The Hopeless Romantic's Handbook

by Gemma Townley

  “You’re beautiful,” he said as he kissed her. “So hot. So sexy.”

  And Kate didn’t even blush. Didn’t worry about pulling in her stomach or turning off the lights as Joe moved on top of her, exploring every inch of her body. She felt beautiful. And hot. Dammit, she was a sexy woman with the man of her dreams between her legs, and nothing, nothing was going to make her feel anything else.

  And if, by chance, The Hopeless Romantic’s Handbook ended up covered by her jacket so that it couldn’t see quite what was going on, it didn’t mean anything. Kate was just doing her own little dance of love. And hers was definitely physical.

  12

  Joe was woken up by the phone ringing, and found himself in an empty bed. A bed that still smelled deliciously of sex. He looked at the number flashing on his phone, and grinned.

  “Bob!” he said cheerfully as he brought the phone to his ear. “How’s it going? You got some good news for me?”

  “Joe, hi,” said his UK agent. “Listen, I’m afraid it’s not what you were hoping for.”

  Joe frowned. Not what he was hoping for? Was the money not good enough? What?

  It had been his best audition yet. He’d had a good feeling about it from the start, had a sense that things were about to start going right for him. Over Here, Over There might as well have been written for him, it was so perfect.

  Sure, the casting director had said something about his playing the “dumb little brother” in Everything I Do, a description he’d abhorred ever since he’d been hounded by press articles talking about how he wasn’t the brightest button. Like people couldn’t tell the difference between an actor and a part. He wasn’t dumb. He got a sports scholarship to a great college. But no one ever mentioned that, did they?

  Still, this had been his part. An American guy having a relationship with an English girl. As he’d pointed out to the casting director, he even had an English girlfriend of his own, pretty much. He’d barely have to act at all.

  “Okay,” he said, a little uncertain. “What’s the problem?”

  “They loved you,” Bob said, “but… they’ve decided to go with someone else. With an English actor.”

  Joe shook his head in disbelief. It was impossible. That was his part. Everyone could see, it was his part.

  “They gave it to an English guy? You’re serious? Why the fuck would they do that? Why would they not give it to me?”

  Joe’s heart was racing angrily in his chest. He could have played the part with his eyes closed. He barely needed a script, for God’s sake. And they chose a fucking English guy?

  “Joe, listen, try to understand. You were great. They said you were really impressive. But he’s a name, this guy. He’s in the press all the time. They’re just nervous about using an unknown. They said—”

  “An unknown? I’m an unknown? Did they not listen to me? I was the second male lead in Everything I Do. It’s a huge show.”

  “The thing is, Joe, that show finished a while back now. And there hasn’t really been anything since….”

  Joe felt the white anger rising up inside him, the anger that had begun to develop shortly after Everything I Do got dropped. Those studio bastards. They promised him they’d have another part. Kept telling him how important he was to them. And then, as soon as the final show was in the can, that was it. No one returned his calls. No one made him a single offer.

  No, that wasn’t quite true. He’d had one offer. An offer to play an idiot in some new sitcom, which was a “pastiche” of Everything I Do, whatever the hell that was. Joe was asked to reprise his role, but according to his agent, this time he wouldn’t be making the jokes; he’d be the joke.

  He told them to go to hell, of course. And then, when nothing else had come through, he said he’d think about it after all, and they said, “Don’t worry about it, we’ve found another pretty face.” Bastards. Well, he was going to show them. He had to show them. He was going to go back to LA having made it in London. He was going to be a hot property.

  “I’ve done stuff,” Joe said petulantly.

  “Thing is, Joe, opening a car show or two doesn’t really count for a lot here.”

  “I am a well-known actor,” Joe said, undeterred by Bob’s car show comment. Hell, everyone had to do what they could to make a buck or two sometimes, didn’t they? “Fact is, they could have had an LA actor with major studio experience, and they’re calling me an unknown? Who is this guy? What’s he been in?”

  Bob cleared his throat. “He was in an advert for car insurance. Dressed as a gorilla.”

