by Gigi Blume
“What a Delilah,” I said. “Why would he do such a thing?”
It didn’t make much sense to me. Then again, the rich and famous were an entirely different breed of human.
“I hate to say it,” he admitted, “but the truth is, Will was jealous of my relationship with his father. I was closer in temperament with Martin, and he loved me like his own son. That made Will blind with jealousy.”
He sighed and dug into a package of saltines on the table. “So here I am, getting odd jobs in stage craft, trying to keep afloat.” He took a disappointing bite out of a cracker. “I didn’t expect I’d see William at the theatre of all places.”
I noted his use of the long form of Will’s name. Even after what he went through at that man’s hands, he still showed that small gesture of respect. I wondered if it was an ode to the great loss he felt, a wasted opportunity for a brother he never had and now never would.
“What about other family?” I asked. “Do you have uncles or cousins?”
“I never met any of my father’s family. He never spoke of them. And my mother was the only one in her family to immigrate to the United States. All my relations on her side live in Costa Rica. I have no contact with them.”
That was probably the saddest thing I’d ever heard. My own mother was a pain in the Coco, but at least I had a mom.
“So,” he said with finality. “Do you have a secret sofa hidden away somewhere, or do I sleep on the floor?”
I wasn’t sure if his question was laced with innuendo or if he was just sleepy. I hadn’t considered the sleeping arrangements when I made the offer. Now with Lydia on the couch and Jorge in my kitchen, there were more people than my little two-bedroom apartment could accommodate.
“You know what?” I said at length. “Take my room.”
His eyebrows shot up. “That was easy.”
I smacked him in the leg. This guy!
“Alone!” I chided. “I’ll sleep with Jane.”
Truth be told, I didn't expect she’d come home at all at this point, but I didn’t want to offer Jorge her room just in case she did.
“Mine’s the master bedroom, so you can have the bathroom in there all to yourself.”
He wagged his brows provocatively. “I don’t mind sharing. I’m a giver like that.”
I could sense a rush of heat flood my cheeks. “You’ve got a one-track mind, don’t you, Mr. Wickham?”
He flashed his ever-so-white teeth, and a twinkle overcame the whole of his expression. “Maybe,” he replied. “But right now, I’m just slap happy. I mean tired. Right now, I’m just tired.”
“I’m sure that must be it.”
“And maybe a little bit slap happy.”
“How ‘bout I slap the happy right out of you?”
“I would like that very much, Beth short for Elizabeth—”
“Yeah. I got it,” I interrupted. “Go to sleep.”
He reluctantly obeyed with a pout to his lips but not before several attempts to convince me to join him. At last, I was rid of him behind my bedroom door, and hoping he wasn’t going through my drawers in search of incriminating baubles, I stole into Jane’s room. I was so worn out by the day’s events, I was almost inclined to take the bed without pulling back the covers. But I knew once the fever from the effect Jorge had on me wore off, I’d be too cold to sleep yet too tired to burrow under the covers. And as I felt my way around the bed in the dark, to my surprise, I found the form of Jane fast asleep and occupying the entire bed diagonally. She’d been home the whole time? At that moment, I wished I did have a secret futon hidden away, but I was so exhausted and my head so full of the words from Jorge’s story, I yanked an extra pillow from Jane’s bed and fell into a hard, fast sleep on the floor.
I woke in the morning to the shrill echo of screams. They were far away at first in the hazy cloud of a half-dream state, but as I shed the weight of sleep, I shot up to find myself alone and wondering if I’d overslept. Strangely, the first thought in my head was pointe shoes I never attempted to buy. Didn’t they have to be custom fitted or something? The second thought in my head was that the scream wasn’t Jane’s, but another woman whose wailings I unfortunately recognized. My mother. I shot up, finding that at some point, Jane had covered my body with her comforter. Always thoughtful, that one.
As I rushed out of the room and into the hallway, I noticed three things:
My mother screaming my name and pacing in the vicinity of my bedroom door.
My bedroom door was wide open, and a dripping wet Jorge emerged from the master bathroom wrapped in only a towel.
