Over their entwined fingers, they stared at each other. He could see the movement of her chest with her quiet, quick breaths. A loose clot of mascara clung to the end of one lash, and her eyes really were quite . . .
Dilated.
Sitting there with Sylvie’s hand in his, her herb-scented breath a warm tickle against his chin, he saw a reflection of his own rapidly dawning realization.
Releasing her, Dominic reached for his tablet. With a decisive motion, he deleted the top line.
Across from him, Sylvie retrieved her stylus pen and her phone. As it clicked on, she picked up the flagon by her foot and set it aside with an emphatic thud. The nearly empty flagon. Their fourth helping. She drew a crisp line and made the necessary amendment.
Midnight Elixir’s mystery ingredient number one: not star anise.
A grim murmur, in unison: “Absinthe.”
Chapter Eight
Hartwell Studios
Contestants Eliminated: 3
Contestants Quitting: 1
Contestants Crying: 1, but give Judge C a chance. He’s not even properly awake yet.
Judges Hungover: 2
Nadine from Bucks needed to leave the Operation Cake studio and hook an immediate turn into the casting office for Days Gone By. With that wavy hair and uptilted eyebrows, she even looked like the fictional family in the long-running soap opera. And she’d nailed their signature acting technique. Gaze into the distance. Deep, shuddering breath. Close eyes. Square shoulders. Exude aura of self-sacrificial courage. And—scene.
“I’ll always be grateful for this experience,” Nadine said tearfully into Camera B. Her breath quivered inward again. She pressed her palm to her chest. Her apron, pretty floral top, and neck were all splattered in lumpy cake batter. “But it’s made me realize where I truly need to be right now. With my family. I miss my husband. I miss Roget.”
“Roget?” Mariana asked over Sylvie’s shoulder. Her mouth was full of Victoria sponge. They’d both been going back for thirds and fourths of Emma Abara’s exquisite morning bake. The cake was light, fluffy, and one of the best Victoria sponges Sylvie had ever eaten. It more than compensated for Emma’s disastrous first round.
And it was creating a nice spongy layer in Sylvie’s stomach to soak up the remnants of alcohol.
“Her parrot.”
“The beaky resurrection of Caesar? I thought it had taken that last great plummet from its perch.”
“That was Roget’s predecessor.”
“Are you okay?” Mariana licked the cream from her fingers and peered at her. “You look a bit peaky.”
“Unintentional absinthe binge.” Sylvie could still taste anise in the back of her throat when she swallowed.
Thanks to Darren Clyde using the world’s smallest font to warn of extreme alcoholic content, she’d held hands with Dominic, gushed over his . . . hugeness, and woken up with the mother of all headaches.
“Wow. You other judges really know how to party. Dominic’s also exuding alcohol fumes.” Mariana inclined her head toward Dominic, who was currently staring at the lighting fixture over Nadine’s head. Probably hoping it would collapse and bring this endless monologue to a conclusion, so they could break for lunch. Sylvie needed coffee, stat. There had been a bowl of cold espresso on a benchtop for a contestant’s trifle, and she’d come dangerously close to just dropping her whole head in and absorbing the caffeine like a sponge.
“Even he doesn’t have the bone structure to pull off the vampiric red eyes.” Mariana reached into the pocket of her tunic and pulled out a folded napkin. She unwrapped it, revealing several more pieces of cake she’d been hoarding. “And his normal mood is sufficiently unattractive without a hangover dragging us all into the deeper pits of hell.”
Sylvie had been trying not to look at or speak to Dominic all day. She was . . . Honestly, she was a bit horrified. There was a unique mortification in revealing private pieces of yourself to someone who truly didn’t give a shit.
Even if he could be surprisingly nice when he was sozzled.
When she peeked at him again now, she saw that he was very red around the eyelids. She was fairly sure her entire insides were a similarly angry shade. It felt like she’d scoured her gut with steel wool.
If she’d ever been youthful enough to tolerate absinthe, those days had passed. Cranky Crone could not handle her booze.
Nadine finally wrapped up her lengthy resignation speech. The moment the cameras clicked off, she turned and stalked toward Libby’s station.
The other woman was watching the departing contestant with that same teensy smile she’d directed at Byron before his elimination. She was still currently in the lead, just to add to the hellfire of this day. That little twitch to her lips was infuriating—and apparently not just to Sylvie.
“I hope you’re happy.” Nadine’s jaw set tight as she stopped in front of the countertop. “You nasty little cow.”
With no warning, she picked up the remains of Libby’s unfortunately perfect toffee cream tart and shoved it straight in its creator’s face.
Sylvie had never seen anything like it—the gelatin in the tart held so well that almost the entire contents of the tin transferred smoothly to Libby. Two beady eyes were glaring out of an otherwise largely intact circle of toffee.
When the eyes blinked and Libby’s new face slid off like the Wicked Witch melting into the pavers of Oz, Mariana succumbed to a coughing fit, spraying crumbs over Sylvie’s shoulder. Hazard of screeching with surprised laughter while stuffing one’s face.
Even Dominic’s eyebrows had shot up.
“Did we get that on camera?” a voice asked urgently behind her, and a lighting pole poked her in the back of the head as the crew scrambled into action.
“No.”
“Fuck.”
Within earshot of the contestants, it was all consoling, tactful comments as the production staff began soothing Libby’s wounded feelings and getting her a towel. More helpful people rushed after Nadine, who was stalking off set, tossing back her hair.
On a scale of one to ten, how unprofessional would it be to applaud?
“What was that about?” Mariana asked in a low voice.
“Somehow I don’t think Libby’s character matches her face.”
“Well, nobody could be that ingenuous, could they?” the other judge intoned cynically. She looked down at her hands. “I need more cake.”
“I know. Most of your previous slice is sliding into my best bra.”
“Wowzer,” a new voice said as Mariana made a beeline for the food tables. Speaking of ingenuous, those tones were so soft and melodious, a Disney princess might have hopped the Channel from Disneyland Paris and gone for a wander. “Talk about upping the drama ante,” the newcomer continued. “Last season, it was thrilling if someone dropped an egg.”
Not so much Rapunzel, Sylvie discovered when she turned around, as a young Phryne Fisher. The woman grinning at her was midtwenties-ish, with fine-boned, fairylike features, a short, glossy bob of black hair, and crisply outlined red lipstick. Even her clothing was vintage.
“Hello, Sylvie,” the very pretty girl said, shoving a hand toward her. “I am stupendously pleased to meet you, o genius behind that fabulous creation across the road. Which sadly I can never step foot in, because my flag is planted squarely in enemy territory. I’m Pet De Vere. Dominic’s beloved sister.”