Pretend Wife

by Annie J. Rose

  “Demons and robots are totally different things, dude. Just, if you want to do something darker, demons are the way to go.”

  “When I said serious, I didn’t mean it necessarily had to be set inside hell,” I said.

  “See, you’re too picky. This is why they just want you to take your shirt off,” Ben joked.

  “You’re no help. Maybe you can introduce me to a nice girl, though.”

  “What do you want with a nice girl? I thought you only liked them beautiful and not ready to commit?” Indio asked.

  “Fine, talk shit all you want, but I need a new image. A nice girl and a photogenic relationship is a step toward that.”

  “If you were serious, you wouldn’t be looking for a marketable girlfriend. You’d be looking for a real relationship, a woman who’d stand by you,” Ben said. “Cassie’s been there for me every step of the way in my recovery. We’re in this together.”

  “I’m happy for you,” I said. “But I don’t need a spiritual connection. I just need someone who is over twenty-one and has a job that doesn’t involve walking a runway.”

  “If I see any mail order brides on Craigslist later, I’ll forward them to you,” Indio said.

  “Whatever, man. I’m investing in my future. As an actor, as a producer. I’m a marketable entity, as Max likes to remind me, and I have to change what I’m marketing.”

  “You mean there won’t be any more half-naked cops or half-naked drummers or half-naked Frosty?”

  “I know you’re just intimidated by my raw masculinity, and how my abs sell all those tickets,” I said, raising my glass to the boys who got me through the hard times. “You can harass me all you want. My ego is bulletproof, and I’d be lost without you assholes.”

  “Here, here!” Chris said as he and Ben toasted with spring water while Indio and I tipped our beers.

  My phone went off repeatedly. It was a local number I didn’t know, but I decided to answer anyway since they were that desperate to get ahold of me.

  “Mason here,” I said, thankful for the volume dampener in the VIP lounge. I stepped to the corner to hear what the caller had to say.

  “Josh?” a sobbing voice said.

  “Yes. Who is this?” I asked.

  “This is Abby from the elevator. I’m using a fireman’s phone. Your number was the only one I had on me. There’s been a fire at my building, and I’ve lost everything. All I had was that card you gave me—I’m so sorry, it’s stupid that I’m calling you. I don’t have anyone’s numbers memorized. Stupid cellphones…” she broke off sobbing.

  “No, I’m glad you at least had someone to call. What can I do to help?” I asked, sensing that she needed someone right now.

  “I have my car, but they won’t let me drive because—” she broke off.

  Because she was hysterical and needed someone to go pick her up.

  “What’s the address?” I asked.

  She managed to tell me where she was, and I said I’d be right there.

  “Guys, I have to go. I think fate might have just turned the tables in my favor,” I said, grabbing my keys.

  I sped out to the address she’d given me. In forty minutes, I was there, parked behind a fire department pickup outside the ruins of what looked like a decent-sized building. The other tenants were milling about as well, some with family members and some taking what few belongings they could salvage to their cars. I went up to the pickup and found Abby sitting in the passenger seat, drinking coffee out of a paper cup.

  “Hey,” I said. “How are you?”

  She shook her head. “Okay.”

  She sounded anything but okay.

  “Thanks for waiting around with me,” she said to the firefighter sitting behind the wheel playing on his phone. He nodded.

  “Thanks, man,” I said.

  He turned to nod at me, then did a double-take. “Dude, you’re Josh Mason!” he said with a laugh. “Can I get a selfie? My wife will die that I got to meet you.”

  “Sure. Want me to record a message for her? Video it on your phone?”

  “Absolutely. Her name’s Taylor. I’m Danny,” he said, hitting record and pointing the phone at me.

  “Hey, Taylor, it’s Josh. I just wanted to say hi and tell you I appreciate your boy Danny looking out for a friend of mine tonight. Firefighters are great, and their families like you are incredibly brave. I just think the world of you all and wanted to say thanks,” I said, giving my best charming grin.

  He stopped the video and played it back. “Dude, this is amazing. She’s gonna love this. I’m gonna get so lucky tonight.”

