Backstage Romance: An Austen-Inspired Romantic Comedy Box Set

by Gigi Blume

  As much as Stella’s charity event was a welcome distraction, my thoughts would often wander back to Will. I was so harsh on him and frankly was a little embarrassed how much I pigeonholed him into a stereotype. He wasn’t Brett. He wasn’t even the same species as Brett.

  The silence in the apartment only made that voice in my head seem louder. Plus, I was convinced that little leprechaun in my belly was drunk.

  I turned in my two weeks’ notice to Sir William Lucas with a quiver in my voice. Oddly, it was one of the hardest things I’d ever done. The look on his face alone made me feel like I’d just dashed a child’s dreams by telling him there’s no such thing as Santa Claus. But Charlotte was supportive, proud even. Mom was angry it took me so long. I could hear her chattering on about it in the background when I called Dad. He only laughed and whispered into the phone, “If you need money, I have a bit stashed away.”

  I assured him it wouldn't come to that.

  I had to admit, after several weeks of the tiring schedule of two jobs, I was at a loss for something. I had far too many quiet hours alone to pine over Will. I had to stop myself a few times when I tried to define what I felt. I wasn’t pining. Definitely not.

  To prove my point, I did what any perfectly indifferent person would do. Stream all his movies and have a binge-watching marathon. With popcorn. I was fully prepared to hate every single one of them. But I didn’t. I was actually really invested in the storyline and sympathized with the characters. I just had to know what would happen to them in the next installment.

  What had gotten into me? Had I somehow lowered my standards for entertainment? Was it only because Will looked certifiably gorgeous? He was certainly good at jumping on rooftops and hanging one-handed from helicopters. But his ability to pull off the quiet moments were enthralling. The raw emotion and gut-wrenching agony in his performance in the third movie when his character’s wife died got me right in the heartstrings. I wondered what experience he pulled from when he shed those tears. Maybe he was thinking about his sister. Or his parents. Suddenly, I felt a deep connection with him. Then I kicked myself because that was exactly what delusional fan girls did. Which led me to wonder how much fan mail he got from adoring women. It made me rage with jealousy.

  That made me the most pathetic fan girl in all the land.

  When Stella told me not to worry about transportation, I thought she meant we’d carpool. That was just one example of how incredibly ignorant I was of the lifestyle of the rich and famous. People like Stella didn’t carpool. People like Stella sent limos. The driver who picked me up at my front door regarded me from under the brim of his chauffeur hat. I couldn’t help but notice a three-day stubble and dimples for days. He flashed his pearly whites and offered to assist me down the concrete stairs from my second-floor apartment. I declined gratefully but did take him up on the hand he offered to help me in the car; he was totally the swooniest limo driver I’d ever seen. Not like I had much experience.

  I scanned the beautiful interior and found it fitted up with a mini bar, stocked with bottled water and soft drinks and a complete entertainment system. Also, I was the only passenger. I figured I must have been his first stop, and we’d pick up Stella along the way—kind of like the way airport shuttle drivers operated. But when I asked him how long it would take to get to Stella’s house, he informed me she was already at ‘Pemberley.’ I thought he said Pepperdine at first, so naturally, I expected to arrive at a university, but when we climbed the hill in a super-fancy, residential neighborhood, I realized Pemberley was something else entirely. We passed beautiful houses that cost more than I would likely make in a lifetime. They were all unique and grandiose with green, stately lawns, and many of them were still decked in elegant Christmas decorations more glorious than any mall. As we made our ascent, the houses were spread apart by larger areas of land, and each one was even more magnificent than the last. I tried to look for street signs. Was Pemberley the name of a street or perhaps a bed and breakfast nestled amongst these great houses? But then we came upon it. The news vans lining the streets were a good indicator we were close. We were at the utmost top of the hill.

  The name Pemberley Estate was cast in wrought-iron arches over grand gates that would give Buckingham Palace a run for its money. We crossed under it and navigated down a long driveway lined with jacaranda trees on either side. I loved jacaranda trees because they reminded me of spring and even though it was still early in the year, the lavender blooms already covered the branches. We journeyed a great distance before the house itself came into view. Rounding a corner, my breath quite escaped me as my eyes took in the vision of a majestic French chateau-style mansion situated like a sentinel above the neighborhood.

