Mr. Love: A Romantic Comedy

by Sally Mason

  She leaves Gordon alone.

  Well, not quite alone.

  Suzie appears on the couch beside him, resting her chin on her hand, staring at him with her green, slightly almond eyes.

  “Spill the beans to her, Gordo. You know you want to.”

  He looks away, hoping she’ll evaporate, but she doesn’t.

  “Spill the beans and take her into the bedroom and bang the bejesus out of her. That old aphrodisiac, adrenaline, is still coursing through your veins and it’s plain to see that you’re dying to tear into each other like alley cats.”

  “Go away!” he hisses.

  “Did you say something, Gordon?” Jane calls from the kitchen.

  “No, I sneezed.”

  “Gesundheit,” she says.

  Suzie is doubled up with laughter beside him.

  “God, you’re such a wimp! Play Tarzan with Jane and then get in front of the cameras at The Pierre tomorrow and claim what’s yours, Gordo. You know you want to.”

  As Jane steps back into the room carrying two mugs of coffee, Suzie dematerializes.

  Jane, handing Gordon, a mug says, “So? Is there something you want to tell me?”

  And the words are right there, lining up on his tongue, ready to fly out and change his life, but all Gordon can do is shake his head and say, “No, Jane. There’s nothing I want to say to you, nothing at all.”

  And is that relief he sees in her eyes, or disappointment?

  26

  “This promises to be a red letter day for the Blunt Agency,” Jonas Blunt says by way of greeting when Jane joins him for breakfast at The Pierre.

  He called her at 6:30 A.M., waking her from a troubled slumber, the events of the night before leaving her nerves raw.

  Insisting that she “get cleaned up and meet him soonest” he’d rung off before she could protest, so she’d jumped under the shower, dressed and rushed over here all in under forty-five minutes.

  Breathless, she falls into a chair opposite her boss and takes a slug of spring water.

  Shoveling Eggs Benedict into his mouth, Jonas says, “Right here in my briefcase I have a contract from Raynebeau Jones’s production company for the movie rights to Ivy. Three million dollars will be Lucky Lizzie Rushworth’s once she puts pen to paper.”

  “Wow,” Jane says.

  “Wow indeed. And the Blunt Agency will be a production partner in this little enterprise. We’re spreading our wings, Janey, all thanks to you.”

  He reaches across and honest-to-goodness chucks her under the chin.

  But Jane doesn’t see her suave, smirking boss, she sees Gordon Rushworth sitting on her couch last night, coming within a hairsbreadth (she’s all-too positive) of owning up to being the author of Ivy.

  And she’d stopped him.

  Given him time to retreat behind his little wall of lies.

  Again.

  All because she was terrified of facing Jonas Blunt with the truth and seeing the inevitable disintegration of her career.

  “Janey? Jane?”

  Jonas clicks his fingers before her eyes like a hypnotist bringing a subject back from a trance.

  She blinks and laughs.

  “Sorry, Jonas, I’m just a little overawed by those numbers.”

  “Then hold onto your seat my little petal. Yesterday I very subtly leaked news of our impending auction of Ivy. I already have pre-emptive bids from three of the big five, with offers of four million for this book and a sequel. By the time we go to auction we’ll get double that.”

  Jane shakes her head.

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  Jonas raises his tomato cocktail and clinks his glass against hers.

  “Just say cheers, Janey, and enjoy the moment. Days like these come seldom in the benighted world of publishing.”

  They drink and then he sets down his glass.

  “There is to be an addition to the media schedule. At 8 P.M. Eastern Raynebeau Jones will be interviewed live in L.A. by Bernadine Class from Entertainment Tonight. She’ll be breaking the news about Ivy. A camera crew from ET will be upstairs in Lizzie’s suite and she’ll be able to field questions and chat with Raynebeau.”

  “You’re saying this is all going out live?”

  “Oh yes, we’re talking prime time. And then it’ll be picked up by dozens of ET’s syndication affiliates.”

  He stares at her.

  “You look concerned?”

