Darcy in Hollywood

by Victoria Kincaid

  It had obviously been designed with entertaining in mind—at least the 1970s version of entertaining. There was even a sunken “conversation” area in the living room. However, the whole place had been updated and remodeled, with nary a shred of shag carpeting or splash of avocado green paint in sight.

  The house wrapped around the patio and pool, with curtains of glass providing a spectacular view of the infinity pool, and beyond it, L.A. Elizabeth didn’t particularly long for the house, but she would have loved to have that view every day.

  The party was in full swing when she arrived. Supplied by three separate bars—two outside on the patio and one in the living room—just about everyone had a drink in their hand. However, she didn’t notice any food. She sighed. Apparently it would be one of those parties.

  The floor-to-ceiling windows gave a great view of partygoers outside on the pool deck. People relaxed around or in the pool, drinking and chatting while they floated in inner tubes or lazed on lounge chairs. Many of the women Elizabeth didn’t recognize were tall, thin, and beautiful. Charlie must have spiced up the party by inviting some models, a not uncommon practice in Hollywood.

  Elizabeth had brought her swimsuit but wasn’t sure if she would change into it. There was nothing like partying with models to make you body conscious. Why did I even bother to come? This had all the hallmarks of one of those parties that were tailor-made to make you feel inferior. She wasn’t hip enough. Or wealthy enough. Or pretty enough.

  She just didn’t belong.

  Her job didn’t depend on schmoozing with the glitterati, thank God. Maybe she should just leave. At the same time Elizabeth was a little nostalgic. The movie industry had always been integral to her life, but soon she’d be in medical school and it would be part of her past. She would miss it—at least parts of it.

  Ricky also had two more kids at True Colors who could use mentors, so Elizabeth was searching for someone from In the Shadows who didn’t already have a mentee. Although she was beginning to wonder whether she could stand the party long enough to fulfill that mission.

  All right. If I’m not having fun in half an hour, I’ll ditch it.

  Navigating through the crowds, Elizabeth turned a corner to find herself in a den-like area with a wide-screen television at one end and lots of big pillows on the floor. Huh. And there was George Wickham playing an acoustic guitar, singing an Ed Sheeran song as if his heart would break. Some of the partygoers lounging on the pillows sang along while others just watched.

  Not a model in sight. Perfect. Elizabeth sank onto a big cushion, belatedly realizing that she was sitting beside Lydia, who was gazing at George with rapt attention. His voice was good, and he was an accomplished player. He noticed Elizabeth with a smile containing only a little leer. She couldn’t help comparing it unfavorably with Darcy’s smile, which was always…gentlemanly. But comparisons were stupid, she reminded herself. Darcy was irrelevant, and his smiles were meaningless.

  When the song came to an end, applause was followed by several requests for other songs, but George demurred. “I need to give my voice a break.” Most people drifted away; a few stayed, apparently mesmerized by the music videos on the huge screen, while a smaller group huddled in conversation in one corner.

  George clambered over a few pillows to reach Elizabeth. She couldn’t help smiling as he landed on a big beanbag chair with a thud. “Ugh! I may be getting too old to sit on the floor,” he said.

  Lydia laughed raucously. “Don’t be silly! You’re not old!”

  He chucked her under the chin with an intimacy that surprised Elizabeth. Was something going on between them? “Older than you, my dear. Would you be a sweetie and get me a whiskey on the rocks. I’m parched.” His slurred speech hinted that he had already imbibed a bit. Much to Elizabeth’s surprise, Lydia bounced up and hurried out of the room without another word. She must really like George.

  George lounged back in the beanbag chair with a lazy grin. His pupils were tiny, suggesting he’d been using something a bit harder than alcohol. Well, it wouldn’t be a Hollywood party without drugs; they were impossible to avoid. Doing coke probably added to his coolness factor in Lydia’s eyes, but Elizabeth had studied enough biochem to know what drugs did to the human brain. She stepped hard on the desire to give him a lecture.

  “I didn’t know you knew Charlie,” she said.

  He shrugged. “I don’t, really. I met him waiting for my audition last week, and he invited me. He seems like a great guy.”

