The Austen Playbook (London Celebrities #4)(94)

“Forget about her,” Griff said, moving one shoulder as if he were shrugging away a persistent insect. Apt. “One thing at a time. For now—just concentrate on the show. We’ll deal with the rest as it comes.”

The show must go on. The ultimate theatre cliché, but one that was bred into Freddy’s bones.

“Yes.” Reluctantly, she released him. “And I have to find Sabrina.”

“Sabrina?”

“Ferren slept with Maya the other night.”

One of Griff’s brows went up slightly, and Freddy could read his expressions well enough now that she blinked. “Did you know?”

“Before we end up on the outs again,” he said firmly, “no, I didn’t. Somebody was sneaking around the corridor in the early hours, however. I assumed it was Waitely’s latest conquest.”

“No—Dylan’s turned out be something of a white knight today. Who would have thought?” She scowled. “Sadie spilled the beans during the broadcast. Sabrina’s devastated, your mate Nick Davenport was no help whatsoever, and now Ferren’s taken off and if nobody can find him we’re going to have to sub in his understudy. Who’s woefully underprepared because Ferren kept kicking up a stink about hearing someone else reading his lines.”

“Is it going to come off as officious and interfering if I try to track down the cheating little pissant?”

Freddy looked at him. “No. It’s going to come across as helpful and caring.”

“I care,” he said, and his voice was very gruff. “A fuck of a lot.”

“Me too.” A renewed rush of tears was clogging her throat, and her response was little more than a whisper.

Griff’s eyes searched hers again, and then, with an achingly affectionate tug of one of her loose curls, he strode towards the outside door. Hand on the knob, he turned back. “Freddy, whether Ferren’s there or not, and whatever else Sadie’s done, you can do this.”

She wound her hands into the fine muslin of her skirt, and asked the question she’d been afraid to voice. “Is my dad here?”

She read the answer in his face before he said it. “He left. I’m sorry.” Griff’s expression darkened, with obvious concern for her, and equally clear exasperation with her father. “I think the scene this morning was too big a hit to his pride for one day.”

And his pride was apparently more important than being here for her tonight.

Wordlessly, she nodded, her chest tight.

As she moved quickly down the hallway and into the corridor where the largest dressing rooms were located, her petticoats rustled and she kept her hand pressed against the lacing over her ribs, trying to breathe evenly. After a cursory knock on Ferren’s door, she pushed it open.

Initially, she thought the room was empty; then she heard the tiny muffled sound, and turned, and her heart clenched.

Sabrina—perfectly together, impossibly beautiful, vibrant Sabrina—was curled in a ball on the floor, one arm across her face. Her hair was a dishevelled mess, frizzing everywhere, as if she’d been repeatedly pulling damp fingers through the curls, and her long legs were gathered against her chest.

“Oh, Sabs.” Shoving the door closed behind her, Freddy went to Sabrina’s side, down on her knees, wrapping her arms about her tightly.

For four or five seconds, Sabrina went rigid, and then she broke. Her hand came up and clutched at Freddy’s forearm, and she buried her face in Freddy’s neck. Through her tears, she coughed out, “I’m ruining your costume.”

Freddy tightened her arm where she was shielding Sabrina’s head. “Shut up, Sabrina,” she said, and heard a weak, wet, desolate chuckle.

They sat like that for seemingly endless, timeless minutes.

“You were right.” Sabrina exhaled shakily. “About Joe.”

His name was a heartbroken cry.

Freddy closed her eyes. “I didn’t want to be right, Sabs.”

Sabrina held her tighter. When she spoke again, her voice was still husky. “And I fucked up the show tonight. In front of fucking Davenport. Who’ll probably be laughing all the way to the new presenter contract.”

There was a brief knock on the door before it opened quietly. Even in these circumstances, Freddy’s stomach still did a little flip when Griff came into a room. His expression softened for a moment as his gaze met hers. “Nobody’s seen him,” he said, a tactful eye on Sabrina, who was red-eyed and haunted-looking. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to work around the understudy.”

Freddy breathed out. “Right.”

Sabrina’s arms loosened, and moving sluggishly, she sat up, pushing her hair back. “He’s walked out on the job?” She swallowed. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. I’m sorry, Freddy.”

Griff was sorry about her father, Sabrina was sorry about Ferren; everybody was apologising for someone else’s shit behaviour, and suddenly Freddy was furious.

“We don’t need Ferren,” she said, getting to her feet and reaching a hand down to pull Sabrina up. “Whether he’s on the stage or hiding in the grounds like a cowardly, irresponsible little dick, we’re going to smash it tonight. And you definitely don’t need Ferren. Look at you. You’re a rock star. You’re a total babe. Fuck him.”