed up working with Lady Muck over there and her demands, and can’t stick it any longer.”

On the terrace Sadie was sunning herself and smilingly ordering the catering staff about.

“I see.”

Well, she couldn’t honestly blame Greg. Sadie was in top form with this show. Freddy had been relieved that none of their scenes crossed paths this morning, but Sadie had snuck in another of her cryptic digs over morning tea. She was starting to mess with Freddy’s head, making her wonder if she’d accidentally shoplifted or buried a body, or whatever dirty little secret Sadie was gleefully stroking. Ten to one, that was the whole point—just pretend you know something, and the other person winds themselves into a nervous breakdown imagining what it could be.

Anyway, Greg hadn’t been the most effectual member of the cast. It was lucky he’d done a bolt with enough time for a replacement to come in and integrate properly. Fingers crossed for someone who didn’t keep missing his comedic timing because he was looking into a hand mirror.

As she rounded the house, a door opened, and Griff and Charlie’s father almost knocked her over.

“Oh! Heavens. So sorry.” James Ford steadied them both, then smiled vaguely at her. His greying red hair was a dishevelled halo around his head, and his hands were covered with ink stains. “Isn’t it a beautiful morning?”

“Very. Although I think it’s going to rain later.”

“Oh, well. The sun always comes back out eventually, doesn’t it?” James was hopping from one foot to another. He winked at her and actually tapped one finger to the side of his nose. “Exciting things are afoot.”

He continued busily on his way, and Freddy was left blinking after him, feeling just the teensiest bit like Alice after an encounter with the Mad Hatter.

She didn’t know where the genes had come from that had created Griff, but they were obviously all recessive in James Ford.

Near the busy main entrance to The Henry, Maya was sitting at the base of a large oak tree, her knees drawn up to her chest and her headphones on. Not wanting to interrupt her recharging time, Freddy lifted a hand and was going to walk around her, but Maya pushed the headphones back to hang around her neck and stood.

“Did you hear that Greg’s out?”

“One of the crew just filled me in. I hope they cast a decent understudy.”

Maya pursed her lips. “I don’t like gossip.”

Freddy dropped her bag. “Of course not. But?”

“First of all—my flatmate worked with Sadie recently, and apparently she’s in a relationship with Lionel Grimes.”

One of the most influential men in the London entertainment industry, and the other main investor bankrolling this production.

“True love, I’m sure,” Freddy said, and Maya snorted.

“Especially since Sadie’s also been blatantly chasing Joe Ferren for months.”