  “He throws great parties.”

  “That he doesh,” George slurred.

  “I’m sorry the audition didn’t work out.”

  George shrugged again. “I figured Darcy wouldn’t let me be cast in ‘his’ movie.”

  “I don’t think he had anything to do with the decision.”

  George winked at her. “You keep on believing that, sweetheart. I bet you’re still waiting for the Easter Bunny.”

  Elizabeth had no reason to disbelieve Roberta’s assessment of George’s performance, but she could hardly share the director’s assessment. “They might need extras next week.”

  George’s lips twisted in a sneer. “Ha! Only if Darcy will let me onto ‘his’ set.”

  Elizabeth frowned, irritated at not being believed. “It’s not up to him.”

  “I guess we’ll find out next week, won’t we?”

  “Did you find another day job?”

  “I’ve got a few things going on. It helps make ends meet.”

  “You have a nice singing voice. Maybe you could join a band.”

  George laughed uproariously. “That’s a good one! I bet you didn’t know I was part of a band a few years ago. The Flaming Spam Monsters. You probably never heard of us.” He grinned.

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “We cut a few albums and then broke up over creative differences.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  George guffawed. “I would be more upset about it if I weren’t so high.” He clapped a hand over his mouth. “Oops! Forget I said that.”

  Elizabeth couldn’t help laughing. Despite everything, his self-deprecating wit was pretty damn charming.

  Lydia dropped onto the pillow beside Elizabeth’s, panting as if she had been running. She thrust a glass at George. “Here’s your whiskey. What did I miss?”

  “George was telling me that he used to be in a band,” Elizabeth said.

  “I could have guessed that. You’ve got it going on, you know? I bet you were the lead singer.”

  “I played the bass.”

  Lydia giggled. “Well, I was close. Where can I get your music?” Lydia took a swig from her own glass—identical to George’s—then made a face. Good lord, had she gotten whiskey for herself as well?

  “You shouldn’t be drinking,” Elizabeth said.

  Lydia flung out her arms. “It’s a party. Everyone is drinking.”

  “You’re underage.” Elizabeth felt like she was sixty years old, but Lydia was hardly a model of self-restraint when sober. Who knew what she was capable of when soused?

  “You are? How old are you?” George asked.

  “Nineteen.” Lydia took another sip of the whiskey, this time managing not to look as if she were drinking paint thinner.

  “Really?” George leaned forward. “I never would have guessed. You seem so mature.”

  Lydia preened. “George doesn’t mind me drinking, do you?” She gave the man a flirtatious smile.

  His glass was already empty. “Noooo. Of course not.” He appeared to get distracted by a passing mote of dust. “As long as you don’t…drive…or bicycle.”

  “Bicycle!” Lydia erupted in giggles.

  “Or unicycle.”

  “What about…rickshaw?” Lydia asked, nearly breathless.

  “I know, I know! Submarine!” He could barely get the words out through the peals of laughter.

  As the conversation continued in this vein, Elizabeth decided she had little to contribute to suc
h hilarity. She stood. “I think I’ll go get a drink.”

  The others didn’t appear to notice. “How about…camelback?” Lydia chortled as Elizabeth left the room.

  After stopping by the bar for a rum and coke, she then heard someone call her name. Bill Collins sidled up, wearing a Hawaiian shirt in eye-watering colors. Really, there should be a law specifically against that garment. He held a daiquiri nearly as neon as his shirt.

  “Hi, Bill. Is Mrs. de Bourgh here as well?” Boy, there’s someone I wouldn’t want at my party.

  “No.” Bill swayed a bit on his feet. “She and Cecil have a joint beauty appointment. They will get matching hair styles and manicures.”

  Elizabeth tried to picture this. “That’s really”—she tried to find a neutral adjective—“Hollywood.”

  “Isn’t it?” Bill threw his head back and roared a laugh so loud that everyone in the room turned to stare.

  Had it been half an hour yet? Elizabeth began to calculate how quickly she could make it to her car.

  Bill stepped closer to her. “I wanted to talk to you, you know.”

