by Ana Sparks
“Who do I want to be?” It was such a strange question to hear out loud, as I’d always wondered it of myself, as well. Bringing myself away from his body, I gazed into his eyes, searching. “Why don’t you name me?” I asked him.
“When I look at you, I see Ruby,” Billy said. His voice was husky, his eyes sensual. “I can’t see anything else.”
“Then I’m Claire,” I said, taking my grandmother’s name—it sounded classy enough. “Claire Harrington. The English Rose you plucked from the top of the London Eye.”
I thought surely he would kiss me, then. The heat between us was intense, forcing me to take a step back. Silence fell, and a long pause, measured by my heartbeats, drew out. I licked my lips nervously.
“And what will you call yourself?”
“I’m just Mike,” Billy answered, moving away from me, back toward the street. “Just Mike Mansfield. Mike and Claire. A match made in heaven, don’t you think?”
I didn’t answer, because I couldn’t find the words, so I just nodded.
“I think we should call it a night,” he said. “But before I go, give me your number so I can text you our plans for later.”
Realizing I was too drunk to type the numbers into his phone, I recited them to Billy. Then, I watched as he spun back down the road and began to stride away from me. His steps were long and sure, making him look dominant and powerful. His shadow grew long beneath the streetlamps. I watched him skirt around the corner, slightly disappointed that he hadn’t invited me back to his place. I called for a taxi and then threw myself in the back, my head rolling with the events of the day.
That morning, I had been panicked about when I’d have the money to return to England. When I’d have enough money to face my fears—and give up on acting. But with a thousand dollars, I could afford a one-way ticket and flee Los Angeles if I wanted to.
No matter how much I was attracted to Billy Jay Johnston, I knew he wasn’t the type to stick around long. It was better that we didn’t cross the boundaries of business associates. The world was filled with attractive, charismatic men. I didn’t have to sleep with this one in particular. It would just complicate things, I told myself. But that didn’t do anything to dampen my desire for him.
Chapter Seven
Ruby
Billy texted me the following morning while I was manning the reception desk at the agency.
I’ve set up the meeting for tomorrow night, Miss Claire Harrington, the text read.
Immediately, a smile stretched over my face. I glanced up, sensing someone watching me, and saw Jeremy holding onto several props, all angles and elbows. He dropped them at once, scattering soccer balls, basketballs, masquerade masks, and even a fake piece of pizza onto the tile.
“What are you smiling about?” he asked, his voice almost a growl.
“I’m at the reception desk. I think smiling’s a part of my job, up here,” I said.
“Martin’s sending me to Silver Lake Coffee,” Jeremy said, his eyes growing somber. “I don’t know how to bring it back hot for him. Should I—should I buy a carrier case? One of those that keeps it warm…” He trailed off, eyeing his shoes.
I was surprised at how little I cared about Martin. At how little I cared for the job, now that I felt I had a way out.
“It’s your money, man,” I said, with a shrug. “It’s up to you.”
Jeremy balked. I sensed, then, that he hadn’t gotten an acting gig in a few months, and I felt a strange twinge of sadness for him. This was a dog-eat-dog world. When you were on top, you could fall to the bottom in mere seconds. The wrong social media post could destroy you in an instant. You couldn’t prepare for it. You could only hope it wasn’t your turn.
“You don’t think he’ll fire me if I bring in a cold cup?” Jeremy asked, his voice a quiet and defeated.
“Fuck Martin,” I whispered, leaning across the desk. “You’re better than this job. And so am I.”
Jeremy gave me a strange look, then turned, picked up his props, and waddled down the hallway. Perhaps, for the first time in our years of working together, we saw each other for what we were. Just trash, at the bottom of a glittering pile of Hollywood gold.
I reached for my phone and texted Billy back.
All set to go, Mike Mansfield. Our future is bright.
The next evening, I stood at my closet, trying to choose an outfit for this “acting” gig. What would a woman like Claire Harrington choose for an expensive dinner downtown? I flicked through my outdated, weathered dresses and skirts, feeling my heart sink into my stomach. When I’d taken on this job, I hadn’t thought of the logistics. I could act the part of Claire, but I couldn’t look like her. Not by a long shot.
