Darcy in Hollywood

by Victoria Kincaid

  He pretended not to notice the cast members exchanging knowing looks. Yes, Palm Springs hadn’t been that long ago. Yes, it would be the first thing you’d find if you googled Darcy’s name. Yes, he had crashed his Ferrari that morning. But Darcy wanted quite desperately to have his life amount to more than just his latest scandal.

  Of course, Palm Springs was the primary reason he was at this table. So perhaps it was disingenuous of him to pretend it didn’t define him.

  Once the introductions were finished, the cast read through the screenplay. They were a talented bunch for the most part, aside from Lydia as the wooden meatloaf girl. The story had a few charming, laugh-out-loud moments that Darcy had forgotten about and some well-written love scenes with Caroline that he was dreading. But the experience reminded Darcy of what he liked about the screenplay in the first place.

  After the event ended, Darcy performed his obligatory schmoozing with Tom and Roberta—the only ones worth chatting up—and repeatedly exclaimed how awesome this film would be. Of course, Darcy would have said that even if they’d been gearing up to film Captain Succotash V: Revenge of the Lima Beans.

  Darcy budgeted five minutes for this distasteful task, knowing it was the maximum he could endure before rapidly descending from pleasant into snide and then glacial. Chitchat was simply intolerable. He’d had to endure it when he was new to Hollywood, but now it was better left for people with time to burn and careers to build. Darcy could tell people what he wanted them to do. Small talk was pointless.

  Unfortunately, he got trapped by Tom Bennet, listening to the man drone on about the problems he’d encountered with special effects for War of the Worms.

  “Worm genitalia aren’t easy to work with. I bet you didn’t even know they have genitals. Well, let me tell you—”

  Someone grabbed Darcy by the elbow; he didn’t resist. Charlie made an apologetic face at Tom. “I’m sorry, I need Will for a minute.”

  His friend drew him out of the conference room and into the empty corridor. “This better take more than a minute,” Darcy threatened his friend, “or I will tell your sister what really happened with the EZ Bake Oven and the stapler when you were eight.”

  Charlie gasped. “You wouldn’t!”

  “As long as you don’t make me go back in there and talk about worm genitalia.” Darcy shook his head in disgust. “Sometimes I can’t believe this is my life.”

  He stared disconsolately at the scarred surface of the yellowing hallway. If he’d stayed with the French Resistance movie, he could have been filming in the glorious, state-of-the-art Perspective Pictures studio instead of crammed into Worldwide’s lot—the best that Tom and the other producers could afford to rent.

  “Dude, this is a lot of negative energy. We should go somewhere to lighten the mood.” Charlie snapped his fingers as if a thought had just occurred to him; Darcy wasn’t fooled. “I know! Peter Moore has a nightclub opening tonight. He’d freak if I brought you.” Darcy’s presence at a new nightclub would give it terrific publicity and draw crowds, while being Darcy’s wingman would give Charlie the pick of the best booze and the hottest women.

  “I don’t know.” Darcy didn’t actually enjoy the club scene all that much. “Josh wants me to stay out of the spotlight.”

  “C’mon!” Charlie leaned forward so he could whisper in Darcy’s ear. “There will be Victoria’s Secret models.”

  All the attention from women had been heady and exciting when Darcy first achieved superstar status. It was easy to believe you were hot stuff when women were falling at your feet, although he hadn’t taken advantage of what was offered nearly as often as everyone believed. But he’d soon grown weary of the hot-and-cold running women and everything else that came with that scene. He’d tried longer-term relationships, but it hadn’t been much better. Everyone just wanted the glamour and the proximity to fame. They didn’t know Darcy or want to know him.

  Nobody had even caught his eye for the longest time. God, that was a depressing thought; he was too young to be that jaded.

  Nobody…except Elizabeth Bennet.

  Huh.

  She did have intriguing eyes. And she hadn’t fallen at his feet—well, tripping didn’t count.

  But she was…difficult and sarcastic. Who wanted that? And he couldn’t imagine walking into a film premiere with her on his arm. No, it was just an idle thought.

