Rent A Husband: a Romantic Comedy

by Sally Mason

He won’t text her, of course.

  No way is he going to get caught up in her game.

  As he signals for another drink, a hand with long pearl talons lands softly on his shoulder and a Russian-accented voice purrs his name.

  He turns to look up at the magnificent Tatar cheekbones of Tatiana Volkova, a much-photographed member of the tribe of jet-age Bedouins that Forrest had once belonged to.

  “You have been vere, darlink?” she says.

  “Oh, here and there, Tat. Here and there.”

  “You are lookink very handsome, Forrest. Buy me please a drink. You still remember?”

  “Of course,” Forrest says beckoning the bartender. “A Rusty Nail for the lady. What the hell, I’ll join her.”

  And that Rusty Nail is the first of many that get driven into Forrest’s coffin, and a while later he and Tatiana are up in her room on the fifth floor, drinking champagne and catching up on old times.

  The room is being paid for by some Middle Eastern princeling who is off getting his polo ponies shod and will only be back tomorrow or maybe next week.

  “I am hearink you are now poor, Forrest?” Tatiana says from the coffee table, busy vacuuming up some designer drug so new it hasn’t yet been named.

  “Yeah, Tat. I’m a pauper.”

  “Is okay, you are still very much pretty.”

  Forrest passes on the drug, but gets steadily hammered on the endless supply of booze.

  The conversation slides into a twilight zone of name brands and celebrity hang-outs in New York and LA and Paris—Nobu, Henri Bendel, 40/ 40 Club, Toast, Hotel Meurice—and as they talk Tatiana sheds her clothes with as much eroticism as if she were in a doctor’s surgery, and, weirdly, Forrest finds himself thinking of Darcy Pringle in her underthings on the stairs of that awful house, like a scene from some old sitcom.

  He gets as far as untying his bowtie, then he finds himself sitting on the bed staring at the wall of the hotel room.

  What’s with all the wall-staring?

  “So, Forrest, you are losing your horny appetite also with your money?”

  “Yeah, Tat, that must be it,” he says as he walks out on one of the most beautiful and debauched women he has ever known, gets the elevator down to the lobby and strolls the few blocks to his apartment.

  When he gets home he clicks on a lamp and lies on the bed and listens to traffic and that peculiarly LA soundtrack of police helicopters and distant gunfire.

  At last he digs his phone from his tuxedo pocket and spends a long time composing a text message to Darcy Pringle.

  30

  Brontë Baines, long a sufferer of insomnia, opens the window of the little room to allow in the ocean breeze, moves the standing lamp in closer and lines up her Moleskin journal precisely parallel with the edge of the small wooden desk.

  She likes to keep everything ship-shape and Bristol fashion.

  Her fondness for outdated British expressions often leaves her misunderstood in crass, straight-ahead 21st Century America.

  But, as Brontë knows only too well, even if she spoke everyday American she would still be misunderstood.

  She is an anachronism.

  She always has been.

  And loneliness and a desire for romantic love fostered by the tormented prose of the sisters who gave Brontë her name, have caused her to make errors of judgment.

  To allow herself to imagine that traveling salesmen, bus drivers and pasty-faced clerks were romantic figures from the pages of old novels.

  To imagine that these inferior specimens were gentlemen, when all they wanted was a grope and a fumble in the back of a car, on a park bench, or in a smelly motel room, before they went home to their wives or onto their next sad and sordid conquest.

  Yes, Brontë Baines has been the victim of her own silly fantasies.

  So she decided to move warily with William Bigelow.

  Initially, she thought he was just another lecher when he proposed that she move in next door to him.

  She waited for the furtive knock on the door that first night, but it had not come.

  A very good sign.

  And then there had been that heartbreakingly wonderful tableaux at the senior center.

  However, there was, of course, a dark cloud on the horizon: the Darcy Pringle woman.

  But Brontë has decided to take even this as a positive.

