by Gigi Blume
“All right, all right.” He swiftly put the car in reverse and did his best Knight Rider skid, burning rubber away from the line of Bentleys and Lamborghinis. The screech of tires turned Stella’s head and as we raced backwards, I could see her chasing after us on foot, calling, “Wait. Where are you going?”
It was a hilarious sight to see an elderly Englishwoman who’d been knighted by the queen running down the driveway in pursuit of a retreating limo with her arms flailing. The look on her face was priceless. She slowed down when we were forced to stop, having been blocked by a catering truck.
“Sorry, Miss Bennet,” the driver apologized. “I tried.”
A tap sounded on the glass, and he rolled down his window to reveal a heated, out of breath Dame Stella.
“What on earth are you doing?” she huffed. “I’m old and wearing Dior. Not a good combination for calisthenics. Are you trying to kill me, Enrique?”
Enrique!
She poked her silver head all the way inside the driver’s window, causing Enrique to lean dramatically to his right.
“Beth,” she chirped with an enormous grin. “Don’t you look lovely.”
I’d lost my opportunity for escape. Enrique cut the engine and escorted me out of the limo as though I was decked out for the Oscars instead of a hoedown. I felt so underdressed. Fancy houses will do that to you. Stella was ravishing in a nautical navy and white pants set with gold buttons in the shape of anchors. It was casual in a way that made a statement that said I’m here amongst you peons, but I’d rather be on my yacht, daaahling. Stella wouldn’t talk like that, but her outfit certainly did.
“I’m in a bit of a quandary,” she said, taking my arm. She swiftly whisked me towards the great house—I trotted along, glancing wistfully back at Enrique and my last hope of escape. He stood in front of the limo with his hands clasped in fig leaf position and shrugged as he watched me go to the gallows. The sun reflected with a sparkle off his aviator glasses, and he flashed me a toothy grin.
“Umm…” I said, trying to keep the pace, “what kind of quandary?”
She led me around the front drive and down a path to a great, open area which looked like the perfect place to play croquet or golf—or some other rich person sport—but was now transformed into colorful fairgrounds. I first noticed white tents with flags on the pointed tops and as we ventured further into the throng of families with children of all ages, the rides came into view. A giant Viking ship swing, spinning rides, a zipper—even a Ferris wheel. How did I not see the Ferris wheel before?
“We need to find my niece,” said Stella over the noise of the crowd. “She’s got to be here somewhere.”
By her niece, she could only mean one of the most famous actresses working in Hollywood—Emma Woods. I’d seen almost all her movies and unabashedly bought whatever line of cosmetics she endorsed in those chic commercials that went viral on the internet. For a commercial to go viral, it had to be something special.
“Why don’t you just call her?” I asked sheepishly. It seemed like an obvious solution to me, but you never know.
“I don’t remember where I set my mobile,” she said. “She’ll be easier to find if we follow the flashing camera bulbs.”
“Hang on.” I stopped in the shade of a game booth to navigate the search engine on my phone and typed in hashtag gardinerartscharity. I smiled at Stella and wiggled my phone in the air. “Good ‘ol internet,” I quipped.
She raised a silver brow. “Indeed.”
It didn’t take long. The number of reporters, entertainment bloggers, and YouTubers was at level ludicrous. You couldn’t take five steps in any direction without running into some kind of media dynamo, and every single one of them would want to be first to post candid celebrity shots.
“This one looks recent,” I said, showing the image to Stella.
She squinted at the screen, examining the photo of Emma Woods on the arm of an incredibly handsome man who had his head thrown back in a fit of laughter. If that was her date, they made an adorable couple.
“I know where that is,” remarked Stella. “Come along.”
She led me through the grounds with purpose and filled me in on the situation as I fell into step with her. Apparently, Bing was supposed to sing a couple of songs, and he bailed at the last minute.
“We’ll need to find a replacement,” explained Stella. “And then there’s the little matter of filling his dinner seat at the gala tonight. I put his place card next to yours.”
Place card? I had a place card?
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t follow.”
