The Austen Playbook (London Celebrities #4)(92)

Fucking, fucking Ferren. Thank God she had almost zero scenes with him tonight, because it would probably confuse the audience if Lydia Bennet suddenly extracted Mr. Knightley’s testicles with an embroidery needle.

“Right.” Sabrina pulled away from Freddy’s outstretched hand. “Not now, Freddy.” She vanished into the backstage corridor, the tap of her high heels a fast, furious echo.

Freddy turned, getting out of the way of the backstage crew, who had swung into quick efficiency, straightening the stands for the arrival of the in-house audience. In twenty minutes’ time, the doors opened to the invited public, which would be mostly VIPs, press, and family of the cast.

Breathing in deep, she closed her eyes for a minute or two. Hell. What a night, and the onstage performance hadn’t even begun yet.

Physically shaking out her arms, trying to get her bunched-up muscles moving, she took the steps up to the stage, and the young actress who was playing Harriet Smith rushed out from the wings.

“Yikes.” The girl pulled an exaggerated face. “I’d steer clear of the dressing rooms. Ferren and that TV presenter are having a hell of a row. She just threw a half-full milk bottle at his head.”

“Shit.” Freddy shot forward. Sabrina wouldn’t thank her for interfering—and she really needed to have her usual final scan of her lines—but... She slipped into the wings and hurried backstage. Cast members were clustered in full costume along the walls of the hallways, avidly listening to the showdown, and exchanging meaningful, thrilled glances.

Turning the corner, Freddy came face-to-face with Maya.

“Oh God.” Maya swallowed several times. “God, I’m sorry. It just...happened, the other night. He’d walked off with one of the props, and the crew were so busy, I said I’d grab it from his room, and—” She closed her eyes. “I know he’s with your sister. And her face...” When her long lashes parted, they were wet with tears. “I can’t tell you how much I wish... He was really upset about something, and...he was just...”

“Ferren,” Freddy said. “He was just Ferren.” She wavered, then touched Maya’s arm. “Look, just try to keep it together, okay?” A spike of raised voices resounded through the walls. “And I’d stay away from Sabrina. In her case, the cliché about red hair and temper is totally justified.”

Looking miserable, Maya headed for the green room, and Freddy gathered up her nerve to enter the fray. If Sabs had started chucking the contents of the mini fridge around, things were escalating quickly.

“What a ruckus,” said a bored voice, and she turned sharply to see Sadie lounging in the doorway to the props room, examining her nails.

“Why the fuck did you do that? Are you trying to sabotage the performance?” There was no point in appealing to Sadie’s finer feelings where Sabrina’s and Maya’s emotions were concerned; she didn’t have any. She should, however, give a shit about her own production.

“Don’t be melodramatic,” Sadie said dismissively, straightening the lace neckline of her pink gown. “We’re all professionals—”

Freddy snorted.

“And if people have been behaving like very naughty boys and girls behind the scenes, I’m sure they have enough self-control to keep their hands off each other once the curtain rises. Besides—” Sadie pushed away from the doorframe. “It was quite entertaining.”

“If that was meant to get back at me, you twisted—”

“Oh, no.” Sadie’s smile grew. “That was just a little extra. The real fun should be starting any moment now. Enjoy the show tonight, won’t you? Because it might take some time to get another one. I think you’ll find that the closest you get to Anathorn is reading the books while you’re unemployed. Fiona Gallagher is notoriously gun-shy about hiring actors with PR problems. And after all the...effort your family members have expended getting you to this point, too.”

Freddy’s nails dug into the palms of her hands as Sadie leaned in, her breath fanning Freddy’s face, strong with the scent of cinnamon-flavoured chewing gum. “Next time, I suggest you keep your charming little comments to yourself.”

She tapped Freddy’s cheek with one finger. She’d had to remove her bright red polish, but she’d kept the long, pointed shape, and the little prick on Freddy’s cheekbone acted on her nerves as violently as if Sadie had dragged her talon over a blackboard.

“And tell your boyfriend that he ought to close his library windows,” Sadie finished, triumph a thick layer over every delicate feature of her face, “if he wants to keep your dirty laundry quiet. Plagiarism on a grand scale.” She tilted her head. “So much for the prestigious Carltons.”

It would have been an exit line worthy of Shakespeare, if an assistant hadn’t come dashing out of the props room then, holding the dagger that was going into someone’s back in the first act. He yanked the door closed behind him before he sped off down the corridor, as Freddy stood frozen, her face burning with sudden heat while the rest of her went ice-cold. The latch slammed shut, and the carving hanging above the doorframe rattled—and dropped.

As Sadie was punched in the left eye by a sculptural depiction of Odysseus, complete with disproportionately large wooden willy, she made a squawking noise exactly like the peacock in the garden. “Fuck.” With one hand cupped over her face, she glared down at the carving, which had cracked in two on the ground. “This fucking theatre.” Her malevolent one-eyed glare turned back on Freddy, who, hopefully not using up all her acting reserves before they got onstage, didn’t allow so much as a flicker of emotion to cross her face.