Rent A Husband: a Romantic Comedy

by Sally Mason

  Darcy flips down her visor and looks at herself in the mirror, less to check her make-up then check her state of mind.

  What are you doing, girl?

  When she gets no answer she opens the door and steps down into the familiar muggy, gasoline-scented nighttime air of Los Angeles.

  For Darcy, LA has always been about Porter.

  As teenagers they’d driven down to catch the latest movies (before the Santa Sofia Cineplex made this unnecessary) or to a club to watch live music.

  LA had seemed impossibly huge and glamorous.

  By the time they were in their late twenties Porter had made enough money to buy an apartment in upscale Brentwood, where he stayed over some nights if he was late doing business in LA.

  And where he got to know his personal assistant all too well.

  By the time Darcy was in her thirties LA was all about shopping trips to the Westside.

  The scruffy eastern parts of the city were off her map.

  But here she is in Hollywood for the first time in years.

  Darcy walks into the restaurant, all gold and red and filigree and brocade and cushions and mirrors (not where she’d imagine Forrest Forbes dining, wasn’t he more a Mr. Chow or Nobu man?) and looks around.

  A couple in their fifties sit in silence, shoveling food into their mouths.

  A big man in a check jacket, alone a table, eats something with his fingers.

  Of Forrest Forbes there is no sign.

  “May I help you?”

  A beautiful, plump Indian woman in a lush purple sari appears.

  And all at once the devil is gone and it’s little Darcy who says, “No, thank you. This is a mistake.”

  She’s ready to turn and flee when the woman says, “Are you perhaps here to join Forrest?”

  “Yes,” Darcy says, “but I don’t see him.”

  “He’s washing his hands,” the woman says, delicately. “Please follow me.”

  Without waiting for a reply she takes off through the restaurant, her hips undulating like a belly dancer.

  Darcy hesitates then follows her and the woman shows her to a table where a glass of liquor and a half-nibbled papadam hint at Forrest Forbes’s presence.

  “May I get you something to drink?”

  “A glass of white wine.”

  “Of course.”

  Smiling, the woman withdraws.

  The music has Darcy drumming her fingers on the table top and for a moment she’s naked on a bed in a vast room, diaphanous fabric billowing.

  “Darcy,” Forrest says, sliding into the booth opposite her, “I thought I’d been stood up.”

  “Well, here I am.”

  Darcy can’t help by being struck, again, by his good looks, somehow accentuated by his slightly rumpled white linen shirt—open at the neck, sleeves rolled up—and the hint of stubble on his jaw.

  “Did Lakshmi offer you something to drink?” he asks.

  “She did. Where did she get that fancy accent?”

  “Oh, it’s a long story. So how are you?”

  “I’m well and you? Are you over your,” she waves a hand, “whatever it was that got you all black and blue?.”

  “I’m healing up nicely.” He sips his drink. “It’s good to see you.”

  The woman returns with Darcy’s wine and two menus.

  “You’re obviously a regular here,” Darcy says to Forrest. “Why don’t you order for me?”

  “Anything you don’t eat?”

  “No.”

  He rattles off a series of dishes and Lakshmi favors Darcy with a lingering smile before Forrest shoos her off.

  “Go on, get out of here. Go cook us some food.”

  The woman laughs and strolls away.

  “There’s a story here, isn’t there?” Darcy asks.

  “The restaurant?”

  “Yes.”

  “Remember I told you about visiting an Indian palace as a kid and buddying up to an elephant?”

  “Yes. I didn’t believe a word.”

  “Well, it happens to be true. My friend Bolly is Lakshmi’s brother.”

  “So she’s . . . ?”

  “She’s a princess.”

  “Then what’s she doing in an Indian restaurant in Hollywood?”

  “Bolly’s a great guy but he has a weakness for blackjack and booze and fast cars and the women who like to drive in them.”

  “Your soul mate?”

