by Gigi Blume
She wrinkled her brows, “What tasting?”
“You told me the caterer was coming today.”
“Yes. I did,” she said with a nod. “They came hours ago.”
“Oh. How was the food?”
“My dear William.” She laughed. “They just wanted to see the kitchen and make a plan for serving and such. It was nothing. But the owner is a most fascinating man. He wants to interview me for his cooking show.”
If it was nothing, why did she make such a big fuss to make sure I came? I decided not to ask.
“So did you pick the menu?” I chose to say, spreading my body across the sofa. “Nothing pretentious, I hope.”
Lady placed herself in the strategic position where my hand fell over the side of the couch. Her snout would make its way into my palm and if I didn’t make a move to massage it, her soft paw would tap at my wrist. She had me trained so well. Stella watched the transaction with interest and answered my question with a smirk.
“Oh, you need not worry about that. I’ve chosen a proper English dish.”
“Why does that scare me?”
She laughed. “Oh, don’t get your pants in a twist. We’ll be serving traditional roast with Yorkshire pudding. I figure since I’m choosing the menu, I get to pick something that reminds me of home.”
Her eyes sparkled at the thought of good ‘ol England. I wondered if she missed more than the food. I imagined she must visit often, but with a theatre to run in Los Angeles, and an academy in New York, when would she have the time?
She rose from the armchair, snatching one of the bottles of Chateau Mouton and winked. “Shall we have a night cap?”
“How romantic, Stella,” I said, wagging my brows. “I didn’t realize you cared so.”
“Somebody has to take care of you,” she said, looking behind my bar for a corkscrew. “It might as well be me.”
I joined her at the bar and uncorked the wine. She had two glasses ready before it had a chance to breathe.
“Thank you, Stella.” I gave her a soft kiss on the cheek. “You’re the loveliest date I have ever had.”
“Damn right,” she said. “That last girlfriend of yours wasn’t good enough for you. You’d think she could afford clothing that fit properly.”
She was referring to Raquel. That woman was a walking ad for silicone. She also had the personality of a lampshade. Albeit, more like the lampshade in A Christmas Story, but a lampshade all the same. The clothing Stella was referring to was probably that red little number she wore to accompany me to the Globes. It barely covered her.
“Let’s change the subject, shall we?”
Stella sipped delicately at her wine. Her painted lips left a mark on her glass, and she looked upon it as one would admire a painting in the Getty.
“All right,” she began. “We need to finalize the entertainment at the gala, and I also have two seats to fill.”
“Let me guess. Emma and Jaxson aren’t going.”
I rolled my eyes to the ceiling. Emma Woods was Stella’s grand-niece, a flighty little chit, and she happened to be the proud owner of one shiny statue named Oscar, which was one more than I had in my collection. It didn’t hurt that she was notoriously famous for starring in the coolest movies of our generation, directed by Jaxson Knightly. Word on the street was that he only cast her because he was sweet on her. It didn’t take a genius to figure that one out. As far as I was concerned, Stella’s niece had it too easy. All her success was handed to her on a diamond-studded platter. All she had to do was ride on her aunt’s coattails and bat her pretty eyes at Jaxson. But she was no Stella Gardiner. She didn’t have half her genius. Still, the public went gaga over her—and so did the Academy.
Stella shrugged. It didn’t seem to bother her that her own niece snubbed the gala banquet. Sure, she and Jaxson paid the expensive donation for the dinner tickets, but the gesture would be better received if they bothered to show. So now Stella had two empty seats to fill, free to whomever was in her good graces.
“I was thinking,” she said, “I’d like to sing some songs for the gala with you and Bing.”
Not a chance.
In a sly move, she topped off my wine. “It would be good P.R. for the show and for your friend. He and I could sing Oh, False One and from there, you can enter the stage and we’ll go right into A Pair of Ducks.”
“It’s Paradox, Stella,” I corrected. “Not Pair of Ducks.”
I wasn’t sure if she sang the wrong lyric on purpose during rehearsal or if she was being silly. As it was, the title of the song was When You Had Left Our Pirate Fold, but everyone insisted on calling it A Paradox.