  Joe was silent for a moment. The word gorilla was ringing some bells, but he couldn’t remember why. “A gorilla?”

  “It captured the public’s imagination. He does celebrity appearances. And he was on Celebrity Dance Academy.”

  “Sorry, what? What the fuck are you talking about? Is that a show?” Joe was doing his best to keep his voice level, but he couldn’t hide his outrage. He needed that part. They should have been begging to have him, and instead they’d offered the part to a frigging gorilla.

  “It’s very popular. Celebrities have to learn to dance and they get voted off by the public. He did it dressed in his gorilla costume.

  “You want me to dress up as a gorilla?” Joe asked tersely. “Is that what you want? Or what about a kangaroo? You think that might get these assholes to take me seriously? I mean, tell me, really, what the hell is going on here?”

  Bob sighed. “I’ve got some other auditions here. Joe, just be patient, these things take time.”

  “Sure they do,” Joe said, trying to calm himself down. Now was not the time to shout at his agent. “I know that. I just had a good feeling about that show, you know?”

  “I know. I did, too. Look, there’s other stuff. Not quite as high profile, but you got a callback for that cream cheese commercial.”

  Joe frowned. “Cream cheese? Bob, I told you, I’m not doing that crap. I’m Joe Rogers.”

  “Sure. But it’s good money. Just whilst you’re waiting for the right part?”

  “Not a chance. I’ve got my image to think about, Bob. And I’d appreciate it if you’d think about it, too.”

  Joe slammed down the receiver, then sighed. He wouldn’t let this get him down. Wouldn’t let it dent his confidence. He was Joe Rogers, a successful actor, and he was better than a talking gorilla any day of the week.

  He sank slowly back under Kate’s sheets and cursed the fact that she’d gone to work already. He needed some sympathy here. Needed her to look at him with those doe eyes and remind him that he was talented and sexy.

  Restlessly, he sat up again, then picked up his cell phone. Kate might be at work, but there was always later, wasn’t there?

  “I cannot bloody well believe that they put the gorilla ahead of me again.”

  Kate looked up from her phone, smiling. It was lunchtime on the Future: Perfect set and she had a text message from Joe suggesting a drink that evening.

  “The gorilla?” she asked vaguely.

  “Yes, this bloody man in his gorilla suit. They put his interview before mine—page fourteen, would you believe, shoving me back to page twenty-six, and he gets a photo flash on the cover, whereas I just get a little line at the bottom.”

  “I wouldn’t say your bottom line is particularly small,” Gareth said with a little glint in his eye, and Penny glared at him.

  “I’m going to call my agent,” she snarled, standing up. “I’ve had enough of this shit.”

  Before she could leave, Magda stormed over. “Have you seen this interview?” she asked, holding up a second copy of the magazine Penny had been brandishing.

  “I know” Penny intoned. “Page twenty-six. Can you believe it?”

  Magda glared at her. “No bloody mention of Future: Perfect is what I was wondering about,” she said angrily. “We had a deal, Penny, and the deal was that we overpay you and in return you get your grubby little interviews in celebrity magazines and you talk about nothing bu
t the show.”

  Penny rolled her eyes. “Magda, don’t be so naïve. Like anyone would interview me about the show for an hour.”

  “Well, if you’re not careful, they won’t be able to,” Magda said, her eyes flashing. “You’re going to find yourself out of a job, if the show doesn’t fold first.” She threw the magazine down on the Joneses’ table and stomped out of the kitchen, leaving Gareth and Kate shooting silent looks at each other.

  “Bloody drama queen,” Penny muttered under her breath. She picked up the magazine and pulled out her mobile phone, wandering out to the garden.

  Gareth sighed with relief; then he turned to Kate conspiratorially “You know this show’s going under,” he said. “I mean, if Magda and Penny don’t implode first. Apparently the sponsor’s thinking of pulling out.”

  “Really?” Kate asked, worried. It was all very well to bitch about her job, but she was still grateful that she had one.

