Taming Cupid

by Emily Bishop

I get lost twice before I find the hedge maze, much less the center of the fucking hedge maze. By the time I find him, my hair looks like day two of being stranded on a jungle island, I smell emphatically of myself, and I have scratches on my fingers from clawing through two hedges as soon as I heard him. But I’m not going to lose my job over this little prep school fantasy Sir Blake Berringer probably has for punk girls. I’m not his road-less-taken, charity, five-minute finger-bang. Nope. Not me.

  “Hey,” I call as I struggle through the stupid vines and leaves. I give a little roar as I come through the last bit, and a piece of one branch comes off in my hair. I struggle to liberate it as I storm toward him. “You can’t just walk off the set like that, Blake. This is serious. We’re paying these people for their time.”

  Now I can see him clearly. He’s sitting on a wrought-iron bench, bookended by dark red rose bushes in full bloom. It’s kind of ridiculous. It looks like it is part of the My Billionaire Bachelor set, but it is part of his regular house.

  I march on him, unswayed by the beautiful environment. The buzz of bumblebees. The thick aroma of flora. I’m totally unmoved. “I know money doesn’t mean anything to someone like you,” I snap at Blake, “but to someone like me, it means a lot, so can we please get back to that makeup chair?”

  Blake lets his head fall to one side and examines me thoughtfully, like I’m some rare creature he needs to document. “Are we not even going to talk about what happened out there?”

  “Your hard-on?” I scoff. “Right. Let me alert the crew. We need to get a slow-mo shot of that boy, I think.”

  “Not my hard-on,” Blake corrects me. “You. How I know you.”

  “I assure you, you don’t,” I say, throwing back his earlier line in his own face. “Come back to the set before we have to sue you for breach of contract.”

  “Roxanne.” His voice turned my name into a love spell. “You’re not going to sue me for anything. Why are you saying ‘we?’ You’re not the show. You didn’t integrate consciousness with My Billionaire Bachelor, did you?”

  “That’s how poor people see work,” I inform him. “Yes, I say ‘we’ when I talk about this show, because it keeps me a-fucking-live. When I stop needing it to live, I’ll stop thinking of it as a part of me. Come on now, pretty boy. Let’s get back to the set.”

  Blake and I stare back and forth at each other for a moment.

  His eyes gleam unreadably, and his lips are slightly curved. Is he happy, right now, with me? When I first saw him—for the first time since 2013—I thought he looked older in more ways than just physically. His mouth and eyes seemed stoic and heartless. But right now, he looks young again.

  He likes to mess with people, I guess.

  “Let’s go,” I say again. Maybe he can use his quips and mystique on other billionaire women, but they won’t work on me. I need real things. I lean down and stretch my hands out to him, beckoning like he’s a dog. “Let’s get back to the set, okay? Come on boy!” I whistle for him and pat my knee.

  “You don’t even want to acknowledge it?” His deep voice pitches high with disbelief. “You literally asked me if I was an angel.”

  By complete coincidence, my necklace—Blake’s brass key on a slim brass chain—slides out of my neckline at that precise moment, dangling in Blake’s face.

  His eyes brighten, and he snatches the key out of the air, incidentally tugging it and drawing my face to hover just above his, my breasts crowded beneath his nose.

  “You kept it,” he realizes.

  “Did you want it back?”

  “No. No.” The key slips from between his fingers and topples back toward my breasts, where it is normally safely snuggled. I stand and slip it down the front of my shirt again, almost offended by the fact that he didn’t ogle me at all.

  “Good,” I say. “We’re not supposed to take gifts from the bachelor, but gifts from before must be okay.”

  “Oh, is that what I am now? ‘The bachelor’?”

  I step back and turn, desperately gesturing for him to follow. I don’t have time to talk about how we met like we’re old friends or ex-lovers, because we’re not. Anyway, I saw the footage of him chasing down and whooping that kid with the camera. No, thank you. Ms. Madden was right. He is unhinged. “Yes, you’re ‘the bachelor.’ Come on.”