“Please tell me you don’t intend to be in costume,” I begged.
“No. Heavens!” Her laugh was a little too forced. She did intend to wear costumes. I took another gulp of wine. I could’ve used something stronger. Maybe opium.
“So, I’m guessing you want Bing to take Emma’s dinner. And what about the other ticket?”
“Elizabeth Bennet.”
I almost spat out my wine.
“Whaaat? No.”
“And why on earth not?”
How was I to tell Stella all the reasons inviting Beth to my house for a charity gala was a bad idea? How could I explain to her I crumbled all over the carpet whenever Beth was in the same zip code, let alone in my house—dressed in a sexy gown no less. No. That was a bad idea.
“Why Beth?” I protested. Even the thought of that little girl had my tongue twisted in knots. Images of Beth flooded the forefront of my thoughts. Beth on stage, Beth in the costume shop, Beth slung over my shoulder so close to my face, I couldn’t sing properly. The brief kisses we rehearsed for the show. I didn’t know what to do with this feeling. It unraveled me, and I was lost without the confidence I prided myself on. I swore not to let a woman destroy me. My father’s second wife almost destroyed him. I wouldn’t let that happen to me.
A thick silence formed between us as Stella set down her glass. “I don’t think you pay that man enough.”
I drew my brows together. “What man?”
“Ephraim.” She rolled her eyes as if we’d been discussing him all along, and I was too thick to remember.
Ephraim was my personal assistant. I hired him to take care of tasks I couldn’t do myself, like organize my calendar and pick up my dry cleaning. I would have been content had he only performed the tasks I hired him for, but he was a superstar and before I knew it, he handled all my business—running my household, fixing things when the groundskeeper couldn’t be reached. He even walked my dog. Yeah. I couldn’t live without Ephraim. And I paid him handsomely. Stella was just being dramatic.
“Did you know he sends almost all his money to his mother in Mexico?” she said. “He’s such a good son.”
“I agree.”
“He’s still driving that old Toyota. Poor fellow.”
Poor fellow indeed. The truth was, he made more than my accountant, but Stella wouldn’t believe that. I imagine her tactic to change from one uncomfortable subject to another was her way of bullying me to concede to her insane idea to invite Beth to the gala. One guess who she’d be paired with on the seating chart. Yours truly.
I pushed my wine glass away and leaned on the bar, bearing my eyes into Stella. I had my father’s eyes, and they were my only defense against that great woman.
“By all means,” I said, “let’s take Ephraim to the gala.”
“Why don’t you let me worry about that, William. I only need your participation in the Pair of Ducks song. The committee will plan the rest of the event.”
As far as she was concerned, all was settled. I provided my house, and hundreds of strangers were invited to roam my lawns and peek in my windows. I made a mental note to double security.
Stella stayed well past midnight. We were having such a good time, I didn’t even realize the time. She refused my offer of one of the guest bedrooms, joking it would tarnish her innocent reputation. I teased her I was the o
ne to be worried about appearances and pressed her to stay. But she said she was perfectly fine to drive and sent me a text when she arrived home. It wasn’t until I went through the house to check all the doors that I noticed a note from Ephraim. He had a plane to catch and wouldn’t be around to walk Lady for the rest of the week. Great. The PAW HOTEL required reservations weeks in advance. I’d have to take Lady to the theatre with me. The Pirate King would have a dog instead of a parrot.
Rehearsal was grueling. We were in full run-throughs, and Cole reminded us repeatedly how much of a disaster the show was in. Sadly, I had to agree. His idiotic nephew didn’t know any of the lyrics, the rope system on the pirate ship wasn’t working, and the ridiculous choreographer continued to change major dance moves at whim. At one point, he added a unicycle to which Stella firmly disapproved. To top it all off, once the first run-through of the day began, all the weeks of rehearsal seemed to have been tossed out the window. I was on stage, in the middle of the entire company, and I could barely hear them sing. The only lyric anybody seemed to know was Hail Poetry. Not the entire song, just the two words Hail Poetry. Oh, and let’s not even talk about Modern Major General. Who would have thought it could be such a novel idea to actually expect people to dance and sing at the same time?
