The Austen Playbook (London Celebrities #4)(91)

Maya’s arm jolted against Freddy.

After a short beat of apparent surprise, Nick raised his eyebrows. “Do we have a real-life love story developing backstage?”

“Things have definitely been heating up around here.” The innuendo was heavy. Sadie looped her arm companionably through Maya’s, who was shaking her head. “But you’d have to ask our Elizabeth whether she’s jumped from admiration to love yet.” She winked as she butchered Jane Austen’s words for her own bitchy purposes. “And whether matrimony is on the cards with our resident film star.”

In the silence that followed, Freddy saw Ferren standing near the stage, and the expression on his face said it all. Maya looked at him desperately, and then at Sabrina. She parted her lips but couldn’t seem to find any words.

Freddy’s guess had been half right. Maya had fallen into the trap of a co-star fling. But not with Dylan.

Apparently, she could cross “fidelity” off Ferren’s very short list of virtues.

Her stomach feeling hollow, Freddy saw comprehension come to Sabrina, and then what happened to her eyes. There was shock and fury, both of which she would expect from her fiery, passionate sister, but the emotion that drenched her expression was desolation. She seemed frozen, and had obviously completely forgotten about the rolling cameras and the job she was doing.

Nobody was moving. Even the crew had gone into stasis, some of them visibly confused, others latching on to the implication behind Sadie’s words and avoiding making eye contact.

When Ferren turned and strode from the room, running away from the consequences as usual, the cowardly, cheating bastard, Freddy heard the small squeak of his boot sole against the wooden floorboards.

It all happened in a matter of seconds, which felt like endless minutes.

While her mind was whirring rapidly, trying to think of something to say, anything, that would patch over the horrible moment and give Sabrina the chance to recover her composure, the cavalry arrived from an unprecedented source.

Dylan—lecherous, feckless prat, and their other resident film star since his successful move between the stage and the big screen—got to his feet and sauntered straight into the range of the cameras. With his characteristic one-sided grin, he looped an arm around Maya, who blinked, and said to Sadie, “Giving away our secrets, Miss Woodhouse? I suppose it’s to be expected, with the chronic matchmaker on the premises.” He nudged Maya back into motion, and she stared at him. Then from somewhere, she found her years of experience and produced a mostly believable smile.

Nick had been looking at Sabrina’s averted profile, a muscle jerking hard in his jaw, and his right hand had closed into a fist. But he recovered his professional gloss quickly. With just a shade too much jocularity, he made a comment about a real-life Elizabeth and Darcy, and Dylan tightened his arm around Maya and responded in kind. Beside them, Sadie was still looking quietly pleased with herself; despite Dylan’s surprising save, the damage was done.

Sabrina’s eyes, full of turmoil, met Freddy’s. Because of their age difference and their father’s behaviour, they’d never had the acute connection that some siblings did, an uncanny ability to communicate without words, but as she looked intently back at Sabrina, Freddy willed her to hang on, just get it together and get through the broadcast.

And she was so bloody proud of Sabs when she stood to her full height, cocked her hip, and smiled at Sadie. “You’re playing one of the more morally ambiguous heroines in Austen’s repertoire. A heroine, but also a character who causes a great deal of trouble and pain, in both the books and the script. How did you approach that dichotomy?”

After six more of the most uncomfortable minutes Freddy had ever experienced, Sabrina and Nick took the audience at home on a walking tour to see the sets, and visited backstage to give a carefully curated look at the last-minute preparations that went into a theatre production. It was basically like opening night at school, when everyone put up a show for prospective parents and pretended this state of calm, happy organisation was the status quo. The mess, the fractured tempers, and the panicking was going on in the dressing rooms, away from the cameras.

Freddy knew Sabrina well enough to see that she was going through the motions, and tonight was clearly desperate to be done with the job she loved, but to a casual onlooker, she might have got away with it.

Their segment wrapped up at half past seven, and the moment a cameraman held up his hand, signing them off and sending The Davenport Report to an ad break before it switched to the heroic puppy story, Sabrina dropped the fade-to-black smile and immediately shook off the hand that Nick placed on her arm.

“Sabrina,” he said urgently, and she answered tautly, without looking at him.

“Be a human being for once in your life, Davenport, and keep your gloating remarks to yourself.”

The skin around his eyes tightened, and Sabrina unhooked her microphone and headed towards the rear door where Ferren had scarpered. Nick seemed to hesitate for several long seconds of indecision, and then, face rigid, turned and strode outside. By the sound of it, the rain had stopped. At least the weather was turning out okay.

Freddy caught Sabrina up at the door.

“Sabrina—”

“Where is he?” Sabrina said between clenched teeth. Spots of red were burning through the skilful makeup on her face, which was pinched with tension and hurt.

“Probably hiding backstage until the last minute.” Freddy didn’t bother to hide the scorn in her voice.