Rent A Husband: a Romantic Comedy

by Sally Mason

  She sits behind the wheel of the SUV, staring open-mouthed as Billy executes a courtly little bow.

  Darcy fears for her feet—imagining those delicate little bones crunching and cracking beneath Billy’s size thirteens—but she’s already spurned the poor man’s advances so how can she refuse his request to dance?

  Taking a deep breath, summoning all her courage, Darcy steps down from the high car and walks toward Billy who takes her in his arms, and to the sound of Billie Holliday’s husky voice, sweeps her into an elegant quickstep.

  The hulking, buffoonish Billy Bigelow is transformed, and as Darcy—never anything more than an adequate dancer—is led expertly around the parking lot, she laughs with sheer delight.

  48

  Brontë Baines is woken from a sleep haunted by dreams of William Bigelow and Darcy Pringle—oppressive, tormenting dreams.

  Music wakes her, and it takes her a moment to realize that it’s coming from the parking lot below.

  She edges toward the window, lifting a corner of the drape, peering out.

  When she sees William twirling Darcy Pringle around the lot, the two of them spotlit by the beams of the idling SUV, it is her worst nightmare come true and she tears herself away from the window, falling face down on the bed, covering her ears with a pillow to smother the music, her tears soaking the comforter.

  The dance ends and Billy releases Darcy, taking a step back.

  She blinks and shakes her head.

  “My God, Billy, where did you learn to dance like that?”

  “My mother taught me. She said I was a natural.”

  “Well, she was right. You’re brilliant.”

  He shrugs, and lifts a hand, “Good night, Darcy. Thank you.”

  When he turns toward his apartment he is clumsy Billy Bigelow again, and almost takes a nasty tumble on the step up to the sidewalk.

  “Billy?” Darcy says, from behind the wheel of her car.

  He steadies himself and turns back toward her.

  “Yes?”

  “Remember what you promised? About Brontë?”

  “I remember.”

  “She’s a lucky girl,” Darcy says, and drives away into the night.

  Billy, his blood aswirl with a cocktail of emotions, unlocks the door and takes himself up the stairs.

  He hesitates outside Brontë’s room, listening for a sound from within, but hears nothing.

  Then Billy is back in the car with Darcy, when she told him that Brontë is crazy about him, and a wild impulse urges him to knock on the door.

  He gets as far as raising his fist but stops as his knuckles brush the wood and lets the hand fall again to his side.

  Maybe Darcy was wrong, just as Carlotta McCourt had been wrong about Darcy’s feelings toward him.

  Poor Billy Bigelow turns away from Brontë’s door and trudges toward his apartment.

  He’s had enough rejection for one night.

  Brontë, even with the pillow over her head, hears William on the stairs.

  How could she not?

  He sounds like an elephant thundering up the staircase, and despite what she just saw in the parking lot, her heart swells with love for this huge, wonderful, clumsy man.

  And her heart nearly misses a beat when she hears him stop outside her door.

  What does he want? she wonders.

  To talk of Darcy, she supposes.

  To ask Brontë’s council on how to proceed from here.

  And, even though she suspects this is his mission, she begs silently for him to knock.

  But he doesn’t.

  He turns and clumps off, banging his way into the apartment next door.

  Brontë covers her head again, to mask the sound of William blundering around on the other side of the thin wall.

  So near, yet so far . . .

  49

  Forrest Forbes tells himself that he’s at the Jaipur Palace by accident, that he was merely out for a morning stroll along the star-encrusted sidewalks of Hollywood when his feet brought him here, unbidden.

  Tells himself that he isn’t here for succor, to be held—metaphorically of course—to Lakshmi’s ample bosom, to unburden himself about these uncomfortable feelings he’s been wrestling since his night with Darcy Pringle.

  The Darcy Pringle he has heard not one word from.

  The Darcy Pringle he is too chicken-hearted to call.