  He shrugs. “We understand one another.”

  “So he lost the family fortune?”

  “Something like that. The palace is crumbling and their dad, the maharajah, lives in poverty in a couple of rooms. Lakshmi dreams of turning it into a hotel and she’s trying to earn the money to do it by running this place. She cooks like a dream, as you’ll see.”

  Darcy looks around at the near-empty restaurant. “Looks like it could take a while.”

  “Sadly, yes.”

  On cue the woman arrives with an assortment of starters.

  Darcy tries one and closes her eyes in delight.

  Forrest watches her, smiling.

  “What did I tell you?” he says.

  “God, this is sublime.” She licks her fingers. “Do you don’t bring all your conquests here?”

  He shakes his head.

  “This place is my refuge, the closest thing I have to a home and family. You’re the first woman I have ever invited here.”

  “What makes me so special?”

  He narrows his eyes. “I really don’t know.” Then he smiles. “So come on, put me out of my misery, why are you doing this?”

  “Doing what?”

  “Having dinner with me?”

  She shrugs. “It’s safe.”

  “How so?”

  “When your husband dumps you for an upgrade, it’s kind of bruising. Not great for the confidence. So being here with you, knowing you’re not at all interested in me, takes the pressure off.”

  “I imagine there’s some kind of logic hidden in there.”

  “And I’ve decided that perhaps Eric’s right, maybe my mind needs to be broadened. Please, go ahead and impress me with your wit and your sophistication.”

  “So you’re going as some kind of Pygmalion character?” She stares at him blankly. “My Fair Lady? The cockney girl who is made into a lady?”

  “By that professor guy . . .”

  “Henry Higgins.”

  “Right. Didn’t she fall in love with him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, you don’t have to worry about that.”

  “I’m very relieved.”

  She stops eating. “Forrest, you’re not obliged to be here. We can go.”

  “What, and offend Lakshmi? That’s out of the question.”

  “I’m serious. Maybe I’m just being perverse.”

  “I like perverse.” He smiles and touches her hand. “Relax, Darcy, I’m having fun. Now eat your vegetable korma.”

  They eat in silence for a while, the astonishing food and two glasses of wine bringing a little shine to Darcy’s world.

  She wipes her mouth on a napkin and says, “I went to the Getty this afternoon.”

  “How was it?”

  “A little overwhelming. Do you ever go to art museums?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I grew up around people who had old masters hanging in their living rooms.” He shrugs. “I guess you could call me spoiled.”

  “What is it with you rich kids?” she asks.

  “Rich no more, alas.”

  “Okay, but you were born with all the advantages. You have a great education, grew up knowledgeable and sophisticated. Why can’t you get a job?”

  He laughs. “I was educated to understand wine and which knife and fork to use and when to go to St. Moritz or St. Barts, but in real world terms, I’m useless.”

  “It’s sad.”

  “Is it? Aren’t you similar?”

  “Me? My father ran out on us, and my
mother was a waitress.”

  “But you were groomed to become a wife to someone like Porter. And now that he’s gone, you seem lost. As if your life has no purpose.”

  When she lays down her fork and stares at him, he holds up a hand.

  “I’m sorry, that was mean.”

  “No, it wasn’t. You’re right. I was bred to be Mrs. Porter Pringle, and now that an ex has crept in there, I’m left feeling pretty useless.”

  “He’s an idiot.”

  “You don’t have to be gallant, Forrest.”

  “I’m not being gallant. The man’s a clown.”

  She nods. “Maybe.” Suddenly deflated, she looks out the window at a smiling couple passing hand in hand. “I should go. I have a long drive ahead.”

  “I enjoyed seeing you.”

  “I’ve already said you don’t have to be gallant, Forrest.”

  He calls for the check and Darcy manages to smile and compliment Lakshmi on the food. When she tries to slip her credit card under the check, Forrest pushes it back to her.

  “Please, this is mine. I get a family discount.”

