Rent A Husband: a Romantic Comedy

by Sally Mason

  “A week or two.”

  And Forrest had agreed.

  Rooting for crumbs at the feet of a man who polluted the world with trashy television.

  Forrest throws back his drink and holds his empty glass up to the bartender.

  His eyes are drawn to the TV above the bar—horses being loaded into the starting stalls at the Santa Anita race track.

  One horse fills the lens in close-up, its name flashing briefly on the screen: Mr. Darcy.

  Forrest laughs.

  What’s this, some kind of a sign?

  He feels that wad of banknotes in his pocket and before he can think things through, he says to Rick, “Still keeping that book?”

  “For you, sure.”

  Forrest lays all his money on the counter.

  “Mr. Darcy for a win.”

  The bartender raises an eyebrow.

  “That things a mutt, buddy.”

  “You’ll take my action?”

  “At fifty-to-one? Sure I’ll take it.”

  And the money disappears into Rick’s pocket and another drink materializes in front of Forrest, who feels a sudden sweat on his brow.

  What are you doing?

  And with the question comes a vivid flashback of that gangbanger’s shoe finding its way deep into his internal organs.

  Then the manic-voiced commentator shouts that they’re off and Forrest sits glued to the screen.

  Mr. Darcy hangs at the back of the pack, seemingly worthy of his rank outsider moniker.

  Then around midway through the race, something happens.

  Mr. Darcy starts to wake up and horse, by horse, moves forward.

  And with the finish in sight, he noses into the lead.

  Forrest grips the bar counter, his heart beating like a wild thing.

  Then the favorite, like a sleek piebald Ferrari, cruises past, the jockey already waving his crop in celebration.

  “Tough luck, bud,” the bartender says, but he can’t smother his smile.

  “Those are the breaks.”

  Forrest throws back his drink and heads for the street.

  Suddenly he is no longer bored.

  He’s hungover and in pain and terribly, terribly afraid.

  At the door the old man grabs him with a palsied hand.

  “Hold on, sonny.”

  Forrest stares at him, ready to slap his veiny old paw away.

  “Take a look at the tube,” the old guy says.

  As Forrest turns back toward the TV the bartender zaps it dead with the remote.

  “I’d appreciate you turning that back on, Rick,” Forrest says.

  “Race is over, man.”

  “Rick,” the ancient drinker says, “you do as the nice man asks.”

  The old geezer, whoever he is, has clout and the bartender sighs and clicks on the tube in time for Forrest to see an action-replay of the finish of the race: the jockey on the favorite celebrating prematurely, standing up in his saddle and suddenly—unbelievably—falling from his mount, the horse crossing the finishing line without a rider.

  The elderly drinker chortles.

  “Jockey can’t win no race munching the turf of the home straight.”

  The old man’s quaint locution gets Forrest grinning.

  And the grin becomes a laugh when it is announced that the favorite has been disqualified.

  Mr. Darcy has won.

  “Pay the man, Rick,” the old boy—Forrest’s new best friend—says.

  Rick glowers at Forrest but he pops the cash register and delves deep and long before he sets down a very nice wad before Forrest.

  “Dumb luck.”

  Forrest takes the money, peels off a fifty and leaves it in front of the old guy.

  “A little something for your arthritis,” he says.

  The geezer spits out a loose-dentured chortle.

  “Much obliged, good sir, much obliged.”

  And, as Forrest walks out into the Hollywood sunshine, he thinks that maybe, just maybe, his luck is changing.

  22

  Carlotta McCourt spends the morning in bed, unable to rouse herself, depression smothering her.

  The house is empty, Walt skulking around on some golf course, the ugly twins out doing whatever unappetizing teenagers do.

  Carlotta, like some primitive warrior, never enters the day without her war paint.

  Her ritual—come rain or come shine—is to rise and bathe and scrub her face and then spend hours in front of the vanity mirror applying lotions and unguents and painting on, layer by layer, her make-up.