Shocking.
After lunch, we were individually called to get fitted in our costumes. As I approached the costume shop, I heard the sound of a female voice singing. But not just any singing—opera. I thought at first Ari was listening to a recording, but as I got closer, I realized it was no recording. Ari sang a perfect rendition of Mozart’s Queen of the Night. It wasn’t overdone as I had heard before. It was lyrical and light. What’s more, she was hitting that F note without any strain. I thought at first surely, she must be singing in a lower key. My ears weren’t trained well enough to notice if she’d brought it down a couple of steps. She was singing acapella, after all. But then I heard the piano dole out the high note. She was checking herself. As I craned my neck around the threshold to sneak a glance unnoticed, I saw her plunk out the single note and resume singing. I saw that finger. It was the high F.
What could be the meaning of that, I wondered. She didn’t sound like a casual opera aficionado. This girl knew music. I held back to listen, but the clamoring of heavy steps approached, accompanied with a familiar shrill nagging. Caroline was almost upon me, and the music stopped abruptly. My private concert was prematurely interrupted.
“There you are, Will,” Caroline blurted. “Your dog is running wild all over the place. I can’t believe Stella let her out.”
Lady! There was no reason Caroline or anyone else should have known it was my own exclusive bring-your-dog-to-work day. Lady was a sweet girl. If she’d stayed in the office, no one would have been keen to her presence. It was also doubtful Stella left her door open out of negligence. She knew how much Lady meant to me. There were too many dangers around a working theatre. I imagined it was someone else—like maybe Jorge.
I bolted up the stairs without a word to Caroline. As I ascended, I could hear a faint huff in protest, but it didn’t faze me. I needed to find Lady.
A flurrying scan of all the top levels of the theatre, the rehearsal spaces, entrance halls, and even bathrooms came up null. I searched the parking lot, the dressing rooms—even the orchestra pit. Nothing. Everyone I asked said they’d seen her briefly but didn’t notice which direction she’d gone.
If she got out into traffic…
No. It couldn’t be. I’d never known a more loyal animal. She would never stray. Not unless she thought I’d gone. Then a horrible thought hit me. What if she’d tried to head home?
“Is this your dog?”
I turned toward the voice behind me. Beth stood in the doorway to a backstage passage barely used by anyone in the current company. She held Lady in her arms and was gently rubbing her fur with the hand that cradled her belly. My first thought was relief that Lady was safe. My second thought was more of a reaction. The sight of my most precious companion content in the arms of the woman who’d been vexing me for weeks sent me all sorts of confused signals. My heart dropped to my stomach, and a strange, queasy sensation took root. And then, just as quickly, I lost the ability to breathe. It was a suffocating sensation. I’d never suffered from asthma, but I imagined that was a similar feeling.
Beth placed Lady down on the floor and gave her a quick scratch before straightening again, fixing her eyes on me beneath her dark, natural lashes. I was transfixed for a long pause, but after a few moments, I gained my faculties and bent to summon my dog.
“Lady. Come.”
Lady gazed at me with those large, doleful eyes, looked up at Beth, and made up her mind to stay where she was, resting her snout on Beth’s feet. Beth didn’t seem to mind this, instead, opting to cock her head to the side and plant her hands on her hips.
“You named your Cocker Spaniel ‘Lady?’” She smirked. “How original.”
I suppose I could have come up with some other clever name for a dog, but ever since I was a child, I wanted a Cocker Spaniel named Lady. Call me sentimental, but Lady and the Tramp was the movie my mother always put on for me when I was sick. It offered a certain comfort and always reminded me of Vicks Vapor Rub and Mom’s perfume. When I was finally at a place in my life to care for a dog, my only desire was to have an English Cocker just like in the movie. Yes, how original. So what if a little pixie I hardly knew threw me some judgmental shade? I wasn’t put on this earth to vie for her approval. I ignored her snarky remark and called for my dog once again. She didn’t budge.