  “Not until you break one of the Billionaire Bachelor rules,” Blake blurts from behind me. “Come on. You need to get out from under Candace’s grinding old thumb.”

  “She told me you were bad,” I mutter, mostly to myself. He’s going to get me fired. I’m already standing at the hedge, waiting impatiently. “I don’t know why I didn’t believe her.”

  “Just one,” Blake coos. He snaps a red rose off the nearest bush and stands, sauntering toward me. It twirls between his fingers, and his eyes dance. “A flower to die in your suitcase.”

  I glare at the flower, then turn the same glare on him. “You’re going to get me fired.”

  “Just break one rule, and I’ll come back with you.” He twirls the rose in front of my nose. “A souvenir for the first erection you ever gave me. Hopefully not the last.” He winks.

  I gape into his arrogant face as I snatch the rose, smack it against his chest, and whirl. Typical bachelor.

  “You’re such a spoiled brat,” I grumble, marching through the hedge maze.

  “By the way,” he calls after me, “you’re going in the wrong direction.”

  I storm past him and into the only other hedge maze corridor. I also crush his gift of the rose down into my pocket like it’s a crumpled receipt. That’s how little I care.

  “By the way,” I call after him, mimicking his know-it-all tone perfectly, “I broke two of your hedges.”

  Chapter 3

  Blake

  I ache to grab her. It’s my first and most natural response, but I know that I can’t…

  We stroll the gardens, and Candace asks me soft questions about my family and our finances, how I became a ‘billionaire bachelor.’ This is a talk I’ve had a thousand times. They were members of the royal treasury during the reign of Bloody Mary. It’s the scandal of my family, but it’s also the wellspring of our fortune. She wants to talk about the charity work. We talk about the charity work. She wants to talk about the altercation with the photographer, and I thank her for her interest and pass.

  They ask for some shots of me with my shirt unbuttoned, and it’s hard to keep a straight face. It takes a few tries, and finally, Candace decides, “You know what? I like the smile better anyway. We got it.”

  I watch from the sidelines as they film Candace at the introduction of the show, alone poolside and walking expertly in snakeskin stilettos and a matching snakeskin cocktail gown. It’s too much.

  On the patio, the eight pseudo-contestants all congregate in egg-shaped chairs, waiting for their scene. They’re inexplicably bikini-clad.

  “We’ve selected eight wonderful women from the United States–hardworking, regular women–and we’re giving them the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to slip into the elegant heels of the date… with a billionaire bachelor.”

  She strolls toward their side of the pool. I haven’t spoken to any of these women yet, and I doubt that I will, with the exception of our ‘episode’ together. It’s just not that kind of show. It’s meant to be goofy and pointless.

  Right now, Candace is giving a short interview to a waitress from Florida. I suppose she’ll be one of my dates.

  I hear the crunch of grass behind me, and then: “I have to ask you something,” a husky female voice murmurs.

  Roxanne settles alongside me, and when I look at her, I have to pause.

  That’s why she looked so different when I first saw her again–all the makeup.

  Her face is clean and fresh now, dark hair pulled back in a loose clasp, and she seems ten years younger; she looks just like the girl I met on that yacht, but stronger. Much stronger. Her hair is wet from a shower and smells of pear blossom. She’s not wearing th
e show shirt anymore. She wears cloying black leggings and a sheer black camisole. I can’t see anything, and I won’t give her the satisfaction of crawling all over her with my eyes, but I am somehow preternaturally aware that she isn’t wearing a bra. I’m sure of it.

  Her captivating eyes snap to me and crinkle with intensity, derailing my train of thought. “Where does my key go?”

  I can see the key now, winking up at me from her chest, as if beckoning me to take it back from her.

  I open my mouth and flounder for a second, as it occurs to me that the truth sounds wildly dramatic and childish. I can’t tell her the truth. “I don’t remember, really. A post office box, I think. Padlock, maybe. Ah, yes, that was it. Remember the story?”

  “A prison can become a home if only you have the key,” she repeats my words perfectly. I’m a little impressed. That moment must have meant more to her than she’s letting on.

  “Yes, yes,” I say. “That’s the key to the dungeon padlock. I remember now.”

