Backstage Romance: An Austen-Inspired Romantic Comedy Box Set

by Gigi Blume

  Wow, I had lots of sage advice today. Where did that come from? Maybe I was starting to wonder if my friendships with men were all a farce? Was Frank simple-minded? Was Jaxson? And what about me? What were my feelings toward the men in my life? That’s why I loved chips. Chips were a lot less complicated and probably more satisfying.

  “Thank you,” Harriet said. “I’m glad I could talk to you.”

  “Me too.”

  She paused before adding, “I know this probably sounds pathetic, but… you’re my best friend. Thank you for that, too.”

  Awww. Nobody had ever said that to me before. Not even Jaxson, who I considered the very best of mates. When I thought of it, Harriet was the one female who could talk to me about anything. She was the girl I spent the most time with and the only one who wasn’t too busy to hang out on a whim. We had a lot more in common than I realized at first. Funny how I’d never thought of it before, but Harriet was my best gal pal. Curious how things turn out unexpectedly.

  “I feel the same way,” I replied with a sense of warm fuzzies. “Thank you for being my friend.”

  She was quiet for a minute. I thought I heard her sniffle.

  “Hey, wanna grab some In-N-Out?”

  “Right now?” she asked.

  I looked at the clock. It was too early for bed, and the peanut butter pretzels suddenly didn’t interest me anymore.

  “Heck yeah. Did you have dinner?” I hadn’t and suddenly had a craving for chips or, as the locals called them, Animal Fries.

  “Actually, not really,” she replied. “I’ve been on a juice cleanse all day, and I’m so over it.”

  “Great. I’ll pick you up in twenty.”

  Harriet briskly approved of the scheme and we hung up with visions of deep-fried potatoes on our minds. And I did my best not to remind myself of the many late-night trips to drive-thru burger shops I’d taken with Jaxson.

  23

  Hurry Up And Wait

  Jaxson

  Anyone who’s worked in the movie business was familiar with the term ‘hurry up and wait.’ The same should apply to the post office, the department of motor vehicles, and any place where people would have to take a number for the privilege of wasting away in a dreary room under drearier fluorescent lamps. Currently, my whole world was that dreary room, and my queue number was in the billions. I was that head shrinker in Beetlejuice.

  I had let myself fall under the misconception we only needed to present to one studio. Eggs, meet your one and only basket. Therefore, when the scheduling ‘misunderstanding’ occurred, we had nothing else lined up. A daft mistake. However, in my defence, Mr Perry all but guaranteed a green light when I pitched him the idea almost six months ago. I foolishly thought it was only a matter of logistics.

  The wait began, and I decided to use the time proactively and put my Hollywood schmoozing to work, ringing every studio in town for a chance to pitch Field of Hearts.

  I met with Pinky almost every day in cafes to run production numbers and plan our next step. I hardly saw Emma during that time. The cast and most of the production team was on-call until we had more information, since Stella needed her rehearsal space for The Gardiner Theatre’s next production.

  But I didn’t think Emma missed me at all. She was off filming a commercial with Frank, and every time I checked my social media, I found pictures of Emma and Frank at a charity event, Emma and Frank at a movie premiere, Emma and Frank caught in a very friendly looking pose. I wasn’t an idiot—I knew as well as anyone in the business not to trust the headlines on social media. Any little innocent thing could be misconstrued. But still, seeing those images plastered all over my screen raised my hackles more than they should have. Something about the smarmy expression on Frank’s mug when he looked at Emma. He didn’t even know her. He wouldn’t know her favourite food was potatoes, or that she loved time travel movies. He couldn’t tell you what her favourite song was, or that she sometimes danced in her socks Risky Business style. Or that her nose wrinkled when she was cross, or the way her brows furrowed. And when she laughed, it was like a thousand finches filled your soul. Frank Churchill had no right.

