Mr. Love: A Romantic Comedy

by Sally Mason

  For all his affectations, Gordon can’t be more than thirty-five and once you looked past the slightly disheveled exterior there was something oddly attractive about him.

  And (despite all his protestations to the contrary) he had written those pretty hot sex scenes.

  Jane finds herself wondering if he merely has a very good imagination, or whether he was drawing on personal experience.

  Whether he had been a campus lothario.

  This train of thought leads her toward another area of discomfort: does she seriously expect the truth of Ivy’s authorship will be kept secret?

  A nasty stab of anxiety has Jane hopping up from the couch and hurrying through to the kitchen for a fresh beer, popping the cap and taking a hefty slug.

  Before she can stop herself she sits down at the table and calls home, pleased when she hears her father’s voice.

  She cares for her mother, but he’s the person she needs to talk to right now.

  “Daddy,” she says.

  “Sweet pea,” he says. “How are you?”

  “Doing great. Made a big deal today.”

  She tells him about the auction.

  “Hey, that makes your old dad real proud, sugar.”

  “How are you doing?” she asks.

  “Ah, never better. Your mother’s got me on some low fat diet and I take my pills like a good boy. When are we going to see you?”

  “Soon, Daddy,” she says. “Very soon.”

  “What am I hearing, sugar? What’s got you blue?”

  “Nothing, Dad.”

  “Don’t kid a kidder. What’s up with you and that Tom character?”

  “That’s over.”

  “Awww, baby. I’m sorry.”

  “Hey, what can you do?”

  “Get back on the horse is what you do.”

  She laughs.

  “Yeah, in a while maybe I’ll take the old pony for a canter.”

  “Why don’t you come home and drink beer with your dad? I just got me some classic Steve Martin recordings that are cracking me up.”

  “I’ll come, Dad, I promise. Just let me get through all this work stuff.”

  “Okay, sweet pea. Love you.”

  “Love you too, Daddy.”

  Jane rings off before she surrenders to little self-pitying sniffles.

  She wanders through to the bedroom, falls face down on the bed and with the TV still blaring in living room, sobs herself to sleep.

  35

  As her Volvo rattles over the cattle grid at the entrance to the Quant Foundation, Bitsy’s eye is drawn to her purse wobbling on the passenger seat.

  The purse that she has been unable to stop sneaking glances at all of the twenty minutes it has taken her to drive from East Devon.

  Because there’s a check in the purse.

  A check with a dizzying number of zeroes.

  Gordon, true to his word, deposited a terrifying sum of money into her bank account yesterday.

  Merely fifty percent of the first of the ebook royalties on Ivy, he told her.

  And there was a vast amount of money to come.

  So, leaving just enough in the account to pay her meager expenses, Bitsy wrote out the check to the Quant Foundation, her hand shaking as she signed it.

  Her hands are still a little shaky and she grips the wheel of the Volvo to still the tremor as she sees Daniel Quant’s house through the Fall leaves.

  She checks her watch: 10:00 A.M.

  She is precisely on time for her audience with Daniel, set up in a telephone call with his assistant Carlos last night.

  As she nears the house Bitsy sees a small knot of people emerge and stand outside the front door, almost as if they’re posing for a group photograph.

  Bitsy searches in vain for the photographer, then a mad thought strikes her: they’re waiting for you, Bitsy.

  Don’t be silly, she tells herself.

  But as the Volvo creaks and splutters to a halt outside the house and she stands up out of the car she hears clapping and sees that these radiant, youthful, beautiful people are applauding her.

  Led by Daniel Quant himself, who stands in the doorway, showing his very white teeth in a smile.

  He walks down and grasps her by the shoulders and stares into her eyes.

  “Bitsy,” he says. “How proud we are of you.”

  Then he takes her by the arm and leads her into the house.

  “Una,” he says to the gorgeous giantess, “some tea upstairs, if you would be so kind?”

