Darcy in Hollywood

by Victoria Kincaid

  Was that how Elizabeth saw him? The rich, famous, powerful man who couldn’t spare the time to help one homeless teen. He hated the thought that anything would diminish him in her eyes. “Elizabeth—”

  She gave a self-conscious laugh, staring at the people laughing and flirting on the dance floor. “This conversation has gotten way too deep for a party.”

  Caroline suddenly appeared beside Darcy, red-faced and perspiring from dancing. “It is so hot in here.” She picked up Darcy’s glass and took a healthy swig, regarding him expectantly until he scooted over and provided space for her to sit. “Ah, that’s better,” she murmured. “These shoes are killing me.” Leaning over to rub her foot, she bumped shoulders with Darcy. Claiming her territory? Darcy thought sourly.

  But Elizabeth seemed uninterested in competing with Caroline. After one last gulp from her bottle, she stood. “I think I’ll go dance.” Darcy stifled an urge to beg her to stay.

  Elizabeth’s eyes didn’t even flicker in his direction as she stepped away from the table; however, he called her name before she got too far. She looked back over her shoulder, and he said, “I’ll think about it…about participating in your project.”

  She gave a brisk nod before striding toward a group of PAs who were dancing together. His eyes followed her. She was a good dancer, moving with assurance and a feel for the music. Damn, he was staring! Quickly, he transferred his gaze to his drink.

  The waitress handed Caroline a martini and deposited a plate of nachos and buffalo wings onto the table, giving Darcy a flirtatious smile. He returned it automatically and then averted his eyes. She was pretty, but he was so not in the mood for a starfucker today.

  Caroline had started a monologue about industry gossip. Half listening, he pulled a nacho from the platter, watching the cheese ooze and drip. He could have five of these before violating the diet his nutritionist had outlined.

  After a pause, Caroline’s voice shifted tone. “We should go out for dinner sometime.” Her fingertips ran along his arm, a less enticing sensation than watching Elizabeth peel a beer label.

  “We should,” he said insincerely. In Hollywood, people were forever promising things they had no intention of doing. Darcy shifted his gaze toward the dance floor. Elizabeth’s eyes had flickered in his direction—perhaps noticing how close Caroline was sitting. Did it appear he was letting Caroline seduce him? He didn’t want Elizabeth to make assumptions.

  Maybe he should join her on the dance floor. His dancing was decent; he wouldn’t embarrass himself. But…it would be strange. International movie star William Darcy imposing his presence on a group of PAs. It would give rise to all kinds of speculation and rumors. Worse, it might raise Elizabeth’s hopes.

  Which would be bad, he reminded himself. Bad. Bad. Dancing with her would be the ultimate stupidity. He would have to content himself with admiring from afar.

  Caroline leaned her head on his shoulder, her hot breath tickling her ear. “Isn’t that the PA you hit with your car? Why on earth do you keep staring at her? Are you worried she’ll have a stroke and sue you?”

  Darcy averted his eyes. “I’m not staring at anyone.”

  Caroline ignored this. “She’s passably pretty, I suppose.”

  Darcy bristled. “You don’t have to be so nasty, Caroline. The PAs work really hard for not very much money.”

  “Puh-leeze! Even lack of money can’t excuse those pants. They add at least five pounds, which she really can’t afford.”

  Elizabeth was a little more… well-rounded than most women in Hollywood, but she certainly wasn’t overweight. It was rather appealing. Everyone wanted to starve themselves down to a size two, but Elizabeth was a more normal weight. “She looks good…healthy.”

  Caroline steamrolled on. “Is she even out of high school?”

  “She just graduated from college,” Darcy said through gritted teeth, pulling away from her. “Stanford.”

  “Well, la-dee-da!” She sniffed. “A fancy degree won’t be much use on a movie set.”

  Forgetting that Darcy himself had attended Yale, Caroline tended to assume that anyone from an elite college was a snob. “I’m just saying that she’s not that young.”

  “My PA can’t even find me the right brand of moisturizer.” She sighed dramatically. “I can’t wait to be finished with this stupid low-budget hell.”

  “You didn’t have to take the part,” he snapped.

