by Gigi Blume
It seemed to calm her spirit. And it settled my mind—giving it an occupation other than fancying the visions of Emma on the other end of the line listening intently, making casual comments. Unless the book was a love story—like Jane Eyre. Then I was in trouble.
“I’m all tucked in,” she announced after some time. “Like a burrito.”
I imagined her bundled up to the chin in the billowy comforter—her hair splayed in all directions on her pillow.
With the most soothing voice I could muster, I read to her. Trying to coax her to sleep. My fingers ached to caress her hair—her brows—her eyelids to give her some comfort. They had to content themselves with the spine of the book and a stroke of the paper with each turn of the page—poor substitutes. My words would have to do for caresses and so I read, letting the time pass. I reached the passage where Mr Rochester declared his love for Jane, admitting he felt they were connected by a cord of communion. The imagery was beautiful and heart wrenching. I wondered what she thought of that.
“Emma?”
She didn’t answer. I paused in silence for a long moment, listening for the steady rhythm of her breathing. She was a quiet sleeper. Either that or her phone was buried beneath several layers of covers. I decided to continue, if not to lull her into slumber, then for my sake. It didn’t work. Her words from earlier kept turning over in my mind. ‘You’ll never get married. You’re too much like me.’
She was wrong. We were different enough to complement each other. Like fish and chips. Or tea and biscuits.
“Good night, Emma.”
I disconnected the call and read in silence. I scanned page after page without comprehension—too preoccupied with Emma and dogs and her silly matchmaking feats of philanthropy.
4
Beso De Angel
Emma
Jaxson would probably not admit I walked into the Gardiner Theatre Monday morning like a boss—but I totally did. The double doors seemed to open on their own accord, and I was aware of the morning sun acting as my backlighting as I crossed the threshold—the wind-tunnel effect sweeping my hair haphazardly from my shoulders like a beachy breeze. My stride was suspended in slow motion while Oh Yeah from Ferris Bueller accompanied my entrance, and my new friend Harriet Smith trailed at my designer strappy heels like a sassy sidekick.
At least it was like that in my head.
I got a peck on the cheek from Jax as he passed me with a pile of papers in his arms. He barely looked at me at first but then stopped in his tracks and reversed his steps to plant himself before me again. He looked at me, a spark in his eyes as he examined my choice of clothes (a romper and heels so high, I was almost as tall as him) and shook his head.
“What?” I exclaimed. “It’s only a table reading.”
“Exactly.” He shifted his attention to Harriet, and his expression softened. “You look familiar.”
Harriet grinned widely and held out her hand, which he shook politely. “I was your waitress at Karaoke Unplugged,” she beamed, shaking his hand with a little too much energy.
“Oh, yes,” he replied with a look of recognition. “Helen?”
“Harriet,” she said apologetically. “But you can call me Helen. And you’re Jaxson Knightly. I mean, you know that of course. Twelve-year single malt. That’s what you ordered.”
Jaxson raised his brow, half-impressed, half-guarded. “You have a great memory.”
“She does,” I said. “Perfect for memorizing lines.”
“You’re an actress?” Jaxson said, wrinkling his brow. How many times had he been approached by Hollywood hopefuls with stars in their eyes? How was he supposed to know Harriet was different? The real deal.
“She’s a terrific actress,” I said. “She went to The Goddard Academy.”
Jaxson was all politeness, but I could see the reserve in his smile. The Goddard Academy wasn’t the most prestigious acting school in Los Angeles, but I knew it was pricey, so naturally it had some merit.
Jax tilted his head, studying Harriet. “What brings you here, Harriet?”
“Oh! Miss Woods offered to mentor me. And I’m her personal assistant.”
Jaxson’s eyebrows raised even higher on his forehead.
“Oh, please,” I cried, claiming Harriet’s arm. “Call me Emma. We’re besties now.”
A blush of pink overtook her fair skin. She needn’t stand on ceremony for my sake. Miss Woods. Honestly.
“Is that Will Darcy?” Harriet’s eyes bulged out of her skull—and I thought I might have to clamp her jaw shut.
