The Austen Playbook (London Celebrities #4)(33)

When it metaphorically rained, it freaking poured, didn’t it?

“For God’s sake. What is it about Ferren? Three minutes in his company and I’d like to shove him off the nearest bridge, but half the women in London go crackers over him.”

“Sadie’s doing her Queen of Hearts act with this show, manoeuvring players around the board where she wants them,” Maya said, obliviously continuing Freddy’s Alice metaphor. “With the proviso that this is totally hearsay, and I didn’t mean to overhear it, Dylan Waitely told one of the makeup girls that Sadie drove Greg out of the show.”

“So I’ve heard. I can’t say I blame him. She’s annoying as shit at the best of times, even when you’re not having to live with her.”

“No, I mean, she, like, had something on him.” Maya looked uncomfortable. “Dylan suggested that she was threatening him. Blackmailing him out. It sounds a bit farfetched—”

“No, it doesn’t,” Freddy said grimly. “Why would she want Greg out?”

“They had a thing a few years back. He broke things off, and she’s hated him ever since.”

“God, you just about need a labelled chart to keep track of who’s slept with whom in this business.”

“And you know what Sadie’s like. Everyone has to dance to her tune. You just missed Maf’s announcement—guess who’s arriving tomorrow to be our new Mr. Knightley?”

Immediate, appalling comprehension. That fizzy-champagne feeling she’d had in her tummy since she’d kissed Griff dissipated completely. “They haven’t cast Ferren?”

“Got it in one.” Maya pushed her fringe out of her long-lashed eyes. “Is he really that bad? I’ve never met him, but I do like his films.”

“Another overinflated male ego. When he can be arsed and his feelings are sufficiently soothed, he’s a decent actor. That’s where his positive qualities end.”

So much for The Austen Playbook being a stand-in for a holiday. A couple of relaxing weeks in the country, her sainted arse.

Her leg started to itch hideously during the early afternoon and she lifted her skirt to check it wasn’t getting infected. It looked okay, just a bit red. Freddy caught Dylan staring at where her knickers were almost visible under the raised hem, and hastily shoved it back down, glaring at him. He smiled at her breezily before he slipped back into character, gazing at Maya as she sailed past him in scripted umbrage, his hand flexing into a fist as if he wanted to reach out for her.

“Okay,” Maf said at about two o’clock, from her seat on the stage. She pulled a pencil from behind her ear and made a notation on her copy of the script. “Freddy, you’re done here for the day.”

“What?” Freddy asked, startled, as Sadie smirked in the corner. “Have I done something wrong?”

“Several things.” Maf quirked a brow at her. “But nothing irredeemable. We’re moving on to the courtyard scenes, and Lydia’s a done duck in that version. Enjoy your temporary murder and spend some time this afternoon with your script. I want you off-book by the weekend. Nice job today.”

Considering the source, that was a top accolade, and Sadie’s face dropped into sullen lines.

“By the way,” Maf added as Freddy hastily grabbed her stuff, ready to make a bolt before the director could change her mind, “check your email. We’re sending out the media schedule. Thanks to our head investors, we’re going to end the promo circuit with full pre-show TV coverage. Sunset Britain and The Davenport Report are going to do a first-ever joint broadcast, on both channels, live from the grounds here at Highbrook before the curtain rises. Start polishing up your interview skills.”

Freddy suspected her own face now made Sadie look like a beam of sunshine.

“Think of the whopping big cheque from the TV broadcast,” Charlie said encouragingly, after one look at Griff’s face.

“The profit share that requires a high level of audience participation through the app, and therefore people not switching off before the first ad break.” Griff shoved his hand through his hair, watching as his staff tried to take location shots of The Henry, while the TV lot were weaving in and out with their own cameras. The separate crews kept getting in each other’s way and fronting off like opposing gangs in a western. The sensible solution would be to put his team on hold until The Austen Playbook wrapped, but the meeting with network investors that would give a final nod to moving his film into full production was in less than a fortnight. “After what I saw earlier, our cut could even out at about five quid. It was more like watching the crowds at Glastonbury than a professional rehearsal. Total chaos.”

“What, even your darling?” Charlie asked, provocatively, and Griff cut him a sharp glance. “How is the fair Frederica today? Still in possession of her very sharp wits, or did you snog her out of them?”

“I know it’s difficult, but if you can’t act your age, at least aim to rise above adolescence.” Griff took the sheaf of papers his assistant handed him and flipped over the first one to check the figures. They added up to the total of needing a serious cash injection, and soon. Money. Always sodding money.

“You didn’t answer the question.”

Without looking up from the sums, he said, “I haven’t spoken to Freddy today. I saw her for about twenty seconds on the stage.”