Sandra kicks off my first show circle on her team with a breathing exercise. When we are inhaling and exhaling in sync, she delivers a brief pep talk.
When she’s done, we shake out and chant, “Am I ready to make art? I am ready to make art!”
Sounds silly, but it works. I’m surprised to feel this energized at a production morning at Royal Riviera.
To mark the end of the show circle, Sandra wishes us good luck.
I have barely uttered “thank—” when a hand covers my mouth. It’s attached to a fine-boned wrist and a shapely arm. I follow the limb with my gaze to a gray-eyed brunette standing next to me. The one who doubted Matteo’s gift for wall painting.
“So sorry,” she mutters, dropping her hand. “I had to act fast.”
Around us, people laugh.
“Have you heard about the ‘no thank you rule’?” Sandra asks me. “It’s a common theater superstition.”
In fact, I used to know and abide by that rule, but I’d forgotten all about it in the intervening years.
“Duh.” I roll my eyes. “Never thank someone for wishing you luck before a show or a rehearsal, or you’ll be cursed with bad luck.”
“I’m glad it’s coming back to you,” she says, chuckling.
When we sit around the read-through table, the impeccably timed Mrs. Everly and my handyman Oli bring in trays of freshly baked scones, homemade jam, tea, and coffee. It was my idea.
When in London, do as the Londoners do.
The scones taste as good as they smell. We eat them while the cast introduce themselves to me. I do my best to memorize their names and what character they play. The gray-eyed brunette who covered my mouth is Margot Nolan. A Londoner who’s half-English and half-French, plays Caroline Bingley. After finishing her thirty-second presentation, she wolfs down a scone and licks the crumbs off her fingertips.
Mmm.I could lick those lovely fingers, too.
But I won’t. The stakes are too high.
When it’s my turn to say something about myself, everyone claps and shouts their thanks for my benevolence, bless their hearts.I also get many bright smiles from the ladies.
If circumstances were different, I would’ve picked Margot. Compared to Hyacinth’s and a few others’ come-hither looks, Margot’s smile isn’t coquettish at all. Bizarrely, that only enhances her appeal.
Too bad I won’t be picking Margot or any other beddable lady over the next two weeks. Considering that the one Iwillbe pursuing has yet to make an appearance, I must keep my relationships with the others strictly professional.
“Did you grow up in England?” Sandra asks me after the applause dies down. “You’re lucky your accent is a match for Mr. Darcy. An American or French accent would’ve been a nonstarter.”
“British nannies and teachers,” I explain honestly, before regurgitating my cover story, “I was born and raised in Monaco.”
Hyacinth crosses her hands over her collarbone. “How very chic!”
Wait until you see Mount Evor!
She never will, of course.
“My father died of a heart attack two years ago, which is when I inherited the title and the London townhouse,” I say. “Matteo and I have been spending extended periods of time here since then. We both like it. And he loves all the cool child-friendly activities that London has to offer.”
Only three days away from the little rascal, and I already miss him!
Liam tilts his head to one side. “I am told you’re a film producer.”
“That’s right, I co-own a studio in Cannes with my sister and cousin called Royal Riviera. It was founded by our grandfather back in the 1950s.”
“Now that Jonas has met everyone,” Sandra says, “and you’ve learned a bit about him, let’s get down to work!”
She picks up her copy of the script. There’s a rustle of paper as we open ours. Liam hands out sticky notes and sharpened pencils.