  “It didn’t come from me,” Gareth said, looking around to check that no one was listening, “but I wouldn’t be surprised if they bin the show after this series. That’s why Magda’s got perpetual PMT at the moment.”

  Kate frowned as Penny came striding back in. “And they put the gorilla first!” she was shouting. “Has it had any hit singles? Does it have its own reality makeover show? No, it bloody well doesn’t. I want you to ring them up, and I want you to tell them that I am unhappy. Very unhappy … Yes, I know. Yes, I do understand that…. No, I know the advert is very popular and is on network television, but… Fine. Well, get me an advert too then…. Yes, I know I said that, but I’ve changed my mind. It has to be national, though.”

  She snapped her phone shut and looked at Kate, then Gareth. “And you can stop staring, thank you very much,” she said, tossing her hair—or at least trying; her hair was so stiff with products that it wouldn’t play ball. “As soon as I’m starring in my own national advertising campaign I won’t have to work with dross like you anymore.”

  As she walked off, Gareth rolled his eyes. “What the hell’s she going to advertise?” he asked archly. “Only way she could make anyone money is by people paying to keep her out of their living rooms.”

  As he spoke, Magda swept back in. “Kate, a word?”

  Kate looked up expectantly.

  “Your stalker’s called again,” Magda said. “Wouldn’t say what the problem was, just that she wanted to talk to you. It’s a bad sign, Kate, not leaving a message. Legal haven’t spoken to her yet but they want to know what you did. Any problems, shortcuts, that sort of thing. So they can prepare.”

  “Prepare?” Kate echoed. That sounded bad.

  “So they know what to expect,” Magda said. “And so they know who’s culpable—the show or you.”

  “Culpable for what?” Kate asked.

  Magda shook her head vaguely. “I don’t know. Ask legal. I’m just passing on the message.”

  She wandered off, and Kate put her head on the table and covered it with her hands.

  “Don’t stress,” Gareth counseled her. “Just deny all knowledge of anything that went wrong. They can’t touch you for it if they can’t prove it.”

  “But I don’t know what I’m supposed to have done!” she said indignantly. “Why can’t I just talk to her? Why does legal have to get involved, anyway? She was really nice on the show. I don’t understand.”

  “You’ve got her number, haven’t you?” Gareth said. “Call her if you really want to.”

  Kate stared at him. Of course. She had everyone’s numbers in her files.

  “What if Magda’s right and she records the conversation?”

  “Just don’t say anything incriminating. At least you’ll know what the problem is.”

  “You’re a star, Gareth.” Kate beamed. “Yes. I’m going to bloody well call her.”

  “Atta girl,” Gareth said. “Now, do you mind telling me why Sarah Jones keeps going on about getting a leather sofa?”

  13

  The Art of Compromise

  If only all our interactions and conversations were sweet, fulfilling, and trouble free. But sadly, all too often our friendships are peppered with squabbles and disagreements; even lovers’ tiffs can sometimes be unavoidable. One of us wants to go to the theater; the other wishes to stay at home. One of us enjoys country pursuits on the weekend; the other enjoys the convenience of the town.

  The hopeless romantic, however, knows that disagreements need not lead to sadness and distress. Handled well, a disagreement can be turned into a wonderful opportunity to show that you are willing to compromise, to prove to the other that you can put their feelings first. And when we do this, all too often, our lover or friend will realize that they are capable of putting our feelings first, too. And so, from cross words come kind ones. From hopelessness comes hope.

  Romance, you see, is not a trip to the theater or a small but expensive gift. Romance is a way of life, a generosity of spirit, and the generous soul will always have everything that it needs….

  As soon as Kate got home that evening, she dug out Carole Jacobs’s phone number from her files and made her way to the kitchen. She picked up the phone, started to dial, and put it down again. Then she sat back on her chair, drumming her fingers on her kitchen table.

  The trouble was, she thought nervously, that it was all very well for Elizabeth Stallwood to talk about compromising and putting other people’s feelings first, but she’d probably never had anyone threatening to sue her. How could Kate show Carole Jacobs that she was willing to put her feelings first when she didn’t even know what her feelings were?

