Frosted grapes from Josh’s vineyard adorned the tiers and draped over the side of the vintage silver cake stand we’d gotten at a thrift store. The music was provided by a string ensemble from a public high school served by the arts foundation. They did a lovely job and looked so proud in their black pants and white shirts at the makeshift altar. It was a trellis worked with grapevines and flowers, and it was like a garden from a dream. When I joined Josh at the altar, it felt more real than I could have imagined.
My mom and dad had come from Iowa. My mom cried into an actual handkerchief that used to be my grandma’s. She cried not because of her joy for me, but because I truly was not going back home to teach English. My dad walked me down the aisle and told Josh in a solemn voice to take care of his girlie. Even I sniffled a little at that. Josh took both my hands in his and held them during the vows. When it was time to exchange rings, he held mine out and turned it so I could read the engraving, which made me laugh-cry. Because the words etched inside my gold band read, “Is this elevator stuck?” which was what I said to him the first time we met. That fateful elevator where he gave me his number, the number I called when I needed to be saved. I had asked him to come pick me up, to make everything okay, and he’d certainly gone above and beyond.
He’d done everything possible to make me feel valued, supported, and secure as we went into this marriage of convenience. No one could have been more open, more thoughtful, or kind. And he had been grateful—good grief, he acted like I’d given him a life-saving kidney instead of improving his public image with an engagement. He had called me his angel in two interviews. He brought me a bouquet of beautiful red hibiscus and a thermos of Mai Tais at work the day he told me we were accepting Max’s villa in Maui for later in the year. Sure, I was the only girl on the team, but no one else had cocktails and flowers delivered in person by a fiancé at the show, making taking an early lunch more fun than it could ever be. We sat on the roof of the studio—after Josh convinced a security guard that we weren’t suicide jumpers—and sipped our Mai Tai out of the shared thermos and talked about how fun it would be to go on a tropical retreat in a few months and really unplug. It was secluded, he said, but with access to the Four Seasons spa nearby, so massages and coconut foot scrubs would be in my future as well. I wondered again if I’d won some kind of karmic sweepstakes where I got the payoff from a thousand lives of good behavior. Marrying Josh was fun, and it held the promise of more fun and mutual profit. There was nothing to complain about there.
I’d had his ring engraved with ‘IOU a rescue.’ He shook his head, right there at the altar.
“No way. This is wrong. You saved me over and over since we met, and today most of all. You can say you owe me some soup. I’ll take that. A midnight snack. But the truth is, you owe me nothing. I won’t take an IOU, but I’ll take a promise anytime you have one to offer,” he said. The man could deliver a line like Clark Gable, I swear. I knew it was a marriage for show, but the line got to me anyway. So the select few guests were bound to be swooning when they heard him say it. Right after the ceremony, the guests showered us with birdseed, and we retreated to a press tent. A separate space had been constructed on the property to house the exclusive reporter and photographer for our post-wedding interview. I smirked a little at the rush to publicize our ‘private’ wedding, but I reminded myself why we were there. It wasn’t out of love. It was business. So there was no reason to act spoiled and bratty about it. I put on a smile and let him do the talking.
We sat on white folding chairs, much like the guests had used at the ceremony. We each took a glass of champagne as we entered the small tent. A woman stood to greet us while a photographer snapped away. We posed obediently, and I tried to glow with bliss. Trying to glow wasn’t easy, but I’d had professional makeup done, so I figured enough bronzer and highlighter had been used to make Sam Elliott exude a girlish dewiness. Between that and the spray tan and teeth whitening, I was as dazzling as I’d ever look. So I just smiled and murmured a few words about how magical the wedding was.
“Your legions of fans and the paparazzi camped outside the gates are celebrating your unselfish choice to have a small backyard wedding and donate to charity rather than an extravagant blowout with three designer gowns and food and flowers flown in from all over the world. How would you respond to them?” she asked.