“I’m going for a selfie,” she squealed.
“Really, Harriet, you’re mixing with A-listers now—” I was about to remind her to practice some semblance of decorum, but she was off like a bolt of lightning. Jaxson grinned at me.
“Besties, huh?”
“You’ve been bugging me to find female friends,” I said.
“Yes, but—”
“What is Will doing here anyhow?” I crinkled my nose, still not ready to process this new development. Was I supposed to like him now?
“He’s just dropping off Beth,” answered Jaxson.
We both glanced in Will’s direction. Harriet was gushing over him, handing Beth her phone to snap some photos. I rolled my eyes. Beth had more talent in her little finger.
“So…” Jaxson teased. “Since when do you have a personal assistant?”
“She wanted to feel useful. But really I think I can help her to… you know…”
“Learn to schmooze?”
I watched Harriet totally fangirl like a weirdo. “Maybe to learn how to play it cool, for starters.”
What was she doing wasting her time on Will? Elton deserved her attention.
“Where’s Elton?” I asked, searching the room. Stella was kind enough to lend us rehearsal space at the Gardiner, saving Jaxson gobs of money. The studio, usually meant for dancing, was situated beside the stage door and was named the Cry Room many years ago by a few overly-sensitive actors. Today, tables were set up in the form of a big square, and in lieu of a place setting, a script and name card waited for each cast member, along with a pencil and bottle of water.
“He’s trying to calm down Pinky. She was hyperventilating earlier.”
“What happened now?”
“One of our actors missed his flight, so he won’t be here today,” he replied.
“Who?”
Jaxson rolled his eyes. “Frank Churchill.”
I knew Frank Churchill wasn’t Jaxson’s first choice to play John, the younger Donwell brother, but Pinky insisted he’d bring in a slew of fangirls. Frank was, after all, a former teen heartthrob. His success on the popular TV show Choir Boys made him the obvious choice to secure a box office smash. Jaxson never said so, but I knew he faced a huge risk workshopping a musical. He needed a big name attached to the project to sell it to the studios. I could see the worry around his eyes.
I waved my hand to lighten the subject. “It’ll be fine. It’s only a table reading. Harriet can read Frank’s part today.”
“Elton already volunteered,” he replied. “He knows the material better than anyone.”
“Oh, yeah,” I said, feeling silly. “He wrote the music.”
“Actually, he’s more of a lyricist, but—”
“There you are, Emma.” Elton appeared before me, almost squeezing Jaxson to the side. He came in for an air kiss but slipped and got too close, planting one right on my jaw. “Don’t you look radiant.” He whistled, trailing his line of vision down the length of my legs. “Are those shoes or medieval torture devices?”
“They’re her reading shoes apparently,” said Jaxson dryly. He grabbed my arm and ushered me to my seat.
“What are you doing?” I hissed.
“Saving the man from certain disappointment.”
I nestled into my chair, narrowing my eyes on him as he took the seat next to me. “For your information, he will be far from disappointed once I work my matchmaking wonders on his l
ife.”
“That’s exactly what I’m afraid of, Emma. No more matchmaking.”
I shrugged and swivelled in my chair, pretending I didn’t hear him. A few short minutes later, Elton took the place on the other side of me, and we began our session with a pep talk from Jaxson. It was a magical moment, seeing Jaxson’s eyes sparkle as he addressed all the performers and creatives in the room. Morris Tomlinson slid onto the piano bench, giving a timid wave when introduced. Elton wasn’t so shy. He stood and bowed when it was his turn, making sure Jaxson and I noticed the appreciation he had in taking part in this endeavour.
For the table read, it was optional for the performers to sing since nobody had worked with the music yet in rehearsals. Most everyone knew their parts, though; they’d had the sheet music for a couple of weeks, so we got off to a fantastic start. Still, Elton and Morris were there to fill in the gaps where rehearsal was lacking. Beth kept right up with the rest of the company, delivering on her solo like a boss. I knew she’d kill it.