  She does this no matter if she is planning on spending the day lounging at home, reading fashion magazines and watching TV—you never know who may ring the doorbell—or whether she is going to take the Carlotta McCourt show on the road, getting out there in town and doing what she does best: gossip and stir up dissent and disorder among the matrons of Santa Sofia.

  But today, in the wake of the Ball, she feels lethargic and depressed.

  She lies in bed trying to shut down the image of Darcy Pringle accepting that outrageously romantic marriage proposal, while that gorgeous man slipped onto her finger a ring that could square the national debt of an African nation.

  How could it have happened?

  How could Darcy have risen Phoenix-like from the ashes of her broken marriage?

  Finally Carlotta can no longer tolerate lying trapped in her bedroom and she slides from the bed in her Victoria’s Secret negligee—what if the house burned down and some handsome firefighter had to carry her to safety?—and shrugs on a satin robe.

  She avoids all mirrors (no easy feat in a house littered with them) and shies away from the windows like a vampire.

  For years she has reveled in the views of the Pringle residence that her windows offer, watching for any sign of a crack in Darcy and Porter’s oh-so-perfect marriage, and when, finally, it had come—oh happy day!—she’d relished her grandstand view of Darcy’s anguish.

  But today she knows she will be reduced to a screaming wreck if she sees the smiling face of her neighbor and oldest enemy.

  So she creeps down the kitchen and brews herself a cup of black coffee, the bitter liquid perfect for her mood, and sits at the table, sipping it, morose.

  Walt Jr’s laptop lies amidst the debris of his breakfast: he is as much a slob as his father.

  On a whim Carlotta drags the laptop over.

  She is no computer buff—she finds keyboards very unfriendly to her long nails—but she knows enough to Google Forrest Forbes.

  What Wikipedia tells her blackens her mood further.

  The man is the real thing: a member of the East Coast elite.

  Born into a family that came over on the Mayflower.

  She’s ready to shove the computer away in disgust when something catches her eye: an image of Forrest Forbes stepping out of a sports car with a beautiful woman on his arm.

  But the image hasn’t been snapped by some hungry paparazzo—there is a bottle of aftershave slapped at the bottom of the pic.

  An advertisement.

  Forrest Forbes in an advertisement.

  Long talons or not, Carlotta begins a frenzy of typing and mouse-clicking and what she discovers sends her mood soaring like a weather balloon.

  The Forbes’s lost their fortune in the crash of 2008.

  Forrest has been reduced to modeling and unsuccessful attempts at acting (he couldn’t even hack it as a soap star, for pity’s sake) to keep the wolf from the door.

  Porter was right.

  The whole thing was a sham, the work, undoubtedly, of that nasty little fairy, Eric Royce.

  Carlotta reaches for her phone and starts to light a fire under Darcy Pringle’s pert little derrière.

  23

  When Darcy walks into the Book & Bean she knows how one of those slaves must have felt when they were tossed into the lion’s den.

  The tables of the coffee shop are full of the women of the town: Carlotta McCourt and her crew.


  And all eyes are on Darcy as she enters and looks around for Eric, keeping, at his insistence, their ritual of afternoon coffee.

  Of course, after last night’s idiocy, she would be in the limelight.

  But she’s sensing something, as if these harpies are sniffing the air in expectation.

  She hurries across to where Eric sits flicking through the newspaper, languid and unfazed as always.

  As he stands to exchange air kisses, Darcy says, “Something’s going on.”

  “You’re the center of attention, Darce. Enjoy it.”

  “No, they’re smelling blood. Mine.”

  “Nonsense.”

  But as he looks around Darcy sees him narrow his eyes.

  “I’m right aren’t I?”

  “Relax, darling, no matter what happens I have your back.”

  “Oh good, then you can pull the knives out.”

  He blows her a kiss as the new waitress, an unusually pale girl in this world of tanned surf bunnies, arrives to take their order.

  When the girl leaves, Carlotta McCourt strolls over.

