The Austen Playbook (London Celebrities #4)(75)
“Provided everybody remembers which scene they’re in, we can only hope.”
“I should have negotiated a fixed fee,” Charlie muttered.
Griff studied the car he was working on, then looked around the garage he rarely bothered coming into. His brother had neat, labelled boxes of tools and parts, and all manner of machinery tided away. It looked like a professional workshop. “There would be no immediate cash injection coming in at all if you hadn’t organised it.” Then he said, “Charlie,” and at the seriousness of his voice, Charlie set down a tool and reached for an oil-stained rag.
“What’s going on?” he asked, wiping his hands.
Automatically, out of habit, Griff started cataloguing words in his mind, sifting through the information he should share with Charlie, the parts that were best left for him to deal with himself. No. His mouth twisted wryly. Delegation. Not so much acting lessons as life lessons with Freddy Carlton. Opening up to the people he cared about. Asking for help when he needed it. “There are some things you should know. About Great-Aunt Violet, and Henrietta Carlton. And the film. The gateposts just shifted radically. But there’s a problem, and it’s going to affect Freddy.”
Charlie put down the rag and sat on a metal step. “I’m listening.”
Thursday—One Day until Showtime
“Waitely!” Maf stopped pacing up and down the front of the stage like an angry tiger and turned on Dylan, who stared back at her sulkily. Whipping the pen from behind her ear, she pointed it at him. “Are you suffering from some unpleasant digestive disorder?”
His lips pinching together, Dylan propped his hands on his hips. “What?” Sweat was beading on his forehead, dripping down into his eyes. They were all feeling the heat, in more than one respect. One day left until the curtain rose and the TV cameras rolled.
“Unless you require the medic to be summoned, could we aim for haughty rather than nauseated, please?” Maf shoved her hand through her mass of grey hair, which had been so heavily moussed and sprayed that it followed the movements of her fingers and ended up sticking straight out.
Everybody was more seamless with their lines today; the prompter had to interject only once. But tempers were short and the rising pressure had joined forces with the vividly hot sun outside. The adorable, atmospheric theatre had become the choking, claustrophobic theatre. Even with the ventilation system pumping away, it was like being trapped in an oven.
Sadie smirked and fluttered her hand up to examine her nails. With a silent refrain of “What Would Griff Do?” in her head, Freddy had been determined to remain cool in the face of Sadie’s continued digs, take the superior road and blank her, but she was more inclined right now to do a “What Would Rocky Balboa Do?” and just punch her in the nose.
“Freddy.” Maf’s tone was so censorious that for an insane second Freddy thought the director had plucked that thought right out of her head. “I know I demanded a rounded characterisation from you, but I think you’re overplaying Lydia’s mental state in this scene. At this point, she’s not tragically torn in her decision. She’s faced few consequences of her behaviour, and the scale of her ambition might be comparatively limited, but she’s prepared to be ruthless in carrying it out.”
Sadie wandered past Freddy, speaking in a low voice. “Are you sure you didn’t fuck Steve Lemmon, as well? It’s like he tailor-made this role for you.”
Summoning the last reserves of her patience, Freddy managed to keep her eyes and attention on Maf, ignoring the serpent slithering in hip-swaying circles around her. “Tone down the indecision. Got it.”
She couldn’t help her gaze straying to the chair in the stalls where she’d left her stuff. Her phone was on silent, but it was starting to look like her father didn’t plan to call her back. Which was out of character, to say the least. He didn’t make a habit of ringing her for chummy family chats, but he didn’t usually ignore her, either. He’d consider that highly unprofessional behaviour between a manager and his client. She’d expected him down here in person by now, with several things to say on the subject of The Velvet Room.
“Right,” Maf snapped. “Break for thirty minutes, before I fire someone. And Sadie, for God’s sake, would you stop flowing about in circles? You look like a concussed squid.”
Sadie had just flowed around Maya a couple of times, murmuring something to her. Her face took on an unflattering undertone of purple. Even she wouldn’t mess with Maf, so she resorted to a sniff, followed by a meaningful look at Maya.
Who was shaking. Physically trembling.
Sharply, Freddy looked at where Sadie was slinking towards the most comfortable chair, next to the air vent, and then back at Maya, who was almost jogging towards the outside door.
Taking the steps two at a time, she grabbed her phone and followed Maya out into the sunshine, catching her up at the catering tent. She stood for a moment, watching her castmate join the line for food and reach for a plate with unsteady hands.
“I didn’t think you liked shellfish,” she said, as Maya piled shrimp salad on a plate.
Maya jumped so hard she dropped the serving spoon she was holding. “Oh—Freddy.” She looked down at the food. “Oh. No. I’m just...” For someone who was such a brilliant actor onstage, she was absolutely rubbish at pretence as soon as she stepped out of character.