  If Bitsy hears Una mutter something like “little hack writer” it does nothing to dim the pleasure she feels as Daniel leads her up the stairs to his private sanctum.

  They settle themselves on the cushions and Daniel fixes those laser-like blue eyes on her.

  “So,” he says, “quite an adventure?”

  “Oh yes. More than a little terrifying.”

  “You look very different.”

  She blushes.

  “Oh, they did things to my hair . . .”

  She wags a manicured hand near her head.

  “Yes, the external changes are delightful of course,” he chuckles when her blush deepens, “but I sense something new in you. Some new purpose.”

  “Well,” she says, “perhaps it’s not yet apparent to me. This whole business makes me want to cover my head with my comforter and hide from the world.”

  “Bitsy, ask yourself a simple question.”

  “What question is that, Daniel?”

  “Do you want to be a prisoner of your past or a pioneer of your future?”

  She sighs.

  “I’m still trying to come to terms with it all. And I still battle with the dishonesty.”

  “May I offer you an example from my own life?”

  “Of course, Daniel.”

  Before he can continue, Una, like a beautiful giraffe, appears carrying a silver tray with the herbal tea Daniel favors.

  She bends at the waist, all long limbs and flowing tresses, and deposits the tray on the wooden floor in front of them.

  “Thank you, Una,” Daniel says.

  The girl inclines her head, gives Bitsy a cool look through her waterfall of hair, then slinks back down the stairs.

  Daniel pours tea and hands Bitsy a cup.

  “Thank you,” she says, battling not to grimace when she tastes the bitter brew.

  “So, as I was saying,” Daniel says, sipping at his tea, “many years ago I was a student by day, a waiter by night and a member of a circus troupe on the weekends.”

  He sees her face and laughs.

  “I was an acrobat,” he says, “and a juggler.”

  As if this is all planned, he reaches across to a bowl of fruit and picks out four red apples.

  Effortlessly he juggles the apples and then catches them and puts them back in the bowl.

  “You’re very good,” Bitsy says.

  “It’s like riding a bicycle. Once learned . . .” He shrugs. “Anyway, my point is this: who was I? Student? Waiter? Performer?”

  He looks at her.

  “Uh, all three?”

  “Exactly. To my college professor I was a student, to a diner I was a waiter and to a kid in the audience I was a performer.” He sips his tea. “I was all of those. And yet I was none of them.” He stares at her, unblinking. “You understand?”

  “I think so. Uh, you’re saying those . . . labels were all just superficial? That the real you was something else?”

  He sets down his cup and claps his hands.

  “Bravo, Bitsy,” he says. “Now that you have appreciated that simple but profound truth, I think you’ll find it much easier to continue on your path. Remember, all of these external trappings,” he waves a hand around the room, “are mere illusion. Artifice. Stage craft, if you will. So does your harmless bit of play acting, seem much less conflicting now?”

  She smiles.

  “It does. It really does.”

  He spreads his hands.

  “Then we a
re pleased.”

  Bitsy reaches for her purse and withdraws an envelope containing the check.

  She holds it out to Daniel Quant.

  “Daniel, here is my first contribution toward the Foundation. There will be more.”

  He takes the envelope and lays it on the tray without opening it.

  “We thank you,” he says, pressing his palms together.

  He rises and holds a hand out to Bitsy, helping her to her feet.

  Leading her toward the stairs he says, “I know that great demands are being made on your time right now Bitsy, but when the storm has passed I would like you to know that we would be delighted if you were to spend more time here at the Foundation, giving us the benefit of your talents.”

  She laughs.

  “Oh, I don’t have any talents.”

  “Nonsense. All you have to do is identify the thing that you can do better than anyone else in the whole world and then you will find a matching need. It would be our privilege to help you with that.”

  “Thank you, Daniel,” she says and floats down the stairs, pleasantly aware of his gaze as he stands watching her from the landing.

  How exciting, she thinks.

  To be welcomed into the Foundation.

  And welcomed into the world of Daniel Quant.

