Pretend Wife

by Annie J. Rose

  “I should make you my publicist,” he said with a kiss on my nose, “but you’re going to be too busy once you nail the interview to write for that new comedy. You have to let me know how it goes. Good things are happening for both of us.”

  “When you meet the author of the source text, tell her you’re looking forward to reading the series. Don’t pretend it’s your favorite or something,” I advised.

  “Good idea. I would’ve been tempted to say I was almost done with the second book or something, and then what if she asked me a question about it, then what would I do?” he asked.

  “I guess run and hide in a panic,” I laughed. “Okay, I know you’re not a rookie, I’m just fussing over you.”

  “Your read through on the sample scene really helped me out. Thanks for running lines with me.”

  “Anytime. Hey, it isn’t very often I get to pretend I’m an angry mountain troll.”

  He laughed and kissed me again. “Good luck with the comedy. You’re hilarious and brilliant, and they should offer you more money.”

  “I don’t need the money. I married rich,” I teased.

  “Yes, you did. But I have a plane to catch, or I won’t be able to keep my trophy wife in fake nails and spray tans.”

  “Once! I had one spray tan, and it was for our wedding!” I laughed.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Once he left, I had to think about the interview. I was nervous. Not because I wasn’t confident in my writing, but because I was afraid that my reputation for being hard to work with would keep them from hiring me. I was tempted to call Sara for a pep talk, but she was at work, and I was a mature, successful woman who didn’t need anyone else’s opinion. I told myself that two or three times before I flipped through our wedding album to make myself smile. There, pressed in the pages, was the copy of the handwritten recipe he’d given me of my favorite Chinese soup. I had the love of a man who knew me through and through and had gotten me the most thoughtful gift ever. I would rather have had that than a diamond tiara—even the one with the pearls that Princess Diana used to wear. That thing was gorgeous, but this was even dreamier. I let the warm surge of confidence roll through me as I got ready.

  I waited in the outer office, sipping water and holding my flash drive—it had clips from the scenes I’d written as well as doc files of my scripts. I was ready. I waited for an hour and a half. I messaged Josh, who was still on the plane to NYC. I read headlines and weather reports and watched a zombie makeup tutorial because I was bored. Every other candidate was called back and eventually left. At noon, a woman came out and asked my name. I told her, and she smiled.

  “The position has been filled. Thank you for your time.”

  I got up and left. Either they’d found the perfect candidate, or they’d decided against considering me at all. Either way, it wasn’t a job I’d be getting. So I took myself out for lunch and went home to work on my spec script. Josh let me know when he’d landed safely, and I made plans and went out with the girls for some margaritas. It was fun, but it didn’t stop me from moping about the job interview or the husband I was missing while he was away.

  Before bed, I called him. I woke him up, and he mumbled into the phone.

  “I’m sorry about your interview. Stupid assholes, their show won’t be funny, and it’ll get canceled—wait and see,” he said.

  “I love you,” I told him. “How was your audition?”

  “It was great. I nailed it. I almost laughed once because the guy I read with was in costume, and I kept picturing you dressed as a rock troll, but I managed to keep a straight face. I’m staying over tomorrow because I’m supposed to do a chemistry read with the lead.”

  “That’s fantastic!” I said. “Doesn’t that mean you’re their first choice?”

  “Yeah. I’m pretty excited. It’s going to be such a huge production—the locations and the costumes and all the talent attached to it. They have the special effects and cinematography team from the Hobbit films.”

  “It sounds major. You’re going to get it. I know you will. Call me afterward,” I said.

  “I will. I love you. Goodnight.”

  I was happy for him, but a little envious of his opportunity. I scolded myself, reminding myself how it felt when I thought he was dying in ICU and how I swore I wouldn’t make it a competition, that I’d be his biggest supporter. So I put jealousy out of my mind and went to sleep.

  Josh surprised me in the late afternoon, striding into our home and wrapping me in his arms.