“That we are happy with our choices. The most important thing for us was being married. We’re privileged to be able to have any kind of celebration we want, and we shared a vision for an intimate, meaningful ceremony with our closest friends and family, and finding a way to share that joy with the larger community by reaching out to donate to an organization close to our hearts. If anything, it has made this experience richer for us both, and we’re very grateful to everyone who has been a part of this,” he said, humble and charming.
Then, right there in the interview, as he was talking about how meeting me had turned his life around and made him into the kind of man he always wanted to be, and how his friends gave him hell for settling down, he pulled out a gift for me. I glanced at it and hid my frown. I didn’t want a gift in front of the camera. I didn’t want whatever was in the flat box if it meant having to share the moment with America. I felt a selfish urge to demand privacy, to say that I’d be happy to open it later when it was just the two of us. But I couldn’t. I had a role to play, a writer turned actress if you will. I was the blushing bride who was thrilled with anything her cherished groom chose to do. Even if he chose to show off in front of the video camera, which was, after all, his profession.
I tried to look bashful instead of dismayed as I took the box and lifted the lid. Inside was a folded piece of paper, a photocopy of a handwritten card. Ginger Mushroom Soup. I glanced at him in disbelief.
“Is this the recipe?”
“It is. Keep it hidden from the camera. I signed a legal document that it was for our personal use only, and we wouldn’t show it to anyone or share it.”
“You mean we can go get udon noodles and rice wine and—”
“Stop reading the ingredient list!” he laughed.
“Sorry, I’m just excited. I can for real make this soup tonight?”
“Hello, America, I’m actor Josh Mason. This is my bride, Abby Lang Mason, who wants to spend our wedding night making soup,” he deadpanned for the camera.
I forced a laugh, but really, I was torn. He’d done something so thoughtful, so special for me. I loved the gift. But I wished I hadn’t had to open it and edit my reaction for a reporter and camera crew. I wanted to throw my arms around him and kiss him heartily for the loving surprise. But we had been told to keep the excessive displays of affection in private, to hold hands and cuddle and look affectionate without doing anything that might be deemed distasteful or vulgar. So I couldn’t kiss my lawfully wedded husband because a damn reporter was in the tent. I wanted to leave the tent. I wanted to take Josh with me.
“Thank you,” I said. “And I promise to spend some time with you, too,” I said archly. Not seductively—sweetly, wholesomely even. I didn’t make the slightest innuendo, despite my desire to shock the reporter and promise illicit favors to Josh. I knew the way his eyes would darken, the hungry look he’d get, and how that shiny façade of the performer would fall away into naked desire. I felt my body clench at the thought. It would be glorious. I sat chastely by and smiled at him approvingly as he talked about money raised for the charity and how grateful we were for the outpouring of good wishes and generosity.
“We couldn’t be happier, and we thank you from the bottom of our hearts for your kindness and your congratulations. I’m the luckiest man alive, and if you’ll excuse us, we should go cut the cake,” he said with a charming grin. I blew a kiss to the camera, and he put his arm around me.
The reception was filled with sweet moments. His best man Ben made a toast about how Josh saved his life when he took him to rehab, that he was a true brother. He also said he was impressed that Josh had kept his pant
s on for this whole production since he’d been showing his naked butt in movies since the time he played sexy Frosty the Snowman on Lifetime. We had all laughed at that one, and I’d made a mental note to look that movie up on YouTube. The cake was delicious, and I smashed it into Josh’s face and laughed while the photographer snapped pictures. I heard my dad chuckle and say he’d want to put that picture in a frame.
Josh made a toast to me by lifting his champagne glass and talking about how I was the best thing that ever happened to him, that I made him realize what kind of man he wanted to be, the kind of man who deserved to be my husband. It brought tears to my eyes, and it came to me at that moment. I was falling for Josh Mason. I had let it sneak up on me so gradually. Every kindness, every thoughtful gesture. Every mind-blowing orgasm. One by one, those things had added up to me losing my head and my heart. I had lost sight of the fact that this was a publicity stunt for his career, not the most romantic thing to happen outside a 1940’s melodrama.