  I wanted to laugh. Was this place for real? Surely, it had to be a hotel. It was stark white with a slate-gray roof and several arches in the front entry. And were those turrets on the far end of the house? This was bananas.

  But although the place was ridiculously huge, it also had a cozy atmosphere. Maybe because it was hedged in with rows of evergreen trees or rose bushes lining the edge of a small vineyard. Or maybe it was just the Disney-esque Christmas decorations or carnival tents scattered throughout the property. All I knew was that whoever lived here had taste. Hashtag rich-people-goals.

  “Pemberley was built in 1934 at the height of the Great Depression for a department store executive,” the driver cheerily chirped through the partition.

  I chuckled. “That’s pretty ironic.”

  “I know, right?” He laughed. “Anyway, it recently went through some major renovations to give it a contemporary update. Pretty cool, huh?”

  “Yeah,” I agreed. “It’s gorgeous. The maintenance alone probably costs more in a month than I make in a year.”

  I could see him shrug in the rear-view mirror reflection. “I guess,” he said with a dimpled grin. “The Darcys spared no expense to bring this charity event here.”

  My little heart did a flip at the mention of the name Darcy. Then it sank to my feet like a weighted yoga ball. This was Will’s house? As in he lived here? Honestly, I didn’t know what I pictured his home to be like. I guess I never gave the idea of Will living anywhere much thought. He was kind of a wandering soul—floating somewhere in the cinema firmament.

  “Take me home,” I blurted.

  “What?”

  “Turn around. Take me home. Please.”

  “But we just got here.”

  I was suddenly extremely dizzy and lightheaded, not to mention the ringing sensation in my ears. It was either the effect of Will Darcy’s massive house or a nuclear bomb had just hit L.A.

  “I’m going to be sick.”

  The driver’s face went white. He was probably concerned I’d hurl all over the upholstery.

  “Let me just get through this traffic,” he said.

  Oh, but that wouldn’t do. Stella was a few cars ahead of us, greeting people as they disembarked.

  “Oh, Bard,” I cried. “Go, go, go!”

  “All right, all right.” He swiftly put the car in reverse and did his best Knight Rider skid, burning rubber away from the line of Bentleys and Lamborghinis. The screech of tires turned Stella’s head and as we raced backwards, I could see her chasing after us on foot, calling, “Wait. Where are you going?”

  It was a hilarious sight to see an elderly Englishwoman (who’d been knighted by The Queen) running down the driveway in pursuit of a retreating limo with her arms flailing. The look on her face was priceless. She slowed down when we were forced to stop, having been blocked by a catering truck.

  “Sorry, Miss Bennet,” the driver apologized. “I tried.”

  A tap sounded on the glass, and he rolled down his window to reveal a heated, out of breath Dame Stella.

  “What on earth are you doing?” she huffed. “I’m old and wearing Dior. Not a good combination for calisthenics. Are you trying to kill me, Enrique?”

  Enrique!

  She poked her silver head all the way
inside the driver’s window, causing Enrique to lean dramatically to his right.

  “Beth,” she chirped with an enormous grin. “Don’t you look lovely.”

  I’d lost my opportunity for escape. Enrique cut the engine and escorted me out of the limo as though I was decked out for the Oscars instead of a hoedown. I felt so underdressed. Fancy houses will do that to you. Stella was ravishing in a nautical navy and white pants set with gold buttons in the shape of anchors. It was casual in a way that made a statement that said I’m here amongst you peons, but I’d rather be on my yacht, dahhhling. Stella wouldn’t talk like that, but her outfit certainly did.

  “I’m in a bit of a quandary,” she said, taking my arm. She swiftly whisked me towards the great house—I trotted along, glancing wistfully back at Enrique and my last hope of escape. He stood in front of the limo with his hands clasped in fig leaf position and shrugged as he watched me go to the gallows. The sun reflected with a sparkle off his aviator glasses, and he flashed me a toothy grin.