I pulled out my wallet and looked at my credit card—something I rarely used, as it went against everything I knew about my finances. Namely, that I didn’t have any and wouldn’t in the near future. But the difference, in this case, was that I knew I’d have one thousand dollars in my account in the next few days. With the plane ticket to England coming in at around six hundred, I could still afford a nice-looking gown and save some of the money.
Plus, for this plan to work, I couldn’t look drab.
With just a few hours left until Billy was supposed to pick me up, I hopped in my car and sped to the nearby mall. The place was more or less empty, with most of the shops up for lease, but it still had a decent food court and a few upper-tier dress shops on the far side. I decided the best shot was the off-the-rack place, which could offer me a good name brand at a discounted price.
At the store, I chose a low-cut green gown, which flowed all the way to my toes, revealing just enough cleavage and highlighting my collarbones. It was emerald green, a color that spoke of wealth, at least in my eyes. In reality, Coventry hadn’t had many of the “regal” elements that Americans often associate with England. Ours was a grey, cloudy town, with houses that stretched in endless brick lines, making it look a bit more like the American suburbs than anything else.
Thankfully, the dress was marked down to just eighty bucks—which was more than I’d ever spent on a dress, sure, but I needed it. I paid readily, racing back to my house to shower, shave, and dress myself as quickly and nicely as I could. As I washed my hair in the shower, I practiced Claire’s accent.
“Yes, darling, champagne would be marvelous, to start. We’ll be toasting the end of this deal in no time, won’t we?”
I giggled to myself, dancing out of the shower and into the gown.
Billy arrived five minutes early. The doorbell rang just as I swiped the mascara wand over my lashes. Neither of my roommates was around, so I walked, barefoot, toward the front door and nearly gasped when I opened it. Standing on the front stoop was Billy, dressed in an immaculate suit. Although he looked incredibly handsome, I could sense his discomfort. It was clear that he wasn’t used to wearing suits, and I had a feeling that it made him feel stifled. But damn, if he didn’t look sexy.
His biceps strained against the dark fabric, showing his strength. His five o’ clock shadow seemed more like an aesthetic choice, than just due to laziness. As I approached him, his face lent me that charming, cheeky smile. His eyes glistened with excitement. I didn’t know what he was up to, or why he wanted this man to think he was buying some holiday condo. But I didn’t care.
Just looking at him, I was filled with anticipation, as if this was a real date. My breath caught as I hunted for the right words to say. Something that made me seem confident and witty. After a long, straining pause—filled with so much promise—I spoke.
“Hello. Hi.”
He laughed slightly, sensing my nerves. “Don’t think you’ll be anything but perfect tonight,” he said. I shivered, feeling uncomfortable that he could read my mind so well.
I gestured for him to come in. “I just have to grab my shoes. And powder my nose.” I switched to the posh accent, becoming her—Claire Harrington—before his very eyes.
As I turned, his eyes followed my curves, t
aking stock of my cleavage in the low V-neck of the dress, the cinch of my waist. He towered in the living room as I rushed to my bedroom, trying to keep the conversation flowing. The silence felt dreadful, giving anxiety to my already hammering heart.
I shoved my feet into the heels and then peeked out of my bedroom, gazing into his eyes for a long time. My lips parted, suddenly hungry to touch his. He gestured toward my dress, flashing a confident smile.
“You look fantastic,” he said. “I don’t think this asshole will know what hit him.”
My eyes flickered, suddenly curious. “And what is it we’re hitting him with, exactly?”
Billy shrugged playfully. “That’s not important. All you have to do is play your part, dearest love.”
I chose to laugh at this strange predicament, then eased my arm through his and allowed him to lead me outside. As I locked the door, he hailed us a cab.
“Can’t have him seeing my sister’s car,” he said, pointing at the scuffed, black thing along the curb. “He’ll see right through it.”