What had gotten into her? Was she cross with me for setting her in Stella’s office?
Beth threw me a smug grin, arching her brow and digging her brown eyes into my soul.
“Having trouble there, Mr. Darcy? It appears your dog is an excellent judge of character.”
There was truth in that. Lady never could stand Jorge. Apparently, she thought Beth was her new fur-baby mommy. What was it about her? Was it her frank unstudied air? Her propensity to speak her mind even if her opinions were unpopular? I had long considered her irreverent take-no-prisoners attitude was her most confounding appeal. Of course I couldn’t let on that I actually admired her spunk.
“And what would you know about that?” I accused. “Considering the company you keep?”
Her jaw dropped with incredulity, and I heard a clipped breath from the back of her throat.
“The company I keep?” She made that sound in the back of her throat again. “You got a problem with my friends?”
Okaaaay. She was getting a little gangsta there. I could roll with that.
“They aren’t exactly model citizens,” I spat. “Unless potheads and cradle robbers are what you’re going for.”
“Potheads and cradle robbers? What’s wrong with you? I suppose no one in your circle of friends drinks or smokes, Mr. Hollywood.” She waved her hand up and down, gesturing the length of my body. “Clearly, you’ve got it all together.”
“I never said I have it all together. But as you try to convince people of your impeccable judgement, in doing so, prove your assumptions come up rather short. Much like your stature.”
“That’s it,” she cried, sweeping Lady in her arms with one swift motion. “I’m keeping the dog.”
Her back was turned to me in an instant, briskly putting distance between us.
“Wait a minute.”
I followed her backstage and upstairs to where the dressing rooms were located, calling after her as she retreated from me. “You can’t just take someone’s dog!”
“She’s too good for you,” she exclaimed, briskly disappearing into the shadows of the empty hallway, her words echoing off the concrete walls. “Go get a chihuahua or some other animal with a size complex.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
She stopped and turned.
“You tell me. Compensate much?”
“What are you talking about? Lady is a medium-sized
dog. I don’t even drive a truck. I’m not compensating.”
“Then why is your ego so big?”
What the…
“If I have a big ego, which I don’t,” I replied with rancor, “it’s only because I’ve earned it. I’ve worked hard to get where I am in my career, unlike some people who continue to do menial jobs instead of taking their craft seriously.”
“Oh, yes. You’ve worked real hard riding on Daddy’s coattails.”
That was a low blow. It was particularly low because it was the same thought I had toward Stella’s niece. Riding on her aunt’s coattails. Is that what people saw in me? Generally, I didn’t care what people thought. I didn’t navigate my way around Tinseltown by being a softie. This business was a hell-hole of users and phonies. I decided long ago to keep my feelings close to my chest and trust no one just to survive. I learned to grow a thick hide when it came to other people’s opinions. If I read every review and gossip column about me, I’d never leave the house.
Then why did it bother me so much what Beth thought about me? It was infuriating. Riding on Dad’s coattails indeed! What did she know? Of course, if I’d just calmed myself down and tempered my haunches, I would have checked my anger before saying the most dirtbag thing I could come up with.
“And who are you?” I spat. “You’re a nobody waitress in a crappy, hole-in-the-wall grease trap. You’re good at pretending, I’ll give you that. But overacting and a holier-than-thou attitude won’t get you far in this business. That’s why you’ll never make it as an actor.”
Dirtbag level: eleven out of ten. Yeah, I regretted the words as soon as they came out of my mouth. When you throw a fist through a wall, your knuckles hurt like hell, but it’s oh so satisfying. I was so bent out of shape by this woman, punching through her walls felt good—for about five seconds.
Almost immediately, her face dropped into a set gloom, and the edges of her eyes were rimmed with the beginnings of tears. She worked hard to suppress them, but I could detect a ruddiness in her cheeks and the rapid rise and fall of her chest. She was broken. I did that. Me. This guy. And the bloody cuts on my knuckles stung like hell.