by Leo, Rosanna
The Stand-In
Rosanna Leo
Published 2015
ISBN: 978-1-62210-186-3
Published by Liquid Silver Books, imprint of Atlantic Bridge Publishing, 10509 Sedgegrass Dr, Indianapolis, Indiana 46235. Copyright © Published 2015, Rosanna Leo. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.
Manufactured in the United States of America
Liquid Silver Books
http://LSbooks.com
This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.
Blurb
Failed actress Winn Busby is at the end of her rope. With no money and no prospects, she accepts the one job she never thought she’d see on her résumé. Professional bridesmaid. It should be easy. If only the idea of weddings and vows didn't give Winn a case of the hives. Her role becomes more challenging when she's told a reporter will shadow her work for a men's magazine article.
Working for Player Magazine is Patrick Lincoln's worst nightmare. A former political journalist, he used to write thoughtful columns for one of Toronto's most respected papers. That is, until he was blackballed for allegedly sleeping with the boss's wife. Overnight, Patrick becomes the city's most reviled bad boy. And now he's forced to write a seedy expose on, of all things, a bridesmaid.
Patrick begrudgingly accompanies Winn to a series of strange weddings. As they are forced to work together, he learns there is more to the stand-in bridesmaid than puffy dresses and pretty speeches. She, in turn, begins to question whether or not Patrick actually deserves the derision of his peers. As much as they fight their attraction, it begins to threaten their work and their sanity.
For so long, Winn has felt second-best. A stand-in. She finally meets a man who believes in her value. But can she let go of the past and accept him?
Dedication
I’d like to dedicate this book to Parker Kincade, Selena Robins and Cameron Lincoln, talented authors whose works have truly inspired me this year.
Acknowledgements
I would like to once again offer my thanks to everyone at Liquid Silver Books, for their care and support. I count my blessings every day because I write for a publisher that shares my enthusiasm for good romance. I would like to offer my thanks to my editors Tami Lund and Rory Olsen, for catching my mistakes and for bringing some much-needed clarity to my life and manuscript. Thank you to author Selena Robins, for acting as an early beta reader. Thank you, as well, to my readers, who constantly show their support and love.
Chapter 1
“You’re done, Miss Busby.”
The words of the producer echoed in Winifred’s head as she headed toward the pub to meet her sister.
You’re done. With two simple words, the producers of Stripper: The Musical had ended her career in theater. In all her years of tryouts, she didn’t think she’d ever endured such a demeaning audition. Of course, she had been the hundred and twenty-fifth person to perform that day, or so it seemed. After hours in the waiting area, herded with the other women like cattle, the walls of her throat had felt thick and parched and her knees creaked from sitting on a lumpy chair for so long. And the whole time, the horrible sense of impending doom had lashed at her, like a crazed torturer at flogging practice.
She couldn’t help wondering if this was what cows felt like before the slaughter.
And yet, despite dreary surroundings and scads of competition, she’d done her best. She’d had no choice. She needed this job. She’d been turned away from too many. Her confidence had taken so many hits she doubted its existence anymore.
Dazed, she approached the Hop and Cock pub. Her sister Enid was already waiting for her on the patio. Winn glanced at the painted picture of the tipsy rooster over the door and decided she ought to get just as sloshed. She headed toward the patio gate and raised a limp hand at her sister. The waitress, recognizing Winn as a regular, unlatched the gate and ushered her inside.
She approached Enid’s table and cocked an eyebrow at the Guinness already waiting for her. “Did you assume I’d need cheering up?”
Enid stood and kissed her on the cheek, somehow knowing and understanding. “No. I just know you like your booze.” She sat back down. “Well? Are you going to be a big star, or do I need to get out my voodoo dolls?”
Winn plunked herself into the chair, put her elbows on the table, and rested her chin in her hand, deadpanning, “They passed on my considerable talents. I never even made it as far as the soft-shoe portion of the act.”
