Chapter 38 Cynthie
“Bloody hell,” I say, looking up at the gorgeous villa. “This is where you grew up?”
“Welcome to Mordor,” Jack mutters.
“Sauron is certainly living well.” It’s not like I’m a stranger to luxury homes these days (Ask me about the Clooneys’ place on Lake Como sometime) but the idea of being brought up here still strikes me as bizarre.
The elegant white building in front of us is all understated glamour: deep bay windows, a grand arching doorway flanked by tasteful black iron lampposts, and immaculately manicured privet hedges. Everything about it screams money. Old money. Lots of money.
“Don’t be fooled by the veneer of civility,” Jack warns me. “ Hic sunt dracones .” When I look confused, he smirks. “Here there be dragons.”
“Warning me off in Latin?” I sigh. “Poor Little Lord Fauntleroy.”
“Shut up.” He nudges my arm. “This is your last chance to run screaming.”
“I think I’m made of sterner stuff.”
“Please don’t let them scare you off,” he says, softly.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I reply. I can see that he’s nervous, even if he’s trying to hide it. I follow him up the steps to the front door, which he holds open for me.
Taking a deep breath, I try to smooth the creases out of the skirt of my pretty silk sundress, and step into a cool entrance hall, tiled in glossy black and white, like a marble chessboard.
“We’re here,” Jack calls.
“In the drawing room,” a man’s voice shouts back, and it’s the strangest experience, hearing that famous voice, the rich, rolling baritone in real life. I falter.
Of course, Jack picks up on it and lifts his brows. I try to look unmoved, but I know I’m not fooling him one bit.
Jack leads the way through to the drawing room, which turns out to be an enormous, high-ceilinged room, bristling with antique furniture. The tall French doors at the back open onto a terrace overlooking an established leafy green garden—the kind you don’t usually find in the middle of the city.
I take this all in in one swift glance before my attention is pinned to the three people in the room.
Max Jones has risen to his feet, and—well into his eighties by now—he is still a tall, rugged mountain of a man with a leonine mane of white hair.
Blue eyes—Jack’s eyes—snap in a lined face that remains handsome, though it’s hewn in much rougher lines than his son’s.
He’s dressed like Cary Grant in his downtime, a fine-knit gray top with a high neck, tucked into pleated, tan slacks.
He observes me like a big cat assessing its next meal.
Beside him, sitting on the beautiful silk sofa, his wife doesn’t even glance in my direction. At sixty-five, Caroline Turner is still lovely, delicate-looking, with dark hair swept back in an elegant chignon.
“Jack,” Max booms, “who have you brought us?”
“This is Cynthie,” Jack says.
I notice he and his parents don’t greet each other at all, but Max comes forward to shake my hand and kiss my cheeks.
“Of course,” he says. “Cynthie Taylor, I caught your latest film. A strong performance.”
Despite my best intentions I blush, hopelessly flustered. “Thank you,” I manage.
“So this is the new girlfriend.” Caroline Turner arches her brows.
The comment is jarring, and I glance toward Jack. We haven’t discussed this, I realize. What role we’re playing today.
“Cynthie and I are working together at the moment,” Jack says finally, and though I don’t know what I wanted him to say, it wasn’t that.
“It’s lovely to meet you both,” I say into the silence that follows this statement. “I’m a big fan of your work.”
“Oh, yes?” Caroline looks at me then, her dark eyes amused. “Which work in particular?”
“Don’t be bitchy, darling,” Max chides. “Forgive my wife, she never can tolerate having another beautiful woman in the room.”
The look Caroline treats him to then is frigid.
“And this is my sister,” Jack says, stepping into the space, taking my arm and guiding me to the sofa opposite his parents where an absolutely stunning blonde sits.
“Hello.” She offers her hand, and her voice is soft, husky. “I’m Lee.”
Lee is a fascinating mix of contradictions.
Her perfect features are pure Grace Kelly, but she’s dressed severely in tapered black trousers and a white silk shirt buttoned up tight at her neck.
On her feet are a pair of deadly-looking black Louboutins, and she sits, her back rigidly straight, as if she’s ready for a business meeting.
Her blond hair is pulled back in a severe knot, her face serenely blank.
It’s like she’s trying to tone herself down, to fade into the shadows, but if that’s her intention, someone should tell her that all this severity only highlights her killer bone structure, the full pouting mouth she inherited from her mother, her father’s ice-blue eyes, wide and long-lashed.
Caroline makes a noise of frustration. “ Lee ,” she says with distaste. “Horrid little name. What’s wrong with Ophelia?” Caroline turns to me. “We named her after the role I was playing when she was conceived.”