  Caroline regarded her nails. “But it does have Oscar potential. Edgy little indies often get the nod.” She shrugged. “Otherwise it’ll be a waste of time.”

  Somehow he found her attitude to be almost unbearably calculating. Arguably, Darcy’s reasons for doing the movie were even less noble, but he still wished the movie meant more to her. Maybe Elizabeth was rubbing off on him.

  Caroline leaned against the padded back of the booth and sipped her martini. “The script is so tedious! All those hokey lines about how people should support each other. I might gag the next time I have to spew that nonsense.”

  It wouldn’t be the first time they shared complaints about a movie, but today he found himself wanting to defend the script. “I think it’ll be a good movie,” he said nonchalantly.

  She gave him a sidelong glance. “Now you’re a true believer?”

  Darcy suppressed a flash of irritation; she was just trying to get under his skin. Elizabeth was never like that. Not that there was any comparison. “If you don’t like my attitude, there’s the door.” He gestured with his glass. “Or you can go sit with someone else.”

  She gave a conciliatory laugh. “I know you don’t mean that.” She inched closer, molding her body to his.

  Darcy didn’t respond, and after a moment Caroline relaxed her death grip on him.

  “Charlie found a way to pass the time,” Caroline observed.

  Following her gaze, Darcy noticed Jane and Charlie dancing rather…intimately. The heat between them could have ignited a campfire.

  Her voice was low, and her lips tickled his ear. “He never did have much taste, but I do think he has the right idea.” Her voice dropped an octave as she brushed the tips of her fingers over his collarbone. “We have a late call tomorrow…”

  Her words painted a very clear picture for him: the enormous bed in his condo, Caroline wearing next to nothing, a night of passion. Why not? They’d done it before on a casual basis, although not for a long while. Caroline would be using him, but he would be using her, too. Mutual usage. Was that even a term? Huh, maybe I’m not that excited about it if I’m thinking about what to call it.

  He wouldn’t have to go home alone to cold sheets and an enormous dark house. Another time he wouldn’t have hesitated…

  Elizabeth was dancing with a couple of the other PAs, but he could practically feel the weight of her gaze. He turned to check, and yes, her eyes flickered in his direction. That was probably a good reason to accept Caroline’s offer, but he wasn’t sure he could bear causing Elizabeth pain.

  Maybe I should mentor a student. Why am I thinking about that now?

  As Caroline ran a hand along the stubble on Darcy’s chin, he pulled away from her touch. “Not here. Not today.” He stood, making it appear that he was just stretching his legs rather than escaping from Caroline.

  She quickly covered her scowl with an expression of languid unconcern. “Whatever.” Grabbing her martini, she finished it in one gulp. “I think I’ll go dance.” She stalked away to the dance floor.

  Leaving Darcy behind.

  And wasn’t that the theme of the evening?

  ***

  Elizabeth was shocked when Will sought her out the next day. She had stolen a moment in the break room before Roberta or someone else needed her. She had even dared to take a seat with the optimistic thought that maybe she might rest for a whole five minutes. Her legs hurt from too much dancing the night before, and her head pounded even though she’d only had two drinks. She popped two more Tylenol, washing them down with a swig of coffee.
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br />   Will strode into the break room, far too magnificent for a place with Formica countertops and pressboard cabinets. “I’d like to mentor one of the kids from the shelter,” he said without preamble.

  Her eyes widened. “Um, okay. Cool.”

  “And I can talk to the group when they’re on set.” The words rushed out as if he needed to say them quickly before he changed his mind.

  “Great,” she said automatically, and then thought about George’s story. If he was as horrible as George suggested, should she trust him to mentor a sensitive teenager? But William Darcy was too high-profile to refuse; his presence alone could make the program a success.

  Scrabbling for her clipboard, Elizabeth flipped through a couple of pages and made notations on the one about the True Colors project. What had changed his mind? Had she guilted him into it? Was he embarrassed to be shown up by George Wickham? Of course, the kids in the program would be thrilled to meet Darcy; no other actors came close.

  “I’ll get in touch with the director to see if they still need mentors.”