  It means that a warm heart beats within William Bigelow’s chest.

  All she has to do is engineer a little heart transplant—oh, she likes that!—and make sure that she becomes the object of William’s affections.

  Darcy Pringle may be boringly regular in her looks and hair color, but, despite her name, she wouldn’t know Jane Austen from Jane Russell.

  So, Brontë has to play to her strengths.

  Earlier today, during a lull in business in the coffee shop, she helped William stack the bookshelves.

  “Who is your favorite author?” she asked.

  He pondered this long and hard.

  “Well, I have to admit to a fondness for the Russians.”

  “Oh, of course. Who in particular?”

  “So difficult to narrow it down. How do you chose between, say, War and Peace and Crime and Punishment?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Well, if you have a table with one short leg, you would, of course, choose War And Peace.”

  Brontë stared at him, bewildered.

  “Forgive me for being frivolous,” he said. “Just a little joke.”

  Brontë had little understanding of humor, but since she’d been told that he’d made a quip, she felt she had to laugh and released a strange, warbling titter.

  When she saw his expression she hastily covered her mouth.

  William scratched his head.

  “I would say Tolstoy. Yes, Tolstoy. And not for his massive tomes, but for his novellas. The Death of Ivan Ilych is incredibly moving.”

  Brontë stared at him and he colored.

  “I’m sorry, I’m jawing on here.”

  “Oh, not at all, William. It’s such a pleasure to talk to a man who is so well read.”

  He blushed even more deeply and hurried off, leaving a few chairs scattered in his wake.

  How adorable he is! Brontë thinks as she sits at her little desk.

  She lifts her Montblanc—the only thing of her mother’s that she has kept—and writes in her journal: I love William Bigelow and I shall not rest until he loves me in return.

  31

  Even though a falcon would rather prey on game fowl, it’ll eat nasty little rodents when it absolutely has to.

  Carlotta McCourt, sitting alone at a window table at the Book & Bean, the morning light strong enough for her to keep her sunglasses on, reassures herself with this thought as she watches the annoying new waitress mooning over totally oblivious Billy Bigelow.

  Carlotta is bored.

  Frustrated.

  She needs to get her talons into something.

  Right now there seems to be nothing more to be squeezed from the Darcy Pringle saga.

  What should have been a complete humiliation for Carlotta’s oldest foe, ended as something of a damp squib.

  Yes, it was revealed that Darcy’s date was a fake, but that mincing little manikin, Eric Royce, spun the outlandish story about the TV show.

  Carlotta, newly initiated into the marvels of Google, hijacked Walt Jr’s laptop again last night and discovered that StartUp Productions did indeed have a show called SpyCam in development.

  It was probably all fluff, of course, but it had robbed Carlotta of one of her finest moments.

  So, she would have to sharpen her claws on rodents, while she waited for Darcy to break cover.

  The new waitress brings Carlotta her breakfast—irritatingly, prepared exactly the way she had demanded, although the girl (again) took no notes—and then she goes across to where Poor Billy is taping a poster for a performance of the Santa Sofia Amateur Dramatic group to the glass of the front door.

/>   Of course, the poster is upside down.

  The girl waits until Poor Billy is distracted by a customer and quickly peels the poster free of the glass and turns it the right way up.

  The silly little creature is clearly gaga over the addle-headed Billy.

  Pathetic.

  Carlotta crooks a finger at the waitress.

  “Something Madam requires?” the girl asks, making these words of subservience sound like insults.

  “Madam wants a side order of fries,” Carlotta says.

  “I’m afraid we don’t serve fries,” the girl says, as if Carlotta has requested something obscene.

  Carlotta holds out a banknote.

  “What’s that?” the girl asks.

  “It’s a five dollar bill.”

  “I’m quite aware of that, Madam.”

  “Good, then take it and scuttle across to Peggy’s Diner and get me those fries, toot sweet.”

  “I don’t think it’s my place to get you take-outs.”