  “C’mon!” Charlie’s shoulder bumped Darcy’s. “You’re too young to stay home at night.”

  What else would he do with himself tonight? Play a video game? Nap? Sit alone with his thoughts? Darcy shuddered. “I’ll think about it. Text me the info.”

  “You’re slowing down, man,” Charlie said as his thumbs flew over his phone. “Should we get you a prescription for Viagra?” Darcy didn’t rise to the bait, a bit bored with the teasing.

  But Charlie wasn’t finished. As a group of chattering actors pushed their way through the conference room door, he pulled Darcy further down the corridor and lowered his voice. “What do you think of the prospects for hooking up?”

  It took Darcy a moment to realize his friend was wondering about the women in the cast. Charlie managed to get involved with at least one woman on every film. He picked them up and dropped them with alarming regularity, and managed it all with such charm that somehow they were never angry at him. Darcy had no idea how he did it.

  “I’ll just be happy if I can steer clear of Caroline,” Darcy muttered. Charlie laughed; his sister’s interest in Darcy was a long-running joke. “Who do you have your eye on?”

  Charlie discreetly tilted his head toward a group of departing cast members that included Jane Bennet. “Do you think Tom would mind if I made a move on his daughter?”

  Darcy snorted. “I don’t think Tom would notice.”

  Charlie rubbed his hands together. “I am on it!” He watched Jane disappear around a corner and then turned to Darcy. “What about you? Identified any hot prospects?”

  “What am I? A talent scout?” Darcy joked.

  Charlie shrugged. “Aren’t we all?”

  A couple of years ago, Darcy would have been scanning the conference room for women who might be interested in a night of fun, but today he hadn’t even considered it. “No. I’m keeping it loose on this set. No hooking up with costars.”

  “Man, you are always so serious!”

  Darcy stuffed his hands in his pockets. “I’m supposed to be rehabilitating my image. I’m not going to ruin it by being a horndog on set.”

  “You know that attitude will not keep the chicks away, don’t you?”

  Darcy gave his friend a sly smile. “Nothing I can do about that. It’s my natural alpha dog magnetism.”

  “Nah, that’s not it. It’s the brooding thing you’ve got going on.”

  Darcy’s eyebrows lifted. “Brooding thing? I wasn’t aware I did a brooding thing.”

  Charlie waved a hand impatiently. “Oh, c’mon! You were doing it during the table read—all profound and brooding.”

  “I was just sitting there.”

  “No, definitely brooding, even if it was unintentional. Which is totally unfair.”

  “Why?”

  “I can’t brood.”

  “Sure you can. Anyone can brood if they try hard enough.” Darcy reflected that this had turned into a bizarre conversation.

  “Nah. It’s the face. I look like the guy who skateboards all day. Or who only drinks and smokes weed.” That was not an inaccurate description of Charlie’s lifestyle. “With this face, I’m perpetually stuck in ‘mellow boy-next-door’ mode. And next-door boys don’t brood.”

  “That’s deep, man. You should put it on a bumper sticker.”

  Charlie punched Darcy’s arm. “Asshole! I’m unburdening the deep existential dilemmas of my life, and you’re mocking me. Now you owe me! You owe it to me to come to the club tonight and help me round up some chicks.”

  Darcy didn’t believe any obligation had been incurred, but he also didn’t think
sitting home alone would improve his already strange mood. Most of the time he hated the reaction when he went out in public: the squeals, the screams, the wide eyes, the trembling hands when fans approached. Sometimes they cried. But the whole scene was a great ego boost, and today, for some reason, he felt in need of a boost. He refused to believe it had anything to do with Elizabeth Bennet or having wrecked another car.

  “All right, I’ll come and brood at some Victoria’s Secret models. Just for you.”

  “You’re a real friend.”

  Chapter Three

  Elizabeth had endured bloodwork, a CT scan, and exams from two different doctors. They determined she had a mild concussion and wouldn’t let her leave until a “responsible party” could escort her.

  With plenty of work waiting for her at home, Elizabeth chafed at the enforced idleness, but she also knew not to mess with a concussion. Pain medication had eased the throbbing in her head and made her feel a little floaty, which helped to pass the time. Actually, after the hubbub at the studio, she found the hospital quite peaceful.