  “I got the part. You’re looking at Zacchias, the noble loner swordsman. Preproduction starts next month. In Romania! We’ll do six months of filming on season one, and hope we get renewed. We’ve already got an order for a full 26 episodes, including a two-hour premiere movie.”

  “That’s amazing!” I said, squeezing him. “Except, um, you’re moving to Romania? For half a year?”

  “I’ll get to come home on long weekends, and it’s an incredible opportunity. I have pictures to show you of where we’re filming. It’s a really remote, rugged landscape—all signs point to this running for years.”

  “Wow,” I said, sitting down on the couch, trying to process the fact that he was basically moving away without talking to me about it. “Tell me about your chemistry read. I guess it went well.”

  “Better than well. It was perfect. My reading with the lead, Queen Rathlin of the Northern Kingdoms—it’s Seline Rogan, and the role was made for her. Imperious and calculating—she’s going to win all the awards, I guarantee.”

  “So, Seline as in your ex-lover?” I said, hand on my stomach. At once, I knew how he felt when he found out I’d been alone with Wyatt. He hadn’t even been alone with this woman, just in an audition with a room full of directors, writers, and crew, and I felt sick.

  “Yes, same actress.”

  “You’re moving to Romania with your ex-lover. For six months,” I said, my voice sounding hollow and far away.

  “Not like that. I’m shooting on location for a few months, and Seline Rogan is one of the dozens of actors on the project. I won’t be with her unless we are in the same scene.”

  “They did a chemistry read with her. That must mean you are in a lot of scenes together.”

  “Well, yes, in season one, my character is an honorable swordsman who lost everything and now works as a mercenary. The queen hires a group of mercenaries, him among them, to kill a scheming member of her court. Then she has an affair with my character.”

  “Sex scenes. Naked sex scenes with your famous, talented, gorgeous ex. In Romania. Where you’re moving for six months. Sorry if my brain can’t compute this much horror at once. Did you go looking for the job that would hurt me the most? I want things to go well for you. I truly do. I’m just a little—a lot upset that you decided to move without talking to me, and you didn’t seem to consider how working closely and portraying a romantic relationship with your ex would be a problem for us.”

  “It’s a great opportunity. It’s a job where I’ll be working with her. It’s not personal. And I’d be happy to see if they need more writers or script supervisors on the series and then you could come with me. I’m sure I could help you with my contacts at the network. And I know things haven’t been going well for you with getting a new job. My offer to produce your spec scripts till stands. I’d be happy to do it.”

  “It’s not even about that. Although, no, I don’t want you to get me a job checking details in the script on your new project just so I can tag along and police you to make sure you don’t squeeze Seline’s boob too long after a scene ends. I’m having a hard time because I’m unemployed, but mainly, it’s the fact that you decided to freaking move and go work with your ex. I don’t know how you don’t see that as a problem when my ex couldn’t drop off a box of goddamn cupcakes without you flipping out. Imagine for a moment that I said I was moving to like Japan with Wyatt for half a year. How would you feel?”

  “I wouldn’t like it. But I
would trust you. I overreacted back then, and I apologize for it. I hope that now I have more trust in you and more trust in myself and wouldn’t behave that way again.

  “Abby. I love you. I married you. Seline screwed me over a decade ago. Now I have a chance to work on a great project I wanted to do before I found out she was involved in it. Do you want me to refuse the series? Because I will. I won’t hesitate. If it’s that important to you, I won’t do it. And I thought, well, I hoped you’d come to Romania with me, at least part of the time. You can write on your spec script or go sightseeing or go on day trips or whatever you like. But I do want you with me, and I thought we’d come back to LA for long weekends, but I never thought we’d be apart for that long. It wouldn’t be good for us.”

