Love and Loathing Read online

  Love and Loathing

  Backstage Romance Book One

  Blume

  Copyright © 2019 by Sodasac Press All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Editing: SJS Editorial

  Custom Cover Design: Jessica Parker

  Formatting: Kayla Tirrell

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  To the lovely ladies at the JAFF Facebook group-thank you for your wonderful feedback and encouragement:

  Christa Buchan

  Jenny Ward

  Anita Pelletier

  Contents

  1. The Stanley Sisters

  2. Loathe Pie

  3. Fine Eyes

  4. Spiders, Sharks, and Barnacles, Oh My!

  5. It's Hard to Be the Bard (or MacGyver)

  6. Good Opinion Once Lost

  7. Quetzalcoatl’s Hot Chocolate

  8. How Pitiful His Tale (How Rare His Beauty)

  9. Eggs, Pie, and Cheese Wiz

  10. Any Savage Can Dance

  11. Red and Black

  12. The Yam Incident

  13. Telenovelas and Cap’n Crunch

  14. What Is This Feeling?

  15. He Ran Into My Knife Ten Times

  16. At Common Sense She Gaily Mocks

  17. Twitterpated

  18. Taco Wednesday

  19. Some Disenchanted Evening

  20. Cold Civility

  21. Will with A Quill

  22. The Winter of Our Discontent

  23. The Girl with The Lanyard

  24. The Woman Who Stole My Heart and My Dog

  25. First-Rate Opportunity

  26. Stay

  27. Lights, Cookies, Snoopy

  28. Hold, Monsters!

  29. T Minus One Day

  30. Something Else

  31. Take Heart, Take Mine

  32. Pour, Oh Pour, the Pirate Sherry

  Epilogue

  Love Romantic Comedy?

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Blume

  1

  The Stanley Sisters

  Beth

  It is a truth universally acknowledged that a hotshot movie star must be off his rocker to do regional theatre. It wasn’t uncommon for A-list celebrities to sharpen their chops as Hamlet or star in a fresh, new musical between filming projects, but as far as I was concerned, vain pretty boys who made hot-rod movies could leave Moliere and Mamet to the real actors. Unfortunately, nobody asked my opinion.

  This was my first professional gig. I was a principal cast member in Pirates of Penzance at the Stella Gardiner Theatre, a prime regional playhouse in Los Angeles. After an eternity of paying my dues performing in obscure shows in shoddy warehouses, I was finally getting paid. Squee!

  It was a mystery how I managed to get the part of Edith, but there I was, hoping nobody would notice the giant newbie in the room. I was certain it was some sort of mistake and half-expected the director to kick me out the first day of rehearsal. Can I be honest here? I was mildly disappointed he didn’t. Here’s why: Professional theatre meant they expected professional-level work. And that terrified me. I wasn’t in Kansas anymore. And by Kansas, I mean community theatre.

  (I’m not from Kansas. I’m from Long Beach.)

  The one thing that settled my nerves as I took my place among the other cast members in the rehearsal hall was the presence of my friend and roommate Jane. She landed the lead role of Mabel, and everybody knew it was well deserved.

  I lifted my binder of sheet music over my face and leaned into Jane. “I’m just going to hide under your rehearsal skirt like a woodland animal for the next few weeks. Okay?”

  She grinned, regarding me with amusement, her perfect teeth and flawless skin just another modus to render me invisible. Who would pay any attention to little ‘ol Pluto when the very sun shone upon them? I winced and figured I’d bask in the shadow of her glory for the unforeseeable future.

  “You’ll be brilliant, Beth,” she said sweetly. “I’m your biggest fan.”

  Yeah. Okay then.

  She was my biggest fan because, with the thin walls of our apartment, she was a captive audience. Nobody was knocking down my door to hear me sing in the shower even though the laminated lyrics I suction-cupped to the tile wall were the most genius idea I’d had. Ever.

  A squeal behind me shook me out of my reverie.

  “Did you hear? The guy cast as Frederic is coming right from a national tour.”

  The squeal belonged to Lydia, a girl I knew from a previous show. She leaned in between Jane and me and propped her chin on my shoulder, bouncing her eyes around the room at the twenty or so male cast members. “Which one do you think he is? I hear he’s eye candy.” She tilted her face towards Jane like a little bird and smiled. “Oh, hello. My name is Lettuce Stanley. What’s your name?”

  I raised my eyes to the ceiling because I knew this bit. She liked to make up names for her character when she was in the ensemble. She insisted everyone call her that all the time. She wasn’t interested in Jane’s real name.

  “This is Mabel Stanley,” I replied on Jane’s behalf. This little tidbit of information lit up Lydia’s face, and she squeezed Jane’s arms, snapping a selfie.

  “Hashtag Stanley Sisters.”

  She posted the photo immediately with the addition of #piratebootycall.

  A hush came over the cast as the director entered the room. We all clung to our sheet music with rapt attention. Cole Forster preceded his reputation as one of the toughest directors in Los Angeles theatre. He semi-retired from his Broadway career after a lucrative stint on shows such as Nine and Dracula The Musical. When he came to Los Angeles, he worked almost exclusively at the Gardiner, where he would direct one show a year. Every single one of them won awards. No pressure.

  He cleared his throat and scanned the room. I wasn’t sure if the scowl he wore was attributed to his displeasure at such a ragtag cast, or if that was a permanent fixture on his face. I pushed the thought aside for later. He addressed the thirty-five or so performers thus.

  “I want to start by congratulating all of you for your display of talent and skill that has brought you here today. The audition process was rigorous, and the elimination rounds were especially difficult for Fitz and me.”

  He gestured to Fitz Hanlon, the music director standing by the piano with his music stand at the ready. Fitz nodded gravely.