“Dinner, my dear,” she said with a heavy sigh, weary of my ignorance. “Didn’t I mention you and Bing would be sitting at my table?”
No. No, she did not. I shook my head.
“Well, no matter,” she went on, still walking briskly. “Bing’s not coming and now, we have to find someone to replace him.”
She leaned into me with a conspiratorial tone. “We planned to sing O False One and the Pair of Ducks number. Neither one of those songs will work without him.”
I was flummoxed. “Oh.”
Yep. That’s all I could say. Just oh. Like Oh, there’s lipstick on my teeth, or Oh, it’s shamrock shake season. Not hold the phone, what is this gala you speak of? Or even hang on now, is this dinner a casual thing, like maybe a barbecue?
She was so flippant about it, I was fairly certain dinner was barbecue. Or giant turkey legs like at Ren Faire. Or maybe a six-foot sub. I had my heart set on raiding the corn on the cob booth.
We reached an open-air tent with auction items on display. My inner bad girl took a leap at the sight of a sweet Harley Davidson with a side car. How much would that go for? I fell a little behind as the items on display caught my attention, and I slowed my pace. Stella stayed her course and made a beeline to two people bent over an auction table. When they turned to greet her, I recognized Emma Woods immediately. She was so effervescent. The man from the photo kissed Stella on the hand. Such a gentleman. I did a quick glance at the caption under the internet article on my phone. Apparently, he was a big-time director. Jaxson Knightly. The name sounded familiar. I was so out of touch, it was ridiculous.
“I’d like you to meet my friend Beth,” Stella announced as I approached the trio. “She’s the best Edith I’ve ever seen on stage.”
I was officially going to lose it. Dame Stella Gardiner tooted my horn in front of Hollywood’s sweetheart and her A-list director boyfriend. Great. I wanted to laugh like a valley girl and say, “I’m so totally sure,” but I held in my fangirl glee and said dismissively, “I’m sure that’s an exaggeration.”
“My aunt is a great exaggerator,” she said, shaking my hand. “But never about theatre, and never about talent. I’m Emma.”
“Yes, I know.” Ohmigosh, ohmigosh, I was shaking hands with Emma Woods!
Keep it together, Beth.
Her charming companion then took my hand and gave it a little squeeze. “A pleasure,” he said with a slight nod.
Good Heavens, he was Australian. I was so out of my element, but here were these people, just people doing people things, shaking hands with new acquaintances. No biggie.
Like an idiot, I held up my phone, showing the search results that led us to them.
“Beth has been helping me find our guests on the twit-box,” remarked Stella. “What did Emma say to you that was so amusing, Jaxson?”
Emma peeked at the screen and winced.
“I just followed the hashtag gardinerartscharity,” I squeaked in my mousy voice. “I swear I’m not a stalker.”
That was probably the kind of statement stalkers would make. But Emma smiled warmly and said something about her mom. I didn’t quite hear everything because my ears were still ringing from the shock of being at Will’s house. There were hordes of people. It was probable I might not even cross paths with him. He was probably busy sharpening his quill and smoking a pipe. Stella was going on about Bing going MIA.
“I need you two to sing something from your new musical,” she demanded.
“What?” Mr. Dreamypants and Emma exclaimed in unison.
“We haven’t started rehearsals,” said the man. “We don’t even have the finished score.”
“Surely you can sing something,” groaned Stella, then quickly added, “Do you know anything from Pirates of Penzance? We need someone to sing Frederic’s part.”
She wagged her brows at him.
“I’m afraid I don’t,” he said.
“Besides,” added Emma, “we’re not planning on staying for the dinner.”
“Oh, my dear Emma,” returned Stella. “I was quite prepared for that. You lot never stay for dinner, although heaven knows why. I invited Beth and the other actor to fill your seats, but now that he had to cancel, I have to give away Jaxson’s place at the table again. Oh Lord! This messes up my seating chart completely.”
“I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” replied Emma.
They were so much alike. I imagined Stella much the same way when she was in her twenties. I watched Jaxson cross his arms and smile, shaking his head while the two British women squabbled back and forth. I surmised it was a regular occurrence. Stella said something that must have displeased the younger woman because she blurted, “You’re going to give Jaxson’s seat away to Clay Tilney? A fifty-thousand-dollar dinner?”