The one performance that had everyone cheering, however, was Elton’s. Who knew the guy was such an actor? For a scene where my character had to choose between the two brothers, he took my hand and delivered his lines with such emotion, I’d almost forgotten to respond.
“Say you don’t love me, and I’ll leave forever,” he said. “But if you stay silent, my dearest Penelope, I will carry you to the chapel directly.”
He was crying actual tears. I was supposed to reply something to the effect of being betrothed to his brother, but I blundered my lines because he’d cupped my face in his palms, and I couldn’t see my script. “I… errr…”
“Shhh,” he muttered, placing his forefinger on my lips. Then he signalled to Morris to start the intro to Don’t Speak at All. And as he sang, he rose from his seat and took me with him to the piano where his guitar stood and serenaded me while I felt a little ridiculous in my super-high shoes. Was I supposed to act or something? I glanced at Jaxson who wore an amused expression and shrugged to me. Elton swooped around to block my view of Jax, strumming dolefully on his guitar and belted from his heart.
Don’t rip my heart out, don’t speak at all.
Show that you want me, don’t speak at all.
Energetic applause met the last note of the song, and Elton smiled before returning his guitar to the stand and sitting back down at the table. He took a sip from his water bottle as the hoots and hollers died down. A lot of it was the excitement at workshopping a new movie musical. However, Elton was amazing. He could really sing. I wondered why the man didn’t perform in his own shows. Seriously, how was this guy still single? I glanced to see Jaxson’s reaction, but he was just nodding, like, yeah, I’ve heard my buddy Elton sing a thousand times before, moving on. Harriet, who sat next to Pinky at a separate table along the wall (this was for suits, non-cast creatives, and designers) clapped most enthusiastically of all. I swore I saw Elton turn to wink at her.
Aha! Lightbulb moment. I volleyed my eyes between the two of them and congratulated myself for having such keen perception. They’d be so cute together. It was more perfect than I could have imagined. Harriet and Elton. I couldn’t wait to parade my victory all over Stella’s office—or wherever she decided to keep that money jar. And wouldn’t Jax be delighted when I used my winnings to pay for a trip to see his family in Australia? I decided to surprise him with the holiday anyway to celebrate his success with Field of Hearts, but now I had even more of an incentive.
We finished the table read early with only a few stops along the way. When the last note rang out from the final song, the whole cast and crew applauded. We were all buzzing with the creativity crackling between us. I couldn’t wait to celebrate. Congratulate Jax and chat it up over drinks and food.
“We can make happy hour at Tapeo,” I said to Jax when we’d wrapped for the day. “I’ll buy you a sangria.”
He grimaced, shaking his head. “I don’t think so.”
“A scotch then?”
He sighed, gathering his piles of sheet music, script pages, and countless notes on a legal pad and offered me a tight smile.
“I need to stay and work out some kinks with the guys,” he said. By ‘the guys,’ he meant Elton and Morris. I understood this was a huge project, subject to lots of tweaking in the workshopping process. There’d be plenty of late nights while they worked it out. I felt a little petty and helpless in the whole business, taking off to a trendy Spanish restaurant while they went over the notes from the table read, making changes here and there. But what could I possibly have to offer if I stayed?
“Want me to run out for sandwiches?” I offered. Surely, they were hungry after two run-throughs of the script.
“Pinky’s making a Five Guys run,” he replied. “Go on home. I’ll call you later.”
Go on home. I’ll call you later. As if. I was a grown woman. Nothing was stopping me from happy hour at Tapeo if I so chose to go. Fortunately, Harriet was keen to go out with me, especially since she no longer had to wait tables at that karaoke bar.
“What did you think of today’s rehearsal?” I asked Harriet as we snacked on tapas. Tapeo had the best happy hour on the planet, and the clientele was used to celebrity sightings, so it was no big deal. The only reason I went during happy hour was because they didn’t serve the same dishes on their dinner menu. The small bites, which rotated daily, were exclusive between the hours of three and seven p.m. The chef specialties were always a surprise and didn’t disappoint. The only thing I couldn’t stomach was the octopus they brought out one time. Never again.