I had clasped my hands and blinked back tears when, in my heart, I wanted to say, “Well, shit, this is the stupidest thing I’ve ever done, falling for this guy.” Because he was a good guy, but he wasn’t in love with me, and he wouldn’t be. He was as ambitious as I was but more focused. I could’ve kicked myself—physically kicked myself in the butt—for this. I swallowed hard and raised my glass, glad at the appearance of being too overcome to speak. It was true enough. I would’ve either said, “I love you, Josh,” or “This is the biggest fucking mistake of my life.” Either way, his reaction would have been the same shocked expression probably, and he would’ve been dismayed by either. So I didn’t say a word and hoped he couldn’t read it in my eyes.
The only thing to do was to make the best of things. It was still a beneficial plan for us both, and our friendship was strong. I could keep it that way by distancing myself from him. Less constant togetherness, less depending on him. I was, I thought, probably the only bride in the world to have second thoughts during the groom’s toast, to pretend to cool off the relationship. And not only to cool off the relationship, but because his smile made me hear a cascade of church bells, and when his eyes met mine, I felt a tight knot in my chest that was a cross between mouth-watering lust and a longing I couldn’t even describe. But it started someplace near my heart. I finished my glass of champagne and ate a slice of cake. I smiled and accepted well wishes and thanked everyone. When we left, it was with relief. I had my soup recipe safely in my pretty satin clutch, and I slipped off my shoes in the back of the car. Without a word, Josh took off his coat and draped it over me, the lining still warm from his body heat. It felt good, warm and soothing, and like I belonged to him.
In a way, I did. In some ways, he’d never know, in ways I would not tell him. That weekend in Carmel was the loveliest, most agonizing of my life. Loving him, trying to hold back, trying not to tell him so even when our legs tangled together, his eyes locked on mine as he moved deep within me. I thought it a hundred times, a thousand. As I spent more time at work. As I told him, I really needed to do some research instead of hanging out with him and making dinner. I went to all requisite events, wore beautiful vintage gowns in keeping with our dedication to sustainability, and was even allowed to borrow an item from the Valentino vault, a stunning black dress that made me feel like an elegant 60’s hostess for a Tony house party in a penthouse.
I knew by now how to hold Josh’s arm, how to hang on his every word without really listening, smiling without it quite reaching my eyes. I said again and again how lucky we were to have found each other, how amazing it was to share our perspectives on the industry and make each other better, how romantic it was to cocoon at home up in his Spanish style mansion. We went to fundraisers and premieres. I talked to him about the scripts he received, and he weighed in on how I could handle Randolph and his crew at work while still making inroads to becoming part of the team. We worked together and learned from each other. I even recommended a script from an up-and-coming filmmaker who’d had a short accepted at Tribeca, and he optioned her screenplay for his production company. On the condition that I’d executive produce it to make sure the film was authentic to the story.
It was a relief when he went to Santa Barbara to do his callback audition for the crusading ex-drunk dad role. The director was having the auditions at his home because he was recovering from an ACL replacement after a tennis injury, so that meant I could spend my entire day off working on my secret spec script—an adaptation of The House of Mirth. It was my pet project. I’d always wanted to do it, but I had finally found the courage to begin. I’d be lying if I didn’t say it was Josh whose belief in my talent had pushed me in that direction. He didn’t know what I was writing, but he was adamant in his conviction that I should do what meant something to me rather than painting by numbers for the boys’ club over at Ancient Crowns.
I settled in with my laptop and stared off into space for a few minutes. Before he’d left, I’d wished him good luck, and he’d asked to schedule some time together for the coming week because he missed me. He knew I was busy and respected that, but he wanted to spend some time with me. Not as a publicity stunt, but alone at our home or undercover at some dive that had great cheeseburgers or at a late-night spin class like I liked to go to. I ached from it because I missed him too, but there was nothing for it. That way lay grief and heartbreak.