  I nodded and helped Abby out of the truck. Then I got her computer bag and suitcase out of the back of the truck and led her over to my car. I loaded her stuff in the back and got her settled in.

  “Can I get you something to eat? Something to drink?” I asked, feeling the need to take care of her.

  “I’m okay, really,” she said. “I mean, I’m not. I’m insane and freaked out. But you don’t have to get me food. You shouldn’t have come. It was a stupid panic response to call you. You’re a stranger. I literally could have had an Uber to a hotel or my friend’s place with no trouble. Instead, I called you. I’m sorry, I—”

  “So, what kind of food do you want?” I asked, cutting off her rambling.

  She was quiet for a moment before replying. “I mean, I guess Chinese doesn’t sound bad,” she said.

  A surge of triumph rushed over me. Abby admitted that she wanted food, and it was a concrete way I could fix things. Once we reached Lao Ming’s, I convinced her to go inside and sit down to eat. The place was noisy and crowded, and we sat at a Formica table with our laminated menus. I took a good look at her, probably for the first time. She was young, probably five years younger than me, with shoulder-length light brown hair and blue eyes. She took a paper napkin and wiped at the dark smudges under her eyes before she cleared her throat.

  “I can’t thank you enough for coming to get me. I’d say you don’t have to stay here and babysit me, but apparently, I need a sitter.”

  “You needed someone to be with you. I get it,” I said. And I did. All at once, when she said that, I knew. I knew she’d needed someone, and I was oddly glad that it was me.

  We both ordered some food, and I asked the waitress to bring a pot of tea with honey.

  “You’ve had a shock. You need sugar. It’s better for you than brandy. I did a TV movie where I was an EMT once—I listened to the consultant on set, so you might say I’m practically a doctor,” I said with a grin.

  She gave me a half-smile.

  “You’ve been really sweet and considerate, considering I’m a complete stranger. I bet you think I’m a moron. I mean, I don’t know my best friend’s number, she’s just on my contacts on my phone. I left my phone in my burning apartment, and then I panicked and called someone I don’t even know. I mean I might as well have called my tax accountant to come fetch me. Except obviously, I don’t know his number because I’m helpless without my iPhone.”

  She sipped her tea and shut her eyes for a second.

  “Stop apologizing. You had a rough night. We’ll get you something to eat, and then I’ll take you where you need to go,” I said. “I’m in no hurry. So just let yourself sit there and breathe for a few minutes, okay?”

  “You’re gonna make me cry again. You’re too nice. You should be taking selfies with the poor, pathetic woman you rescued. Your followers would love it.”

  “My assistant manages my Insta account. Besides, why would I do that?”

  “Don’t you read the celebrity stuff? Well, you probably don’t since you are one. Anyway, it’s usually like here’s this comedian posing with the homeless guy he gave twenty bucks or here’s a singer taking a selfie with the woman whose car she hit.”

  “I’d rather have a picture of her insurance card if she hit my car,” I said. “That sounds a little egotistical even for Hollywood. And I have an ego for damn sure. I’m just not someone
who likes to publicize my private business. I work in the public eye, and I love it, but if I give somebody five bucks or half a million, I don’t want my picture made with them.”

  “That’s unusual,” she said, “most people, and I’m not just talking celebrities, want attention and likes and all the approval.”

  “People buy tickets to see my movies. I get recognized, I get interviews. I’m getting plenty of attention. I would never pose for pictures with someone because of their misfortune. It’s undignified.”

  “Dignity. There’s an idea,” she said as she dipped into her soup. “Oh my God, this is what I needed.”

  She practically groaned and tucked into the bowl, and I smiled in spite of myself. Most of the women I was around picked at their food. She was practically shoving her head into the dish. I ate a few bites of my soup, which was quite good, and drank my water. She didn’t chatter on to fill the silence. There was plenty going on around us: the clatter of pans and hiss of oil from the kitchen, the conversations at other tables, some background music that sounded like an Indian sitar rather than anything Chinese. It was oddly peaceful, and I liked it. The ordinariness of the restaurant was a novelty. It was inexpensive and crowded with fluorescent lights instead of the dimmable VIP lounge bulbs and candles. The restaurant smelled like garlic and grease, and slowly, Abby looked like she was beginning to feel better. She wasn’t hunching her shoulders up high and looking so tense.