  But since he’s here, it would be rude not to go inside and greet his friend, he decides, even though (since it is too early for the restaurant to be open) this means going down an alley to the kitchen door.

  As Forrest passes a row of dented trash cans he feels a little twinge in his ribs when he remembers his last time in an alleyway.

  This flashback is enhanced when a very large, very loud man backs out of the kitchen door of the Jaipur Palace, waving his fist at Lakshmi, who holds up her hands beseechingly.

  Forrest quickens his step.

  “I have the rent money by Friday or you’re out on your ass,” the man shouts.

  “Please Mr. Kleinmann, can I have a few days grace?”

  “Grace? Who’s she?” the man says with a sneer.

  “What’s going on?” Forrest says, getting between the big man and Lakshmi.

  “It’s okay, Forrest, it’s all under control.”

  The man quietens now that Forrest has arrived, but his parting words are ominous.

  “The money, Friday, or I’m locking these doors and calling the sheriff’s department.”

  He storms off down the alley.

  “Your landlord?” Forrest asks.

  “Yes. A most disagreeable man.”

  “So it would seem.”

  “I’m sorry you had to hear all that.” She takes his arm. “Come inside, Forrest, let me get you some cardamom tea.”

  As they walk through the kitchen where Lakshmi’s assistants are busy over bubbling pots, the heady smell of spices thick in Forrest’s nostrils, Lakshmi says something in Hindi, and they have barely settled at a table near the cash register when a pencil-thin Indian man appears with a cup of tea and a glass of water.

  “You’ll stay for lunch, of course, Forrest?” Lakshmi asks, sipping at the water.

  “No, I just came by to say hello.”

  “Nonsense. Umesh is cooking up a mutton vindaloo that could strip paint from the hood of a Bombay taxi.”

  “Then how can I refuse?”

  “Good.”

  Forrest regards his friend over his tea cup.

  “Lakshmi, you’re not any trouble, are you?”

  “No, it’s just that my cash flow is more sluggish than the Ganges.”

  “Stop trying to be lyrical. This place isn’t paying, is it?”

  She shakes her head.

  “Just a poor couple of months, Forrest. We’ll be okay.” She smiles, but he knows her too well to be fooled. “Now tell me about that nice lady friend of yours. Darcy. What a fine, Jane Austenish name.”

  “Oh, I haven’t heard from her since the other night.”

  She gives him a long look.

  “You didn’t do something ungentlemanly, did you Forrest?”

  “No, nothing like that.”

  “There was something about you when you were with her. Something I’ve never seen before.”

  “What?”

  “If I didn’t know you for the heartless beast you are, I’d swear you’re in love with her.”

  “That’s absurd.”

  “Mnnnn, maybe.

  He drinks his tea, gazing out of the window, but he’s not seeing the seedy buildings, he’s seeing Darcy Pringle with her hair spread across the pillow in Marilyn Monroe’s bungalow.

  “Have you ever been in love, Lakshmi?” he asks, turning.

  “Only once.” She sighs. “I was wild about one of my fellow students at the university, but he was a commoner of a lower caste and my father would never have approved, so the boy ran off to Delhi and I never saw him again.”

  A look of such
wistfulness crosses Lakshmi’s face that Forrest reaches across and takes her hand.

  “It was a mixture of everything that is heavenly and hellish all at once.” She laughs. “A lot like eating a hot curry: it hits you in the belly and leaves you with heartburn.”

  Lakshmi squeezes his fingers. “Is that how you feel when you think of your Darcy?”

  “Yes, I guess so.”

  “That confirms the diagnosis. You’re lovesick and there’s only one cure.”

  “A killer curry and a bottle of Scotch?”

  She shakes her head.

  “I think you know better than that.”

  “I have to see her?”

  “Yes, you do. Post-haste.”

  “What if she doesn’t want to see me?”

  Lakshmi shrugs. “You know all about gambling, Forrest. Time to take a risk.”

  “We’re not talking about money here. We’re talking about my heart.”