The cab slowed to a stop outside my door. Billy led me to the back, popping open the door and watching as I slid in, drawing the length of the emerald green gown beneath me. Billy sat beside me, leaning forward and telling the cab driver: “La Fleur de Ville.” To this, the cab driver scoffed, before pulling the car away from the curb and heading toward downtown, far from the grime of Silver Lake. Into the belly of the beast.
“I think he’s impressed,” I whispered into Billy’s ear, knowing that telling anyone you were at La Fleur de Ville meant you were somebody important, at least in this town. It meant that you held the prestige of Claire Harrington. It meant that you didn’t have an embarrassingly empty bank balance, one that reeked of horrible choices and a nonexistent career.
No. Not tonight. Tonight, I was with Billy. And somehow, we were making magic happen.
Chapter Eight
Ruby
La Fleur de Ville, situated in the heart of downtown Los Angeles, was owned and operated by a famous Frenchman who apparently made the best crème brulée in all of America. He was also the topic of many a gossiping conversation, as he serially dated Hollywood starlets, which had only made his legacy grow.
The taxi stopped in front of the restaurant with a jolt. I watched Billy overpay the fare by nearly 20 dollars, and then jump from the car to help me onto the sidewalk. I was unsteady on my heels, unused to the heaviness and train of the gown, and I stumbled on the curb, sending me into Billy’s arms before I could right myself. I crashed against the solid wall of his chest.
My face reddening at the closeness and my clumsiness, I whispered, “Claire would never fall in heels.”
With affirmation, Billy grabbed my shoulder and said, “Darling, you are Claire. Time to act like it.”
It was time.
Lacing my arm through his, I allowed him to lead me through the wide glass doors, revealing the stunning interior. Bright red carpets, floor-to-ceiling windows with gold, billowing curtains, cream tablecloths, and silver cutlery, which glistened in the soft light of the sunset and the candles on the tables.
Pressing my lips together, I tried to focus, and not gawk at my surroundings with glee. This was the most gorgeous restaurant I’d ever been in, but in Claire’s eyes, it was just a casual Thursday night outing.
“Bon soir, monsieur,” Billy said to the maître d’, beckoning for him to approach. “We’re meeting Clark Lambert; he should already be here.”
“Ah, oui, of course,” the maître d’ said, tossing his head forward in a slight bow before leading us back to the area farthest from the kitchen—where tables were further apart and the lighting was dimmer, allowing more intimacy at each individual table.
In the far corner sat one of the most British-looking men I’d seen in years. His eyes were a weak blue, his jowls dramatic, and the lines on his face pronounced. He wore an expensive-looking tweed suit that didn’t fit him quite right, and was out of place for the L.A. weather. It gave me the impression that he’d grown up on the other side of the tracks, so to speak. A previously low-class person, still unaccustomed to wearing fine clothes.
“Clark? Clark Lambert?” Billy said, bringing his hand forward.
Clark refused to stand for Billy, but shook his hand firmly, then turned his watery eyes toward me and almost jumped out of his chair. “Mike. Of course. And you must be?”
“Claire Harrington,” I said, my voice light and velvety, so unlike the rougher, deeper one I normally had. I tried to analyze his accent. Despite having been in America for years, it was still edged with a brogue—Welsh, I thought—as if he’d spent a good amount of time there in his youth.
“Claire is from your neck of the woods,” Billy said, speaking in his jocular, American way. “She was excited to meet another English ex-pat.”
“But is it Englishman, or would you say Welshman?” I asked, with my best fake smile. “I wouldn’t want to mislabel you. We Brits, we’re proud of our roots,” I said with a wink.
“A good ear, my dear,” Clark said, sweeping his hands through his hair. It was thinning, edged with grey. “Well spotted, indeed. I grew up in Wales, before moving to the Midlands in my teenage years. And you? I sense a good deal of London in you.”
My god, it had worked. Bowing my head in a grand fashion, I gave him this false honor. “Born and bred. But spent many months elsewhere, throughout my youth. The south of France. Sicily. Wherever my mother’s fancy took us, we went.”
“My, my,” Clark cooed, his eyes glittering.