  “I’m just a little worried that Lizzie Rushworth is going to pull this off. Live network TV? Talking to a Hollywood star? That’s quite a leap for her from selling bric-a-brac in Vermont.”

  “That’s why you’re here, my precious. To nurture and guide her while I bait the media piranhas.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “I’m counting on you.”

  Jonas stands.

  “Now why don’t you take me upstairs and introduce me to our little cash cow?”

  27

  Bitsy Rushworth can’t honestly remember feeling more stressed and disoriented since the day her ex-husband sat her down and told her that he was gay and that he was leaving her for their landlord, a bluff man in his fifties with a spray tan and a hairpiece.

  A small army of scuttling women have invaded her bedroom at The Pierre, and with little regard for her decency, have stripped her to her underwear and are busy dressing her, selecting outfits from a rail that was wheeled in when the unsuspecting Bitsy, wearing the fluffy robe she hopes she can take home with her, opened the door fifteen minutes ago.

  The women ignore her and talk amongst themselves in whispers, as curt and intense as Marines about to go into battle.

  A skinny girl holds up a blouse.

  “This?”

  A squat woman with bangs says, “Too much cleavage.”

  The girl holds up another.

  “This?”

  “Lovely,” says an Asian woman with a British accent, and the blouse is pulled onto Bitsy and buttoned.

  A skirt is offered.

  “Too hot for her,” says a towering blonde in a jumpsuit and boots.

  Bitsy knows this is not a reference to the weather.

  Finally she is dressed and the skinny girl gets down on her knees and tries at least five pairs of shoes before the others grunt their approval.

  The platoon of women withdraw, leaving only the girl to take care of emergencies.

  Then it’s the turn of the make-up artist and her assistant, who shove Bitsy down at the vanity and proceed to scrub and smear and tweezer and preen, finally forcing her to pout while greasy lipstick that tastes unpleasantly like burnt toast is applied to her lips.

  Finally, primped and painted and dizzy with perfume and nerves, Bitsy is led through to the living room of the suite where Gordon stands with Jane Cooper and a very tall, dark-haired man with a dazzling smile.

  Jane says, “Lizzie, you look fabulous.” She points at the big man. “I’d like you to meet my boss, Jonas Blunt.”

  Blunt takes her hand in both of his and says, “Enchanted. Let me say how delighted we are to have you join our stable.”

  As if he’s talking to a brood mare.

  Bitsy mumbles something and then she’s seated on the couch with Jonas Blunt beside her, reeking of some cloying aftershave.

  He flaps a wad of paper before her eyes and she hears something about movie rights.

  She blinks up at Gordon, shaking her head.

  “We’ve talked it through, Bits—Lizzie,” Gordon says, “and you should go ahead and sign.”

  Jonas hands her a fancy fountain pen and she signs the document and he smiles even more broadly as he takes it from her and slips it into a very slim leather briefcase.

  “Now if you’ll excuse me,” he says, rising, “I’m going down to the lobby to meet the first journalist.”

  Jane points to a pair of chairs facing one another.

  “Sit here, Lizzie,” she says, drawing one of the chairs away from a low table that holds a simple flower a
rrangement. “Do you need anything? Water? Coffee?”

  Divine intervention, Bitsy thinks but shakes her head and says, “No, thank you, Jane. I’m fine.”

  “Gordon and I will be in the bedroom watching everything on a monitor,” Jane says. “Jonas will introduce you to Petula Montclair from The New York Times and then leave the two of you alone. Okay?”

  “Okay,” Bitsy says, wanting to yell and make a mad dash for the door and freedom.

  But she stays in her seat when Jane and Gordon disappear into the bedroom and conjures the smiling face of Daniel Quant.

  She tries to slow her breathing but feels close to hyperventilating when Jonas Blunt returns with a very severe-looking woman with a gray hair.

  Rising to meet her, Bitsy is sure she looks as stricken as the proverbial bunny in the headlights.

