by Gigi Blume
Tobias got in the habit of sending me texts twice a day. Didn’t that guy have any other clients? I knew I was putting him and the studio off.
But something deep down inside had me dragging my feet. Something about the theatre, I suppose—the immediate gratification of the audience’s laughter and applause, the quickening in the stomach when the overture began. Something Rotten was the only show I’d heard of to get a standing ovation in the middle of the first act. Granted, I wasn’t in that particular number, but it was a great feeling all the same. Just to be part of a production like that—I’d have been happy just sweeping the floor. Nah, who am I kidding? I loved playing rockstar Shakespeare.
Now I was playing a similar role. I’d traded in my codpiece for a pirate hat. The quill for a sword. And leather-clad backup dancers were exchanged for a rag-tag band of orphaned pirates. And maidens? There were always maidens. But one in particular was a distraction I had to do something about. I needed to get a grip—or a drink. Every few minutes, I felt my eyes drawn to her like a five-car pile-up on the 405. I didn’t want to look, but I couldn’t help it. And as much as I hated to admit it, she was funny. The part of Edith was generally not a very prominent role. She had a couple of solo lines and that’s it. But what Beth did with those few lines and limited blocking was brilliant. She had a talent for filling every pause with natural, physical comedy.
I told myself I only watched her for the entertainment factor. After all, millions of people subscribed to the foolish artistry of entertainers such as Miranda Sings and Carrot Head because they were funny. I fixed my eyes on Beth because she was likewise funny—and not necessarily because I ogled her curves in those tight leggings or admired how adorable she looked in that vintage Star Wars t-shirt.
But the way she glared at me when she caught me watching her—the admiration wasn’t mutual. What was it instead? Fear? Trepidation?
“Loathing.”
I was startled back into the present. She speaks!
“I’m sorry, what?”
Beth crossed her arms and glowered at me, raising her chin to level her eyes on me the best she could from nearly a foot below in height.
“I’m sure you have better things to do, Your Majesty, but we have to run this scene, so let’s just get this over with.”
What was wrong with me? We were in the middle of a song, and I had been just going through the motions. And here she was, ready to go into the lift.
“Oh, sorry, let’s try that again.”
“Fine. But I was thinking my character should display a little more loathing towards you. You’re a mongrel and a scurvy pirate, after all.”
“Duly noted.”
“You’re also a self-absorbed, arrogant, haughty, conceited, proud, spoiled, overbearing Judge Thurpin.
So today was her Sweeney Todd day.
“For the record,” I remarked, “the Pirate King may be a scallywag, but he’s no Judge Thurpin.”
“And I don’t care if you’re a movie star. I don’t need to get to know you before I form an opinion.” She used air quotes to punctuate the last three words.
“Are we still talking about the dance lift?”
Her posture straightened, and she lifted one brow, inching toward me with purpose. My mouth went as dry as the Atacama Desert.
“What do you think, Mr. Darcy?”
She was doing that thing that boxers do on pay-per-view ads when they engage in an intense faceoff. I’d heard it described as the art of defying your enemy with your eyes. It was supposed to be intimidating. But Beth, staring me down from mere inches away was having an altogether different effect on me.
I was Judge Thurpin. Hopefully, she didn’t have a straight razor tucked in those yoga pants. I instinctively shielded my neck.
“Hold please.”
I was never so relieved to hear Cole’s voice. All action ceased on stage, the entire cast directing their attention on him. But he stared straight at me.
“Is there a problem, Will?” he said with a bored expression.
Oh yes. Several problems.
“We missed our lift, that’s all,” I replied.
“Well, if you miss it next time,” he remarked with a scowl, “just mark it and fix it later.”
By fix it later, he meant more alone time with Beth. No, thank you. I was already toast. I made sure I didn’t miss the lift again.
All I wanted to do after rehearsal was blow off some steam. There’d be a party somewhere in Hollywood. I’d just have to make a few texts, and I’d be in the midst of loose women and free-flowing booze by prime time. But Stella had other plans for me. She’d scheduled the caterer to meet us at my house to consult about the charity event. The last thing I wanted to do was sample duck confit and essence of deconstructed foam. Couldn’t we just order steak and call it a day?