“It was surreal,” replied Harriet. “I could hardly believe I was in the room with so many famous people. I almost cried.”
“Well, get used to it; this is your life now.”
“I can’t thank you enough. It’s like a dream come true.”
“Pish posh.” I waved her off. “This is your destiny. You would have gotten there yourself eventually. I’m just glad I could be a part of it.”
We clinked glasses and toasted to our good fortune and future success. I knew she had a bright future. I could feel it in my painted toenails. I could just picture Elton serenading her like he’d done earlier at rehearsal. She’d smile and sing a duet with him, and they’d make beautiful music together, if you catch my drift. I could think of nothing more adorable than that.
Our waiter, an Antonio Banderas wannabe in a black silk shirt, approached our table, placing a creamy-looking shot in front of Harriet.
“Compliments of the bartender,” he said, nodding. “Errr… would you like one too, Miss Woods?”
Harriet glanced over her shoulder to find the bartender in question, wiggling his fingers at her.
“No, I do not, thank you,” I said indignantly. “And you may take that back.”
The waiter, more confused than compliant, reached for the shot glass, but Harriet impeded him by taking the drink and toasting the bartender with gratitude. The waiter bowed and slinked away.
“Who is that guy?”
“Oh, we worked together at Karaoke Unplugged. I had no idea he works here too.”
“Hmmm. Seems dodgy to me.”
She giggled and stole another glance at the bartender. Her cheeks glowed with a warm flush of pink, which really showed up like crazy on her fair skin.
“Martinez? He’s the nicest guy I know,” she said, smiling. “He plays bass in a mellow punk band.”
“Mellow punk? Sounds like an oxymoron. Like jumbo shrimp.”
Harriet gaped at me wide eyed. “Oh, he’s not a moron at all. He’s really smart.”
Oh, sweet Harriet.
“I didn’t mean he wasn’t smart. Just that you have to be careful about the type of guy you want to be seen with.” I took a bite of deep-fried cheesy potato. “What’s his name again?”
“Martinez. But that’s his last name. We all call him Martín for short.”
“Martín? As in Fluffy’s sidekick?”
I had to admit, this Martinez blok
e didn’t look like a punk rocker. He had that Ricky Martin vibe going for him. But a hot guy wouldn’t help Harriet advance her career.
“One time,” continued Harriet, “he took a detour on his way to work to bring me boba from Pho Real just because he heard I liked them. Isn’t that sweet?”
“It certainly is thoughtful, but not out of the ordinary. That’s just what co-workers do. Jaxson brings me a green smoothie every morning, but it doesn’t mean anything.”
“Oh.” Harriet blinked at me, thinking about what I said. “I guess you’d know what you’re talking about.”
“Of course I do.”
I shrugged, taking a sip of my drink and looking beyond Harriet, I noticed Martinez approach our table with the goofiest of grins.
“Good heavens. Don’t look now, but he’s coming our way. Just be sure not to make eye contact. You don’t want to lead him on.”
“I don’t?”
“Hi, Harriet,” he said, hovering over her. I didn’t quite know how to describe his voice. It was like Bart Simpson and a raccoon all rolled into one—if raccoons could talk.
“Do you like the drink? I call it Beso de Angel.”
“It’s yummy,” she said, batting her eyes. “Sounds so exotic.”
“It means kiss of an angel in Spanish. I tried to make it taste like those boba drinks you like.”
She blushed, twirling her hair. Yes, friends, she was twirling her hair. I’d have to have a chat with her later on that. “I didn’t know you worked here.”
He shrugged. “Just a couple nights a week, but not for long. I was promoted at Unplugged, so…”
Harriet beamed at him. It was rather painful to watch because although they were working hard at conversation, one could tell it didn’t come naturally for them. Poor Harriet. I knew once she found her Mister Right, he’d have brilliant things to say, and she wouldn’t have to reach so desperately. I was already picturing her laughing and carrying on with Elton and his display of genius. He was a lyricist, after all. Martinez waffled along about something or other. It was slightly awkward.