  Of course, it couldn’t last.

  Once the table read ended, her family descended upon her en masse, much like a plague of locusts. Her mother arrived ahead of the others, sweeping into the hospital room with Elizabeth’s younger sisters—Lydia, Kitty, and Mary—in her wake. Jane followed at a more sedate pace, and her father eventually straggled in last, with a customarily vague expression that suggested he wasn’t sure where he was or why he was there.

  Franny Bennet had been a Hollywood starlet in the sixties and seventies; her most famous role had been in a series of commercials for Liquid Sunshine as part of a misbegotten campaign to rehabilitate the product’s image following a scandal over the purity of the orange juice. Her smiling face announcing “Liquid Sunshine, now with twenty-two percent fewer carcinogens” was a meme that still floated around the internet.

  She had met her future husband on the set of his first directorial triumph (by his account at least): Night of the Living Trees. Feeling misunderstood by the American viewing public, Franny quit acting when her first daughter was born, preferring to devote her time to managing her children’s Hollywood careers. Jane had appeared in a baby food commercial at the tender age of three months and by age eight had a résumé two pages long. Fortunately, she had thrived in front of the camera and had gracefully taken control of her career in college.

  While Elizabeth had also done some acting, she was considered the black sheep since refusing (at age seven) to utter lines in a doll commercial because “Barbie is stupid.” After conceding defeat on her second oldest daughter, Franny focused on finding Mary and Kitty suitable acting gigs. But when Lydia was born, Franny began dreaming of stardom. Lydia was beautiful, outgoing, and ambitious. Franny had devoted hours to her youngest daughter’s career, although Elizabeth wondered if her mother’s hard work would be enough to overcome Lydia’s complete lack of common sense or talent.

  Unsurprisingly, Elizabeth was not Franny’s favorite daughter. Even her recent graduation from Stanford University—usually an event that made a parent deliriously happy—could not compensate for Elizabeth’s scandalous want of acting ambition.

  Tom Bennet’s feelings toward his second daughter were somewhat warmer since she was quite useful on a movie set, but he still found her puzzling. Elizabeth had worked diligently throughout high school so she could attend a prestigious college and make her parents proud, but gradually she’d resigned herself to the knowledge that they only measured success by Hollywood standards.

  “So you have a concussion,” her mother clucked at Elizabeth.

  Feeling more than a little muddled, Elizabeth hoped she could avoid a long, involved family conversation. “I’m really tired. Can someone just take me home so I can sleep?”

  Her mother ignored this. “I don’t know how you managed to get a concussion on a film set!” she exclaimed. “It’s not like you’re a stunt man…woman…person.”

  “Don’t you know?” Lydia said as the other daughters crowded in behind their mother. “She was hit by William Darcy’s car!” Elizabeth winced as her sister’s high-pitched voice jangled her scrambled nerves.

  Their mother’s eyes lit up. “William Darcy? Now that was quite clever of you, Lizzy.”

  “He didn’t actually hit me.”

  Her mother waved this inconvenient fact away. “That is unfortunate, but I’m sure we can still make something of it.” Elizabeth exchanged a long-suffering look with Jane, who had taken the chair by her bedside. “Mr. Darcy did have that scandalous incident, but he is so well connected. Perhaps he could give your career a boost in exchange for a promise not to sue.”

  Elizabeth took a deep breath, praying for patience. “I don’t need a career boost from him.”

  “I know. Everyone believes they can make it on their own, but in the film business, connections mean every—”

  “Mom,” Elizabeth said, trying to keep her voice low as the pain in her head surged back. “I’m going to medical school. Remember? Knowing Darcy won’t matter at all.”

  “Medical school? Medical school?” Her mother gaped, aghast, although this was far from the first time she had heard of this plan. Franny Bennet gave her husband a stricken look. “First Stanford and now medical school. Where did we go wrong, Tom?”

  Being in the habit of not responding to his wife, he simply shrugged. Being in the habit of not expecting a response, she continued to speak. “I just don’t think it’s practical, becoming a doctor. The world is full of unemployed doctors.”