  28

  Perched on the edge of the huge bed, Jane Cooper seated beside him, Gordon watches the TV monitor that a kid who looked like he was still in high school had lugged in a few minutes before the first journalist arrived.

  The kid, a nerd from Jane’s office, set up a webcam in the front room of suite (positioned to be invisible to the media people) which beams picture and audio through to the bedroom, where Gordon and Jane watch.

  “We’ll also record all the interviews straight to hard drive,” Jane told him when they came into the room. “It means we can challenge any inaccuracies in the media.”

  Gordon, dry mouthed, stares at the monitor, watching Bitsy shaking hands with the journalist, Petula Montclair, who wrote the glowing review of Ivy, praising it’s “post-feminist, post-modern, post-everything” take on the female psyche.

  How in the name of God is his addled-headed sister going to deal with this woman, who routinely interviews the greats of world literature?

  On the monitor Jonas Blunt says, “I’ll leave the two of you alone,” exits frame and appears through the bedroom door, where he stands towering over Gordon and Jane, cupping his alpha male chin in his hand.

  Petula Montclair clicks on a small voice-recorder and says, “Lizzie, perhaps you could start by telling me how it all began, how you came to write Ivy?”

  Bitsy, staring at the journalist, says nothing for a few moments, then she leans forward in her chair and says, “Petula, first I think I need to be completely honest with you and make it clear that I’m not the author of Ivy.”

  Gordon feels a sick dread take hold of his gut and sees what little color there is drain from Jane Cooper’s face.

  Bitsy says, “Ivy is entirely the creation of Viola Usher.”

  Gordon takes a ragged breath and sees Jane relax just a little.

  Petula Montclair says, “Aren’t you being just a little disingenuous? You are Viola Usher, after all?”

  “No. Viola Usher is like a sibling who wrote Ivy and then handed it over to me, complete in every way.”

  The journalist laughs, “I think you’re very neatly explaining the somewhat schizophrenic relationship an author has with their work. Many I’ve interviewed have described the process as some sort of out-of-body experience.”

  “I would agree with that,” Bitsy says.

  “This is fascinating, particularly since Ivy is very racy, very modern. Certainly it allows a view into the mind of a young woman who has stepped outside any boundaries society has drawn for her.”

  “Yes, Olivia Usher seems to understand all this very well.”

  “But you don’t?”

  “Good heavens, no!” Bitsy says.

  Gordon knows she is being nothing but honest, but the journalist, enchanted, says, “So where does this all come from? Is it in anyway autobiographical?”

  “Certainly not, I’m a terrible prude.”

  “But you are from a small town in Vermont, not unlike the one in the book?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “And I understand that you once lived on an Ivy League campus where your husband was a faculty member?”

  “I did, yes.”

  “But you didn’t indulge in any of the shenanigans described in the book?”

  “Gosh, no. I observed, though, of course.”

  “Ah, you were an observer?”

  “Yes,” Bitsy says, leaning forward and smiling an artless smile, “I always have been. You might say I like to watch.”

  The journalist hoots with laughter.

  “Brilliant,” Jonas Blunt says, “she’s simply brilliant!”

  29

  The Entertainment Tonight camera crew lug the last of their gear out of the suite, and all that’s left is the smell of overheated klieg lights.

  Jane sinks down into a chair opposite Bitsy, who, now that she is finally away from the glare of the media, slumps like a puppet that’s had its strings cut.

  “Jane, promise me I won’t ever have to endure a day like that again,” Bitsy says.

  “Lizzie—”

  “Bitsy. Please call me Bitsy. Let me feel a little like myself again.”

  “Bitsy, I promise,” Jane says, lying through her teeth.

  She wants to say: you’ve just stepped onto the roller coaster, sister, buckle up tight, and exchanges a look with Gordon who is pouring himself a huge Scotch.

  He holds up the bottle, his eyebrows raised.

  Jane nods, mouthing, please.

  Jonas swans back into the room and plants a kiss on Bitsy’s forehead.

  “You have been astonishing. You handled the TV thing like a seasoned pro.”

  “Thank you,” Bitsy says in little more than a whisper.

