The Austen Playbook (London Celebrities #4)(59)

“You mean I spend too much money on them?” Charlie asked. “I don’t, you know. Any car I’ve ever bought I’ve got for cheap, usually because the engine hadn’t worked since 1952, and I do most of the work myself.”

What had Griff always thought, that people were rarely what you projected onto them? He hadn’t gone very far in applying that to the people closest to him. He pushed away from the wall and straightened. “There’s a lot I haven’t bothered to notice, isn’t there?”

“S’all right,” Charlie said, looking a shade uncomfortable himself. Then suddenly, he grinned. “Turns out you’re full of surprises, as well. My stoic big bro, falling arse-over-boots for the West End’s answer to Pollyanna, quick enough to make Romeo look slow on the uptake. She seems to be merrily throwing curveballs right and left. What’s next for the Freddy Effect?”

Good question.

Especially since, if Griff was correct in what Freddy had risked her life to retrieve from the ivy on Friday, she’d now taken to pinching other people’s love letters.

It was raining in London. Freddy stared through the car window, but rivulets of water were running down the glass so quickly it was difficult to see clearly.

“This was where you wanted to go?” The taxi driver’s voice made her jump, and she blinked back into reality.

“Oh. Sorry.” She fumbled for her purse and paid the fare. It was steep; she’d tossed and turned in bed so much last night that she’d overslept and been late leaving Highbrook, and the traffic had been horrendous. If she were going to read signs into things, the universe wasn’t all that keen on delivering her here in time. She could almost hear Griff snorting over that one.

She bit her lip. She hadn’t spoken to him all weekend. She’d barely even seen him. Just one moment, when she’d been crossing the grass on her way back from the theatre, and she’d looked up and their eyes had met through the glass of the library window. Very filmlike. Except in a film, they might have followed up with a reconciliation scene and some passionate shagging by now. The nonfictional world was a bit shite, sometimes.

“You sure you don’t want me to take you somewhere else?” The driver was getting impatient, but really, he was reading her mind. It was like the voice of her internal narrative had a deep Geordie accent.

She did want him to take her somewhere else. Just about anywhere, at this point.

But she’d been going back and forward on this all weekend. Go to the audition, or don’t. Accept what was essentially an ultimatum, or go with her own instincts. Her own conscience. For several reasons, it would be a terrible idea to take a part in The Velvet Room. Only one reason to do it. And her mind kept sticking on the moment in Henrietta’s office when her father’s stance had faltered and he’d seem to hoist himself up by sheer pride rather than physical strength. So much had been taken away from him in the past.

She’d felt she had no choice. She owed him her loyalty. She’d had to come.

Now that she was here, though, her stomach was queasy. And her heart felt like lead.

“No,” she said. “Thanks. I’m expected.”

When she shut the door behind her, the car immediately pulled away, sloshing a puddle of water over the back of her legs. Not a good beginning, but then none of this felt right.

Freddy stood in the rain, feeling drips of water wiggle under the hood of her coat, looking up at the impressive frontage of the Metronome Theatre. It had fallen down a few years ago and been rebuilt super posh.

It would probably be wrong to hope it spontaneously and harmlessly collapsed again, thereby solving the immediate part of the problem for her.

Sighing, she ran lightly up the steps and pushed through the door. Pushing back her hood, she shook out her curls and handed her ID to security, who checked her name off against a list.

Her footsteps echoed as she followed the back hallway. The foyer was richly carpeted, but backstage they’d put down polished wooden floorboards. She’d performed here only once since the renovations, but it had been one of her favourite old theatres before the incident, and was now one of the nicest modern ones.

When she approached the door that opened into the stands, she heard voices, the enunciation so clear and resonant that somebody was obviously already reading lines onstage. She put her hand on the wood panelling to push it open, and sentences were suddenly audible.

“There comes a moment when the truth must out. Realisation chases away the mist of denial and self-deception, and—you know. And there’s no longer a choice.”

The Velvet Room. Act Two, Scene Three. Words spoken by the character of Anna.

This play—her grandmother’s crowning achievement. As a child, Freddy had watched an old recording of Henrietta performing as Marguerite, and copied her movements, wrapping a tablecloth around her waist to emulate the sweeping skirt of Henrietta’s ballgown.

She stood now, motionless, her palm still pressed against the wood of the door.

Griff might scorn the idea of signs, but personally, she thought it was about time she started listening to what something or somebody was trying hard to tell her.

The truth must out.

She stepped back, just as the door opened. A woman with a clipboard in her hand blinked, momentarily startled, then whipped out a pen. “Hi, there. Freddy Carlton, isn’t it? You’re here to audition?”