Page 142 of Love ad Lib
‘I punched James Hunter-Savage. Three times.’
She wanted to laugh. This was ridiculous. She couldn’t imagine Henry hitting anyone.
‘The guy who left the workshop early?’
He nodded, rubbing his knuckles as if remembering the blows.
‘Why?’
He sighed. ‘We’ve got a long history, but he lied to Elizabeth, the woman I was dating, and manipulated her into thinking he was a better option. He then stole my work and my biggest client, losing me the commission. The last straw was when I found him flirting with Summer. I’m afraid I lost the plot.’
So, James had taken Henry’s girlfriend… Was Libby a stopgap? A placeholder until he could get Elizabeth back?
‘I’ve got a meeting with HR next week to see what action will be taken against me. I could lose my job. And I could be prosecuted for assault.’
Oh my god.
He looked stricken. ‘I’m sorry to put this on you, Libby. I’ve done my best to put it out of my mind, but I’ve been so stressed about it, and you’re so… comforting and easy to talk to.’
Was this what she was? A shoulder to cry on, with benefits? She swallowed and managed what she hoped was a reassuring smile.
‘I’m sure it will be okay, Henry.’
He shrugged, looking miserable. ‘It’s the not knowing that’s eating me up. I didn’t want to tell you, but I also didn’t want you wondering why I’ve been a little on edge.’
She bit the inside of her cheek to keep a hysterical laugh from escaping. This revelation aside, they were still dealing with Mr Pussy destroying Jack’s flat and Henry’s family hassling him to return to Somerset with his publishing guru girlfriend, Elizabeth Bennet. One of those situations was enough to bring her to the edge. The other was about to push her off it.
Her heart ached for him. She couldn’t burden him further by bringing up the state of their fledgling relationship. It could wait until after his meeting with HR.
Careful not to disturb Mr Pussy, she reached across and took his hand.
‘I’m always here for you.’
He squeezed it. ‘Thank you. You’re amazing, Libby.’ His eyes widened slightly. ‘And I’m holding you up. Aren’t you meant to be meeting your new improv partner in half an hour?’
She nodded and carefully transferred Mr Pussy from her lap to the sofa.
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ he said. ‘And come along later to help you set up.’
‘Thank you, Henry.’
‘You sure I can’t do anything else?’
She tensed but managed to smile as she shook her head. Her search for more work was not going well. Despite being sick and exhausted with a tummy bug, Claire had given her pointers on approaching companies, but so far Libby had drawn a blank. Henry kept offering to help with some of his City contacts, but she turned him down each time. How could she accept any more help? She was already too indebted to him. She would make it work by herself, starting with tonight.
Two hours later,Libby wasn’t so sure.
‘No, a fanny describes a woman’s, er, genitals,’ she said. ‘What you’ve got there is called a bum bag, although this might make a good gag between us about how we can’t understand each other?’
Brandon, a friend of an old improv colleague, had flown in from New York a couple of days ago. It was his first time in the UK, and although he had the requisite levels of enthusiasm and his own ukulele, he didn’t yet understand British words and cultural references.
He pulled his red braces away from his plaid shirt. ‘And these aren’t suspenders?’
‘Er, no. Suspenders are what hold up women’s tights. You call them “stays” I think?’
‘Gotcha. And a wife-beater is a vest?’
‘Yes, but we should probably keep any reference to domestic abuse out of the show?’