To my surprise, Stella was waiting for me when I arrived home. I may have taken the long way there to clear my head, so who knew how long she’d been sitting in my vestibule. Los Angeles rush hour traffic wasn’t the forest of zen one would hope for in seeking relaxation. However, I was pleased to find Stella with a shopping bag filled with Chateau Mouton. I considered it a peace offering.
“That nice man let me in,” she said without preamble. “Ephraim.” She sat on my rustic entry bench, perched upright with a paper grocery bag at her side. The bench had a couple of decorative throw pillows, but it wasn’t a comfortable place to sit.
Next to her on the bench with her furry head in her lap, was Lady. My English Cocker Spaniel. When she saw me, she jumped down, wagging the little nub where her tail should be. I gave her a scratch behind her long ears before inquiring after Stella with interest.
“Why are you sitting in here?” I asked, taking her bag. “You could have made yourself at home.”
“I did,” she said. “But your dog insists on waiting at the door for you.”
I laughed, kicking off my shoes. “Follow me to the den. My couch misses me.”
I led her to the den where I invited her to sit. She chose my father’s armchair. It was old and looked out of place, but I couldn’t bring myself to get rid of it. Besides, Georgia would kill me.
“Are these for the tasting?” I asked, holding up the bag of wine.
She wrinkled her brows, “What tasting?”
“You told me the caterer was coming today.”
“Yes. I did,” she said with a nod. “They came hours ago.”
“Oh. How was the food?”
“My dear William.” She laughed. “They just wanted to see the kitchen and make a plan for serving and such. It was nothing. But the owner is a most fascinating man. He wants to interview me for his cooking show.”
If it was nothing, why did she make such a big fuss to make sure I came? I decided not to ask.
“So did you pick the menu?” I chose to say, spreading my body across the sofa. “Nothing pretentious, I hope.”
Lady placed herself in the strategic position where my hand fell over the side of the couch. Her snout would make its way into my palm and if I didn’t make a move to massage it, her soft paw would tap at my wrist. She had me trained so well. Stella watched the transaction with interest and answered my question with a smirk.
“Oh, you need not worry about that. I’ve chosen a proper English dish.”
“Why does that scare me?”
She laughed. “Oh, don’t get your pants in a twist. We’ll be serving traditional roast with Yorkshire pudding. I figure since I’m choosing the menu, I get to pick something that reminds me of home.”
Her eyes sparkled at the thought of good ‘ol England. I wondered if she missed more than the food. I imagined she must visit often, but with a theatre to run in Los Angeles, and an academy in New York, when would she have the time?
She rose from the armchair, snatching one of the bottles of Chateau Mouton and winked. “Shall we have a nightcap?”
“How romantic, Stella,” I said with a wink. “I didn’t realize you cared so.”
“Somebody has to take care of you,” she said, looking behind my bar for a corkscrew. “It might as well be me.”
I joined her at the bar and uncorked the wine. She had two glasses ready before it had a chance to breathe.
“Thank you, Stella.” I gave her a soft kiss on the cheek. “You’re the loveliest date I have ever had.”
“Bloody right,” she said. “That last girlfriend of yours wasn’t good enough for you. You’d think she could afford clothing that covered her bits and bobs.”
She was referring to Raquel. That woman was a walking ad for silicone. She also had the personality of a lampshade. Albeit, more like the lampshade in A Christmas Story, but a lampshade all the same.
“Let’s change the subject, shall we?”
Stella sipped delicately at her wine. Her painted lips left a mark on her glass, and she looked upon it as one would admire a painting in the Getty.
“All right,” she began. “We need to finalize the entertainment at the gala, and I also have two seats to fill.”
“Let me guess. Emma and Jaxson aren’t going.”
