‘I rarely have the radio on...’
Rosalind was stunned. How could someone of his evident education have no interest in or appreciation of the dramatic arts? Didn’t he know that the theatre provided both a window and a mirror to humanity? How could he consider himself a well-rounded personality if he ignored such an influential part of his cultural heritage?
She scowled. Perversely, considering the lengths that she had gone to in the last twenty-four hours to avoid being recognised, she felt slighted by his complete lack of awareness of her talent. She wasn’t overly big-headed, but she knew that she had earned every one of her glowing reviews. She worked hard and believed passionately in the importance of her craft. And yet here was a man who didn’t even care about what she did, let alone how well she did it!
It was on the tip of her tongue to ask whether he read the newspapers, but she wasn’t prepared to go that far towards betraying herself.
‘Well, then, what do you do for entertainment?’ she asked, hiding her chagrin.
‘I don’t feel the need for it. My life is very full.’
‘It must be,’ she said tartly. Full of work, she guessed disparagingly. Parades of dull, unimaginative figures marching across his computer screen. Her generous lower lip pushed out moodily, her green eyes darkening as she contemplated the philistine across the aisle. No wonder he didn’t interact very well with people, poor lamb. He lacked the practice in sharing his emotions which was normally imparted by exposure to common cultural experiences. If variety was the spice of life, his must be singularly bland.
‘I’m sure you’re a very good actress.’
Her trained ear detected the dubious note in the comment that was obviously meant to mollify her.
‘How would you know?’ she pointed out sarcastically.
‘Well...’ He lowered his voice, his gaze fixed on her stormy face. ‘You are very attractive...’
Rosalind bristled like a ginger kitten whose fur had been stroked the wrong way. ‘What’s that got to do with how well I can act?’ she crackled.
‘Uh, I... suppose it must make it easier for you to get parts,’ he explained.
Did he realise what he was implying? Could those brown eyes really be as innocent and guileless as they seemed? Rosalind bristled even more fiercely. ‘You mean sleep my way into them—is that what you’re saying?’
Her bluntness had the desired effect. He blinked rapidly. ‘Oh, no...I would never suggest such a thing. Uh, I’m sure you’re a very respectable, very distinguished actress.’
Rosalind was as quick to forgive as she was to anger. She was aware of the irony, even if he wasn’t. Her ire dissolved in a gamine grin.
‘Now who’s overdoing it? I think you must be confusing me with my mother. Dignity is not exactly my strong point and respectable I ain’t! I will, however, concede that my work is respecter.’
In case her wordplay was too subtle for him she added firmly, ‘If I sleep with someone, it’s because I want to, not because I have to. As far as I’m concerned, sex is not a marketable commodity.’
Surprisingly he neither blushed nor looked flustered by the raw revelation. One eyebrow flicked up. ‘Your mother is also an actress.’
Given his cultural ignorance, Rosalind treated it as a question. Connie would have been mortified that he had had to ask. She had been playing leading roles for nearly four decades. The Marlow name was a byword in the New Zealand theatre. Rosalind felt honour-bound to defend the family pride in its accomplishments.
‘Yes. Constance Marlow.’
She half expected him to look blank but instead he dipped his head in acknowledgement.
‘You’re one of those Marlows. Didn’t your father receive a knighthood for services to the theatre in the last honours list?’
Where art failed, snobbery succeeded!
‘Yes, he did.’ The new title had been the source of some mirth as well as pride within the family, since Michael’s bark had frequently reduced quavering young newcomers to calling their director ‘sir’ and Connie had been going under the affectionate theatre nickname of Her Ladyship for years.
‘I suppose your mother is an accountant?’ she teased, basking in the safety of her clan. As ‘one of those Marlows’ she was shielded from the infamy of her individuality.
Again that slow, assessing look. ‘My mother died when I was a child.’
‘Oh.’ Rosalind’s amusement was instantly tempered,
her jewel-bright eyes softening sympathetically. ‘I’m sorry. What a shock that must have been.’
Her vivid imagination sketched a picture of what he had been like as a child. He would have been a thin, clever, gentle little boy, too shy to attract many friends and, after the loss of his mother, probably even more insecure. She couldn’t imagine Luke as the kind of self-confident daredevil that her brothers had been...or herself, come to that.