  How long will it be, she dares to think, before she is welcomed into his arms?

  Blushing furiously she hurries out to her Volvo.

  Still fighting her raging emotions Bitsy stalls the car a few times before she finally gets it started and, spewing grit and dust, rattles off home.

  36

  Jonas Blunt sits with his tan Cordovans on his vast desk, fingers steepled beneath his fine nose, staring out over Central Park.

  Jane, who hasn’t been invited to sit, hovers, marveling at how fresh and crisp Jonas looks, even with his punishing schedule of cross country trips, gallery openings and Broadway shows.

  “You’re aware, of course, that I have no issue?” Jonas says.

  “No issue with what?”

  He barks a laugh and swivels his chair, looking up at Jane.

  “Issue as in offspring, Janey. No little snotty nosed brats. No son and heir.”

  “Yes, I know that,” Jane says, thrown by this conversation.

  He blinks at her.

  “Good God, Janey, sit. Sit. Sit.”

  She sits.

  “You’re thinking: why the devil is Jonas sharing this with me? Correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I’m building an empire, Jane. Blunt is no longer merely the pre-eminent literary agency in this increasingly illiterate and benighted land, it is branching out into the world of entertainment. I am not going to be one of those myopic bookworms bemoaning the dumbing down of America—I can not only see the writing on the wall, I have damn well grabbed a spray can and added my tag to the peeling brickwork.”

  He stares at her.

  “Why are you doing an impersonation of a goldfish feeding, Janey?”

  Jane closes her gaping mouth.

  Then opens it to say, “I’m a little confused, Jonas.”

  He throws his long arms wide.

  “Then let me be plain: books are so yesterday. Boo hoo. We have to look to the future. Therefore, our role as production partner in Ivy the motion picture is now cemented. And it is just the beginning.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “Indeed! Indeed!” He rubs his hands together. “What it means, Jane, is that I will be spending the lion’s share of my time in Los Angeles. I have already taken an apartment in Pacific Palisades and soon there will be a West Coast office, staffed—no doubt—by teenagers with tans and belly rings. Kiddies who speak the lingua franca of the all-powerful 18 to 30 demographic. For it is with them that our future—and our fortune—lies.”

  “What will happen to Blunt Literary?” Jane asks, terrified that his answer will be that it is to be closed.

  That she will be out on the street.

  “Blunt Literary is going to undergo a metamorphosis.”

  He smiles at her, his vampiric canines gleaming.

  “Hence my waxing lyrical about my lack of progeny. I may have no biological child, but—and I kiss your smooth little cheeks, mwah, mwah—I have you.”

  “You do? I mean: you do.”

  He narrows his eyes.

  “How does Blunt Cooper sound to you?”

  “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

  “What I’m saying, Janey, is that you have outstripped all my expectations on this Ivy deal and I’m going to let you have a great deal more responsibility. Of course the training wheels will be on for a tad longer but I see the day, Jane, in the not-to-distant future, when your name will join mine on the door.”

  “Jonas, this is all a little too much to digest.”

  “Well, chew on it, Janey. There’s time. We’re talking a period of transition, not a fait accompli. Okay?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Now onto matters most pressing. Raynebeau Jones is jetting up from L.A. with Yul Egorov.”

  He sees her blank expression.

  “Frat Party 1 through 5?”

  Still blank.

  “Campus Booty Call? Freshman Yo?”

  She shakes her head.

  “I presume those are movies?”

  “Not just movies, Janey. Mega blockbusters. Reviled by the critics and consumed with an almost carnal voracity by youth from Boston to Bangkok. And Yul Egorov scripted and helmed them all. To call him hot is a bit like calling the sun warmish. He’s on fire. And he’s Raynebeau Jones’s current love interest.”

  “So he’s going to be directing Ivy?”

  Jonas snaps his fingers.

  “Bingo. And he’s adapting the book. They’re coming up to visit the little burg where Ivy is set. Eastwick or whatever it’s called.”

  “East Devon.”