  “Listen little girl if you displease me I’ll spread the rumor that the food prepared here is riddled with E. coli. How do you think that’ll be for business?”

  Two red spots the size of coins appear on the girl’s cheeks, and she stares at Carlotta for a long moment, then she snatches the money from her hand.

  “Would Madam prefer ketchup or mayo with those fries?”

  “Regular all-American ketchup, thank you my dear.”

  Carlotta waits until the little frump has crossed to Peggy’s greasy spoon before she stretches her face into what she imagines is a disarming smile and wafts a hand at Poor Billy.

  “Yoo-hoo,” she calls, “Billy Bigelow.”

  Billy steps away from the cash register and makes his way toward her.

  After upsetting two tables and three chairs he arrives at Carlotta’s side, red faced and panting.

  “Lottie,” he says, “is something wrong?”

  “Sit,” Carlotta says.

  “I’m a little busy . . .”

  “Sit!”

  He sits.

  Carlotta leans in conspiratorially.

  “You know of course that Darcy Pringle’s marriage proposal was fake?”

  “I heard that, yes.”

  “Mnnnn. But do you realize how low she’s been? How depressed?”

  “No. I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Yes, it’s awful. What we, her old friends in the town, feels she needs is to be in the company of somebody she has known a long while. Somebody familiar, who can help her through this difficult time.”

  “Who did you have in mind?”

  “You.”

  The simpleton’s jaw gapes very unattractively.

  “Me?”

  “Yes. You’re perfect. A local fellow, a prominent businessman at that.”

  She sees the fear in his eyes. “What are you suggesting?”

  “Invite her to that theater thing,” Carlotta says pointing at the poster on the door.

  “Oh, I couldn’t.”

  Carlotta has one of her intuitive moments that leave even her astonished.

  “You invited her to the Ball didn’t you?”

  “How did you know that?”

  “Oh, the grapevine buzzes, you know? Buzz, buzz, buzz.” She remembers seeing him rushing up to Darcy’s front door, then emerging crestfallen. “She only turned you down because she was hooked into that hidden camera thing of Eric Royce’s.”

  “You think she would have gone with me otherwise?”

  “Are you kidding? Of course she would’ve.”

  “I don’t know . . .”

  Carlotta gets even more up close and personal, whispering in Billy’s ear: “Don’t breathe a word of this, but Darcy has let it be known that she likes you.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. She’s tired of the jockish, domineering Porter type. She wants a man who appreciates literature and theater and the finer things in life.”

  “Well, I don’t know . . .”

  “Stop being so damned selfish, Billy Bigelow.”

  “Selfish?”

  “Yes, stop thinking only of yourself. One of our oldest and dearest friends, a school buddy no less, is in a bad way. And you can help her out. How can you refuse?”

  “Well, if you put it that way.”

  “You’ll do it?”

  “You’re sure she’d want me to?”

  “I’m more than sure.”

  The door jangles and the silly girl returns with a pack of smelly fries that Carlotta McCourt would no more eat than she would road kill on the highway.

  “Your fries,” the girl says.

  Carlotta stands and makes a dismissive gesture.

  “I’ve lost the yen.” She points a finger at Poor Billy. “I’ll be watching.”

  She swans out, pleased with her little intervention.

  Sometimes even a low calorie snack can be quite satisfying.

  32

  I’m going down to the Getty to look at art, Darcy tells herself as she turns the SUV onto the 101, heading toward Los Angeles.

  The text message from Forrest Forbes—Jaipur Palace. 5065 Fountain. 7 p.m. Bindi optional—lies unanswered on her phone, and, of course, it’s definitely not the reason she’s driving south.

  And if her hair is freshly washed and blow-dried, and if she’s applied just enough make-up to give face her a glow, and if she wears her favorite blue shirt over jeans that make her ass look small but shapely, it’s not for Mr. Forbes, it’s just to make her feel good.

  Darcy has decided she needs to broaden her horizons.

  Develop an appreciation of the finer things in life.

