The Austen Playbook (London Celebrities #4)(53)
But there was another voice, a conscience voice. A self-respect voice that had taken too many blows over the past few years.
“I enjoy musical theatre, Dad,” she said quietly. “I like rom-coms, and physical comedy, and all of these so-called frivolous scripts. Giving people a good time, making them happy, letting them escape for a while—that’s what I think is worthwhile. I don’t really care about being seen as a ‘serious’ actor. I don’t even care if people know my name, as long as they leave the theatre feeling better than when they came in.”
A muscle jumped in Rupert’s jaw. “Well, regardless of whether you ‘want’ people to know your name, you have a name to uphold. Our family has been in the West End for over four hundred years—”
“Yes. I know they have. I love the theatre, and I’m really proud to be part of a family that’s had such an impact on the way the dramatic arts have developed in London.” Freddy’s voice faltered. “You know I always wanted to be like Henrietta.”
“And you are,” Rupert said at once, with a shade more warmth. “You’ve worked so hard, and your career is developing brilliantly. Your grandmother would have been very proud.”
With a small, muffled half-laugh, Freddy brushed back the hair that had fallen into her face. “Yeah.” She looked at him. “And you’re proud of her.”
The beam of weak light coming through the small side window fell directly on her father’s face, so she saw the curious expression in his eyes. “Of course, I am,” he said. “She was a brilliant dramatic actress. The best of her generation.”
“And a groundbreaking playwright.”
Rupert folded his hands over the head of his walking stick. “The Velvet Room cemented the Carlton name in the history books. And you’re continuing the legacy.” He smiled at her. “My baby girl. I can still remember seeing you up there for your stage debut. ‘The most promising child actor for years,’ that’s what the critics said.”
She’d had universally good reviews for that performance. It had been before Griff’s time.
Freddy swallowed hard, because she could remember that time, too, coming off the stage to be swept into her father’s arms and bounced around in triumph. And all the roles that followed, as the expectations became higher and the hugs fewer. “I’m not right for The Velvet Room. I think it’s an amazing piece of work, but to actually act in it—it’s not my sort of play at all.”
“You’ve always underestimated your ability.”
No; she’d sublimated her own wants.
“Dad—”
“I need to get back to London.” Rupert glanced at his watch. “I’m meeting with Lisa after lunch.”
His expression didn’t bode well for friendly manager-agent relations.
“Dad.”
Rupert turned at the door and gave the room a final scrutiny, glancing over the desk, fixing on the feature wall again. From a distance, the pattern on the tiles looked like Art Deco curlicues; close-up, body parts started to emerge, like a dirty Rorschach test. She hoped he didn’t have his contacts in.
His eyes locked with hers. “Freddy. We have not worked this long and hard for you to throw away your potential by tap-dancing into obscurity—and early arthritis,” he added drily. “Actors like your grandmother, and Cecily Redcliffe, and Cameron Savage—they didn’t reach iconic status by twirling through a succession of romantic comedies. You paid your dues in the chorus; those productions were a means to an end.” A muscle jumped beside his mouth. “And I have no interest in managing the career of a glorified music-hall performer. I expect you in London on Tuesday morning for the audition. Be there.” He twisted too sharply and had to jerk his stick forward to keep his balance. As he hissed, she saw the pain skitter across his taut features.
Freddy swallowed on a knot of nausea.
“Is it that important to you?” She stood in the centre of the room, very still. “The Carlton legacy in the West End?”
“Yes.”
One composed word that fell like a ten-ton weight.
Chapter Eleven
When her father had gone, Freddy pushed both hands through her hair, gripping it in handfuls above her ears. She released the hold and a violent breath simultaneously.
A bang outside rattled the ceiling light and the pornographic tiles on the wall. With another sudden surge of anxiety that made her feel like her skin was three sizes too small, she grabbed up her bag and almost ran from the theatre. She needed to be outside, in the sunshine and fresh air, away from this room and its ghosts. And she found she wanted Griff very badly. His arms, his voice, and his way of cutting through the spiralling bullshit and putting things into perspective.
Unfortunately, it was wraiths of the past inside and the forces of evil outside. She came out of the main doors and dashed headlong into Ferren, who stumbled and grabbed on to her, and they ended up in a tangle of arms and legs on the ground.
Her hair falling around their faces, Freddy tried to catch her breath, and Ferren blinked up at her. Amusement pushed out momentary surprise. “Why, Freddy, I had no idea you felt this way.”
She was in no mood for this. His hands had automatically landed on her hips, and swearing under her breath, Freddy managed to pull free of him and get back to her feet. Her dress was now a total write-off. One of them had ripped a large shred into it during the tumble. Her leg was twinging, too, and she checked the stitches.