“My, my,” I echoed, a smile on my painted lips.
Something about Clark made my spine shiver with distaste. He seemed overcommitted to knowing me, to reaching across the table to pat my hand. A single yellow tooth in the back of his mouth seemed to wobble as he spoke, as if he toyed with it using his tongue. He told us he’d been away from England for nearly two decades, having found “grand success in the real estate business out west.”
Something about him reeked of bad business dealings. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but my first instinct was to get up from the table and run away into the night, my emerald green dress fluttering behind me.
But I remained, maintaining the façade of being perfectly calm and collected.
“You see, unlike us, Claire was born with a silver spoon in her mouth,” Billy said, taking over the conversation. He had sensed that I was drowning, that I was best suited to smiling magnanimously and adding the occasional comment. “You and I, Clark, we’re born fighters. We were born to win. I’ve been reading about your properties. Absolutely amazing what you’ve done with them. And this little place in Malibu we want to pick up—”
“Is ‘little’ the term you’d use to describe it?” Clark laughed, his belly bouncing. “Because I’d say it’s an absolute mansion. Three master bedrooms. Seven baths. Two pools and several levels of balconies, all overlooking the ocean. Sir, if that’s ‘little’ to you, then I’d like to see your definition of big.”
Billy’s eyes flashed. What was he trying to prove?
“We’ll have to get the pools checked before we make the transfer, Mike,” I said with a bored tone to my voice. “You know what happened with the pool at our last holiday home. That crack went right through the bottom and flooded the guest house. Months of repairs. An absolute disaster.”
“The lady has an eye for detail,” Clark said, giving me a smile. He gestured for the waiter, ordering another bottle of wine. “And a stomach for wine.”
It was true. Consumed by my nerves, I’d drunk not one, but two glasses of wine in a very short amount of time. I found that it was easier to fall into Claire’s mental state when I was on the tipsy side.
“Perhaps we should order something to eat, to tide us over during all of this business talk,” I suggested casually.
Clark nodded. He beckoned to a waiter and began ordering for the table. “We’ll take the three mains on rotation today, along with the cheese plate to share. That shoul
d tide us over, as the London dame says. Don’t you think?”
“Oui, monsieur.” The waiter darted away without another word.
Clark turned his attention back to me, crossing his arms over his small but noticeable potbelly. “Tell me, my beautiful compatriot. What is it you miss most about our beautiful England? Surely not the rain.”
My eyes twinkled. Speaking almost truthfully, I said, “Although the sun shines nearly every day in Los Angeles, it doesn’t so much in New York, where we normally reside. My life has been a great deal of grey, I’m afraid.”
“Which is why you should make the switch. Malibu, full-time. Why not?”
“Why not?” I chuckled, sliding my arm through Billy’s. I clung to his hand for support, secretly loving the feel of his skin on mine. I lowered my voice conspiratorially, “I have to be honest with you; I can’t get over how treacherous American breakfasts are. Where are the baked beans? And people actually drink their coffee black here, like heathens.”
Clark threw back his head with laughter. “I haven’t heard anyone talk about beans on toast in ages,” he said. “No bird I know here has even had it.”
“And I haven’t been called a bird in ages, either,” I said, giggling.
“We do have our own language, don’t we?” Clark asked.
“Something our poor American friends just can’t keep up with,” I cooed, turning toward Billy and swiping his hair over his ears.
Billy rolled his eyes as the cheese plate arrived. He dropped a bit of Brie on a delicate cracker and ate heartily. “You two are making me hungry. And bored.”
“My fiancé doesn’t understand or appreciate British culture,” I sighed, rolling my own eyes playfully.
“Well, he’s lucky he has someone like you,” Clark affirmed. “Someone who can class him up a bit. Tell me, Mike. Were you raised on fast food and slushies? Be honest.”
I chortled, remembering when I’d landed in L.A. I’d been mesmerized by the bright red, science-experiment-like slushies at gas stations and convenience stores, the way the half-frozen liquid cycled through the machine. They’d made me feel like I was entering another world.