  “Umm…” I said, trying to keep the pace, “what kind of quandary?”

  She led me around the front drive and down a path to a great, open area which looked like the perfect place to play croquet or golf—or some other rich person sport—but was now transformed into colorful fairgrounds. I first noticed white tents with flags on the pointed tops and as we ventured further into the throng of families with children of all ages, the rides came into view. A giant Viking ship swing, spinning rides, a zipper—even a Ferris wheel. How did I not see the Ferris wheel before?

  “We need to find my niece,” said Stella over the noise of the crowd. “She’s got to be here somewhere.”

  By her niece, she could only mean one of the most famous actresses working in Hollywood—Emma Woods. I’d seen almost all her movies and unabashedly bought whatever line of cosmetics she endorsed in those chic commercials that went viral on the internet. For a commercial to go viral, it had to be something special.

  “Why don’t you just call her?” I asked sheepishly. It seemed like an obvious solution to me, but you never know.

  “I don’t remember where I set my mobile,” she said. “She’ll be easier to find if we follow the flashing camera bulbs.”

  “Hang on.” I stopped in the shade of a game booth to navigate the search engine on my phone and typed in hashtag gardinerartscharity. I smiled at Stella and wiggled my phone in the air. “Good ‘ol internet,” I quipped.

  She raised a silver brow. “Indeed.”

  It didn’t take long. The number of reporters, entertainment bloggers, and YouTubers was at level ludicrous. You couldn’t take five steps in any direction without running into some kind of media dynamo, and every single one of them would want to be first to post candid celebrity shots.

  “This one looks recent,” I said, showing the image to Stella.

  She squinted at the screen, examining the photo of Emma Woods on the arm of an incredibly handsome man who had his head thrown back in a fit of laughter. If that was her date, they made an adorable couple.

  “I know where that is,” remarked Stella. “Come along.”

  She led me through the grounds with purpose and filled me in on the situation as I fell into step with her. Apparently, Bing was supposed to sing a couple of songs, and he bailed at the last minute.

  “We’ll need to find a replacement,” explained Stella. “And then there’s the little matter of filling his dinner seat at the gala tonight. I put his place card next to yours.”

  Place card? I had a place card?

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t follow.”

  “Dinner, my dear,” she said with a heavy sigh, weary of my ignorance. “Didn’t I mention you and Bing would be sitting at my table?”

  No. No, she did not. I shook my head.

  “Well, no matter,” she went on, still walking briskly. “Bing’s not coming and now, we have to find someone to replace him.”

  She leaned into me with a conspiratorial tone. “We planned to sing O False One and the Pair of Ducks number. Neither one of those songs will work without him.”

  I was flummoxed. “Oh.”

  Yep. That’s all I could say. Just oh. Like Oh, there’s lipstick on my teeth, or Oh, it’s shamrock shake season. Not hold the phone, what is this gala you speak of? Or even hang on now, is this dinner a casual thing, like maybe a barbecue?

  She was so flippant about it, I was fairly certain dinner was barbecue. Or giant turkey legs like at Ren Faire. Or maybe a six-foot sub. I had my heart set on raiding the corn on the cob booth.

  We reached an open-air tent with auction items on display. My inner bad girl took a leap at the sight of a sweet Harley Davidson with a sidecar. How much would that go for? I fell a little behind as the items on display caught my attention, and I slowed my pace. Stella stayed her course and made a beeline to two people bent over an auction table. When they turned to greet her, I recognized Emma Woods immediately. She was so effervescent. The man from the photo kissed Stella on the hand. Such a gentleman. I did a quick glance at the caption under the internet article on my phone. Apparently, he was a big-time director. Jaxson Knightly. The name sounded familiar. I was so out of touch, it was ridiculous.

  “I’d like you to meet my friend Beth,” Stella announced as I approached the trio. “She’s the best Edith I’ve ever seen on stage.”

