Page 10 of Best Supporting Actor

“He learned to skate in Aspen,” Mason chipped in, teasing.

Tag’s attention didn’t leave Jay. “Of course he bloody did.”

Jay held that glittering gaze for a moment too long, and then for another moment after that. Something inside him was fizzing up, escaping his control. He found himself saying, in a rather snooty tone, “One small hot chocolate with whipped cream and marshmallows, and a large Americano, please.”

A flush darkened Tag’s cheeks, the glint in his eyes turning fiery. “Coming right up,sir.”

Taken aback by his own combativeness, as well as Tag’s obvious embarrassment, Jay decided to retreat. Leaving Mason to wait for the drinks, Jay nabbed a table by the rink, and a few minutes later, Mason joined him, carrying their order.

“Don’t let Tag bother you,” he said as he sat down. “He just really wants to win this stupid dating-for-likes thing. I think he’s actually keeping count of how many each of you get.”

“Tag doesn’t bother me,” Jay said, uncomfortable with the idea. “Did I give the impression that he did?”

Mason shrugged, sipping his Americano, both hands wrapped around the steaming mug. “A little? You seemed…” He shrugged. “A bit tense, maybe?”

Tense. Jay rolled his shoulders, trying to relax. “If I’m tense,” he said, “it’s nothing to do with Tag O’Rourke.” He sighed and confessed, “I have to go to my mother’s Christmas soirée this evening. It’s an annual nightmare, to be honest. I’m dreading it.”

“Christmassoirée?”

“It’s exactly as awful as it sounds. Lots of theatre types braying about ‘the craft’ and congratulating each other on their performances.Oh, darling,” he exclaimed, in his best approximation of his mother, “yourLearwas to die for!”

Mason snorted into his coffee. “Do you have to go?”

“On pain of death, I’m afraid. Especially this year, because Ronnieis over from the States.”

“Ronnie?”

“My older brother. He was christened Oberon, but everyone calls him Ronnie. He’s a theatre director. My mother adores him.”

“Sounds like the Warren siblings are all pretty talented.”

Jay laughed. “Some more than others, I’m afraid.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well...” He took a tentative sip of his hot chocolate, wondering briefly whether Tag might have done something untoward to it, but it tasted okay. “Ronnie is the director of the New York Durham Theatre, Portia is a poet and writer-in-residence at Cornell, Rosalind is a sculptor like our father, and I… play a vampire on TV. You see the difference?”

“Yeah,” Mason agreed. “You’re in a TV show beloved by millions, and a household name. Your brother directs plays that only a handful of people will ever see, and how many people can name a living poet or sculptor? Sounds like you’re the successful one.”

Jay shook his head, glancing back towards the bar where Tag was chatting with a group of three young boys. As Jay watched, Tag glanced in his direction, and their eyes met briefly, then moved away, like magnets instantly repelling each other. He looked back at Mason and said, “Thank you for saying so, but that’s not how it’s viewed in my family. Apparently, anyone can do television.” He shrugged. “They’ve got a point.”

Mason bristled. “First off,” he said, “most peoplecan’tdo television. Believe me, there are loads of us who’d love the chance. And secondly, there are great actors working in TV, and you’ve had fantastic reviews forLeeches. So why play that down?” He frowned. “To be honest, it makes you sound like a bit of a snob.”

“I’m not a snob! You’re right. Therearesome great actors working in television—but you’ll usually find they’re great stage actors, too.” He smiled, to show Mason that it was fine. Thathewas fine. “I’m competent, Mason, but nobody would call me agreatactor. And that’s okay. I haveLeeches,and I love it. I have a great life. I’m very happy.”

Mason considered him for a moment, but all he said was, “Fine. Want to go and skate?”

* * *

Dame Cordelia’s Christmas soirée had been a fixture in the social calendar of her theatrical circle for over two decades. She held it in her Mayfair flat on the second weekend of December, and entrance was strictly by invitation only.

Jay hated the whole thing, for many and varied reasons.

As children, they’d all been forced to learn a party piece with which to charm the guests—like a London version of the Von Trapp family. Frankly, Jay would have rather hiked across the Alps, pursued by Nazis, than sing a musical number under the professional gaze of thirty or so thespians.

One year, as a rebellious teen, he’d point-blank refused, and he hadn’t heard the end of it for the next twelve months.

“Darling, an artiste never refuses an opportunity to share their talent!”