She winced. “I’m sorry, Winifred.”
In spite of the ill humor that had plagued her from the audition, into the Toronto subway, and all the way across downtown to the pub, Winn smiled. “Do you have to call me that?”
“Hell, yes. It’s not fair we were named after our great-aunts and you got the better name. At least you can shorten Winifred to Winn.” She pointed a finger at her nose. “Listen, no matter how shitty your day is, kiddo, I’m still and always will be Enid.” She picked up her glass and slurped her Guinness to emphasize her point.
Leave it to her sister to find a way to make her laugh when all she wanted to do was cry. Winn gave her the side eye, appraising her seventh new look that month. “You look good. I like the hair.”
Enid ran her fingers, nails gleaming with her favorite Essie Licorice polish, through her bottle-ebony locks. Not only had she dyed it again, she’d lopped it all off and sported a new cropped ’do. It suited her pixie face. Enid, despite the unfortunate moniker, had always been the more delicate-looking sister. Winn, with her strong features, needed her blonde bob to give her a dash of femininity. “Thanks. You know I’ve always been a closet brunette.”
“Don’t tell Mom. I can hear her now. ‘Enid, your hair will fall out.’ She’ll have a fit you’ve dyed it again.”
Her sister’s eyebrow furrowed. “Mom’s always having a fit. My hair is the least of her issues.” She let out a sigh. “So, do you wanna talk about the audition? Seriously, I am only too happy to take a hit out on the producer.”
“Your idea is tempting. Those people were horrible. They made my driving examiner look as jolly as Santa.”
“Yikes. I don’t know how you do it, Winn.”
“The theater is my life.”
“Okay, but Stripper: The Musical?”
“Look, I realize it’s not Les Misérables, but it could have been mine.” Images from the audition swirled through her brain. The way she’d tried to discreetly wipe the nervous sweat from her upper lip. The sneer she’d received after announcing she’d sing “I Feel Pretty” from West Side Story. And the way the producer had tossed her smiling head shot into the pile of reject photos.
Damn. Why had she chosen that stupid song? Even as she’d smiled and crinkled her eyes with fake happiness, she knew it would appear forced. After all, Winn didn’t believe in romantic love, not anymore. Not after seeing the travesty of her parents’ marriage. Not after witnessing the shame of her former best friend.
And especially not after the way Mike treated her.
Love was a farce, plain and simple. She was pretty sure it was invented by the greeting-card industry.
And sure enough, even as she’d launched into the first optimistic notes of the song, her throat had seized and cracked. Come on, she’d urged herself. Show them you’re pretty and witty and gay. Don’t show them you’re a cynic. Shoot. I hate this song. I should have chosen something from Sweeney Todd.
She stared
into her pint and her frustration hit home, churning in her stomach. “Enid, I’ve wasted my life and I have nothing to show for it.”
“Don’t say that. You’re a wonderful singer and actor.”
“It doesn’t matter. There’s always someone better out there. Someone younger and prettier.” She scratched her neck, feeling extra sticky in the hot Toronto summer. “I knew this gig was a long shot. All of them are. Even still, I was sort of counting on getting this one. I’m getting too old to play teenage girls, and it’s impossible to get a role for a mature woman unless you’re Meryl Streep. My funds are depleted, and I’m pretty sure my landlord has accepted the last of my many rent excuses. He’s so going to kick me out.”
“You could live with me.”
“Thanks, but I can’t do that. Your apartment is tinier than mine. It wouldn’t be fair. Besides, you’d keep me awake when all your boy toys come to visit.”
“Don’t hate me because I have a harem. My men are adorable and they’d be lost without me.” She considered. “What about Mom?”
“Ugh. I can’t go back home with Mom. That woman is a cyclone of negativity.”
Enid wrinkled her nose. “Well, you know Dad would take you in if you had to give up your apartment.”