  Lakshmi claps her hands.

  “Good. It is such a delight to hear you speak this way, Forrest. You go to Darcy, and you tell her how you feel and then you bring her here for a meal, very, very soon.”

  On cue bowls of food arrive and Forrest is forced to put Darcy out of his mind when a forkful of fiery curry sets his mouth alight.

  50

  Brontë Baines rises from a dream-addled sleep as slowly as if she’s surfacing from a great depth.

  When she opens her eyes to bright sunshine she’s surprised she slept at all.

  The clock beside her bed tells her that it is after nine a.m. and she can hear the clatter from the coffee shop downstairs.

  Nobody (least of all William) will have noticed her absence, for this is her day off.

  Lying in bed, she finds herself caught up in a silly fantasy: William—missing her presence downstairs—comes knocking at her door, enquiring after her health, and sweeps her into his arms, declaring Darcy a witch, an enchantress, and swearing his troth to Brontë.

  You idiot, she tells herself.

  You don’t beat women like Darcy Pringle.

  Ever.

  On cue her memory trots out a montage of Brontë Bainses’s Worst Moments at the hands of Cute Blondes.

  Brontë being heckled by cheerleaders.

  Being scorned at dances in favor of chesty blondes who popped gum and sneered at her.

  Brontë being shouldered aside on buses and trains by men eager to squeeze themselves in beside some bouncy blonde who wore most of her parts outside of her dress.

  So, this is all too familiar.

  But no less painful, for that.

  Dressed in her cotton sleeping shift, Brontë rises from the bed, and despite her best attempts not to, she catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror on the door of the closet.

  Her hair looks like a brush fire.

  Her skin is as blotchy as if she has some kind of plague.

  Her shoulders are so rounded she looks like a question mark.

  She makes it as far as the little table by the window that offers her a glimpse of the ocean over the roof of Peggy’s Diner, and finds herself opening her journal.

  Brontë reads the last few entries, in her cramped spidery, scrawl.

  All about Joy.

  All about Love.

  All about meeting the man of her dreams, the wonderful, big-hearted William Bigelow.

  But now, alas, that big heart belongs to another.

  The transplant has failed.

  Darcy raises her old Montblanc and pens an ode to William.

  An ode to love and loss.

  She writes from the depths of her tormented soul, oblivious to the tears that flow unchecked down her checks, dripping onto the page of her journal, smudging much of what she writes.

  51

  Darcy sits with Eric Royce under the umbrella beside her pool, enjoying the morning sunshine, drinking the freshly squeezed juice he brought over from his house.

  “What’s happening with the hidden camera show?” she asks.

  “Is this your not-so-subtle way of asking me if I’ve spoken to Forrest Forbes?”

  “No, I just want to know what’s going on.”

  “Interest has cooled, I’m afraid, darling.”

  “Why?”

  “The network chews through development VPs quicker than Kim Kardashian chews through husbands. I phone-pitched the new guy yesterday and he told me that he had an unfortunate experience with a hidden cam show a few years ago.” Eric shrugs. “C’est la vie.”

  “Does Forrest know?”

  “One of my people will call him today.” He looks at her and smiles, “You care, Darcy! Isn’t that just adorable!”

  “I know he’s pretty hard up.”

  “Now why can’t I find it in my heart to get all weepy when a lucky spermer has the kilim pulled from under his feet?”

  “Cue the theme tune from West Side Story, while Eric Royce—née Ernie Kaminski—tells of Rising to Great Heights from Humble Beginnings.”

  “You’re funny, Darce. Ever thought of a career in daytime television?”

  “No, but I have an idea that I want to pitch you.”

  “Well, pitch away, Ace, pitch away.”

  “You should do a show about Forrest.”

  “What, like some reality thing? I don’t think so.”

  “Wait, hear me out.”

  “Okay, fascinate me.”

  “Forrest has had an interesting life, right? The whole riches to rags thing?”