“Fifty thousand dollars?” I cried then quickly covered my mouth.
Whoa. What kind of barbecue was this?
Stella huffed. “Well, you didn’t want it. It’s kind of you to donate to the fundraiser, but I can’t very well have empty seats at my table.”
“But Clay?” Emma protested.
“What difference does it make to you, Emma?” Jaxson interceded. “We gave up our seats, so leave it be.”
Did she seriously say fifty thousand dollars? Maybe they were talking about another dinner.
“In any case,” said Stella, “I’ve got to take care of this quandary. Come now, Beth. Let’s find Will.”
Will? Fifty-thousand-dollar dinner? Oh, heck no. I tried to protest as we left Emma and Jaxson behind. We didn’t even say a proper goodbye. I didn’t have a chance to fit in a thanks for giving me your dinner seat. I made a mental reminder to write her a letter of appreciation. I could borrow Will’s quill.
“Where are we going?” I tried to slow Stella’s pace, but she was a determined woman. It didn’t help that I had to pee. I eyeballed the port-a-potty in the distance with repugnance. I was sensitive to smells.
“I need to speak with William,” she said. “Can you find him on the tweet box?”
“Uh…”
Finding Will on the tweet box or by any other means wasn’t on my top one hundred wish list. I didn’t know what I would say to him once we came face to face. We hadn’t exactly parted on friendly terms. I said some pretty horrible things. I was probably on his famous Burnt List.
“Aha!” Stella stopped in her tracks. “I know where to look.”
She reached into the deep pockets of her baggy sailing pants and pulled out something plastic wrapped in a slender chain.
“I almost forgot to give this to you,” she said as she placed it in my hand. It was a hard, plastic card with gilded lettering that spelled out my name under a bold VIP stamp. A lanyard. For me. I officially belonged.
“This will give you access to the house if you need it and other backstage areas,” she explained. “And if you’re hungry, there’s seventy-five dollars loaded on the card. Just swipe at any food booth. Not alcohol—just food.”
I stared at the lanyard in my hands, marveling at it like it was a glowing key to the TARDIS.
“Thank you,” I marveled at the wonder bestowed on me. Such a dork.
Stella narrowed her eyes over me with an amused grin.
“You don’t mind if I leave you for a time,” she stated rather than asked. “Try the artichoke hearts. I hear they’re heavenly.”
Then she happily bounded off, leaving me in the midst of laughing families, balloon-bearing children, and clouds of cotton candy in every direction. The glorious aroma of popcorn and funnel cake drifted in the breeze, and I followed the wafting trail to a line of food booths and linen-covered tables shaded by navy umbrellas. It was a carnival but with a snazzy makeover. Even the game booths were covered in stark-white draperies. Live New Orleans jazz reached my ears from a nearby stage. There were stages like that all over the property. We’d passed a mariachi trio in our rush to find Emma.
I draped the lanyard around my neck. No flimsy plastic or cheap ribbon here. This lanyard was practically jewelry. I held onto the thick plastic of the VIP card. Just scan it, she said. She didn’t have to tell me twice. Mayonnaise-smothered corn on the cob called my name. But I really had to pee. After a brief argument with myself whether I should risk the port-a-potty or test the validity of the VIP pass, I decided to venture towards the house. If it didn’t work, no harm no foul. There were plenty of bushes if I couldn’t make it back in time to use the port-a-potty. The robust jazz and sounds of screaming passengers on rides faded as I reached the main entrance of the house. Two imposing men in dark shades flanked the doorway. Their black polo shirts had the word security printed over the pocket. I flashed my lanyard as I approached them, feeling much like my uncle at the U2 concert. I was ready for them to kick me to the curb. But they smiled and opened the double doors. The taller of the two (which was really saying something because they were both giants), regarded the gold print on my VIP card and gave me a warm greeting. “Good afternoon, Miss Bennet.”