  Darcy’s brow furrowed. “I didn’t realize they might run out…of gay teenagers.”

  Elizabeth managed not to laugh. “Probably not, but Ricky has been pairing the teens up with members of the cast and crew. It’s possible they’re all paired.”

  “I see,” he said slowly, regarding her with a disconcerting intensity.

  She waited, expecting him to depart as swiftly as he had arrived, but he simply stared.

  “The kids from True Colors will be visiting the set three days from now. Would you be willing to speak with them then?”

  He inclined his head. “Of course.”

  “I’ll see if I can get you matched up with a mentee by then.”

  “Very well,” he said finally. “Keep me informed.” Within seconds he had disappeared as if he had never been there.

  Elizabeth exhaled a long breath. Each encounter with that man was stranger than the last one.

  Chapter Seven

  Three days later, Elizabeth arrived early to finish a few last-minute details before the True Colors group arrived but found the set in a frenzy of activity. PAs were sweeping out corners of the soundstage, clearing away empty coffee cups, and stowing unused props. Gaffers were coiling up unneeded cables while someone Elizabeth had never seen before touched up the paint on the living room set.

  “What’s going on?” she asked Charlotte Lucas, who worked for the catering service and was busily adding fresh fruit to the craft services table. The Bennets and Lucases had been friendly for years, and Charlotte was one of Elizabeth’s closest friends.

  “She’s coming to the set today,” Charlotte said in a tone of awe.

  “Who?”

  “Catherine de Bourgh.” Charlotte whispered the name as if she didn’t dare to speak it aloud.

  “I thought she was shooting tomorrow.”

  “She was supposed to,” Charlotte said with a sigh. “But she decided to come today. Tom is in a tizzy.”

  “She can’t just rearrange the shooting schedule like that.”

  “Catherine de Bourgh can do anything,” Charlotte’s tone of voice suggested the actress possessed nearly godlike powers.

  This is just nuts. Elizabeth knew who Catherine de Bourgh was; everyone did. She wasn’t just Hollywood royalty; she was the queen. Or maybe the empress. Her career spanned decades, and she had worked with some of the most legendary directors.

  Getting her to appear in this film—even if it was just for two scenes—was quite a coup for Tom, although her presence was undoubtedly Will’s doing. Catherine was his great aunt. She appeared in few movies these days, but it’s not like she needed the money or the exposure. It was yet another reminder of how much Elizabeth’s father owed to William Darcy. I really should think of him more charitably.

  Elizabeth’s morning immediately became frantic as she tried to fit her True Colors’ tasks around the desperate need to clean up the set now. When a sudden hush fell over the entire studio, Elizabeth’s first panicked thought was that they had started filming.

  But everyone was facing the building’s main entrance where Catherine de Bourgh made a stately promenade toward Tom and Roberta, who formed a kind of welcoming committee. Mrs. de Bourgh wore a floor-length fur-trimmed coat, much too warm for the day’s weather, and a hat with a feather sticking out at such an angle that it might take out someone’s eye.

  Bizarrely, she was preceded by a small weaselly man in a suit, who alternated between looking forward as though he needed to clear the way and checking behind him to ensure she was navigating the apparently treacherous floor safely. Elizabeth was reminded of a page in a Medieval court who would announce the arrival of the king and ensure that no peons impeded his progress.

  Bringing up the rear of the strange procession was a uniformed chauffeur carrying a large pink-and-green-striped purse from which protruded the poofy head of a tiny dog—wearing, of course, a pink bow.

  The procession came to a halt in front of Roberta, who seemed to think she had been thrust into a Fellini film, and Elizabeth’s father, who just seemed bemused. The man in the suit lifted his arm, announcing, “Mrs. Catherine de Bourgh!” as he gestured to her with a flourish.

  Tom Bennet lifted an eyebrow. “So I see. And you are…?”

  The other man managed not to bow, but only just. “Bill Collins. I’m Mrs. de Bourgh’s personal assistant,” he said as though he were announcing his direct descent from the queen of England. “And this”—he gestured grandly to the chauffeur—“is Cecil B. DeMille.”

