The Austen Playbook (London Celebrities #4)(37)

“To resume his campaign to get you on the playbill for The Velvet Room?”

“Unless he’s had a complete personality transplant in New York, yes.”

“And he’s not going to be too impressed to find you at Highbrook.”

“It’s the double whammy now. I’m doing the play he called a ‘frivolous butchery of classic literature,’ and apparently this is enemy territory.”

“How do you feel about having your father as your manager?” He phrased the question carefully. It seemed like a terrible idea, both for professional and personal reasons, but he tried to keep his opinion out of his voice. Freddy had a tendency to deflate when the topic of Rupert arose, and he didn’t enjoy being the cause of her extinguished spark.

Freddy fidgeted, crossing and uncrossing her legs. “It seemed natural when I was much younger. I thought we were so close back then. The stage was like a bond between us. Even before I got my first part, Dad would take me to a matinée every weekend. We’d go out for ice cream afterwards and pick our favourite and least favourite characters.” Their eyes met as a flash of amusement came into hers. “Getting my theatre critic on. If you decide to drop your column in the Post for good once the film takes off, I could fill your boots.” The fleeting humour retreated, and she shook her head. “It’s not working anymore. He’s driving my agent up the wall. He’s already driven more than one off completely. But...” Her voice trailed off.

But her father had projected his own ambition on to her, she felt guilt and presumably love, and the weight of both, and Rupert was fucking well milking it.

Griff turned off onto the narrow road that should lead them to Mallowren Manor. “What day’s the first audition for The Velvet Room?”

Freddy started playing with her hair. Once or twice he’d noticed her do it on stage, always in a production where she obviously wasn’t enjoying herself. That alone was a telling sign. “Tuesday.”

“Are you going to go?” he asked bluntly, and she made a little sound between a gulp and an unamused laugh.

“I change my mind on that every half hour.” She glanced at him. “Can you imagine me as Marguerite?”

“You could do it.” A sign appeared, warning of the approaching turnoff to the estate. “And if you audition there’s a very good chance you’ll get it.”

“Because of the family connection?”

“Partly the family connection. Also your own audience pull, and the talent to make a reasonable job of it.”

“Stop with all this effusive flattery, it’s making me blush.”

Griff swung the car into the long winding gravel driveway. “Freddy, you know what you want. And in every other aspect of life, I expect you don’t hold back in going after it.”

She continued looking out the window for a few beats, then turned and looked at him with an expression that was very slightly enigmatic. “True enough.”

“In plain words, you want to take charge of your own career, which is totally natural and considerably overdue, and to choose the projects that you’re passionate about.”

“Correct.” Freddy smoothed out the packet of Maltesers, pushing the empty end into her thigh. “But—family is really important to me, too. I want a dad.” The words burst out. “Not just a manager. I want a dad. The kind of dad who falls asleep in front of the TV, and gives crap presents at Christmas, and hugs me when I come over for tea. A dad who’s proud of me, no matter what I do. I don’t care if that’s just an ideal. I don’t care if I’ve been watching too many sitcoms. That’s what I want.”

They’d reached the sweeping arc at the head of the drive, and he pulled the car to a crunching stop on the gravel. When he twisted in his seat, there was a wet sheen in her eyes, and he swore.

Unbuckling their seatbelts, he hooked his arm behind her head and brought her into him. Prior to this week, he’d rarely been inclined to offer physical comfort; nor had anyone wanted it from him. She burrowed into his neck, her curls tickling his chin.

He stroked her bare arm, listening to her breathing grow steadier, and that hitch of tears fade.

“You’re surprisingly good at hugs,” she murmured against his skin. “For someone who probably doesn’t practice much.”

Or ever.

“You should give Charlie one sometime.” She angled her head to look up at him, and produced a damp grin when she saw his expression. “I’m telling you, he’d love it.”

“He’d have me sectioned.”

He released her and got out to open her door for her. They stood in the driveway, looking up at Mallowren Manor in all its decrepit glory. There was a bite to the air now, and grey clouds were gathering in the sky above their heads. It seemed appropriately ominous. Griff winced. Freddy’s wild imagination was rubbing off on him.

“Oh my.” At his side, where she leaned against his shoulder, she cleared her throat. “Is it just me, or does it even look—”

“Like we should have driven here in the Mystery Machine.”



Chapter Eight


The resemblance of Mallowren Manor to a haunted mansion in a children’s cartoon was not exactly dispelled when Griff rang the bell. The front door creaked open to reveal a very old, wizened man in a morning suit. His nose was even beakier than Griff’s, and there was more hair tufting out of his ears than growing out of his head.