“Uh, good afternoon.” It was all I could manage. The two men watched as I fumbled into the house, peeking at me as the doors closed them outside. I actually made it in. But whoa! This house. If it was impressive from the outside, it was absolutely heart stopping from the inside. The entryway alone was bigger than my whole apartment. The ceiling reached the height of three stories. The floor was a rich, dark-brown wood, and a beautifully adorned Christmas tree that had to be at least twenty-five feet tall stood proudly in the center of the foyer. The scent of pine needles reached my senses and found my happy place. Fresh garland swags were draped on the banisters all around. I was glad he still had his decorations up. It made me feel warm all over, like everything was right in the world just because I stepped into a Christmas wonderland.
I tiptoed around the tree and into what I assumed was the main room by the looks of it. Tall cocktail tables were scattered throughout, draped in floor-length, black linens. A few workers scurried about making final preparations for the evening festivities, placing centerpieces on the tables, large flower arrangements at every entryway, and candelabras on every available surface. Notably on and around a glorious, shiny, pink grand piano. Pink. I hadn’t pegged Will as a pink kind of guy. It was light—just a dusting of color, but undeniably pink. Maybe Mary Kay gave out pianos instead of Cadillacs.
Everything looked so elegant. This was no barbecue. I looked around at all the possible passageways. Where the Nigel was the bathroom? My badder protested with urgency. Ugh! I tried a few doors. No luck. There had to be a bathroom or ten somewhere in this castle. It was getting harder and harder to keep it in with every passing second. Finally, I found a corridor that looked like it led somewhere, but it was more like a labyrinth that went deeper and deeper into the house. Where the heck was I? There were some doors, but the ones not locked opened up to closets or weird rooms like one that looked like a microbrewery. At last, I reached a narrow stairwell. There had to be a bathroom upstairs. Did my VIP pass allow me access up there? It darn well should if they didn’t want a puddle on the floor. My eyeballs were about to bulge out of my head with the pressure. I had to relieve myself and soon. The stairwell was kind of dank for such an opulent mansion. It was just a simple flight of stairs like one would find in a regular house, perhaps leading up from a basement. Framed black and white photos lined the walls, but I didn’t have any time to look. I was on borrowed time he
re. A single door stood at the top. I prayed for it not to be locked. To my intense joy, it opened, and I found myself in a living area. Possibly bedrooms. Thank the Lord. Bedrooms meant bathrooms.
I made it just in time. I ran in there so fast, I didn’t have time to notice anything about my surroundings except where to find the toilet. It was while I was washing my hands that I was able to take in the gorgeous fixtures, the perfectly organized soaps and lotions and a neatly stacked tower of washcloths rolled up like egg rolls on a tray. A simple vase adorned the counter with fragrant gardenias perched on the rim and a photo frame sat right next to it, just far enough away from the sink to not get wet. It held a candid photo of Will, maybe five years younger with his hair caught in the wind. It looked like it was taken at the beach, and he smiled irreverently and carefree with a teenaged girl at his side. Georgia, if I could guess. The family resemblance was uncanny.
Panic struck in my chest. This was no guest bathroom. Family used this. I spun around to take in the rest of the space. A bath towel on the floor. Flip flops in the corner. A discarded shampoo box in the wastebasket. I needed to get out of there before I was caught. They’d probably think I was snooping around. Then I’d really be on his Burnt List. But as I snuck out into the hallway, I heard a sad, high-pitched whine. It was a constant and persistent yelping and as I followed the sound, I heard the accompanying scratch, scratch, scratch on wood. The dog was just beyond the double doors of what was probably the master suite. Or a library, judging by the doors which were heavy and imposing. I told myself to go. Just find the way back and sneak away. But I couldn’t stand the cry of an animal. Especially a sweet, brown and gold Cocker Spaniel with eyes like shiny buttons. Besides, who could know how long her human would be too busy to take her out. Maybe she had to do her business. I could totally relate to that. My heart just broke in two for the poor dear.
Maybe I’d leave a note. Took Lady for a walk. BRB. In all probability, I’d have her back before he even noticed. When I opened the doors, she jumped repeatedly with sheer excitement.