  Emma texted me occasionally to fill me in on her day or to send me photos of odd signs. That was another one of her things. She loved road signs—especially silly ones, like deer crossing signs that someone attached a red sticker to the nose, or unfortunate misspellings. Every one of them brightened my day. But she never rang—only text. One of her messages asked if I meant it when I told Annie I wasn’t going to The Oscars. Like a tosser, I confirmed I wasn’t going. I haven’t a thing to wear, I quipped. She responded with a Spanish dancer emoji.

  I couldn’t tell her why I didn’t want to go. That if I spent time with her looking gorgeous on my arm, I wouldn’t forget that kiss. How I told myself it was a bad idea but threw Weak Jaxson the keys anyway. He was a reckless driver, and I secretly loved going along for the ride—wild and free. I thought about Emma’s kiss every bloody day. I’d need one of those Men in Black memory wipes to truly forget the way Emma’s soft, pliant lips felt on mine. The way she held onto me as though she’d fly away if she let go. The way my body reacted to every little sigh and every brush of her fingertips on my skin. How I was on fire and floating on clouds all at once.

  No. Not going to the Oscars. It was better to keep my distance for a while.

  One afternoon, because I loved to suffer, I stopped by her house on the pretence of bringing tubs of Goldfish snacks for her pantry. Rosario let me in, giving me a once-over.

  “You use key next time. I walking from other side of la casa. Is too much.”

  “All right. So sorry.”

  Rosario pursed her lip and scowled at me.

  “Lo siento,” I corrected using the Spanish she taught me. That put a smile on her face. Then she briskly turned and scurried off to wherever she had been prior to my arrival. As I made my way toward the kitchen, Emma flew into the living room, attaching the back on an earring, shouting and rushing around.

  “Rosario!” she cried.

  She ran around in search of something and wore a breezy little dress that showcased her long, toned legs. I felt like saying, ‘Where do you think you’re going in that outfit, young lady?’ But I contented myself with, “You look nice.”

  Emma jumped, startled to see me under the archway between the living room and vestibule.

  “Goodness, Jaxson. Knock first.”

  “I did—and was scolded in Spanglish.”

  Her expression softened, and she inclined her head with a smile. “Rosario gets a little cross when someone interrupts her work. I think she’s doing inventory on all her cleaners and intends to send Mum the bill for tossing them in the bin.”

  She noticed the jumbo box of Goldfish in my arms, and her grin spread wider across her face.

  “Aw, Jax, you shouldn’t have.”

  “Only the best for my gal.”

  She took the box from me as though it were two dozen roses and thanked me with a polite peck on the jaw. Again with the jaw. It was rapidly becoming my favourite place on my face. I followed her progress into the pantry, noting her dainty barefooted steps and wondering why I put myself through this torture. She proudly displayed my gift on the pantry shelf right next to another Goldfish box of equal size.

  “I see Rosario made a Costco run,” I said, noting the giant packages that lined the shelves.

  “She did, but only you thought to bring me the Extra Cheesy flavour.”

  She winked and spun around. Once again, I trailed behind her, watching the swish of her dress and the patter of her feet on the hardwood floors.

  She fell into easy chatter about sundry topics. Safe topics border-lining on small talk. It was almost as though she was avoiding eye contact—or any contact—as she scurried around the house looking under pillows and mindlessly stuffing items in her purse. I laughed when she could hardly fit anything else in there after depositing a pillar candle and a vase of fake flowers.

  �
��Are you robbing your own house or packing for a glamping trip?”

  She stopped and looked at her purse, seeing the items for the first time. Too flushed to admit to temporary insanity, she blinked prettily and forced a light chuckle.

  “Oh, ya know. Just moving things around so Rosario can dust. She’s annoyingly particular that way.” Emma stomped to the other side of the room and screeched loudly as she rummaged through the entertainment cabinets. “Rosario! Where are my blasted boots?”

  “Do you suppose she stored them alphabetically between the books and DVDs?” I asked in a completely serious tone.

  She shut the cabinet doors with a thud and winced. “Maybe?”

  “Listen, Emma—”

  “I’ll just wear these,” she said, grabbing a pair of rubber wellies.

  “Dare I ask why Rosario hid your boots?”