I would find a way to gently avoid him, without hurting his feelings, without making it seem like I would rather eat a bug than spend a few hours with my husband torn between joy and agony. It was exhausting, being upbeat and pleasant when I wanted to throw my arms around him and cry and say I fell for him, and it was a stupid mistake, but I needed him to tell me once and for all that it wasn’t going to be real. That he had to look in my eyes and tell me that he felt nothing for me but friendship and sexual compatibility.
I read over what I already had on my spec script, and the doorbell rang. I fixed my ponytail and went to answer the door.
Wyatt stood there looking so familiar and holding an equally familiar box.
“Sprinkles?” I said, smiling.
He gave a self-effacing shrug.
“You’re out of your routine—outside in the sunlight and everything,” I teased.
“I was thinking about you. I thought you’d like these instead of a wedding gift. Congratulations, by the way.”
“They’re my favorite. Thank you,” I said.
“Mind if I come in?”
I let him in, but I felt a pang. I was torn. I knew Josh wouldn’t like it, but I also felt bad about the time Josh refused to let him in and tried to tip him for helping me move. The righteous indignation won the day, and I let him in.
“Nice place you’ve got here.”
“Thanks. It takes some getting used to, because it’s just so much,” I said. “But it’s wonderful.”
“I hope he’s wonderful, too. I hope he’s good to you, Abs.”
“Thank you. He is. More than you could ever know,” I said sincerely. “Thanks for the cupcakes. And thanks for dropping by. I think I’d better get you out of here. I have work to do.”
“Are you afraid of him?” Wyatt asked.
I laughed.
“Afraid of him? No. You’ve got to be kidding. I just know he wouldn’t like it if I had you here, and I don’t want any drama.”
“You know you can call me. If you need anything.”
“I know that. Thanks,” I said, glad when I finally got him out the door.
Wyatt hadn’t changed a bit. He was still a nice guy, a friend. I didn’t feel any pull toward him. I felt like he was a relic from another time, another life, and I was mainly glad that he was gone before Josh could know he’d been there. He wouldn’t take that well, and I understood it. I just didn’t want to deal with it particularly. I wouldn’t like it if he had Mimi or somebody over here while I was out of town, not because I didn’t trust him but because it was disrespectful to our commitment. Because we had promised, for con
venience or not, that we were together with no cheating, no lying, no thorny relationship problems. Or at least that had been the plan.
Chapter 11
Josh
“Click the link and look at the pictures. It’s the ex,” Max said grimly.
I clicked through and saw the headline. “Trouble in Mason’s Paradise: Bride Hooks Up with Ex.” There was a color photo of Abby reaching out to take a gift box from Wyatt, who stood on our porch. Another picture of her welcoming him inside. Closing the door behind him.
I stalked out of my reading for the narration of a documentary on the effect of arts on student achievement—an audition I’d lobbied for. I had to get away.
I wouldn’t say I saw red. I’d say black spots appeared in my vision. My imagination showed me lurid pictures of them peeling off each other’s clothes, their naked limbs twisting on the couch as she arched her back and he drove inside her. I felt my hands start to shake. I felt the heat of violence course through me. He had gone into my home. She had let him into our home, into a place sacred to us. She had been smiling, happy to see him. Perhaps she’d been expecting him. She’d invited him there because I’d be gone all day. I felt a sick twist in my stomach
She wouldn’t invite a man over to desecrate our couch while I was auditioning. That was a stupid, insecure thought. It was nothing Abby would ever do to us. But rational thought did nothing to calm the wrench in my gut, the blinding rage I felt. I hung up on Max and dialed Abby. I got her voicemail. I found that talking wasn’t something I could do sensibly after leaving a message like, “Josh here, looking for you. Call me back now.”
Pretend Wife Page 11