  “East Devon. They’re going to visit, soak up the ambience and Raynebeau will converse at length with Lizzie Rushworth, drawing from her everything she can to bring Suzie Ballinger to life on the screen. A camera crew will be sticking to them like limpets and I believe MTV has already signed off on a reality show called So Raynebeau.”

  “Unbelievable.”

  “Isn’t it just? A tremendous buzz-generator for the movie. Anyway, their helicopter will be leaving East 34th Street Heliport at noon, to zoom them up to . . .”

  He clicks his fingers again.

  “East Devon,” Jane says.

  “Yes. And you’ll go with them. Lubricate their interaction with Lizzie Rushworth.”

  “If that’s what you want.”

  “That’s what I want.”

  “They’re going to stay over in East Devon?”

  “Yes. For the night. Tomorrow they’ll shoot Raynebeau taking in the town and then in dialogue with Lizzie before they decamp for a whirlwind tour of the Harvard campus.”

  Jane says, “I must warn you, the accommodation in East Devon is pretty nasty.”

  Jonas laughs.

  “We’re talking Hollywood royalty here, Janey. A crew of flunkies has already invaded the hamlet. By the time the chopper lands magic will have been wrought. Don’t worry about a thing.”

  “That’s a relief.”

  “What you need to do is to make sure that the face-to-face between Raynebeau and Lizzie is a true meeting of minds. Remember that Raynebeau is a product of the San Fernando Valley and her references are a little, shall we say, limited. She and Lizzie may, in the broadest definition, share a mother tongue but they will be as unalike as a Swede and a Swahili. You’ll be the interpreter. The facilitator. Is that clear?”

  “It is. I’ll do my best.”

  He beams at her.

  “Oh, I know you will, darling Janey. You have my complete confidence.”

  He wags a languid hand.

  “Now run along and pack a toothbrush or whatever. Showbiz awaits.”

  His nose is in his iPad by the time Jan
e, more than a little shell-shocked, leaves his office.

  37

  Gordon, driving Bitsy’s Volvo down to the store to buy provisions, thinks that he’s hallucinating.

  That the last mad weeks have left him bereft of his senses.

  For, as he reaches the end of their street, he sees a house floating by.

  Gordon closes his eyes and opens them slowly, one at a time.

  The house is still there.

  And it’s still floating.

  Then, through a break in the trees, he sees the cab of a semi and realizes that he is watching a mobile home being transported, the flatbed hidden by the hedgerows.

  On impulse Gordon follows the semi to a field on the outskirts of town.

  In Gordon’s youth the field had belonged to a crusty old Yankee named Ebenezer Yates and you risked a butt-load of buckshot if you cut through his land to the pond.

  Now the land lies fallow and Gordon sees a litter of shiny trucks and SUVs parked where once Yates had farmed apples.

  The semi wheezes to a halt and a crew of men surrounds it.

  The mobile home on the flatbed is like none Gordon has ever seen: it has a pillared porch and at least six rooms, its glossy wooden exterior painted in a pale yellow, with a roof of teal colored tiles.

  Gordon winds down his window and speaks to a large man in jeans and a check shirt.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Hollywood’s comin’ to town,” the man says before walking away.

  On cue Gordon’s cell phone rings.

  Jane Cooper.

  “Hi Jane,” he says. “I hear we’re about to be invaded by Tinsel Town?”

  “How do you know?” she says.

  “I’ve just seen a mobile home floating through the fields.”

  She laughs.

  “A little surreal, isn’t it?”

  “To say the least.”

  “Yes, Raynebeau Jones and some director named Yul Egorov are coming in by helicopter this afternoon. I’ll be accompanying them.”

  “I’m pleased to hear that.”

  “Gordon, this is going to be pretty intense. A camera crew will be following Raynebeau wherever she goes and I’m told that she is really high maintenance. Will you try and prepare Bitsy as best you can?”

  Gordon turns the Volvo back toward town, the phone wedged between his shoulder and ear.