“Are you kidding? I would sooner stay in a pit of vipers. Oh, hang on. Same thing.”
“Just saying.”
“No. I’ll just have to go back to my old job, beg them to take me, even if only for a few extra hours.”
Her sister shook her head. “You can’t go back to that place. Not with Pervy Phil breathing down your neck.”
For the past few months, Winn had endured working retail in a mall sportswear shop for a supervisor who had no problem sexually harassing her on a daily basis. She’d liked the job because the shift flexibility allowed her to go to auditions, but Pervy Phil had been a little hard to take. “Well, then I suppose I go to McDonald’s. With a degree in theater, who else is going to take me?” Curse her inability to see into the future when she chose her university major. Theater. She should have tried computer programming or funeral directing. No shortage of jobs there. “Maybe I should see if Sandy Lane will take me on full-time, you know, with payment in something other than cookies.”
“Don’t you think you spend too much time there? You’re going to age prematurely.”
She waved off the comment. She’d been volunteering at their grandfather’s assisted living facility for a while, singing and performing show tunes for the old-timers. When the manager had learned of her theater background, he’d suggested Winn could involve the pensioners in small-scale productions of Broadway musicals for their entertainment and enrichment. Her volunteer role had turned into a surprise part-time job. It might not pay much, and she might need to pilfer sheet music here and there because she couldn’t afford to pay for it, but it was something.
It had all seemed so easy. Use her theatrical knowledge to bring some excitement into the lives of appreciative people. And at the same time, she’d be able to keep an eye on Grandpa. God only knew her mom and dad didn’t visit him much anymore, too taken by their own grievances and squabbles. Grandpa Ernie really only had her and her sister for company. Besides, if someone didn’t look out for him, he’d proposition every female at Sandy Lane, the old rascal.
“Nah,” she replied. “I spend a couple of afternoons there a week, teaching the old folks how to sing show tunes. Grandpa loves the company and showing off his granddaughter, and it gives me a chance to perform for an audience who actually appreciates it.” She pulled a face. “Except for Mr. Singh. He blew a raspberry at me last week when I performed one of the solos from Miss Saigon. Too political, I suppose. Oh, and Mrs. Dooley and Mrs. Fletcher are up in arms again. Since I decided to mount my small-scale production of The Phantom of the Opera, they’re fighting over who gets to play Christine.”
Enid pulled a face.
“At least Gramps distracts the womenfolk by hitting on them.”
“See? Mom and Dad should be spending more time with Gramps.”
“Right. They’ll have to dig their heads out of their own navels for that.” She sighed. “No, I just need to find a real job and give up theater. Something that will allow me to earn a proper paycheck, volunteer at Grandpa’s place, and not lose what’s left of my self-esteem. It has to exist out there somewhere, right?”
Enid reached into her purse and produced a newspaper. “Actually, I saw something that might interest you.” She opened up the paper to the want ads and Winn glimpsed a red circle around one of the job ads. Enid stared at her for a second and then folded up the paper again. “Actually, I’m not sure it’s right for you. Forget I said anything.”
Winn grabbed the newspaper before she could shove it into her bag. “What is it? Come on. I’m desperate. I’m about to sacrifice myself to Pervy Phil.” She flipped through the paper, looking for the red circle.
“Well, bear in mind I circled the ad after half a Guinness. It may have affected my good sense.”
Winn found the page and perused the ad. Her eyes widened with each sentence she read. When she finished, she looked at her sister. “Is this for real?”
“It seems to be.”
She put the newspaper on the table between them and stared at it, her heart filled with horror and a strange fascination. Kind of like the time, years ago, when she came upon a hawk in the backyard, eviscerating a squirrel.
“Bad idea, huh?”
“It’s different.”
“Look. Clearly it’s not right for you, Winn. With everything that happened between you and Shithead Mike.”
