“If ticket sales are down, it’s everybody’s problem,” Lynette said pompously, and Pat looked at her impatiently.
“We need some good publicity for Richard.” She folded her arms and subjected Lainie to an intense scrutiny, which wavered into scepticism. “The general consensus is so overwhelmingly negative that he’s in danger of falling victim to a hate campaign in the press. People might flock to see a subject of scandal, but they won’t fork over hard-earned cash to watch someone they wholeheartedly despise. Not in this competitive market. At least not since it became socially unacceptable to heave rotten vegetables at the stage,” she added with a brief, taut smile.
Lainie allowed herself three seconds to fantasize about that.
“How badly have sales dropped?” she asked, wondering if she ought to be contacting her agent. She had a third audition lined up for a period drama that was due to begin shooting early next year, but if there was a chance the play might actually fold...
An internationally acclaimed West End production, brought down by Richard Troy’s foot-stamping sulks. Unbelievable.
“We’re down fourteen percent on last month,” Bob said, and she bit her lip. “We’re not going bust.” He sounded a bit put out at having to lessen his grievance. “It would take a pipe bomb as well as Richard’s presence onstage before there was any real threat of that. But we’ve had to paper the house four nights running this month, and we opened to a six-week waiting list. This play has another four months to run, and we want to end on a high. Not in a damp fizzle of insulted fans and critics.”
Lainie was silent for a moment. It was news to her that management were giving out free tickets in order to fill empty seats. “Well, excuse the stupidity, but I’m still not sure what you expect me to do about it. Ask him nicely to be a good boy and pull up his socks? Three guesses as to the outcome.”
The tension zapped back into her spine when Bob and Pat exchanged a glance.
Pat seemed to be debating her approach. Eventually, she commented almost casually, “Ticket sales at the Palladium have gone up ten percent in the last three months.”
Lainie snorted. “I know. Since Jack Trenton lost his last remaining brain cell after rehab and hooked up with Sadie Foster.”
Or, as she was affectionately known in the world of musical theatre, the She-Devil of Soho. Lainie had known Sadie since they were in their late teens. They had been at drama school together. She had been short-listed against her for a role in a community theatre production of 42nd Street, and had found shards of broken glass in the toes of her tap shoes. Fortunately before she’d put them on.
She was so preoccupied with a short-lived trip down a murky memory lane that she missed the implication.
“Quite.” Pat’s left eyebrow rose behind the lens of her glasses. She was now leaning on the edge of Bob’s desk, her blunt, fuchsia-painted nails tapping a jaunty little medley on the surface. “And the only genuine buzz of excitement Richard has generated in the past month was when London Celebrity printed photos of the two of you attending the Bollinger party together.” She again stared at Lainie, as if she was examining her limb by limb in an attempt to discover her appeal, and was coming up short.
The penny had dropped. With the clattering, appalling clamour of an anvil.
“You,” Pat confirmed, horrifyingly, “are a publicist’s dream. Probably about as interesting as a shrivelled balloon to the worst of the paps, but Joe and Jane Average think you’re a doll. Blogger commentary was wavering between speculation you’re headed for a breakdown and reluctant fascination. Theatre’s favourite bastard and a reigning sweetheart of the London stage. For five minutes, Richard had never been so popular. But nothing came of it.” This last was uttered accusingly.
Lainie’s mouth opened. And closed. And opened again. “Nothing came of it—” she managed to find her voice to retort “—because nothing happened. We didn’t even speak at that party. We happened to leave at the same time, and not only did Richard pretend he didn’t see me—” her voice was rising in remembered annoyance “—but he failed to notice when his cuff link caught on my dress and tore it. Which meant that I felt obliged to buy the bloody thing. It was custom Jenny Packham, and I didn’t even like it.”
It was a gorgeous, gaspingly expensive dress that not been designed for a redhead with breasts. Countless fashion bloggers had agreed with her. It was now the priciest dust-catcher in her wardrobe and probably felt miserably out of place among the high street sale bargains.