  He pays and they step out into the night.

  She points over to the SUV.

  “That’s me there.”

  “I hope not. That thing has a fat backside.”

  She smiles and lets him take her arm and lead her toward the car.

  They pass a club that’s having an opening, a line of people crowding the sidewalk and suddenly they’re ambushed by photographers, flashbulbs going off in their faces.

  Then one of the paparazzi says, “Wait, they’re nobody.”

  And another says, “Yeah, they’re nobody, man” as if this is some kind of accusation.

  The flashbulbs fade and the paparazzi rush off when a limo slinks to the curb.

  “God what a relief it is, to be a nobody,” Forrest says.

  The incident lifts Darcy’s mood and she’s laughing as they reach her car, and when she looks at Forrest the devil is in control again, and somehow she doesn’t want to let this handsome man walk away.

  She points to a nearby bar.

  “Let me buy you a drink?”

  “Sure.”

  They walk into a little Hollywood dive with a couple of booths and a tattooed guy behind the counter.

  Forrest seats Darcy and goes to get drinks.

  She watches him as he stands and talks to the bartender.

  Now that he is no longer in pain, he moves with an easy elegance.

  Porter, despite his bad knee and back, has the grace of a natural athlete, but there’s something about Forrest Forbes that’s different.

  Porter’s body language is all swagger, Forrest’s is more subtle.

  I wonder what he’s like in bed?

  The question pops into Darcy’s head as Forrest returns with their drinks and sits opposite her, and she’s grateful for the dim light that hides the blush on her cheeks.

  “Can I ask you something?” she says.

  “Sure.”

  “Have you ever been in love?”

  “Well, I’ve had passions and obsessions . . .”

  “But you’ve never fallen in love?”

  “No. I don’t think I know how.”

  “But I’ll bet you’ve slept with tons of women?”

  She speaks before she can stop herself, and feels the blush deepen.

  “A gentleman never tells.”

  She gulps her drink and says, “I’ve only ever slept with one man.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. Porter. I was a virgin until the night of the prom, when, of course, we ended up in the back of his car. I fell in love and married him.”

  “Isn’t that the plot of Grease?”

  She laughs and some boldness seizes her.

  “I’m thinking maybe it’s time to shoot for number two.”

  “Are you propositioning me, Darcy?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Why me?”

  “Because I could never fall in love with you.”

  “That safety net thing?”

  “Yes. Are you interested?”

  “I could be.”

  “So take me to your place.”

  Bolder than she could ever have imagined being.

  “You know what Raymond Chandler said about Los Angeles?”

  “Who’s Raymond Chandler?”

  “A writer. He said that LA has the personality of a paper cup.”

  “Sounds like a smart guy.”

  “He was. But he could have been talking about my apartment.”

  “Are you just making a polite excuse, Forrest?”

  He looks at her and smiles.

  “No, I’m not. I’m finding you bizarrely attractive.”

  “Bizarrely?”

  “Well, admit it, we’re an odd match.”

  “Yes, we are. Which makes it kind of appealing.”

  “Exactly.”

  “So let’s get a hotel room. Don’t worry, my treat. Or Porter’s rather. He still pays my MasterCard.”

  “There’s something poetic about that.” He stands and takes her hand. “How about the Beverly Hills Hotel?”

  She holds her car keys out to him.

  “You drive.”

  35

  When Forrest ushers Darcy into the bungalow at the Beverly Hills Hotel he sees her blink at the pillared living room, the grand piano and the massive bed visible through lightly frosted bedroom doors.

  Porter Pringle is going to choke when he gets this credit card tab.

  Serves the bastard right.

  “Wow,” Darcy says.

  “I seem to recall that Marilyn Monroe stayed in this bungalow while she was shooting Let’s Make Love.”

  “It’s gorgeous.”

  Forrest opens the doors onto the thick foliage of the garden, allowing in the sweet perfume of hibiscus and blooming bougainvillea.