  “No, I don’t want you to quit the show. You want to do it, and it’s important to you. But I’m not going to go live in Romania and, like, learn to crochet and stare at the perfection of Seline Rogan while you work. I need to pursue writing jobs, and they’re not in Romania. So I will visit you, and you’ll visit me. It’s just—really hard that you did this without discussing it with me, Josh.”

  “I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t think. I was so excited, and this is exactly the kind of long-term, more mature role I’ve been waiting for. I owe it to you because you turned my image around. That’s why I got to work with Devereaux and why I got this job. So don’t think for a minute that I’m not thinking of you. I should’ve talked to you about it. But, give me credit for being arrogant instead of being thoughtless—I assumed you’d want to move with me. So I was wrong, but I wasn’t wrong like you think I was, like I didn’t care about you. I was wrong like a man who takes his wife for granted.”

  I hugged him. I had to trust him. I had to give him space to grow as an actor and push his career in the direction he wanted it to go. It was hard and painful, and for about the hundredth time, I thought about how marriage was so difficult, so much about not being selfish when I wanted to be selfish. He held me for a long time. I didn’t deny myself the pleasure of being held by him. It was one of the greatest feelings in life, and I would never pass up a chance at it. I burrowed my head against his chest, those big, strong arms around me. I felt like nothing bad could ever happen to us as long as we held on.

  The next day, while I brooded about Romania and Seline, I got a call from a number I didn’t know. I answered it.

  “Hello?” I said.

  “Is this Abby Lang?”

  “Yes. Abby Lang Mason,” I said.

  “Abby, this is Ellen Truitt. We met at a party.”

  “Oh, my God. Ellen Truitt. Yes, I would never forget that. You talked about Mill on the Floss. I can’t wait to see your adaptation.”

  “Well, you might have to wait forever. I scrapped it. Too misogynistic after all. I’ve got the green light on my Ethan Frome miniseries.”

  “You’re doing Wharton?”

  “I’m doing Wharton, and I rather hoped you’d do it with me.”

  “What?”

  “I’d like to speak to you about co-writing the teleplay. We’re budgeted for eight episodes, plus a making-of featurette for BBC. Three months of filming on location. I have a preliminary draft of the script, but it needs another pair of eyes, someone like yourself, who appreciates the classics. We should make arrangements. I have a house in the Cotswolds where we’ll be working before we go to the locations in the Lake District of England.”

  “In England? I am so honored that you called me, and I absolutely want to do this. I just need to speak to my husband to make sure this will work out for us. Is it okay if I get back with you tonight?”

  “Certainly, Abby. I look forward to working with you.”

  “Thank you so much!” I said.

  I was ecstatic. Working with my idol on a project adapting my favorite author? Yes, please! I texted Josh to let him know I had some great news for when he got home. I quickly opened Ethan Frome on my e-reader app and started skimming it and making notes. I was so excited I couldn’t sit still. I turned on the audio narration for the book so that I could work out while I listened and burn off some energy. By the time Josh got home, I was ready to burst with the news.

  “Ellen Truitt called me!”

  “That’s wonderful. I know how much you love her work.”

  “I do. And she wants me to work with her on adapting Ethan Frome for the BBC. It’s by the same author as my favorite book, the one I’ve been trying to adapt to the spec. This is the opportunity of a lifetime!”

  “Congratulations! Let’s get out the champagne. This calls for a toast!” he said, pulling me into his arms for a kiss.

  “The only catch is, I’d be writing with her in the Cotswolds and then filming in England for like three months after that.”

  “I’d miss you terribly if we were apart for three months, or for three weeks for that matter. I want to be with you. And if that means you working in England while I’m in Romania, and stealing time together when we can, then so be it. Or if that means you working with Ellen Truitt in England, and me giving up the job in Romania to be with you there, then we’ll do that. Whatever works for us.”

  “You’re right,” I said, sliding my arms around his waist. “We’ll work it out together.”