  “For your information, she made me take them off the other day because I was soiling her floors. Her floors. I have no idea what she did with them after that.”

  I found it mildly amusing how it didn’t faze Emma one bit when her maid rebuked her for tracking dirt on the floor. There was an interesting dynamic between them. Rosario was more of a matronly figure than anything else. No wonder she clashed with Mrs Woods.

  “Are you going somewhere?” In that dress?

  She waved her hand around like it was a trip to the supermarket. “Oh, I have a thing.”

  I swallowed a lump of something tasting peculiarly like jealousy when I asked, “With Frank?” I regretted it the moment the words left my lips.

  “He’ll be there, I imagine.”

  “Oh.”

  A shadow overspread her features, and she paused, biting her bottom lip as she looked at me. I wasn’t sure what she saw. Most likely a right mess—at least that’s how I felt.

  “Do you want to come?” She wore the sweetest expression, border-lining on pity. Yeah, I was that pathetic. “It’s a PR event for the fragrance line, but it might be fun.”

  “Me? Nah. I’ve got a thing, too. I’ve got to… alphabetize my footwear.”

  “Hmmm. You don’t want to put that off.”

  “Absolutely not. Those trainers aren’t going to itemize themselves.”

  “Quite right.”

  I couldn’t think of anything else to say. I stood there, staring at her like an idiot, and she looked at me in turn, a charge between us but with a trace of fear. I wasn’t familiar with it. I didn’t get to where I was in my life from giving in to fears. I knew what I wanted, and I went for it. How else does a country boy from Australia with grand dreams make it in showbiz? Determination, sweat, and a little luck thrown in for good measure. Why shouldn’t I go to the Oscars? It was our tradition.

  “Emma, about the Oscars—”

  Rosario interrupted me by throwing a pair of suede boots at her feet.

  “Next time, taking it off before you come in.” Then she pointed at them with an angry finger. “Mucho hard to clean. Is too much. No walking to the dirt for you.”

  She cast her eyes to the ceiling and huffed, walking off into her lair of fury. Emma blinked and returned her attention to me after a beat.

  “I’m sorry. What were you talking about?”

  “The Oscars.”

  She sat down, sliding her boots onto her feet one at a time. “Don’t worry about that. You don’t have to go if you don’t want to.”

  “Aren’t you going to put on socks?”

  “Yes, I suppose so.” She took off her shoes in the same fashion. “Anyway, it worked out because Frank doesn’t have a plus one, so he asked me.”

  To the Oscars? She was going with Frank… and not with me. Our tradition. Granted, I told her I wasn’t going. But I had a right to change my mind. Now she would walk the red carpet with that dongo. After a pause in which we stared at each other for a long, awkward minute, I thought it best I go home, or at least somewhere I wouldn’t be near Emma.

  “I better let you go put some socks on. I don’t want to keep you.”

  Emma’s lips dipped into a pouty frown.

  “Yeah, and you can’t be late for your shoe thing.”

  “Indeed not.”

  She hugged me as she’d done for years, but now I was hyper-aware of all the little touches, the meaningless brush of her fingertips on my shirt, the softness of her body as I wrapped my arms around her back.

  We parted ways and as I slugged out to my car, I decided to ring her mum and tell her our agreement was now expired. My days of playing guardian were over.

  24

  Seeing Red On The Red Carpet

  Jaxson

  There was no rule I had to take a date to the Oscars. It was perfectly acceptable to attend unaccompanied. It was just that nobody did. I’d reserved two seats thinking I could take Emma. My visit to her house wasn’t about delivering Goldfish. I wanted to tell her I had changed my mind, that I wanted to take her to the awards. So now I had reservations, a freshly cleaned tux, and no date. For one nanosecond, I considered inviting Pinky. Fortunately, she told me she had a cold before I could open my sorry mouth. Then my mind turned to Harriet—how she’d gone on and on about her dream of walking the red carpet, cameras flashing in her direction, entertainment bloggers asking who she was wearing. She’d said all this to Jennifer Fairfax, but she was so animated, I couldn’t help but overhear.