  “I didn’t know that.” Backing away, Elizabeth bumped up against the plate-glass window.

  He was standing well within her personal zone of comfort. “I’m a personal assistant, and you’re a production assistant.”

  Elizabeth slid sideways to create some distance from him. “Yeah. People in Hollywood seem to need a lot of assistance.”

  His breath smelled like rum. “Maybe we could…assist each other.” In case she had misunderstood, Bill punctuated his words with a couple of uncoordinated pelvic thrusts that unfortunately recalled her uncle’s attempts at twerking.

  Maybe she should ignore the innuendo and respond to the face value of the words. “I’m sure we could help each other out around the set. That’s a good idea.” She inched further away, but he followed, hovering far too close for comfort.

  “That’s not what I meant,” he slurred. “I’m saying I could assist you with your…needs.” He leered.

  Or maybe she should just play along. Elizabeth leaned closer, giving him a little glimpse of cleavage. “That’s great. You are so generous. Right now, what I need is a gin and tonic.”

  “Oh. Oh.” He straightened the hem of his ghastly shirt. “I will obtain said drink for you, miss! Stay right there.” He pointed to an exact spot on the floor. Turning quickly, he staggered and bumped into an end table. “Excuse me, madam,” he said to the furniture before lurching toward the bar.

  Okay, that was it. Time to cut her losses—and quickly, before Bill returned.

  “Lizzy!” Charlotte hurried up to her, wearing a plain and practical one-piece bathing suit. “Did I see Bill Collins?”

  “Yeah, he went to the bar. We can go this way.” Elizabeth waved in the opposite direction.

  “Actually, I was hoping to talk to him some more…about dogs. He’s very knowledgeable. Mama’s Pekingese has been having stomach problems.”

  “Oh. Okay.” Elizabeth couldn’t imagine anyone volunteering for a conversation with Bill Collins.

  Charlotte lowered her voice. “I kind of like him. He’s different from any other guy I’ve ever met.”

  “He’s different all right.”

  “After the last two losers I dated…” She shuddered.

  Charlotte’s last two boyfriends had been big losers. One had become verbally abusive when anyone mentioned llamas, and the other had collected refrigerator door handles. Actually, maybe Bill would fit right in…

  Charlotte spied the subject of their conversation heading their way with two drinks in his hands. “And did you notice that shirt?” She sighed. “I just love a guy who’s willing to make bold choices!”

  “He is…ah…noticeable.” He could moonlight as a traffic cone.

  “Ladies.” Bill grinned broadly at Charlotte as he handed Elizabeth her drink.

  “Hi, Bill.” Charlotte blushed and actually giggled—a sound Elizabeth hadn’t known her friend was capable of making.

  As they gazed into each other’s eyes, Elizabeth realized that they didn’t need her anymore. “Actually, I see someone I should talk to.” She gave her drink to Charlotte, who accepted it without taking her eyes from Bill. “Charlotte said she had a dog-related question for you.”

  Bill’s eyebrows shot upward. “My knowledge of dogs is encyclopedic, I assure you.”

  “Oh, I know…” Charlotte breathed.

  Before she was forced to hear anything else, Elizabeth made good her escape.

  ***

  When Darcy had arrived at the party, Charlie had welcomed him with a beer in one hand and an arm around Jane Bennet. He always worked quickly. Darcy just hoped she wasn’t expecting any kind of long-term relationship; Charlie wasn’t built that way.

  Darcy wandered through the house, nodding to acquaintances and shaking the occasional hand. His manager and agent would expect him to work the room, forging connections with the producers, directors, and fellow actors. He was also supposed to be on the hunt for the next woman to be his arm candy—some gorgeous up-and-coming starlet who would be thrilled to attend industry events with him.

  But just thinking about those things exhausted him.

  Actually, what do I want to do? Darcy hadn’t asked himself that question for a long time—at least at a party, which always seemed to be more about networking than…well, partying. People thought Hollywood parties were full of booze and cocaine and scantily clad women (which they were), but they were designed for the denizens of Hollywood to schmooze and impress so they could line up their next project. It was really a bit depressing.