  Popping a bottle of Krug, he fills two flutes and hands one to Darcy.

  “Cheers.”

  “Cheers,” she says.

  When she walks to the open patio doors he can see the tension in her body.

  Forrest takes his champagne over to the piano and starts to play “That Old Black Magic.”

  “You play very well,” she says, watching him from the doorway.

  “Oh, hardly.”

  “Maybe you can get a job in the Polo Lounge.”

  “Funny.” While he drinks he plays a few trills with his left hand. “Darcy, you look terrified.”

  “No, I’m not,” she says, “this is me looking seductive.”

  She strikes a Monroe-esque pose—does it rather well—but her voice betrays her.

  “We don’t have to do this,” he says and stops playing.

  “Are you getting cold feet?”

  “No, but I don’t want you to do something you’ll regret.”

  “I’m not seventeen, Forrest. I’m a big girl.”

  “Okay, I’m just letting you know there’s no pressure.”

  She disappears onto the patio and his mischievous hands start to play “Let’s Do It,” as if he’s cool and composed.

  But there is pressure, and he—astonishingly—is feeling it, too.

  Forrest has lost track of the women he’s been with in hotel suites just like this.

  Nights fueled by alcohol and expensive pharmaceuticals, where sex was just something you did, like eating or drinking.

  Nobody got hurt.

  Nobody fell in love.

  Nobody gave a damn.

  They woke up in the morning and spent another wasted day and then repeated the whole exercise with new partners.

  But Darcy Pringle is different.

  This small town girl brings with her none of the ironic detachment of the women Forrest is accustomed to.

  What are you afraid of, Forrest, he asks himself, adding a few frills and trills to what he’s playing.

  And the answer when it comes, astonishes him: he’s afraid of feeling something.<
br />
  He couldn’t deal with that.

  Not now.

  Forrest stands and he’s almost at the door of the bungalow when Darcy says, “You running out on me?” She stands on the patio, holding her glass of champagne. “Don’t you think I’ve had enough rejection?”

  “I’m not rejecting you.”

  “Oh?”

  “I’m a shallow, trivial man, Darcy. You don’t need somebody like me.”

  “Oh, but I do, Forrest. You’re exactly what I need.”

  And the playbook gets tossed when it’s Darcy Pringle who crosses to Forrest Forbes and takes his hand, leading him through to the bedroom where she pushes him onto the giant bed, straddles him and starts to kiss him with a hunger that shocks them both.

  36

  Carlotta McCourt prowls her bedroom, listening to the snores of her husband—like a chainsaw attacking a redwood—wishing she could sleep.

  She washed down two Ambien with a jolt of vodka but still sleep evades her.

  She spent an hour in a hot bath, the foamy water treated with every unguent and lotion she can find that may relax her and allow her to nod off.

  No good.

  The root of her insomnia is, as always, Darcy Pringle.

  Carlotta, at her post at the window yesterday afternoon saw Darcy Pringle drive off in her SUV.

  And she hasn’t returned.

  Her house is in darkness.

  Her garage door yawns on the empty interior.

  Carlotta checks the display on the digital clock beside Walt: 5:53 a.m.

  Where is Darcy Pringle?

  And, more importantly, who is she with?

  Not Eric Royce, Carlotta knows that much.

  The little swish didn’t leave his house last night and his bedroom light clicked off at a sedate 10:24 p.m.

  No, Darcy Pringle has some kind of date.

  Some assignation.

  And not knowing who it’s with is gnawing away at the lining of Carlotta’s gut.

  When she hears the low rumble of a car she rockets across to the window and cracks the drapes.

  Darcy’s SUV drives into the garage of her house and the door closes.

  After a few moments a light comes on downstairs and, as Carlotta watches, the glow of a lamp warms the bedroom curtains.

  Who has Darcy been with?

  Carlotta will find out.

  Even if it kills her.