  “You’ve been really patient with me,” she said, wiping her fingers on a napkin.

  “I told you, it’s not a problem. I’m not in a hurry.”

  “I’m a little amazed. I mean, it’s surreal. You just came and picked me up and took me for soup to make me feel better. That’s so kind, so thoughtful. It’s really—you’re so much more than the media makes you out to be. Maybe you need a new publicist,” she said sheepishly.

  “Not that I mind you fangirling all over me, but my publicist, Max, sells what people are buying. A man who spends four hours a day working out with a trainer to play the cute, dumb guy.”

  “But you’re not just a cute, dumb guy. I think there’s a lot more depth there than people realize,” she said almost shyly.

  “I’d like to think so. And that’s precisely why I’m trying to get into roles with more meat to them. And maybe ones that allow me to keep all my clothes on,” I added.

  “So you’re saying playing shirtless strippers isn’t your dream job?” she asked with a smile.

  “Uh, no. Is Ancient Crowns your dream job?” I said.

  “Sort of. In a lot of ways, it is, because it’s my first big screenwriting job. It’s a popular show; it’s prestigious.”

  “But?”

  “But it’s like any other job. You can’t make your art in a vacuum. You have to deal with other people whose vision is totally different and who have more clout than you. My dream job would be to adapt classical English novels for those period costume dramas. God, I love those. All the Jane Austen ones, every single one, even the ones with the crappy costumes that look like they’re leftover from a high school production of Gone with the Wind,” she said, her eyes shining, looking a bright cornflower blue.

  “I’ve never watched many of those. I think I had to watch something in an English class once in high school—maybe it was A Christmas Carol,” I said. “But I understand. Because I love making movies, the whole process of storytelling that unfolds, and making every reaction play on your face for the camera. But I don’t do passion projects ordinarily. I do commercial films. Being in demand with the studios is nice, but it’s getting kind of old. I have enough money. If I could make whatever I liked, I’d be offered films where I get to explore the character's motivation a lot more deeply. I want to play more noble characters, somebody who stands for something important,” I admitted.

  “I like your characters. They’re a little shallow, but I mean the movies themselves are supposed to be escapism. It’s entertainment, and we both love entertainment enough to make it our life’s work, you know? I’m not running down your brand at all, but I do think you’re capable of more. I remember that one you made where the guy had a drawer full of old buttons. Just your face when you opened it and ran your fingers over them…”

  “Because his grandpa raised him, and his grandpa grew up in the Depression and saved everything instead of throwing it out,” I finished. “That’s one of my favorite scenes I’ve ever done. I can’t believe anyone remembers it. That was a small movie.”

  “It was a good one. And it underscored your character’s commitment, that you took on that idea that things are worth saving and keeping instead of starting over. That maybe he held on to the past too hard, but it was out of fierce loyalty. It was moving. You should do more movies like that,” she said.

  “I should. I liked working with the director. I’ve lost touch with her in the last few years because I’ve been so busy, but that might be a connection worth revisiting. You give me the best ideas, Abby.”

  “It’s not me. It’s this jasmine tea,” she said, sipping it.

  “No, it’s you. You’re easy to talk to.”

  “Thanks,” she said.

  When the waitress brought the check on a red plastic tray, Abby grabbed it.

  “No way, this is on me,” I protested, reaching for it.

  “Are you kidding? You rescued me. I was going nuts, and you came and got me and brought me here. I’m not letting you pay for soup, too.”

  She gave me a winning smile and handed cash to the waitress, telling her to keep the change. That struck me. I was a little stunned by it. First of all, no one ever offered to pay for anything when there was a celebrity around—either the restaurant comped the meal for the publicity, or everyone expected the one with all the money to pay for the whole party. Certainly, no one had offered to buy me a five-dollar bowl of soup in a long time.