  Darcy realized that the answer to “what do I want to do?” was “leave the party.” But he couldn’t do that yet; he had just arrived.

  He spotted Bill Collins only seconds before the man saw him—not enough time to initiate evasive maneuvers. Huh. He had Charlotte Lucas on his arm. Darcy didn’t know the woman well, but she seemed sensible—too sensible to hang with Collins.

  Collins sidled close to Darcy as if he planned to show fake Rolex watches on the inside of his trench coat. “Mr. Darcy, I wanted to make an offer, sir.” His eyes scanned the area to ensure they weren’t being overheard. “If you need anyone for your posse—or as the French say it, ‘entourage’—I would be most pleased to take part. I make an excellent lackey. Your aunt rarely requires my presence at night, so there would be no need for her to even be aware of my activities.”

  Darcy felt oddly as if he were being propositioned by a cheating spouse. “That won’t be necessary,” he replied coolly. “I don’t actually have a posse.”

  Collins’s eyes widened. “But a man of your stature! Surely…who do you take to clubs?”

  Darcy began to suspect that Collins’s understanding of Hollywood, despite his employment, was primarily based on television shows. “I rarely go to clubs,” he said shortly.

  “But-But you’re a movie star.”

  “Yes, I am. Thank you for noticing.” With these words, Darcy stalked to the nearest set of French doors and pushed through. He was done with that idiot. In fact, he was done with all the idiots who believed that making movies involved no work, just glamour.

  Maybe I should just go home. I’m not exactly in a party mood. I don’t even know why I bothered to come. But he knew that was a lie even as he thought it.

  He scanned the pool deck, telling himself that he wasn’t searching for anyone in particular without really believing it. There was the usual contingent of Hollywood power brokers trying to appear relaxed while they sweated bullets over million-dollar deals. In the Shadows cast members flirted or laughed and splashed in the pool. He had once been part of that crowd, but it held no appeal now.

  There was also the customary bevy of bathing beauties, the models who somehow managed to wrangle invitations to every Hollywood party. Several eyed him speculatively, but he resolutely refused to respond. Past experience had taught him that they were good for a roll in the hay but were rar
ely interested in good conversation, which was what he craved more than anything.

  His heart thumped against his ribs when he finally spied Elizabeth Bennet. He should avoid her, but he increasingly wondered if that was even possible—or desirable. He had given her a concussion and insulted her. She wasn’t arm-candy material and was nursing a crush.

  And yet…he’d had such intriguing conversations with her; she seemed to understand him so well. A little banter with Elizabeth could take this party from bearable to entertaining. What could it hurt?

  Most of the women clustered around the pool wore daring, fashion-forward bikinis. Why attend the party if you weren’t planning to display your assets? However, Elizabeth wore a rather short purple sundress. By comparison with the bathing beauties, she should have appeared drab, staid, stuffy. Instead, she drew his eye like a magnet.

  What a shame she wasn’t starlet material. She would be great company for the long parade of industry events Darcy was forced to attend. He could imagine her snarky comments throughout the Golden Globes. It would make them almost bearable.

  But she couldn’t be his date. She didn’t have the beauty, the presence, the figure. No, she was the wrong type. He didn’t have a lot of hope for her acting career. She might play the brainy girl who helps the jock pass chemistry, but that kind of role could only take an actor so far.

  It was too bad; he really enjoyed her company, but Josh and Roy would never approve her for the role of his girlfriend.

  Without conscious thought, Darcy’s body navigated the pool deck, dodging people and lounge chairs until he was at Elizabeth’s side. Surprisingly, she was talking with Caroline, who was the picture of Hollywood decadence, sipping a martini so designer that it should have been wearing a label and lounging in a position that maximized everyone’s view of her swimsuit, little more than a set of complicated overlapping straps.

  Elizabeth wasn’t lounging but sat on a chair, both sandal-clad feet on the deck. While Caroline greeted Darcy with looks of sultry invitation, Elizabeth merely gave him a tight smile. It must be hell fighting her attraction to him.