I rolled my eyes to the ceiling. Emma Woods was Stella’s grand-niece, a flighty little chit, and she happened to be the proud owner of one shiny statue named Oscar, which was one more than I had in my collection. It didn’t hurt that she was notoriously famous for starring in the coolest movies of our generation, directed by Jaxson Knightly. Word on the street was that he only cast her because he was sweet on her. It didn’t take a genius to figure that one out. As far as I was concerned, Stella’s niece had it too easy. All her success was handed to her on a diamond-studded platter. All she had to do was ride on her aunt’s coattails and bat her pretty eyes at Jaxson. But she was no Stella Gardiner. She didn’t have half her genius. Still, the public went gaga over her—and so did the Academy.
Stella shrugged. It didn’t seem to bother her that her own niece snubbed the gala banquet. Sure, she and Jaxson paid the expensive donation for the dinner tickets, but the gesture would be better received if they bothered to show. So now Stella had two empty seats to fill, free to whomever was in her good graces.
“I was thinking,” she said, “I’d like to sing some songs for the gala with you and Bing.”
Not a chance.
In a sly move, she topped off my wine. “It would be good P.R. for the show and for your friend. He and I could sing Oh, False One and from there, you can enter the stage and we’ll go right into A Pair of Ducks.”
“It’s Paradox, Stella,” I corrected. “Not Pair of Ducks.”
I wasn’t sure if she sang the wrong lyric on purpose during rehearsal or if she was being silly. As it was, the title of the song was When You Had Left Our Pirate Fold, but everyone insisted on calling it A Paradox.
“Please tell me you don’t intend to be in costume,” I begged.
“No. Heavens!” Her laugh was a little too forced. She did intend to wear costumes. I took another gulp of wine. I could’ve used something stronger. Maybe opium.
“So, I’m guessing you want Bing to take Emma’s dinner. And what about the other ticket?”
“Elizabeth Bennet.”
I almost spat out my wine.
“Whaaat? No.”
“And why on earth not?”
How was I to tell Stella all the reasons inviting Beth to my house for a charity gala was a bad idea? How could I explain to her I crumbled all over the carpet whenever Beth was in the same zip code, let alone in my house—dressed in a sexy gown no less. No. That was a bad idea.
“Why Beth?” I protested. Even the thought of that little girl had my tongue twisted in knots. Images of Beth flooded the forefront of my thoughts. Beth on stage, Beth in the costume shop, Beth slung over my shoulder so close to my face, I couldn’t sing properly. The brief kisses we rehearsed for the show. I didn’t know what to do with this feeling. It unraveled me, and I was lost without the confidence I prided myself on. I swore not to let a woman destroy me. My father’s second wife almost destroyed him. I wouldn’t let that happen to me.
A thick silence formed between us as Stella set down her glass. “I don’t think you pay that man enough.”
I drew my brows together. “What man?”
“Ephraim.” She rolled her eyes as if we’d been discussing him all along, and I was too thick to remember.
Ephraim was my personal assistant. I hired him to take care of tasks I couldn’t do myself, like organize my calendar and pick up my dry cleaning. I would have been content had he only performed the tasks I hired him for, but he was a superstar and before I knew it, he handled all my business—running my household, fixing things when the groundskeeper couldn’t be reached. He even walked my dog. Yeah. I couldn’t live without Ephraim. And I paid him handsomely. Stella was just being dramatic.
“Did you know he sends almost all his money to his mother in Mexico?” she said. “He’s such a good son.”
“I agree.”
“He’s still driving that old Toyota. Poor fellow.”
Poor fellow indeed. The truth was, he made more than my accountant, but Stella wouldn’t believe that. I imagine her tactic to change from one uncomfortable subject to another was her way of bullying me to concede to her insane idea to invite Beth to the gala. One guess who she’d be paired with on the seating chart. Yours truly.
I pushed my wine glass away and leaned on the bar, bearing my eyes into Stella. I had my father’s eyes, and they were my only defense against that great woman.
“By all means,” I said, “let’s take Ephraim to the gala.”
“Why don’t you let me worry about that, William. I only need your participation in the Pair of Ducks song. The committee will plan the rest of the event.”
As far as she was concerned, all was settled. I provided my house, and hundreds of strangers were invited to roam my lawns and peek in my windows. I made a mental note to double security.
