Page 2 of Echoes of the Sea (Storm Tide #2)
“You’re hoping to get married?” Malcolm eyed him narrowly. “I thought after Giselle, you wouldn’t be anxious to dive into a relationship anytime soon.”
“I’m looking for a different kind of match entirely: the perfect ... role.”
“How romantic,” Malcolm drawled.
This banter between them was well-established.
It came so naturally to them in real life that the writers of The Beau had almost immediately started weaving it into their characters’ interactions.
The now-deceased Tennyson Lamont had quickly become the very best friend and confidant of Royston, the character who had made Malcolm a household name.
The connection had made Kip’s character more popular and more valuable to the show.
But that still hadn’t saved him in the end.
Tennyson had drowned at sea. At first, Kip had thought that meant there was a chance his character would be revived, having been marooned on an island somewhere only to be recovered to make a triumphant return.
He suspected he had said that out loud to someone at some point, because within three episodes, Tennyson’s body was discovered.
Partially eaten by sharks.
Unless The Beau was making a shift toward a Jane Austen–era zombie story—which, quite frankly, had already been done—his time on the show was over.
“Before you get back to rubbing barbed elbows,” Malcolm said, “I do have one idea for you.”
Kip perked up. “You do?”
“It’s likely not one you’ll be excited about.”
“I’m willing to try almost anything, provided I’ll get to act, get paid, and possibly convince this fickle industry that I’m not done for.”
“It is decidedly the first two, and there’s a possibility of it being the third.”
Kip didn’t like the hesitant way Malcom had said possibility .
Malcolm motioned with his head for Kip to walk with him. “Do you remember the job I took during our university days for which I dressed as a Viking and vanquished Tesco as an in-person advert for tinned fish?”
“Please tell me this promising opportunity isn’t vanquishing Tesco.”
“A slight improvement over that.”
Kip threw back the last of his courage, then set the glass on a table as they passed. “How slight is this improvement?”
Malcolm shrugged. “It’s not carpentry.”
All those years ago, while Malcolm had been booking in-person advertising jobs, Kip had been relying on his other life skill: carpentry.
He hadn’t disliked building sets, but he’d wanted to be on those sets far more.
“I’m beginning to suspect you’re desperate to soften the blow you’re about to deal me,” Kip said.
“Some blows can’t truly be softened.”
That was not a good sign.
“Michael Osbourne is rumored to be in talks to produce an adaptation of that Victorian-era novel that did so well last year, the one about the American who inherits a title and has to move to England.”
He had Kip’s full attention. “An American leading man?”
“Believe me, I have made certain your name has been whispered anywhere that production is being discussed.”
He didn’t know what he’d do without Malcolm.
“But Osbourne will have the final say,” Malcolm said. “He always does.”
Osbourne was overbearing, bullying, and obnoxious. If the legendary producer didn’t produce hit after hit after hit, he would likely be drummed out of the industry, though he was also something of a genius.
“Osbourne discovered Beatrice Jennings a couple of years ago during his family’s annual pilgrimage to a living history site on the coast of West Sussex,” Malcolm said.
“You’re from West Sussex.”
Malcolm nodded. “We went to the living history site a lot when I was growing up. My family, apparently, was connected to the place back when the history there wasn’t history at all.”
“And what does all this have to do with the possibility you’re dangling in front of me?”
Malcolm stopped walking and turned to face him directly again. “Consider this with an open mind.”
“Telling me to keep an open mind makes me more nervous.”
“When Osbourne discovered Beatrice, she was working at the site as one of their reenactors. During their summer season, they hire actors to live the lives they would have centuries ago. When people come on open days, they get to watch and experience life as it used to be.” Malcolm eyed him nervously.
“The site’s director has been there for about fifteen years, and we’ve met a few times.
The Guilford Historical Site is in need of, essentially, a leading man. ”
Kip’s heart made a beeline for his toes. “You’re suggesting I go work as a history reenactor for the summer season at a kitschy tourist destination?”
“It’s not kitschy,” Malcolm said. “It’s actually a really amazing place, really authentic. It’s why Osbourne was impressed enough with Beatrice to cast her. The actors have to be good. They have to feel real .”
Was this really what Kip’s career had come to?
This was the sort of job students took when trying to make ends meet.
Kip had been on The Beau. He was a multiaward nominee.
He had been one-half of a two-continent “it” couple.
He’d had steady work that he’d enjoyed and a future even his father couldn’t have dismissed as “destined to be disappointing.”
He’d had the world at his feet, and it had all been snatched away.