  Chapter 17

  Josh

  Romania was beautiful. I sent Abby dozens of pictures of the scenery and the streets the very first day. I even went to a café and ordered the soup of the day to send her a photo. It was nothing like Chinese soup, but it was good. The only thing that wasn’t great about Romania was that Abby was out in Los Angeles, thousands of miles away. We’d been through so much together. My accident. Admitting we were in love with each other. Then I got the job, which was terrific but caused her pain. I was so relieved when she had the call from Ellen Truitt and was offered a project she could truly be excited about. Adapting Edith Wharton and collaborating with her idol, actress, and screenwriter Ellen Truitt was the kind of opportunity that would let Abby really use her talent as a writer to do something she loved, and to bring her favorite author to a new audience. I could feel how eager she was to get started, how she was already done rereading the novel, and was sifting through literary criticism about Ethan Frome at the time of its publication.

  If I texted her, called her, FaceTimed her as often as I wanted to, she’d never have a chance to get anything done. So I restrained myself to one FaceTime a day. Texting, well, I figured she could ignore those until she had time to look at them. I couldn’t resist sending her pictures of the place I was staying, the boots they fitted for me in costuming, the creepy, wormlike prosthetic they were adding to my cheek as a scar—I had sent her a photo of it on a stainless steel tray, and she replied that it looked like a parasite they removed from someone’s intestines. I shared all that with her because it made me feel connected. And when she sent me a series of drawings she found online of period-accurate hats and bonnets, I weighed in on which one was the least ugly.

  I went to costume fittings and worked with a dialect coach. I read the first three books of the series the show would be based on and made character notes—then I talked them over with Abby, who had read part of the series and had thoughts. Lots of them, some of which were hilarious and some which explained why she quit reading before the end of the series. Evidently, my character would die halfway through, although right now, we were only booked for one season. I’d last three or four seasons if they were doing one book per season, maybe longer if they dragged it out.

  “Seline doesn’t die until the second to last book, I’m sorry to say,” Abby messaged me. “I looked it up because I didn’t want to read the rest of the books. I was hoping she’d have a bad reaction to some medieval Botox and drop dead during season one.”

  “I think that’s historically inaccurate,” I laughed.

  “I miss you.”

  “I miss you, too,” I said. “How’s Ethan Frome?”

  “Repressed. Depressing. The usual,” she said, but I could hear the
smile in her voice. “I did the radio interview today about you being supportive and us being apart. Max will send you the link. But so far, it’s gotten a good response.”

  “Thanks. I just wish you were here.”

  “I worked on some preliminary edits with Ellen today on Skype. We went over episode one’s script, and I’m going to rewrite two entire scenes!”

  “I’m glad.”

  “Are you working this weekend?”

  “I can find out, why?” I said.

  “Come home. It’s been a week and a half. I miss you.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  I talked to the producers, and they cleared me for a three-day weekend. I booked a flight and messaged Abby with the good news. It was a hell of a long flight, but it would be worth it. I reached LAX early in the morning, and my driver was waiting for me. I was tired from the flight, but I couldn’t wait to see my wife. When we pulled up to the house, she was waiting on the porch for me. I jumped out of the car, a bouquet of roses in my hand, and she ran into my arms. I held her to my chest, feeling like everything settled back into place and rightness took over. I spun her around, and we both laughed from happiness.

  “I am so glad to see you!” she said. “You can’t imagine how much I’ve missed you.”

  “I missed you, too.”

  “I made soup! We have chicken mushroom soup, the good kind!”

  I laughed and kissed her deeply.

  “God, it’s so good to see you in person. Nothing wrong with FaceTime, but it’s just—I can touch you now!”

  “I wish you would,” I said, my voice rough.

  She looked at me and gave me a sly smile.

  “The soup can wait,” she said.

  Inside, we closed the door, and I scooped her up in my arms.

  “Are you sure you’re healed up enough for that? I know it’s been a few months since the accident but—”

  “I’m a noble swordsman turned mercenary. Don’t question my physical prowess,” I said, deadpan.