Persuading Austen. Brigid Coady
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you. Production. All that solving problems and getting things moving: your forte. Such great exposure for you working with the best in the business. You’ll get seen by some serious TV producers. Eric Cowell is the lead. Hollywood, baby. This is where you swoop in and move into production like we planned.’
Cassie punched the air.
Eric Cowell. If Annie’s body hadn’t already been dealing with the Wentworth bombshell, she would be tingling with excitement instead of going into shock.
Yeah, suddenly Hollywood was looking good. It was a place that she had actively avoided, turning down work so she didn’t have to go. Great for her sanity, not so great for her career.
But now, for the first time in eight years, it would be Austen-free. Even sitting in the kitchen in the office she could feel the UK shrinking round her just with the thought that he was in the same country. A few miles between them instead of thousands and the likelihood that she could turn any corner and he’d be there had exponentially increased.
Annie wasn’t stupid. She knew that he had been back in the UK sometime in the past eight years. But she wouldn’t have known when that was; she had been oblivious.
‘So what do you reckon?’ Cassie was looking at her expectantly.
A shudder went through her.
What did she reckon?
She reckoned it was the worst thing that had ever happened.
She reckoned that it would be hell on earth.
She reckoned that if she didn’t get her dad and sister parts she might be flayed.
‘It’ll be interesting,’ she croaked in understatement.
The kettle clicked off and Annie turned away, reaching to grab a mug, her hand shaking.
‘Tea?’ She was surprised her voice came out so steady.
‘Sure,’ said Cassie. ‘And cupcakes later, yeah?’
‘Yeah,’ Annie said not capable of restarting the cupcake debate. Even the mention of his name had her almost giving in.
Was getting Immy and Dad jobs worth pulling the scab off her wounds? Maybe she could pull in other favours to find other jobs for Immy and Dad? Some other high-profile production, which also had literary merit, and was far far away? If only someone would do a production of King Lear in Iceland. Then she would have a viable alternative.
Of course, it would be cold and there was always the worry of volcanic eruptions. These weren’t things that bothered her. It sounded like a regular week at home.
There had to be another way, but how did you turn down Pride and Prejudice?
Slopping tea over the side of her mug, Annie tottered into her small office across from Cassie’s. She collapsed at her desk and acting on automatic she turned on her laptop.
Eight years should’ve been enough time to move on. Annie knew this in her head but she wished her heart would get with the programme. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t tried. The first few years had been okay. Austen had popped up in bit parts on US crime shows, his American accent getting better each time. It was easy, in between those occasional shocks, to pretend that he didn’t exist.
But then the Google alert she had set up on his name started going wild. He became the British actor who went from obscurity to stardom the night after the first episode of his Netflix show Ten Peaks was released. And suddenly every woman was staying in or hosting parties with her friends to binge-watch the show when the whole of the first season had been released in one go.
He was everywhere: chat shows, internet memes. It wasn’t until the alert led her to a small article online about him dating a US TV star, that she’d taken off the notifications and signed up to a dating site. But he was always there like Banquo’s ghost. She shuddered at the memory of the few blind dates Marie had set her up on. Paunchy merchant bankers who thought John Donne was the new signing for Chelsea.
And really, it wasn’t as if she had any spare room for a half-hearted love affair in her life. Every part outside of work – and sometimes in it – was occupied and furnished by her family and their problems. Manoeuvring through the cluttered junk shop that was her life would take a lot more than most men would like to try. That or they would have to smash through the walls and clear out the detritus.
He could have done that. If she’d let him.
He, Austen Wentworth, written about as the ‘one to watch’ by TV and film journalists everywhere.
But for her, he’d always been the one to watch.
She took a sip of her tea, not caring that the heat was almost too much, revelling in feeling pain somewhere else than the centre of her chest.
The first time she’d seen him was in Stratford-upon-Avon in the doorway of a dusty rehearsal room. He was propped against the wall, the script dangling from his hand as he leant his head back, eyes closed. His lips moving, muttering his lines, and even before he opened his eyes she’d been hooked. The legs, that now had fan fiction written about them, had been a bit ganglier then. When she’d tried to step over them to get into the room they’d tangled with hers; she’d started to fall. He’d caught her round the waist.
‘Oops,’ he said as she landed on his chest.
‘Hi,’ she whispered. His eyes were so green. She’d spent days afterwards trying to find an exact match for the shade. She’d had to settle for bottle green glistening in the sun.
He was playing Lodovico to her dad’s Othello. A small part but it was with the RSC, and Austen was fresh from drama school and bouncing on his toes to get somewhere, to prove to his parents that being an actor wasn’t a complete waste of time. Annie had gone to act as Dad’s assistant, knowing that if he was left on his own who knew what nonsense he would get up to or what scandal could come from his indiscretions.
And because they were the youngest ones there, they had naturally stuck together.
Annie remembered those months as if it had been constructed and lit by an Oscar-winning cinematographer. Golden days and nights, vignettes of Austen and her locked in their own world.
‘We’ll get married and go to Hollywood and rent a little apartment. I’ll audition; you can be free to do what you want to do. And then when I make it big …’ His smile was wide as the world, as he hugged her to him. Admittedly his teeth had been a little less white in those days.
Her heart clenched even now and more tea spilled. All those dreams that had died and dried up and blown away.
Who got married at twenty-four to a penniless actor who only had his looks to recommend him? she heard her dad say, echoed by Aunt Lil, her mum’s best friend who was also her godmother. It was stupid beyond words, Lil had said. Didn’t she know how fickle the industry was?
And what would she do in Hollywood except become some housewife? It wasn’t as if she could do anything, was it? And why would she want to be away from her family? Hadn’t she made that promise? And once the idea was planted in her head, once it got its roots in her that she would be disposable again, could be disposable again … that she would be breaking her promise …
Her mobile rang and half the cup of tea ended up on the desk. Cursing quietly she grabbed some tissues and tried to mop it up at the same time as taking the call without checking the caller ID.
‘Hello.’
‘Annie, where are you? You should be here by now. You know it’s Angelique’s day off and I need to get ready for the awards show tonight.’ Marie’s voice ran out the last of her Austen Wentworth memories for the moment. It had an edge to it that cut through most things.
Bugger. She’d promised to babysit. So much for hiding away at work.
‘I’m on my way.’ Annie hung up and then briefly rolled her forehead on the desk, not caring about the dampness and the faint aroma of tea