  Her father squinted at the man. “Your parents actually named you—”

  “The dog!” Bill Collins barked. “The dog is Cecil B. DeMille.” It took a special kind of arrogance, Elizabeth reflected, to introduce a dog but not the man holding it.

  “I see…er, forgive me, Cecil.” Unoffended by the slight, the dog proceeded to lick his butt.

  Roberta was a little braver than Tom. “I don’t believe we have a need for a dog on set.”

  “Cecil B. DeMille goes wherever Mrs. de Bourgh goes,” Collins announced. “Did you acquire the gourmet doggy treats on the list of on-set amenities?” he asked Tom.

  Elizabeth’s father nodded vigorously. “Yes, although we weren’t able to locate the calamari ones.”

  Mrs. de Bourgh sniffed but said nothing. Speaking to producers apparently was beneath her.

  “We have a few additions to Mrs. de Bourgh’s list. She will require four pints of lemon Perrier and two ounces of foie gras.”

  Tom blinked and then smiled weakly at the older woman. “This is an independent film, you know, ma’am. We don’t have a budget for foie gras. Would another kind of pâté do?”

  Mrs. de Bourgh raised one regal eyebrow and then inclined her head toward Collins. “That would be acceptable,” he intoned. Tom looked like he’d gained a reprieve from the guillotine.

  Charlotte had come to stand beside Elizabeth, watching the proceedings with wide eyes. “Do you think we should bow?” Elizabeth murmured to her.

  Charlotte shook her head very seriously. “Not yet.”

  “Is there anything else you will require?” Tom asked Mrs. de Bourgh.

  She shook her head. “That will be all for the moment,” Collins said, as if conferring a great favor.

  “Is Mrs. de Bourgh having a problem with her voice?” Roberta asked.

  Collins regarded her disdainfully. “Of course not. She always enjoys the best of health. She abstains from speech before a shoot so her voice will be its purest and most sonorous during filming.”

  Elizabeth managed to cover her mouth in time to muffle her laugh.

  “I…see.” Roberta nodded. “Is Mrs. de Bourgh ready for makeup?”

  Collins exchanged a glance with his employer, who inclined her head slightly. “She is,” he reported to the director.

  Roberta managed to smile at this bizarre charade. “Great. Let’s get started.”

  ***

 
; Darcy recognized the particular pain at the base of his skull as his “Aunt Catherine headache.” Aspirin, heating pads, massages, and all other treatments were ineffective. The only cure was immediate removal from his aunt’s vicinity.

  Unfortunately, that wasn’t an option today.

  Playing his character’s grandmother, she was here to shoot two scenes where she bestowed sage advice. Getting into character was unusually difficult under these circumstances. His aunt had given him plenty of advice, but he found it most beneficial to ignore it.

  Once filming started, Aunt Catherine broke her self-imposed ban on speaking, barking at gaffers, boom operators, cameramen, and anyone else who crossed her path. She drove the PAs crazy with requests for everything from gourmet breath mints to a footstool (exactly sixteen inches tall).

  The set had never been so quiet or so tense. At lunch few people sat around, chatting and joking. Aunt Catherine, sitting in her specially ordered table and chair and feeding gourmet treats to Cecil B. DeMille, seemed to have cast a pall over everything. Many cast and crew left for the canteen or took their lunches to the break room. Jane and Charlie disappeared—perhaps around the back of a fake building so they could enjoy their sandwiches in peace. Darcy wished he could disappear as well, but he was obligated to sit with his aunt.

  She and Collins were already seated. Darcy just needed to get his food from the craft services table and join them. Thus began the slowest sandwich construction in the history of the world.

  When he’d talked his aunt into taking the part, he had worried that she would regret appearing in such a low-budget endeavor; now he worried that the staff of In the Shadows would have even bigger regrets.

  When Darcy last worked with his aunt five years ago, it hadn’t been such a strain. Surely she hadn’t always been this difficult. Although he did recall an unfortunate contretemps over the quality of the chocolates in her trailer for the other movie. That must have been trying for the PAs, but Darcy hadn’t been considering their perspective at the time. It was only now, when Elizabeth was one of the gofers running around to satisfy his aunt’s demands, that he’d noticed her entitled attitude.