The Austen Playbook (London Celebrities #4)(7)

Griff glanced pointedly at the sheaf of papers tucked under his brother’s arm. It looked ominously like a contract. “I suspect not.”

“I’m not suggesting we host a multi-night run here.” Charlie waved the pages at him. “I’m talking one night, one performance. Televised live.”

“Televised.”

“A network has already licensed the production rights to The Austen Playbook.” He correctly interpreted Griff’s “the fuck?” expression. “It was one of the top-selling games this year. Digital mash-up of characters from different Jane Austen books, transplanted into a murder-mystery, house-party scenario. Outcome guided by the choices of the player. A mate of mine was involved in the development, and they’ve made a mint with it.”

“I see the financial potential in the game. How exactly is that going to translate to a theatre adaptation?”

“One of the investors in the game is a bigwig TV executive and he’s negotiated a deal to broadcast a live, audience-interactive performance of an adapted script.” Charlie started flinging his hands about. Griff had noticed a correlation between the energy of his brother’s hand gestures and the spectacular failure of his money-making ideas. Fortunately, the stream of unsuccessful enterprises never seemed to make the smallest chip in his self-esteem.

“Audience-interactive,” he repeated with foreboding.

“The script contains multiple versions of scenes, and the audience will be able to vote through the network app on which direction the play takes as the performance goes on. So the cast will be ready with, say, three different versions of Act Two, Scene 1. And several potential endings.” Charlie shoved his hands through his red hair. “It’ll be fucking brilliant.”

It sounded like it would be a fucking disaster.

“Who’s done the script?”

“They managed to pull Steve Lemmon for it.”

“Managed” to pull. Lemmon would probably have given the production team a lap dance to land the gig. Griff wouldn’t hire him to write out the phone book, let alone trust him with an overly complicated, technology-dependent production. On live TV.

“And where does The Henry come into it, exactly?”

“Country-house setting, actually staged at a historic country estate. The studio ate it up. We have the facilities here to house the core cast during the rehearsal period, which, by the way, they’ll pay us extra for. And there’s enough accommodation in the village for the crew.” Griff could see it coming even before Charlie added, “This might be just the beginning. Letting visitors tour the grounds in summer brings in a pittance, but hiring out The Henry, even parts of the main house, could be a potential goldmine. No more worries about how to fund the upkeep. It’ll pay for itself at last.”

His eyes were dreamy as his mind wandered off into that rosy future, where the estate wasn’t a crumbling, fund-draining millstone around their necks, and pigs flew over the heads of frolicking unicorns.

“If I could just pull you back to reality for a moment,” Griff said tensely, “tell me you haven’t actually signed that contract yet.”

Charlie shuffled one foot. “They were on a tight deadline.”

Griff closed his eyes briefly, and then held out his hand for the contract. He turned over the first page.

“It’ll bring in a decent whack of cash,” Charlie insisted, apparently not seeing even one of the pitfalls in this situation. What else was new.

“What if the public don’t vote? What if the app fails? What if the actors crumble under the enormous pressure of having to learn twelve times as many scenes as an average script and perform on a minute’s notice?” Griff’s eyes narrowed when he saw the way Charlie was looking at him. It suggested more incoming information that he wouldn’t like.

“In order of your concerns: They will. It won’t. And they won’t. They’re professionals,” his brother said optimistically.

Pretty obvious which of them didn’t regularly sit through plays that made being stuck in London traffic jams seem like a comparatively organised and enjoyable experience.

“It could have side benefits where your career is concerned, too.”

Griff managed, with a lot of effort, not to respond to that one. A script based on a video game, adapted by a gin-soaked has-been. Exactly the professional association he needed. How to lose all bargaining power in one catastrophic, very public flop.

“If you’re planning to use The Henry in your film, you’ll get to see it in action first, for a show that’s going to be hyped to the max. Living inspiration.”

Griff continued to leaf through the contract. A muscle started to tic under his mouth.

“And,” Charlie said, with the air of producing his ace, “to tart up the theatre for its small-screen debut, the TV network is prepared to foot the renovation bill.”

His hand stilling on the papers, Griff lifted his gaze to his brother’s face, and Charlie’s lips started to curve as he scented victory.

Although he’d never mastered the skill of quitting while he was ahead.

With a note of suppressed laughter, he added, “And if all else fails, it means a couple of weeks under the same roof as all the people whose work you’ve ripped to shreds in the Post. Even if the bonnets and murder and shit is a total snooze—” he grinned outright “—the possibilities for entertainment are endless.”