  She was over the moon and even more so when Stella sent her a few gowns to try. She sent Ari, the Gardiner Theatre’s resident costume designer, to Harriet’s house. Stella mentioned something about Ari becoming the next thing in fashion design, but I wasn’t paying much attention.

  “The girl can’t very well go to The Oscars in a dress off the rack.”

  I’d shrugged and didn’t give it another thought. But when my limo stopped in front of Harriet’s apartment complex, and she stepped outside, I made a mental note to thank Stella and Ari for their intervention. I couldn’t begin to describe her gown—it was a tan lacy thing that dipped down in the front. I could imagine some men might be distracted by that exposed skin, but it covered enough to leave something to the imagination. I supposed I spent so much time censoring Emma’s wardrobe that it had become a hard habit to break. It was Hollywood, after all. Modesty was in short supply.

  “You look beautiful,” I said in greeting. That was a safe compliment. Women liked compliments. Children stopped playing on the sidewalk to stare at her climb into the limo like a modern-day Cinderella.

  “Thanks. Annie taught me how to style my hair. Also, YouTube tutorials.”

  “Well, it paid off.”

  Harriet was beaming all over—hardly able to contain her glee. She reminded me of a tween girl at her first boy band concert the way she almost bounced out of her shoes.

  In a way, The Oscars were a lot like that for her. I was glad I got to be a part of her experience. Emma would appreciate the gesture.

  The moment Harriet stepped out of the limo onto the red carpet, however, no one would ever know she wasn’t a seasoned pro at waving to the cameras and flashing her teeth at just the right moment. I offered her my arm as a gentleman should, and she slipped her hand within the folds of my sleeve. She played her part well. Perhaps Emma saw potential in her I never cared to notice. Then again, there was a big difference between an actress who excelled in her craft and an actress who was good at playing the diva.

  We were about halfway down the line of news reporters when I spotted Emma and Frank posing for a cacophony of flashing cameras and the racket of shouting reporters. The gunfire click, click, click of the cameras was only surpassed by a chorus of photographers shouting, “Emma, Emma. Frank!”

  The sound assaulted my ears.

  Frank smiled lazily and snaked his arm around Emma’s waist, his hand dipping a little lower with each cry of their names. Sarah Sloane from Hello Hollywood! took them aside for a quick interview, throwing a big microphone in their faces. Emma was all grace and poise, a vision of elegance as she answered whatever questions Sarah Sloane
asked. At one point, Emma and Frank laughed and looked at each other with amusement, shaking their heads. What was so bloody funny? I clenched my fists at my sides. The way Sarah was wagging her brows, I could imagine what her assumption was regarding Frank’s involvement with Emma.

  It made me want to pound my chest in protest.

  Harriet and I weren’t quite as popular with the entertainment shows which was fine by me except it meant we’d move through the line faster. I wanted to linger a bit longer so Emma and Frank could catch up to us. Maybe switch partners or something.

  To Harriet’s delight, That’s Entertainment asked us a few brief questions, but I was too distracted to give them much attention. Somehow the interviewer knew about the Field of Hearts project and asked about it. The mention was hardly a footnote in the trade publications, but the recent publicity with Frank and Emma brought more interest among the press. I had to reluctantly admit that could be a good thing to get more studio interest. The young woman holding the microphone seemed to know the whole scoop about Frank’s role in the film and had the gall to ask me if there was a budding romance between Frank and Emma. I could have quelled the rumours then and there—told the world to mind their own bloody business. But I decided not to let my jealousy show and deflected the question by introducing Harriet. I couldn’t remember what I said as I nudged Harriet toward the reporter. It was likely something about how much an integral part she played in the workshopping sessions. I stretched the truth a little. She did bring donuts once.

  “You are an enigma,” I whispered to Harriet after a few interludes with reporters. She shone like a star in each one, answering their questions with dazzling candour.

  “I am?” She bit her lip, acting every bit the bashful ingénue.