  Then there was the fact that she’d just lost everything in a fire. She was a disaster victim, and instead of letting someone else pick up the check, she insisted on paying her way. But the thing that left me reeling was the generosity of giving the server the change. She’d probably tipped the woman a hundred percent of our bill, but to a minimum wage worker, that twelve bucks meant a hell of a lot more than it did to either of us. This desire to pull her weight and to show kindness to that waitress and me meant something.

  I nodded in thanks and waited on her while she disappeared into the ladies’ room. I signed a couple of autographs and kept my head down, then took her out to the car when she emerged. Her hair was brushed back into a tight ponytail, and the traces of makeup and crying were gone off of her scrubbed-clean face. She looked younger and a little lost. I was glad she was getting in a car with me and not in an Uber or on a bus. She’d have me to look out for her. It was a strange feeling, wanting to be protective of her. I decided not to overthink it. I drove her to her friend’s place and waited while she rang the bell and beat on the door. No one answered. She wandered back to the car and drooped in the passenger seat.

  “They aren’t home. Anyway, if I could borrow your phone, I’ll try to call Wyatt, I guess.”

  “Who’s Wyatt? You don’t seem eager to call him.”

  “My ex-boyfriend. We’re friendly now, I mean, it’s fine. I just—I guess I would rather go to his place than a hotel at this point since Sara isn’t an option. It’s like you said. I don’t want to be alone.”

  I gave her my phone. She dialed a number, apologized for getting the wrong number, and tried again.

  “Thank goodness. I finally got your number right,” she said. “It’s Abby. I’m sorry to call you, but I need a place to stay tonight. My apartment building burned down. Yeah, I’m fine. A friend of mine came and picked me up—a total knight in shining armor—and he’s going to give me a ride. Sara’s out of town, and I’d rather not—okay, we’ll be there in a few.”

  I punched his address into the GPS and headed that way. When we reached his house, I got her suitcase and computer bag out,
and she took them.

  “Thank you, Josh. So much. I owe you big time,” she said. “Anytime you need good publicity, I’ll shout from the rooftops about what a great guy you are. You’ve gone above and beyond.”

  “I’m glad you called me. It’s been unforgettable,” I told her. She smiled a sudden and radiant smile that made me smile back at her.

  “Thank you,” she said, “for everything.”

  About that time, a guy swung open the door, and she went up on the porch. The guy didn’t help with her bag, but he hugged her. I waved and got in my car and left. It was the strangest evening I’d had in a while.

  Chapter 4

  Abby

  Waking up on Wyatt’s couch, I stretched and rubbed my eyes. It took a few minutes to put together the events of the day before.

  From meeting Josh in the afternoon to running out of my burning building with the few things I could throw in a suitcase, minus my damn phone, to calling a complete stranger in one of my worst moments.

  And though Josh had been amazing, he was a complete stranger.

  I had pulled a card out of my pocket and called the number, mumbling and sobbing in hysterics. He should’ve hung up. Anyone sane would’ve hung up and blocked the number.

  But he hadn’t, he’d put me in his car and had gotten me soup. He hadn’t dropped me off the first chance he got. He’d cared about making sure I was okay. Had talked to me like my opinion mattered to him like we were both intelligent adults and not a Hollywood god and a bottom-rung scriptwriter. It was magical, if the aftermath of a crisis can be magical.

  When I had gotten to Wyatt’s, all I’d wanted was a shower and sleep. We’d talked for a few minutes about the fire and how I’d gotten to his house, and then I’d refused to sleep in his bed with him or even upstairs in the guest room. I liked Wyatt. He was a friend. But I didn’t want any blurred lines between us, especially when I was upset and vulnerable. He would’ve welcomed me back into his bed and been as comforting and sweet as he could be. And we would’ve gotten back together—as long as I colored inside the lines, didn’t get too ambitious, or want things that were inconvenient for him. I sighed. I was happier with the crick in my neck from sleeping on his couch than I would’ve been with the awkward reunion if I’d gone upstairs with him.