One of Enid’s charms was her ability to create succinct nicknames for the men who passed through Winn’s life. People like Pervy Phil, Shithead Mike, Suddenly Gay Dennis. That sort of thing. She claimed it helped her keep them straight. Not that there were so many one lost track.
“Don’t call him that.”
“Jesus, will you stop defending that prick? You need to confront him and tell him he’s an asshole of the first order.” She grabbed the newspaper, ripping it. “Forget the ad.”
Winn held onto the paper and managed to retain the scrap that contained the advertisement. “Forget Mike. I’m interested in this job and I need the money.”
Enid peered at her. “Are you sure? It’s weird, but I suppose it might work for a theater grad.”
Winn reread the small ad.
Bridesmaids wanted for agency. We are seeking clean, attractive young women who are willing to act as bridesmaids in wedding parties. You must have a flexible schedule for dress fittings, showers, wedding dates, etc. You must be friendly, sociable, and detail-oriented. Generous hourly wages. All expenses paid. Call Margie Kent at (416) 271-4568.
Winn stared. Who advertised for bridesmaids in the paper? Who was this Margie Kent? Was she really a freaky dude trying to lure women to his “agency”? Was his office really a smelly basement apartment decorated with photos of unsuspecting women taken at close range?
“On the plus side,” said Enid, “you’ll get paid to pretend to be someone’s BFF, get new gowns out of the deal, and a few good meals. And you get to flex your acting skills. It might work. I’ll go with you to meet her if you’re worried about being alone at the interview.”
“But on the negative side, I’d have to attend weddings. Lots of them.”
Enid reached for her hand and squeezed. “Kiddo, in a weird way, it might be good for you. After all, it was over a year ago. Shithead Mike is history, as he should be. I know we both think wedded bliss is a fallacy, but who cares? It’s just a job, an acting job. Think of it as a challenge. In a way, it could be the ultimate kiss-off to Mike as well. It would be closure. God knows he never gave it to you.”
Closure. An acting job. Money.
It seemed ridiculous to say no. Hey, if she let herself relax, it might even be fun. She couldn’t remember how long it had been since she hadn’t had to worry about the rent money. Hell, she might even be able to go s
hopping for the first time in what felt like a decade. Imagine. New shoes. Some fancy panties, the kind that came with a matching bra. And, she mused as she salivated, a new tube of lipstick. Luxury.
She could do this. She’d be insane not to do this.
Winn sat up straighter as a queer sense of destiny filled her being. She reread the ad a few more times and then grinned at her sister. Without saying a word, she reached into her purse for her cell phone and dialed.
“Hello, is this Ms. Kent? I’m calling about your ad.”
* * * *
Winn sat in the plush office and took in the view of the Toronto skyline from the forty-third floor. When she’d first arrived at Margie’s office, she thought she’d come to the wrong place. The address the woman had given was for an executive search firm. However, when she’d inquired about the bridesmaid agency, she’d been directed into this office.
Apparently, hiring bridesmaids was a lucrative business.
Within minutes, a professional-looking woman entered and extended her hand. Winn stood and shook it, taking in her appearance. Margie Kent was a tall, slim brunette whose lovely figure was wrapped in an expensive pantsuit. She smiled and her blue eyes shone. A massive rock nestled against a diamond-studded wedding band on her left hand.
She didn’t look like a serial killer. She looked like Ivana Trump’s better-dressed cousin.
“Winn, it’s a pleasure to meet you. Please have a seat.”
She did, smiling through her nerves and patting down her worn cotton skirt. “I have to admit, Ms. Kent. I’ve never heard of this sort of operation before.”
“Call me Margie. And most people haven’t heard of us. Let me tell you a little about myself.” She crossed her long legs, gams that looked as if they belonged on a show horse, and sat back in a tall, leather chair. “I’m a headhunter by trade, and have worked in the financial sector for years, hiring bank executives and analysts. Like many women today, my job has been my life. A few years ago, I met a wonderful man and we married.”