  I was officially going to lose it. Dame Stella Gardiner tooted my horn in front of Hollywood’s sweetheart and her A-list director boyfriend. Great. I wanted to laugh like a valley girl and say, “I’m so totally sure,” but I held in my fangirl glee and said dismissively, “I’m sure that’s an exaggeration.”

  “My aunt is a great exaggerator,” said Emma, shaking my hand. “But never about theatre, and never about talent. I’m Emma.”

  “Yes, I know.” Ohmigosh, ohmigosh, I was shaking hands with Emma Woods!

  Keep it together, Beth.

  Her charming companion then took my hand and gave it a little squeeze. “A pleasure,” he said with a slight nod.

  Good Heavens, he was Australian. I was so out of my element, but here were these people, just people doing people things, shaking hands with new acquaintances. No biggie.

  Like an idiot, I held up my phone, showing the search results that led us to them.

  “Beth has been helping me find our guests on the twit-box,” remarked Stella. “What did Emma say to you that was so amusing, Jaxson?”

  Emma peeked at the screen and winced.

  “I just followed the hashtag gardinerartscharity,” I squeaked in my mousy voice. “I swear I’m not a stalker.”

  That was probably the kind of statement stalkers would make. But Emma smiled warmly and said something about her mom. I didn’t quite hear everything because my ears were still ringing from the shock of being at Will’s house. There were hordes of people. It was probable I might not even cross paths with him. He was probably busy sharpening his quill and smoking a pipe. Stella was going on about Bing going MIA.

  “I need you two to sing something from your new musical,” she demanded.

  “What?” Mr. Dreamypants and Emma exclaimed in unison.

  “We haven’t started rehearsals,” said Jaxson. “We don’t even have the finished score.”

  “Surely you can sing something,” groaned Stella, then quickly added, “Do you know anything from Pirates of Penzance? We need someone to sing Frederic’s part.”

  She wagged her brows at him.

  “I’m afraid I don’t,” he said.

  “Besides,” added Emma, “we’re not planning on staying for the dinner.”

  “Oh, my dear Emma,” returned Stella. “I was quite prepared for that. You lot never stay for dinner, although heaven knows why. I invited Beth and the other actor to fill your seats, but now that he had to cancel, I have to give away Jaxson’s place at the table again. Oh Lord! This messes up my seating chart completely.”

  “I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” replied Emma.

&
nbsp; They were so much alike. I imagined Stella much the same way when she was in her twenties. I watched Jaxson cross his arms and smile, shaking his head while the two British women squabbled back and forth. I surmised it was a regular occurrence. Stella said something that must have displeased the younger woman because she blurted, “You’re going to give Jaxson’s seat away to Clay Tilney? A fifty-thousand-dollar dinner?”

  “Fifty thousand dollars?” I cried then quickly covered my mouth.

  Whoa. What kind of barbecue was this?

  Stella huffed. “Well, you didn’t want it. It’s kind of you to donate to the fundraiser, but I can’t very well have empty seats at my table.”

  “But Clay?” Emma protested.

  “What difference does it make to you, Emma?” Jaxson interceded. “We gave up our seats, so leave it be.”

  Did she seriously say fifty thousand dollars? Maybe they were talking about another dinner.

  “In any case,” said Stella, “I’ve got to take care of this quandary. Come now, Beth. Let’s find Will.”

  Will? Fifty-thousand-dollar dinner? Oh, heck no. I tried to protest as we left Emma and Jaxson behind. We didn’t even say a proper goodbye. I didn’t have a chance to fit in a thanks for giving me your dinner seat. I made a mental reminder to write her a letter of appreciation. I could borrow Will’s quill.

  “Where are we going?” I tried to slow Stella’s pace, but she was a determined woman. It didn’t help that I had to pee. I eyeballed the port-a-potty in the distance with repugnance. I was sensitive to smells.

  “I need to speak with William,” she said. “Can you find him on the tweet box?”

  “Uh…”

  Finding Will on the tweet box or by any other means wasn’t on my top one hundred wish list. I didn’t know what I would say to him once we came face to face. We hadn’t exactly parted on friendly terms. I said some pretty horrible things. I was probably on his famous Burnt List.