  All conversation dies and every eye is on her.

  Darcy’s stomach tightens.

  She’s right.

  This is an ambush.

  “Darcy, darling,” Carlotta says, her voice pitched to travel to the far reaches of the store.

  “Hi, Carlotta.”

  “Or should I say Mrs. Forbes?”

  “That would be a little premature.”

  “Has a date been fixed?”

  “Not yet.”

  “I suppose you’re going to have to choose one that doesn’t conflict with Mr. Forbes’s busy schedule?”

  “Yes, I guess.”

  “What is occupying him at the moment?”

  Darcy shoots a panicked look Eric’s way, then says, “Well, he has many interests.”

  Like a second rate magician Carlotta produces a dog eared magazine from behind her back.

  “Of course. Like Stature fragrance for men?”

  She holds up the magazine, showing Forrest in an aftershave ad from a few years ago.

  There is laughter in the room.

  “Or, I’m told, one can still find his laxative commercial on YouTube? When it’s tough to go, use Easyflo?”

  Louder laughter.

  “Last night was all a sham, wasn’t it Darcy? Forrest Forbes is just some failed actor who you paid to take you to the Ball. Paid to propose to you because you’re so jealous of Porter and his lovely new, and radiantly pregnant, wife!”

  Like some lawyer in a show trial, Carlotta throws the magazine down on the table and turns, hands on hips, to the room full of women, as if they are the jury about to find Darcy guilty.

  Darcy is pushing her chair back, ready to flee, when Eric grabs her arm in a surprisingly strong grip and says, “Stay.”

  She stays and he stands, clinking a knife against a glass, as if he’s about to make a speech at a wedding.

  “I hadn’t anticipated going public so soon, but since Carlotta has been sniffing around, allow me to spill the beans.”

  Carlotta is staring at him.

  With a dismissive sweep of his hand he says, “You can take your seat now, Lottie. Go on, shoo.”

  Carlotta looks ready to fight, then she shrugs and sits.

  “I suppose you all know the show Punked?” He looks around. “No, you’re probably all a bit long in the tooth for that. How about Candid Camera? Ring any bells?”

  He has the attention of the room.

  “Of course last night was a set up. A bit of theater. A bit of performance art. The brainwave of my dearest friend, the lovely, philanthropic, Darcy Pringle.”

  Eric places a hand on Darcy’s shoulder.

  “You all know the wonderful work Darcy does for her children’s charity. And on her behalf, a big thank you for your generosity last night. But the proceeds from the Spring Ball, as welcome as they are, aren’t nearly sufficient to cover those kid’s needs. So, last night was the first taste of a new hidden camera show that my company, Startup Productions, is going to produce. And that the talented and very handsome Forrest Forbes is going to host. And a serious chunk of the profits from the show will go to the Darcy Pringle Children’s Fund. ”

  He smiles at the women who are staring at him, rapt.

  Carlotta jumps up and says, “Oh come on girls, don’t tell me you’re buying this trash? You didn’t see the cameras last night, did you?”

  Eric smiles. “Lottie, darling, a hidden camera show is so named because the cameras are hidden.”

  Carlotta, the wind sucked from her sails, sends a panicked look around the room and then slumps down in her seat.

  Eric continues. “My assistants will be in touch with each and every one of you who were caught on camera to sign release forms. Ladies, you’re all going to be on TV!”

  There is a buzz of excitement in the room and Eric takes Darcy’s arm.

  “Let’s beat it.”

  Once they’re out on the sidewalk she turns to him.

  “More lies, Eric?”

  “Well, teeny little white ones.”

  “What are you going to tell them when none of them appears on TV?”

  “Oh, technical hitches. That kind of thing.”

  “Lying is one thing, Eric, but dragging those kids into this, making false promises about donations going their way . . .”

  “Oh, don’t worry, darling, they’ll get their money.”

  “How? There’s no show.”

  “Not yet.”