  Like art.

  Art wasn’t part of her life with Porter.

  He had paintings made to match the furnishings of the house—huge oatmeal and beige landscapes so lifeless they could have been manufactured by machines.

  When they’d traveled abroad it was always to see things that interested him: prisons and dungeons and battlefields.

  Art museums were never on the agenda.

  So, she’s driving down to the Getty—a place she’s never been—to get herself a dose of culture.

  A Nora Jones soundtrack takes Darcy into the smog belt, where she mutes the music and uses the GPS to guide her to the Getty Center crouching on its hilltop.

  She parks the car, takes a minute to admire the views of the city, then joins a gaggle of tourists as they ride the white tram that links the parking lot to the Center.

  Darcy lets a stream of people draw her into the museum and she wanders through the halls staring at paintings and sculptures, dazed by the sheer volume of what she’s seeing.

  A thought strikes her that if Forrest Forbes were with her she would be appreciating this more.

  He would know about art.

  He would have opinions.

  Darcy loses track of time until an announcement tells her that the museum is closing and she walks out into the late afternoon light.

  The tram returns her to her car, where she sits a while, staring out over the sprawling city.

  She can’t recall a single painting or sculpture in any detail.

  They’re all a blur.

  You’re out of your depth, Darcy.

  You’re a small town girl getting ideas above her station.

  As she starts the car she decides she’s going home.

  Mr. Forrest Forbes can dine alone on his Tandoori.

  Is Tandoori even Indian, she wonders?

  To still her mind Darcy clicks on Nora Jones again, until she remembers that the singer is the daughter of a famous Indian sitar player.

  Ravi somebody . . .

  And does she imagine a swirl of strings and a warble of flutes beneath Nora’s syrupy voice, bringing with them an uncomfortably steamy recollection of the dream she had about Forrest Forbes and the riding crop?

  Darcy stops the music, finds a loud and bouncy drive-time radio show and lets the endless patter of the host flush away any
memory of that dream as she finds the freeway and turns north into rush hour.

  33

  He can’t possibly be nervous, Forrest decides as he sits in his favorite booth at the Jaipur Palace, the garish interior, the North Indian ragas swirling from the speakers, and a double Scotch failing to soothe him as they usually do.

  Darcy Pringle is late.

  Or she’s standing him up.

  She never replied to his text, so perhaps he’s on a fool’s mission.

  Perhaps mousy little Ms. Pringle is safely up in her Santa Sofia pueblo, drinking unspeakable wine and watching The Bold or whatever a matron of her ilk watches.

  Of course he’s not nervous.

  He has no need of Darcy Pringle and her silly games.

  But still, her face is very vivid in his memory: that smile exposing those all-American teeth.

  Not his type.

  No, not at all.

  Strangely, though, he can recall Darcy Pringle’s features more easily than those of the exotic Tatiana Volkova.

  To end this pointless internal waffle he holds up his glass and the proprietor, his friend Lakshmi, swathed in layers of silk, her generous midriff sporting a navel jewel, approaches.

  “You can’t have another drink on an empty stomach, Forrest,” she says in her prim accent that’s more Brideshead Revisited than Bollywood.

  “Then bring me a couple of papadams.”

  “Where is your friend?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Very well, I’ll get you some onion bhaji with your drink.”

  “Fine, but bring the Scotch first.”

  Lakshmi raises an eyebrow.

  “What’s going on, Forrest?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re sweet on this girl, mnnnn?”

  “You’re being both ridiculous and over-familiar. Now fetch me my booze.”

  Lakshmi laughs, takes his glass and walks away with the languid slowness of a princess raised in the labyrinthine corridors of a Rajasthan palace.

  34

  Darcy got as far as the Ventura exit when the devil took the wheel and turned the car back toward Los Angeles.

  And it’s the devil, still, who parks the SUV on Fountain, the neon of the Jaipur Palace flooding the car in gaudy yellows and reds.