Lydia was eating a bowl of cereal at the kitchen bar, laughing between bites.
When my mother saw me, she scurried down the hallway and cried, “Lizzie. Oh, Lizzie. There’s a naked man in your shower!”
It took all my efforts and Jane’s gentle urging to get my mother to calm down. The half-naked presence of Jorge didn’t help matters. He stroked her back, offering her water—all while she flailed about, waving her arms in the air and gasping for breath. No wonder he thought she was having an apoplexy. Between each labored breath, she would cry about having a heart attack.
“I’ll be remembered for dying on this hideous beige carpet,” she bellowed. “Just like Elvis.”
Jorge valiantly swooped her into his arms and carried her to the couch. There she was, shocked dumb against the bare chest of the Latin demigod, much like I had been yesterday. Did this guy make a habit of scooping up women upon first acquaintance?
“Elvis died in the bathroom, Mom,” I said as Jorge placed her down. “And you’ll be fine.”
“Fine? Fine says you. You who don’t even acknowledge your poor mother.”
“Take a deep breath, Mrs. Bennet,” Jane said as she demonstrated, channeling her inner yoga guru. Surprisingly, Mom followed her example. Was Jane some kind of mom whisperer?
“Lizzie…” Mom said after a few calming breaths, “Why was there a naked man in your shower?”
“That’s actually a funny story.” Jorge laughed, his wet thighs just inches from her vision. Her eyes went wide, sweeping over him in open assessment. She turned her head ever so slowly to me like a possessed doll in a horror movie.
“And why,” she said with a strained calm, “is he still HERE?!”
I motioned for Jorge to leave the living room. He wore a surprised expression, clearly clueless to the reason he had to go, and with a shrug, padded down the hall, stopping to retrieve his clothes from the guest bathroom before closing himself in my room.
I then proceeded to explain all the events that led to his current state of undress—the gastro pub, Lydia’s vomit, and the chivalry of Jorge’s assistance to get us home safe. In my new G-rated version, Lydia had fallen ill with food poisoning, not for drinking her weight in tequila. I concluded with the assurance to my helicopter mom that it was all very innocent, and I’d roomed with Jane for the night. She looked to Jane for confirmation, my own mother giving more of her faith in my friend than me. Jane nodded in grave agreement but betrayed me in saying, “Mrs. Bennet, I was just as surprised as you were. But yes, Beth slept on the floor of my room.”
“On the floor?” cried Mom. “On the dirty carpet?”
“The carpet’s not dirty, Mom,” I tried to explain. “It’s just a little stained.”
She narrowed her eyes at me, surely judging my housekeeping skills, and then, as if Lydia had suddenly appeared out of nowhere, looked to her and said, “Who are you?”
“That’s Lydia, Mom.” I sighed. “My friend who got sick, remember?”
Lydia waved cheerily. “Vomit girl.”
A light went off in mom’s head and she nodded. “Oh yes. Nice to meet you, you poor thing. Have you tried apple cider vinegar?”
Mom and her internet remedies. She had new diet and health ideas every week—all contradictory to one another.
“We’ll be late for rehearsal if we don’t get going soon.” I sighed. “I’ll call you and Dad on th
e weekend.”
She sat upright and patted on the sofa for me to join her. I obeyed but didn’t allow myself to sit comfortably lest she never leave. Jane and Lydia took this as a cue to get dressed for the day and left the room.
“I’m worried about you,” she said like a woeful Jewish mother. “You haven’t had a boyfriend since college.”
“That’s not true,” I protested. “I’ve gone out.”
“But no one serious. What was that boy’s name? Jon?”
“Brett,” I said flatly.
“Yes,” she said with a vague expression. “He was a nice boy. Why don’t you call him?”
“No, thanks. Besides, I don’t want a boyfriend.”
She glared at me for a few moments and deciding something that must have just come to mind, said in a semi-serious tone, “Are you a lesbian?”
“NO! Mom. Seriously?”
She shrugged innocently and threw her hands up, waving them in front of her. “Well, you’re always around those theatre types.”
“I can’t believe we’re having this conversation,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Again!”