  I grin, happy to push her buttons, but Roxanne’s expression sours. She continues to toy with the key. “Come down to me,” she commands suddenly, guiding me first toward one of the lamps on the property and positioning me beneath it. Then she draws my face closer to hers and strategically dabs it with some cream-colored concealer and a blush brush.

  While she works on me, I study her face.

  There’s something so intent about her, something dogged and relentless. She refuses to even see me as anything but a part of her job, because her job keeps her alive. Her survival instinct is so strong now, especially compared to a girl once poised to throw herself into the ocean. That night, when I collected her off the stern of that ship, she looked like she could shatter at any moment. But this phoenix is a creature from another entire species, the way a butterfly couldn’t possibly emerge from the same cocoon that a caterpillar built. Yet they do.

  “You’ve changed,” I tell her. “I didn’t even recognize you at first.”

  She smiles a little as she gently flicks her blush brush along my cheekbones, my chin, and my nose. “You look a little different, too,” she says.

  I grin down at her, tracking her movements closely with my eyes. She’s looking away, surprising me with her bashfulness, tucking a wavy lock of black hair behind her ear.

  From the other side of the pool, Candace yells, “Let’s talk about our sixth season billionaire bachelor, America! He’s Britain’s bad boy: Sir Blake Berringer!”

  “Time to go,” Roxanne whispers up to me, stepping back. I ache to grab her. It’s my first and most natural response, but I know that I can’t. “Bad boy,” she adds with a smirk, settling on her hip. I cringe at the way her ass pops in those pants. I cringe at the way she calls me “bad boy.”

  “Heir to seventeen billion pounds in a banking fortune!” Candace calls, and I start thinking we might be in the middle of an entirely different take now. “Heir to a fortune which dates back to Queen Elizabeth the First!”

  I bolt over to her and grasp her hand warmly. We make small talk, and I’m introduced to the girls. I think this is pure cake until she turns on me. “So, when are we going to talk about the fight, Blake?” Candace asks with a conspiratorial giggle, her voice low and almost commanding. “Everybody’s dying to get your side of the story.”

  “I’m not as bad as they say I am,” I tell the camera, smiling into its lens. I know how these things go. I’m not going to fight with Candace, even if that is, deep down, exactly what she wants to film. “The media is insane, and it will do anything to a celebrity, whatever gets the most ratings. Let’s talk about the things that matter in my life, Candace. For example, I spend most of my time following several different passions. I spent a few years studying fighting in the East, mastering bagua and aikido, as well as other martial art styles.”

  Candace’s eyes gleam. “Oh, I’m shocked! Sir Berringer loves to fight! I’m looking right at that famous Berringer bump right now.”

  My jaw sets. She’s got me there. I walked right into it.

  “This season’s billionaire bachelor is in the middle of a storm of controversy after seriously wounding a photographer, insistent upon taking his picture as he exited an Essex hospital,” Candace explains to the audience, and I bristle.

  “I have no instinct to defend myself from your attacks, Candace,” I inform her smilingly.

  “They’re not—”

  “Because it’s ridiculous that I would have to.”

  “You put him in the hospital with a broken nose and a dislocated jaw!” Candace reminds me hotly.

  “What gives you the right to dole out my privacy?” I snap.

  “He was only nineteen!”

  “He was old enough to intrude on one of the hardest moments in a man’s life.”

  Candace withdraws, considering me, and then lunges again. “Do you mean your opioid withdrawal?”

  I bark out a laugh and pull off my mic, flicking it to the ground at my feet. “Just because the public wants it, Candace?” I ask her, shaking my head. “You know me.”

  “Do I?” she wonders, and I blink.

  “Maybe not.” I turn and march back toward my house. “I’m calling cut,” I yell over my shoulder.

  “You can’t do that!” Candace yells after me.

  “Cut!” I call.

  A few seconds of silence lapse, and then Candace echoes my command, and all the worker bees cart away the equipment and withdraw into their trailers for the night.