“Oh?” I manage, not sure what to do with this information.
Jack winces, and gestures for me to take a seat on the sofa with Lee, while he drops into an armchair beside me. “Must we start in on the conceptions already?”
“We were going to name Jack the same way,” Caroline sniffs, leaning forward to pick up her drink off the table in front of her. Ice clinks in a glass of amber liquid. “Only, Max’s father died right before the boy was born and Max had a fit of filial obligation.”
“Thank you, Grandpa Jack,” Jack mutters, fervently.
Amusement flickers inside me. I turn to Max. “What role were you playing at the crucial moment?” I ask.
A smile plays on Max’s lips. “Oberon.”
I choke on a laugh as Jack groans. Lee’s lips are firmly pressed together, and I think she’s trying not to smile.
“It’s a beautiful name,” Caroline says, annoyed. “Not common, like Jack.”
“I suppose it could have been worse.” Lee leans into me and says in a low voice. “I could have been conceived then, when Mum was playing Titania.” There’s a flash of humor in her eyes. “Imagine what the kids at school would have made of that.”
“?‘Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania.’?” Max’s voice projects, filling the room like thunder.
None of his family react.
“Know your Shakespeare, do you?” Max looks at me.
“She’s not here to sit an English exam,” Jack says, sounding bored.
“What, jealous, Oberon?” I arch a brow at him, and he laughs.
“You’ve no classical training?” Max leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, steepling his fingertips. The weight of his attention is heavy. I feel like I’m at a job interview I haven’t properly prepared for.
“No,” I say as calmly as I can manage. “Actually, my first film was with Jack.”
“I remember,” Caroline says sweetly. “He was up in arms about it. Didn’t you try to get the poor girl sacked?” She turns to Jack.
“Thankfully everyone else knew much better than I did,” he says. “I was a total twat about it.”
“All worked out in the end though, didn’t it?
” Max sits back in his seat after grabbing his own glass—it holds the same golden liquid as his wife’s.
I notice no one has offered us a drink yet.
“For you, at least. In line for another Oscar nom, I heard on the grapevine.” His eyes are shrewd.
“That was good work you did with Hardy—he knows how to wring a performance out of an actor.”
“He was interesting to work with,” is what I settle on.
Caroline scoffs into her glass. “Oh yes.” Her tone is arch. “So we hear.”
Jack looks like he’s about to start throwing punches, and I put my hand on his knee.
“Hmmmm,” Max continues, “you haven’t done any stage work yet, though?”
“I’ve considered it,” I admit, “but it’s finding the time. It’s such a big commitment.”
“Yes,” Caroline agrees silkily, “it does require a certain amount of stamina, and of course you don’t have the opportunity to do another take if you don’t get it right the first time.”
“You’ve made smart choices.” Max gestures to me with his glass, ignoring his wife’s poisonous little jabs. “Unlike this son of ours who seems very happy to trade in his dignity for a paycheck.”
“Give it a rest, Dad,” Jack says on a sigh.
“Someone needs to say it.” Caroline’s lip curls. “Honestly, I don’t think you considered at all how it would reflect on your father and me. I hardly know what to say to people when they ask.”
“What do you think, Cynthie?” Max asks me suddenly.
“Sorry,” I say slowly, “I don’t follow.” I actually have no idea what’s going on. The two of them are talking like Jack’s about to reveal a secret life as a stripper, which actually I would have no problem with—especially if I got a practical demonstration.
“This bloody vampire business,” Max roars, seemingly unaware of the pun. “Waste of his time and talent.”
I blink. “You’re talking about Blood/Lust ?”
Caroline grimaces. “Stupid name.”
“Says the woman who wanted a son called Oberon.” Jack laughs. I turn to him in surprise. Far from looking upset, he seems only amused by his parents’ criticism.
“Yes,” Max presses on, ignoring this. “What do you think about Blood/Lust ?” He makes sure the name of the show drips with disdain.
“I love it,” I reply, sitting back on the sofa and crossing my legs. I meet Max’s look of outrage steadily. “Never miss an episode.”
“Me neither,” Lee pipes up unexpectedly.
Now that does surprise Jack. “You watch it?” he asks.
“Of course.” Lee shrugs. “At first I watched it because you were in it, but now I’m deeply invested. If Lucy and Bas don’t end up together, I’ll riot.” She smiles then, and a dimple appears in each of her cheeks. She is startlingly lovely.
“I can’t believe it.” Jack shakes his head.
“Nor can I,” Caroline scoffs. “Having displayed a total lack of interest in any work of artistic merit your father or I laid before you, now you decide you enjoy this… this paranormal soap opera ?”