“Okay, okay,” she conceded. “Just promise me you’ll try to get a boyfriend.”
I released a heavy, frustrated breath as I rose from the couch. “I have two boyfriends, actually.”
She perked up immediately, poised for the news with an eager expression. “Oh?”
“Yes,” I said as I crossed to the kitchen. “I have a serious relationship with Ben and Jerry.”
She huffed and followed me across the small space that connected the living room and kitchen.
“Please be serious,” she said. “Dad and I want you to come for dinner this Sunday. Bring a date.”
“Can I bring Lydia?”
“Vomit girl? No. I’ve just had my floor waxed. Bring that naked man if you like. Just bring someone. Preferably male.”
9
Eggs, Pie, and Cheese Wiz
Beth
Part of me wanted to keep the dirt Jorge told me about Will to myself. He had told me those things in confidence. Would he appreciate it if I blabbed about it all over the theatre? When I pressed him about revealing Will’s true character to Stella, he just shrugged humbly and said he couldn’t slander the Darcy name for the sake of his foster father. He said it wasn’t his place to expose Will—something about karma—and he’d get what he deserved. I took this as an open-ended invitation to at least leak a little incriminating evidence to my friends. I had to at least tell Charlotte, who was convinced I was blinded by prejudice toward Will. I wanted to rub it in her face. For the present, I had to content myself by confiding the secret to Jane and Lydia during our carpool to rehearsal. We’d dropped off Jorge at Phillip’s to retrieve his truck, and Lydia ogled at his retreating backside when I felt compelled to drop a few hints about our heart-to-heart over hot chocolate and saltines. I left out a few of the more intimate details, but by the time we were halfway to the theatre, I had said enough to convince Lydia that Will was a complete Molokov. (It was my Chess day) Jane was less inclined to form such colorful judgements and turned over the information in her head with a good measure of thought before exclaiming, “It doesn’t make sense. There must be some other explanation.”
“What other explanation could there be?” I said. “Will was a jealous, spoiled brat--and probably racist. The things he did to Jorge were plain vindictive. He had no reason for it.”
“I’m sure there are two sides to the story,” she replied. “They were both grieving the loss of Will’s father. It all could be a big misunderstanding.”
“Cutting him out of the will, keeping an otherwise worthless, sentimental object from him and then spreading lies about him around Hollywood hardly can be written off as a misunderstanding.”
“Sorry, but I agree with Edith,” chirped Lydia from the backseat. “Everyone knows The Pirate King is a dirtbag. Nobody in the cast likes him.”
Jane was still getting used to Lydia’s quirky habit of calling every cast member by their character name. It took her a minute to realize Lydia was referring to Will. I twisted in my seat to address Lydia behind me. “I wonder why Gilbert and Sullivan never gave The Pirate King a name,” I said diplomatically. “We should give him a name to simplify things. How about… oh, I don’t know… Will Darcy?”
“If he is the evil villain Jorge paints him to be,” continued Jane, “why would Bing think so highly of him? I know Bing. His friendship with Will is genuine, and I don’t see how he could be so close with someone so inherently rotten. He’s probably exaggerating.”
“Bing sees the world through rose-colored glasses, Jane,” I replied. “I can more easily believe that Bing is too nice to see the truth, than that Jorge is exaggerating. I could see the very painful memory in his eyes…”
“Blue, blue eyes!” interjected Lydia dreamily.
“…and he wasn’t exaggerating.”
There was a length of silence after I spoke, and Jane drove on, concentrating on the road, but after a long pause, she sighed and said, “Well, it’s hard to know what to think.”
“Excuse me,” I exclaimed, “but I know exactly what to think.”
But she was no longer listening, and I couldn’t help but wonder for the remainder of the ride, whether she was just as deceived as Bing to Will Darcy’s true colors.
Another day of choreography without the men was on the schedule, but I didn’t feel confident we wouldn’t be ‘graced’ with another appearance of Will. A small part of me secretly hoped to run into him like the day before, and this time I’d be armed with a few carefully rehearsed words instead of gushing over Beauty and the Beast like a nine-year-old girl. It wasn’t my fault I was caught unaware. It also wasn’t my fault he was ninja trained to make women swoon with his brooding glower. I was sure there was a Hollywood Masterclass for that. Smoldering for the Camera 101 and A.P. Bedroom Eyes. I was both relieved and dampened to find no trace of him for the course of the day.