  Jonas says to Jane and Gordon, “Didn’t you just love it when Raynebeau Jones cooed, ‘Lizzie, I really want to come up and visit with you in Maine’ and Lizzie said, ‘Vermont’ and Raynebeau went ‘Vermont?’ and Lizzie said, ‘If you hit Canada you’ve gone too far.’?”

  “It was priceless,” Gordon says, sagging into a chair with his drink.

  Jonas consults his Breitling chronometer and says, “I’d love to take you all out for a celebratory dinner but I have a client appearing on Broadway and I promised to show my face. So, safe traveling back home tomorrow and I hope we’ll be seeing a lot more of each other in the future.”

  There are air kisses and handshakes and Jonas is gone, leaving just a whiff of his Bulgari aftershave.

  “God, how do you stomach that man?” Gordon asks Jane.

  “He’s very good at his job.”

  “So was Pol Pot.”

  “Funny, Gordon.”

  Jane stands.

  “I don’t know about you, but I’m bushed.”

  “I can’t even move,” Bitsy says.

  Gordon walks Jane to the door.

  “Are you going to be okay?” he says when they’re out of Bitsy’s earshot. “Alone at your apartment?”

  “I’ll be fine. Even Tommy’s not crazy enough to pull that stunt twice.”

  “You’re welcome to take my room and I’ll bunk on the couch up here. God knows, I’ve had enough practice.”

  “That’s very sweet of you, Gordon, but no. I think it’s time I started to get my life back together again.”

  “Well, okay. I imagine we’ll be seeing one another shortly?”

  “Yes, the auction will happen over the next few days and there’ll be the usual slew of paperwork. I guess it’ll be easiest for me to come up to Vermont.”

  “I look forward to that,” Gordon says.

  “Me too,” Jane says.

  And, oddly enough, she realizes that she means it.

  30

  Bitsy, lying in the huge tub, soaking in the various potions that she found in the bathroom and added to the water, is almost asleep when she hears her cell phone ringing.

  She is tempted to leave it but, anxious that it’s Jane or Gordon, she rises from the water, pulls a bathrobe over her dripping body and hurries into the bedroom where her phone lies chirping on the dresser.

  When she sees the number for the Quant Foundation displayed on caller ID her heart nearly skips a beat.r />
  “Hello?” she says.

  “Bitsy?”

  “Yes?”

  “This is Daniel.”

  Even after this astonishing day—a revolving door of high-powered journalists, culminating with her chatting to some movie star in Los Angeles—Daniel Quant’s voice is enough to weaken her knees.

  “Daniel, this is a surprise.”

  “I’m the one who is surprised, Bitsy.”

  “Oh?”

  “I saw you on TV.”

  “You watch TV?”

  He laughs.

  “Oh, yes. I’m a sucker for sit-coms. Anyway, I caught you on Entertainment Tonight. You were a tonic, Bitsy. I never knew you had such a naughty sense of humor.”

  Naughty sense of humor?

  Was he talking about her?

  “Well, thank you, Daniel.”

  “So, really, this is just a call from a fan.”

  She can’t suppress a giggle at the absurdity of this.

  “You were radiant, Bitsy. You have truly transcended your old self. What a joy it is to behold.”

  “Thank you,” she says.

  “Anyway, I’m sure you’re busy being feted and wined and dined,” he says.

  “No, I’m just taking a bath.”

  Daniel laughs.

  “Well, enjoy that and I hope to see you very soon.”

  He’s gone and Bitsy wanders back into the bathroom in something of a daze.

  It is only when she has lowered herself into the tub that she realizes she is still wearing the robe and carrying her phone, both of which are now drenched.

  Bitsy heaves herself out, sodden and dripping and stares at her face in the mirror.

  “Daniel Quant is looking forward to seeing you,” she says. “He said you looked radiant.”

  And the palatial hotel bathroom disappears and she is in a field with Daniel, a field of lush green grass and sunflowers, and he takes her in his arms and kisses her and she sinks to ground and submits to his will.