Stella stayed well past midnight. We were having such a good time, I didn’t even realize the late hour. She refused my offer of one of the guest bedrooms, joking it would tarnish her innocent reputation. I teased her I was the one to be worried about appearances and pressed her to stay. But she said she was perfectly fine to drive and sent me a text when she arrived home. It wasn’t until I went through the house to check all the doors that I noticed a note from Ephraim. He had a plane to catch and wouldn’t be around to walk Lady for the rest of the week. Great. The Paw Hotel required reservations weeks in advance. I’d have to take Lady to the theatre with me. The Pirate King would have a dog instead of a parrot.
Rehearsal was grueling. We were in full run-throughs, and Cole reminded us repeatedly how much of a disaster the show was in. Sadly, I had to agree. His idiotic nephew didn’t know any of the lyrics, the rope system on the pirate ship wasn’t working, and the ridiculous choreographer continued to change major dance moves at whim. At one point, he added a unicycle to which Stella firmly disapproved. To top it all off, once the first run-through of the day began, all the weeks of rehearsal seemed to have been tossed out the window. I was on stage, in the middle of the entire company, and I could barely hear them sing. The only lyric anybody seemed to know was Hail Poetry. Not the entire song, just the two words Hail Poetry. Oh, and let’s not even talk about Modern Major General. Who would have thought it could be such a novel idea to actually expect people to dance and sing at the same time?
Shocking.
After lunch, we were individually called to get fitted in our costumes. As I approached the costume shop, I heard the sound of a female voice singing. But not just any singing—opera. I thought at first Ari was listening to a recording, but as I got closer, I realized it was no recording. Ari sang a perfect rendition of Mozart’s Queen of the Night. It wasn’t overdone as I had heard before. It was lyrical and light. What’s more, she was hitting that F note without any strain. I thought at first surely, she must be singing in a lower key. My ears weren’t trained well enough to notice if she’d brought it
down a couple of steps. She was singing acapella, after all. But then I heard the piano dole out the high note. She was checking herself. As I craned my neck around the threshold to sneak a glance unnoticed, I saw her plunk out the single note and resume singing. I saw that finger. It was the high F.
What could be the meaning of that, I wondered. She didn’t sound like a casual opera aficionado. This girl knew music. I held back to listen, but the clamoring of heavy steps approached, accompanied with a familiar shrill nagging. Caroline was almost upon me, and the music stopped abruptly. My private concert was prematurely interrupted.
“There you are, Will,” Caroline blurted. “Your dog is running wild all over the place. I can’t believe Stella let her out.”
Lady! There was no reason Caroline or anyone else should have known it was my own exclusive bring-your-dog-to-work day. Lady was a sweet girl. If she’d stayed in the office, no one would have been keen to her presence. It was also doubtful Stella left her door open out of negligence. She knew how much Lady meant to me. There were too many dangers around a working theatre. I imagined it was someone else—like maybe Jorge.
I bolted up the stairs without a word to Caroline. As I ascended, I could hear a faint huff in protest, but it didn’t faze me. I needed to find Lady.
A flurrying scan of all the top levels of the theatre, the rehearsal spaces, entrance halls, and even bathrooms came up null. I searched the parking lot, the dressing rooms—even the orchestra pit. Nothing. Everyone I asked said they’d seen her briefly but didn’t notice which direction she’d gone.
If she got out into traffic…
No. It couldn’t be. I’d never known a more loyal animal. She would never stray. Not unless she thought I’d gone. Then a horrible thought hit me. What if she’d tried to head home?
“Is this your dog?”
I turned toward the voice behind me. Beth stood in the doorway to a backstage passage barely used by anyone in the current company. She held Lady in her arms and was gently rubbing her fur with the hand that cradled her belly. My first thought was relief that Lady was safe. My second thought was more of a reaction. The sight of my most precious companion content in the arms of the woman who’d been vexing me for weeks sent me all sorts of confused signals. My heart dropped to my stomach, and a strange, queasy sensation took root. And then, just as quickly, I lost the ability to breathe. It was a suffocating sensation. I’d never suffered from asthma, but I imagined that was a similar feeling.