When I casually brought up the subject to Jorge, he grinned smugly and said, “He’s the one who should be avoiding me. I have every right to be here.” Of course I would never suggest Jorge not come to work, so I don’t know where that came from. Perhaps he felt threatened by Will’s influence over Stella. He certainly spent enough time in her office.
I concluded my visit to the scene shop with an invitation to my parents’ house for barbecue on Sunday. I quickly amended that it wasn’t a date or a ‘meet the parents’ kind of situation.
“My mom just wants to see what you look like with your clothes on,” I joked. Casting my eyes over his shirtless torso, I added, “And so do I, for that matter.” To ease him of any possible apprehension, I informed him I’d invited a few other friends and that Sunday barbecues at my house were totally casual.
“My dad marinates the tri-tip all weekend,” I said in an attempt to allure him. “And my mom buys cheap prosecco.”
“How could I resist?” He grinned, brushing my chin with his thumb. “And it’s not because of the free food.”
My toes curled at the contact. This was a guy who didn’t need to take a Bedroom Eyes Masterclass. He was a natural, and I was afraid I’d be in big trouble if I wasn’t careful. I had to protect the friend zone at all costs.
“Stop by the rehearsal studio later on,” I said as I walked away. “You’re gonna love our new choreographer.”
He did come to watch our dance rehearsal in the afternoon, but he didn’t stay for long. If he was looking for a laugh, Colin wasn’t one to disappoint. I just wished Jorge could have stuck around a little longer to experience the drama. But after only a few minutes, he bristled at something Colin said (probably all his bragging about Rosings Institute of Dance) and abruptly left.
It turned out I was the only one to bring pointe shoes. I begged Jane to let me take hers, even though they were too big for me.
“I won’t even put them on,” I pleaded. “I just want to bring them with me. Like show and tell.�
��
I didn’t know how to dance in point shoes per se, but that wasn’t even on Colin’s radar. He was too busy throwing a fit about everybody else’s unpreparedness.
“Never have I ever,” he spat, “in all my years at Rosings Institute of Dance under the patronage of Catherine de Bourgh…” (he loved to name drop and quite often) “have I seen such incompetence. Did I not instruct you all to bring pointe shoes today?”
Holly timidly raised her hand as if she were in grade school. “None of us are trained on point. We could get injured.”
He narrowed his eyes on her. I imagined if he were a Sith Lord, she’d be dead by now. But he growled and with a flip of his chiffon scarf, stormed out of the rehearsal studio.
“That’s why they call this the cry room,” chirped Lydia from behind my shoulder.
“What?”
“The cry room,” she repeated. “There have been many a tear shed in this room, from firing actors I suppose.”
“I’ve never heard that before.” I laughed. “You're making this up.”
She nodded her little head with energy, but Holly disputed her. “No, no, Lettuce. They call this the cry room because someone actually died in here and now, it’s haunted. Sometimes, late at night, a melancholy wailing can be heard coming from this room, but when theatre staff come to investigate it, the lights flicker, and the crying person cannot be found.”
She shuddered at the idea and crossed herself even though she wasn’t Catholic.
“You two are being ridiculous,” I exclaimed. “No one’s getting fired, and there are no ghosts.”
“Actually…” a girl spoke up, one of the altos I didn’t know very well. “All theatres are haunted.” Her name, I believe, was Mariah, and I sometimes would see her with Caroline—whenever Caroline wasn’t hanging all over Will. Since there was no Will today, it was Caroline and Mariah for the win.
Yay.
Lydia, who hated Caroline, didn’t seem to have a problem with Mariah and nodded in agreement. “That’s actually true,” she said. “The Majestic on Broadway is haunted. That’s a fact. And all the actors at Her Majesty’s Theatre in London confirm the ghost that lives there will sometimes tap someone on the shoulder.”