  Actually, she suspected that she did know what her feelings were. She’d gone back through her notes to find out what could have upset Carole Jacobs and she figured it must have been one of two things. There was the staple-gunning—curtains this time, because there hadn’t been time to fit a double curtain rail. And then there was the fact that they’d sanded the floor, but only around the furniture and not under, at Magda’s express instructions, again because of a lack of time. Which meant that Carole wouldn’t be able to move even a chair without their cheap shortcut becoming very evident.

  Maybe she was angry about both. Maybe there was something completely different. But did she really have to sue Kate because of it? What kind of crazy overreaction was that?

  Slowly, her hand inched back toward the phone as she stared at the crib sheet in front of her on which she’d written down as many arguments as she could think of as to why it wasn’t her fault that Carole Jacobs was so unhappy with her makeover.

  The lawyers at Future: Perfect had told her once that the important thing was never to say sorry about anything because then you were admitting culpability and people could sue. Instead she should use words like regret and it’s a shame, which sounded either incredibly pompous or utterly patronizing, but still. She didn’t make the rules, she told herself staunchly.

  “I regret that you are unhappy with your makeover.

  “It’s a shame that the show didn’t deliver what you’d hoped.

  “I regret having ruined your home and created in you a mortal enemy who won’t leave me alone. …”

  Kate grimaced. She could do this. She knew she could.

  Taking a deep breath, she picked up the phone and dialed, then listened to it ringing, hoping against hope that Carole wouldn’t be in, that she’d moved, that she’d gone to stay with a relative in Outer Mongolia for a few months.

  “Hello?”

  “Carole Jacobs?”

  “Yes, dear? And to whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”

  Kate startled. Mrs. Jacobs sounded nice, just like she remembered. Which was bad, because now she felt guilty instead of indignant.

  “It’s Kate. Kate Hetherington from Future: Perfect” she found herself saying. “I’m just calling to say that I’m sorry. Whatever it is you’re upset about, or annoyed about, or whatever I did to your house that was so awful, I’m really sorry. It’s all my fault and I’ll
fix it if I can. Okay?”

  Carole Jacobs didn’t say anything, and Kate bit her lip anxiously. “Um, hello? Are you there?” she asked tentatively.

  “Yes. Yes I am. I’m sorry, I thought you were a prank caller. What do you mean ‘upset about’? I’m not upset about anything.”

  Kate frowned. “I’m sorry. You called the show. You called up to complain, and they don’t let us … I mean, they like to handle things like that in a different department. But look, I’d just like us to discuss it like reasonable people, if that’s okay. I mean, there’s no need to involve anyone else, is there?”

  “I don’t know, dear. Is there?”

  Kate’s frown deepened, and she looked back at The Hopeless Romantic’s Handbook.

  Handled well, a disagreement can be turned into a wonderful opportunity to show that you are willing to compromise, to prove to the other that you can put their feelings first.

  “Why don’t you tell me what you didn’t like about the makeover,” she said in her gentlest tones. “And then we’ll see what we can do. Obviously, your feelings are the most important ones here. So, I mean, what I’m trying to say is that hopefully we can reach a compromise.”

  There was another pause. “What I didn’t like?” Carole asked.

  “That’s right. Anything at all.”

  “The lipstick,” Carole said at last. “I know that cerise is frightfully old-fashioned, but it’s so jolly. That nice young man was only trying to be helpful but I didn’t like that browny color he put me in. So drab, you know. If I’m going to bother with lipstick, I like it to be bright and cheerful.”

  “The lipstick,” Kate repeated, nonplussed. “Okay, well, I’ll definitely talk to Gareth about that. So what about the house? I mean, what didn’t you like about the house?”

  “But that’s just the point,” Carole said. “I did like it. I liked it very much. And I thought it was very clever, too. Why spend money needlessly sanding a floor that no one sees? Tell me, do you really do the whole makeover for under seven hundred fifty pounds?”