  “Moderately interesting, I’ll grant you.”

  “And he has some great stories to tell.”

  “That he does.”

  “So what about a show, a sitcom or a soap, based on his life? And you get him to work on it.”

  “As pretty as you clearly find him, I don’t think that Forrest has the presence to hold a show like that, darling.”

  “Not in front of the camera, Eric. Get him involved in the writing.”

  Eric looks at her, sipping his juice.

  “You’re suggesting that I use Forrest’s life as the basis for a series and get him to work with screenwriters as a kind of story consultant?”

  “Yes. Exactly.”

  He tugs at his lower lip as he gazes out over the sparkling pool.

  “Not the worst idea I’ve ever heard. People do seem to have an enduring fascination with the silver spoon brigade.”

  “Good.”

  He gives her a long look.

  “What?” she says.

  “This little idea could have legs, we’ll see. But there’s something that interests me more.”

  “What?”

  “You.”

  “Me?”

  “Uh huh. Or should I say the feelings you have for Forrest.”

  “I have no feelings for Forrest.”

  “You’re lying, Darcy,” Eric says and she sees that, for once, he is not being flippant. “And I’m experiencing pangs of guilt.”

  “Why?”

  He spreads his hands, palm upward.

  “I fixed you guys up. I engineered this thing.”

  “Slow down Svengali. Forrest and I aren’t a couple of kids.”

  “No, you’re not. But you’re both vulnerable. Forrest needs money and sees me as a possible meal ticket. And you spent your whole damned life with that philistine Porter Pringle. A man like Forrest can only shine by comparison.”

  “Let’s leave Porter out of this.”

  “Gladly, he’s souring my pomegranite juice. Look, Darce, Forrest is gorgeous, witty, sophisticated and—by all accounts—skilled between the sheets. In other words, a fun guy to hang out with while you gather yourself for the next chapter in your life. But Forrest is meant to be just a footnote, someone you think fondly of while you’re moving on.”

  “I understand that, Eric.”

  “So you say, but I’m sitting here looking into your baby blues and what I’m seeing worries me.”

  “What are you seeing?”

  “I think you’ve developed
feelings for this guy. And all I can say, Darcy, is don’t. You’re about to climb Heartbreak Ridge.”

  “So now I’m in a Clint Eastwood movie?”

  “Promise me you’ll cool down on Forrest?”

  “My heart’s a meat locker when it comes to Mr. Forbes, Eric. I swear.”

  “Mnnnn.”

  “Scout’s honor.” She raises three fingers. “By the way, Porter called me. He’s coming up to see me today.”

  “Really?”

  “He wants to talk.”

  “About what?”

  “I’m not sure. He was very nice on the phone, apologizing for the way he sprang the pregnancy on me.”

  “Porter Pringle apologized?”

  “Yes, he did.”

  “A worrying sign. In my experience a man like him will only play the apology card for one of two reasons.”

  “Which are?”

  “Money.”

  “And?”

  “He wants to win you back.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Darcy says. “He’s married. A father-to-be.”

  “Mere details for Porter.”

  “That’s ridiculous, Eric.”

  “Is it? Is it really?”

  “Yes, of course. You’re crazy.”

  But is that a little leap Darcy feels in her heart?

  52

  The morning, for Poor Billy Bigelow, is a series of disasters.

  Alone in the coffee shop, he scalds his hand on the cappuccino machine.

  He serves a sandwich left over from the day before, the bread hard and stale and the cold cuts curling out like shoe leather.

  The customer, a regular, storms out without paying, swearing never to return.

  He upsets a latte in the lap of the mayor’s wife. (She has to fight him off with all her strength when he tries to mop up her nether regions with a wad of napkins.)

  Poor Billy is unsurprised by these mishaps.

  Pretty much business-as-usual for Billy Bigelow.

  But he is surprised at the cause of today’s absent-mindedness.

  He’s thinking of a woman and realizing what a fool he has been.