  ***

  “I’m starting to have second thoughts about all this,” I confess to Miles as I unbutton my shirt and turn, allowing him to strip it from my back and fold it perfectly over his forearm. I half-smile at how every muscle on my chest pops after Roxanne’s work on them. “I didn’t think this would be about me,” I explain. And that’s true. I don’t lie to Miles. “I thought the whole point of this show was to have fun and pretend to be rich.” I move stiffly and heavily as I shirk my pants, distracted and hampered by my own rage. “We’re supposed to go to the opera, and horseback riding, and things like that! That’s all! Easy!” I kick my pants off, and Miles plucks them from the air, dutifully folding them over his forearm.

  “You’re a special case,” he comforts me. “You haven’t spoken to anyone about what happened. People are inquisitive.”

  “It’s no one’s business,” I grumble, stalking to the bathroom in my boxers and a light shirt. I splash my face with hot water, and Miles has already produced a damp towel for me. He knows I’m going to wash my face and shave, then brush my teeth. This has been our routine for almost twenty years, and of course I can fill a dish with shaving cream by myself, but I choose not to. I like having Miles around. Things are a little less lonely.

  I drape the towel over my face for a moment and let my pores open up.

  “You handled it expertly,” Miles promises me. I hear the tinkle of my toiletries being arranged on the tray, and then: “I noticed you with a dark-haired staff member several times today.” A beat of silence. “A pretty young girl,” Miles adds.

  “She’s not that young,” I say, peeling the towel from my face. He dips and stirs a silver boar bristle brush into a tin of cream and offers it to me. I paint my chin and cheeks with it, and he passes me the straightedge. “We, uh, met a few years ago at a charity event before Candace got this show picked up,” I explain. My razor slides gracefully along the angles of my face as I speak.

  For some reason, I feel an urge to guard the story of Roxanne from Miles, just as I wish to guard the story of Arthur from the world.

  “I like her,” I add lightly. “She treats me like a regular person.”

  “Well,” Miles says, beat. I wash my face and rake fingers through my hair, examining myself in the mirror. The fresh shave leaves me looking predatory and angular, like a big jungle cat. My lip quirks. I like it. Roxanne better look out. “Just be careful of her. You know women.”

  “Not all of them,” I remind him with a wink, turning from th
e sink and striding out of the bathroom and into the master bedroom. “We’re filming in France tomorrow. I’m going to see a play with some school teacher, and we get to meet the cast of the show afterward, so. That will be…nice.” I sigh, and my shoulders sag slightly as I really think about the next day.

  What have I gotten myself into?

  A split-second decision to sign away two months of my life for this insipid reality television show, all because I thought I recognized a staffer.

  Who, it turns out, has no desire to know me. She said it herself. I’m Bachelor #6. I’m Sir Berringer. Not Blake.

  I glance at the double glass doors leading out onto my balcony, and wonder if I can see her trailer from here.

  “Blake…” Miles says behind my back.

  I clear my throat, remembering his presence. I don’t know why I thought he left… “Yes?”

  “Why are you doing this? You hate this sort of thing.” I stride to the glass doors and push them open, letting the dark night come seeping in. The chirp of crickets serenades from the shadows below. “The Blake I know would have seen Madden escorted through those gates as soon as he spotted the vans.”

  I stroll out onto my balcony and survey my kingdom as Miles speaks–the hedge maze to the south, the wide, open lawn to the north. Past the hedge maze are the lake, the butterfly pavilion, and the bird sanctuary, which my mother insisted upon. Fountains. Rock gardens. It goes on and on until I can’t see it anymore. There’s a golf course somewhere out there. Stables. Everything.

  But my eye gravitates instead toward the little huddle of trailers in the distance.

  Roxanne’s is the size of a pebble, a small light propped on a fold-out table in front of it.

  I see her, hunched, blurred by shadow, sitting alone.

  “The girl,” I answer him, spreading my hands on the rough stone balcony railing. I wonder what she’s doing right now. Writing a letter home? To a boyfriend?

  Miles leans beside me on the railing and shakes his head. “May I have permission to speak freely, sir?”

  “Always, Miles. What are you thinking?”