  She’s staring at him.

  “I’m going to do it, Darcy, the silly hidden camera thing. The network that screens Startup has been talking to me about doing a reality show for them. It all came together back there. Nothing like thinking on one’s feet, huh?”

  “You’re going to do a show?”

  “Yes. I’ll get my concept people busy on it right away.”

  “And Forrest Forbes is going to host it?”

  “Why not? He’s great looking and I must say I saw something in him last night that just might work.”

  “Eric, stop, you’re swallowing your own lies.”

  They’ve reached the beach and he comes to a halt, staring out at the ocean.

  “Okay, Darcy, maybe you’re right. Maybe I won’t be able to get this show to fly. Maybe the network’ll think a hidden camera show is a dumb hackneyed idea.”

  “Which it is.”

  “Hell yeah, too many candid camera type shows, right?”

  “Way too many.”

  “Like there are way too many soaps?” She looks at him. “You know how I got to do Startup?”

  “No.”

  “I got a call asking if I had any ideas, that a network was shopping for a new show. There was a pitch session in an hour. I said hell, yes, I’ll be there. Know what I had?”

  “I’m not your straight man, Eric. Hit me with the punch line.”

  “Okay, I had zip. Bupkis, as they used to say back in the Bronx. I was sitting in a coffee shop in Westwood with an apocalyptic hangover and nostrils bleeding from a night of blow. I looked around, saw all these idiots on their laptops and it came to me: a soap about dot-commers. About internet start ups. About the loves and lives of those social misfit geeks with the truckloads of money pouring in. I went into the pitch session and I killed.”

  “That was a great idea at the time. If you pitched it now, it’d go down like a lead balloon.”

  “You’re right. It would. But I’d have another idea, one that is more au courant.”

  “Eric, you’re brilliant, but you’re also sad and lonely and unloved.”

  He looks at her stung.

  “Darcy . . .”

  “You live through your characters. You play God, control them, choose their victories and defeats while you stay isolated behind your superior manner and your witticisms.”

  “Okay, Darce, that’s enough.”

  “I love you, Eric, you’re my best friend, but I’m
not one of your characters, I’m flesh-and-blood. I have to deal with everything the world throws my way and I think it’s time I stop letting you write my lines.”

  Darcy walks off, eyes tearing up, about as upset as she’s been since the day Porter dumped her.

  24

  Stop being an idiot, Billy, he tells himself, standing behind the cash register of the Book & Bean.

  Sure, she’s not getting married.

  Sure the whole proposal thing was just a stunt, but that doesn’t mean she’s going to look at a clown like you.

  Not in a million years.

  But as he watches Darcy walk out of the coffee shop with Eric Royce, Poor Billy Bigelow can’t help it.

  He feels little tendrils of absurd hope unfurling in him, and as he takes cash from Brontë and makes change, he can’t stop himself whistling a happy tune.

  Brontë sees how William looks at the woman named after a high-calorie snack.

  She knows what that look means, even though a man has never looked at her that way.

  She’s seen it in the eyes of couples mooning over one another in restaurants, on buses, on the beach.

  They seem to be everywhere, these love-sick people.

  And here’s another one.

  The man she’s feeling all soft and gooey over.

  Just her luck.

  Brontë hides her disappointment, finishes her shift and helps William to tidy up and lock the store at six p.m.

  “What are your plans, tonight, William?”

  “Oh, I have a thing I need to do.”

  “Like a date?”

  He laughs. “No, no. Just a . . . thing.”

  It’s something to do with that woman, she tells herself.

  Something to do with that Darcy Pringle.

  William locks the front door.

  “Okay, you have a good night now.”

  “You too, William.”

  Brontë watches as he walks down the sidewalk, disappearing around a corner.

  And, when she heads in the same direction, Brontë tells herself that she’s not following him.

  Never.

  She’s just out for a stroll, getting to know the town.

  William, in his own world, shambles along.

  He has a nasty altercation with a trash can.