Page 86 of For My Finale
“Just thinking,” she said quickly.
“Business thinking or personal thinking?”
Before Blossom could answer, Mabel strode up to the counter. “I’ll take one of those Capuchins,” she said, her fox-tail hat bobbing as she spoke.
“Cappuccinos,” Arty said gently. “A Capuchin is a monkey. Or a monk.”
Mabel snorted. “Do better without either of those,” she said. “Make it a latte.”
“I’d better take a look at those shelves in the back,” Arty said. “I’ll have a latte too.”
He disappeared and Blossom got down to making more coffee.
But the question of Lilah was still gnawing at her. What if she missed the bright lights? What if she wanted something more? Would that be so unreasonable?
Which was when she glanced up just in time to see a familiar, high-heeled figure striding across the road. Her stomach sank.
She’d recognize Margot St. James anywhere.
???
Lilah had just picked up a loaf of fresh sourdough from the bakery when she heard the sharp click of high heels against cobblestones. “I’d know that sound anywhere,” she said, without turning.
“Lilah, darling,” said Margot, appearing like the devil himself.
“Margot, what on earth are you doing here?”
“I came to see you, of course.”
Lilah lifted an eyebrow.
“Fine, I had a meeting in London and was over here anyway. I thought you might respond better in person,” said Margot.
“Better than what?”
“Better than hanging up on me every time I call.”
“Maybe because every time you call, you’re trying to get me to do something that I don’t want to do,” Lilah said. “And I’m assuming you’re not just here for a taste of the country life?”
“God, no,” Margot said. “Is there a green juice within fifty miles of here?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Then I’ll stay where I belong, thank you very much,” Margot said. “And I have a flight to catch, so speaking of where people belong…” She thrust a sleek envelope into Lilah’s hands.
Lilah stared at it and tried to hand it back. “No.”
“At least look at it,” Margot said, putting her hands on her hips.
“If I look, will you leave?”
Margot didn’t answer, so with a sigh, Lilah opened the envelope and slid out a script. It was on weighty paper, already a cut above most scripts. But it was the name on the front that made her pause. Martin Leyland.
“I thought he’d made his swansong and quit again,” Lilah said.
“He wants you. You are literally the first actor to see the script,” said Margot. “And he made me swear to hand deliver it. So here I am.”
There wasn’t even a quiver of anticipation, not a shiver of a thought. Lilah smiled, slid the script back into the envelope, and handed it back. “No.”
