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

“Is that what you’re going to write in the review?” Nick asked.

“That would be the tactful way of putting it.”

“And the less tactful?”

“She’s an overexposed, chronically confused crowd-pleaser, who’s built a career riding on her family’s coattails. A twirl through her grandmother’s work was inevitable, and unfortunately this is probably a practice run. There’s a huge revival of The Velvet Room coming next winter, and regardless of suitability, the surname is promotional gold.” Drip, drip, went the tap of cynicism.

And realism.

“Half the world runs on nepotism,” Nick pointed out.

“Agreed. Wringing her connections dry shows common sense. Which is then smashed by the complete lack of critical judgment. She either has no idea of her own strengths, or is under someone’s thumb. I suspect both. You need grit to endure in this industry. If she has it, she’s doing an exceptional job of hiding it.”

Looking at Sabrina’s expression now, Ford-Griffin should be grateful there were no lethal weapons within reach of the booth. Akiko looked torn between indignation on Freddy’s behalf and alarm at the brewing thundercloud across from her.

A new group of people thankfully entered the pub then—judging by the glimpses of leotards under leggings and hoodies, it was the cast from The Festival of Masks—and the noise cranked up to the approximate level of monster-truck rally.

Freddy took a second to ensure that none of the turbulence in her mind leaked into her expression or words. “Put the claws away, kids. That was a short, sharp dose of painful accuracy. I have cashed in on the Carlton name and we all know it.”

And he’d made a direct hit with the rest of it.

“You’ve also worked your tail off. What a fucking twat.” Sabrina drummed her nails on the table and glowered over Freddy’s head.

“Who is he?” Akiko asked curiously.

“J. Ford-Griffin. The critic for the Westminster Post.” Freddy played with the rose in the glass on the table. She usually found flowers very soothing. Flowers and books: her happy places. “He’s the guy who presents all the arts programmes on TV. Expert in the history of theatre. You know. Short-haired Lucius Malfoy. Tall. Sarcastic. Ice-blond hair. Ice in general.”

Illumination dawned on Akiko’s face. She was an art history professor, she’d have seen him before; he produced multiple shows on all aspects of the arts. “Oh—yes, I met him when he was filming a documentary at the British Museum. He’s very...um...” Akiko always liked to pick out the best qualities in anyone she met. She was struggling. “Learned. I believe he has a PhD.”

“And a mind like a snake.” Sabrina made no attempt to speak quietly, so all gratitude to the boisterous dancers at the bar. “He was on the show once, and I had to interview him. Any question he didn’t feel like answering, he twisted to suit himself, and I ended up looking like I had no idea what I was talking about.” Sabrina looked peevish at the memory, although Freddy found it hard to imagine her sister ever feeling discomposed on camera. She’d never had a stupid professional stumble like Freddy had made tonight. “And,” Sabs finished ominously, “as we can see, he’s a mate of Nick Davenport’s.” She would probably use the same tone if she’d said, “And he likes to knock down old ladies in the supermarket.”

On the charge of being uncooperative in interviews, Freddy didn’t entirely blame Ford-Griffin. As much as she loved Sabrina and obviously supported her career—go team—she still had haunting memories of the one time she’d had to do a talk show interview. Incidentally, with Nick Davenport. Who was a right nosy bastard beneath the slick veneer. He’d tried to suggest she was the latest Other Woman in a co-star’s train wreck of a marriage. Not likely.

A spark of amusement returned as her sister visibly simmered. “I see inter-show relations are as cordial as ever.”

Sabrina said something that would send the curse-censors on her show haywire. “And see if I expend energy trying to coax a smile out of Malfoy next time they drag him on. Wanker.”

“The Westminster Post has always been a hard sell. His column is actually extremely entertaining.” When his remarks didn’t hit so close to home. “He strews the insults about with such panache.” Freddy wriggled out of the booth. “I’m going to get another round. Who wants?”

Akiko shook her head, but Sabrina held up her glass. “Another rum and coke, please.”

It took a full minute of elbow-ducking and handbag-dodging to manoeuvre her way to the bar, where the staff were flat-out and looking harassed. She was leaning forward and trying to read the new cocktail menu when the youngest bartender, a girl with artificially grey hair, made an unwise grab for a bottle of gin on a shelf high above her head. It slipped from her grasp as she lost her balance, and Freddy shot out her hand and grabbed it. She caught it inches before it could smash right in the face and expensive jacket of the man who’d come up beside her.

There was a moment of stillness, before she flipped the bottle upright and set it carefully on the counter.

Blinking, the bartender cast a quick look over at her shoulder at her boss. “Shit. Thanks. Ever think about trying out for wicket-keeper at Lord’s?”

“I’d be happy if I could just pull off that much dexterity on stage now and then. It would really—” Freddy turned to check on the target of the near-miss, and tilted her head as she finished “—widen my skill set.”