  “There are a lot of good jobs for doctors,” Elizabeth said wearily, wishing she could just sleep.

  “Well, I don’t know about that. How useful are doctors, anyway?” Franny Bennet fluttered her hands as her eyes took in the hospital room. “I don’t understand why you insist on this medical school pipe dream when you could have a perfectly good career in Hollywood—a career most people would kill for.”

  How many times do I need to explain this? Elizabeth wondered. “I don’t want a career in Hollywood. I don’t like Hollywood.”

  Her mother gasped and crossed herself, although they weren’t Catholic.

  Elizabeth pressed on. “I’m not an actor or director, and I’m not interested in being on the production side doing makeup or camera work or special effects.”

  Her mother sniffed. “I suppose there’s no harm in fostering that delusion a little longer.”

  “It’s not a delusion.”

  “If you say so, my dear.” Her mother leaned over the bed and patted Elizabeth’s hand in a most irritating manner. Turning to Lydia, she spoke in a loud stage whisper. “She does have a concussion, the poor thing.”

  Elizabeth clenched her fists in the sheets, knowing the only way to stop the argument was to change the subject. If only I had been born into a different family.

  “Are you ready to leave the hospital?” Jane asked.

  Bless her. “As soon as the nurse brings a wheelchair. Will you drive me home?” she asked her sister. “I’m supposed to have a responsible party with me for the next twelve hours.”

  Jane squeezed her hand. “Of course.”

  I can always rely on Jane. Elizabeth’s eyes stung; apparently head injuries made her maudlin.

  A gleam in her mother’s eye suggested she was about to return to the subject of Darcy. Quickly Elizabeth asked, “How did the table read go?”

  “Lydia was magnificent!” their mother gushed before anyone could say anything else. “Her line reading about the meatloaf was so nuanced.” She nodded approvingly at her youngest daughter. “I knew that adding a little more irony would create the subtlety the line needed.”

  Lydia preened at the compliment while Kitty slouched into her customary pout. Mary was just as happy to be ignored by their mother since she was quietly steering her career toward being a camera operator, but Kitty resented not getting her share of maternal attention.

  “Mom, you weren’t at the table read,” Ja
ne pointed out.

  Franny shrugged. “Lydia told me all about it.”

  “How was William Darcy?” Elizabeth asked her father.

  He glanced up from his phone as if surprised to be asked about an event he had overseen. “Oh. Good. Good.”

  Jane smiled benevolently at her father’s absentmindedness. “Will was terrific, Lizzy. I think he’ll be great in the role. He’s got a real star quality, you know?”

  “Yeah.” Elizabeth did know. Nearly being wiped out by Darcy’s car had momentarily muted the effect, but she had noticed how others responded to him. He possessed that ineffable charisma that rolled off some actors in waves. Unfortunately, most such actors were real jerks and shameless in using that charisma to bulldoze their way through everyone else. She was not excited about six weeks of hanging around with a prime specimen of Hollywood privilege.

  Her father scowled at his phone. “I just got a text from Darcy’s manager. His personal assistant quit, so he’ll need someone on set. Lizzy, could you be—”

  Elizabeth didn’t need her father to finish the sentence; it would be a cold day in hell. “Oh no, no, no!” Elizabeth shook her head vigorously but stopped when the movement made her dizzy. “I will not be his personal assistant! Get Anoop or Monica.”

  “Anoop is working with the location scout, and Monica doesn’t have the patience.”

  “I don’t have the patience to deal with William Darcy’s crap either. He almost ran me over.”

  Her father regarded her over the rim of his reading glasses. “Almost is the operative word here, Lizzy. If he had actually run you over, I wouldn’t ask you.”

  Because I’d be dead. Elizabeth managed to stifle a slightly hysterical giggle. “I just can’t.”

  His expression was slightly panicked. “Some of the backers are spooked by Darcy’s recent incident—and they don’t even know about today’s crash, thank God. I need someone who can keep an eye on him. Someone who won’t smuggle booze or drugs to him.”