  Cole Forster continued, “As some of you may be aware, we pre-cast some of our principal players which I don’t see here at present, but I do have a surprise which I think you’ll consider a real treat.”

  Everyone in the room straightened at attention a little bit more, if that was at all possible, but Lydia slumped in her chair, almost pouting that Mr. National Tour had yet to enter the building.

  And then, like a tropical storm, the woman of the hour swept into the room. The legend. The queen of theatre for whom the place we were sitting in was named. Audible gasps waved across the cast. A faint smile cracked across Cole Forster’s face as he introduced the elderly but spry woman entering with a flourish in a black leotard and a flowing paisley kimono. “Our very own Dame Stella Gardiner will play the part of Ruth.”

  The room filled wit
h thunderous applause. Scripts hit the floor, and everyone was on their feet, the applause growing in intensity as Stella made several large, sweeping bows.

  It was a beautiful moment. This woman was so celebrated, she didn’t even have to open her mouth with one line of dialogue to get a standing ovation. In my opinion, she deserved it. Black and white photos of Ms. Gardiner in various productions over the years lined the foyer and hallways of the theatre.

  Dramatic images taken candidly upon the stage of her playing Lady Macbeth, Evita and Maria von Trapp were the whispers of antiquity that gave the theatre its character. Her legacy was set upon the long and notable career she built for herself. She was nominated for seven Tony awards and won three, had an Oscar under her belt, and her countless film and television appearances were probably just another day in the life of the great Dame Stella. Yep. Definitely not in Kansas anymore.

  “I just want you all to know,” she began with her regal English air, “that even though I’m technically the owner of this pile of bricks…” She waved her hand around, indicating the theatre. A flutter of chuckles accompanied her pause. “…we are all in the same boat together. By the way, I’ve seen the designs for the actual boat, and we’ll be packed in quite cozily. So wear deodorant.”

  This earned her more laughs, and she smiled with that famous glow she was known for. It wasn’t a trick of good lighting or the magic performed in the editing room. That glow was all her. She was radiant. I noticed with awe how incredibly electric the room became simply by her presence. But she didn’t strike me as one of those old-timey movie stars who expected everyone to grovel. She cracked jokes and exchanged hugs with the creative team. Fitz said something in her ear, and she laughed with an easy mien, squeezing his shoulder in genuine camaraderie.

  This was her tribe, I thought wistfully. I’d observed it in many celebrities and Broadway stars. There was always that group of people who, sharing the toil of one’s life work, became more than friends. It was like a club one could only join by doing brilliant things. I wanted to be a part of it. I was a part of it. It could be my tribe, too.

  Admittedly, I still felt like a voyeur, waiting for the other shoe to drop. It reminded me of that time my uncle snuck into the U2 concert by simply walking through the stage door with the crew. He described how he watched the entire show from the wings, and nobody said anything to him. He did that three times. But on the fourth attempt, part of the security staff stopped him for not having a lanyard.

  A lanyard.

  So he pretended he was lost. No big deal. I wondered how many rehearsals I could realistically attend before people noticed I didn’t belong. I’d have to act confused and claim I wandered in there by accident, thinking it was a Pilates studio. I did a quick perusal of the other actors to see if any of them had lanyards or name stickers. Nope. So far, so good.

  Stop freaking out, Beth. They want you here. You’re good enough. You can do this.

  As if on cue, two men walked into the rehearsal studio riding on the wake of Stella’s limelight. It was as though, true to a stage performer’s instincts, the applause drew them there like moths to a flame. Everyone was dazzled by their presence as the two men shook hands with the directors. They were both gorgeous. I recognized one of them from some movie posters I’d seen, but I couldn’t place the name. He carried himself as a movie star would, bigger than life. Even though he was casually dressed, there was something about him, something in the atmosphere surrounding him that declared, “Is it great to see me or what? I’m rich and important. Be impressed.”

  It must have been an effective device for him. Nobody seemed to mind he was a half hour late. I noted with some amusement that if you’re going to be late, you might as well make a memorable entrance, and the way that man sauntered into the room, I’m sure it wasn’t easily forgotten for anybody present that day. My heart sped up just a little as he passed by me on the way to his seat. The molecules in my personal space were disrupted in the ripple he caused. I had to blink a few times to shake it off. Was that how it would be, working with a movie star for the next few months? My temporary lack of composure made me angry with myself. I never got starstruck. Celebrities are human just like the rest of us, born into this world naked and pruney. My dad always said their poop was just as smelly as the next guy. He usually spoke about politicians, but I decided the same analogy could apply to actors.

  Cole introduced the two men as having come straight from the U.S. tour of Something Rotten. This was met with some oohs and aahs by all of us nobodies in the cast. I admit, it piqued my attention. I had the Broadway cast album on my playlist, and I knew all the songs verbatim.

  “You might recognize Will Darcy from the popular Fast and Dangerous franchise,” Cole announced. “He’ll be our Pirate King.”

  Aha! Darcy. I knew he looked familiar. Action-flick guy. He was the son of Martin Darcy, Hollywood old-timer and recipient of countless zealous fangirls before fangirling was even a thing. My mother was the president of the club.

  Cole likewise introduced the other man although with a little less fanfare. His name was Bing, and he had the part of Frederic. His features were exactly what a male romantic lead should be. He was lean with the muscles of a dancer, an almost-boyish, handsome face, and the most charming smile I’d ever seen.

  He was fresh faced and eager looking, and if my accurate judge of character gave me any clue (and my judge of character was always impeccable), this guy was just as thrilled and surprised to be there as the lowliest of the lowly chorus boys. He’d just come from a national tour, yet he was humble and unassuming. Also, he didn’t have a lanyard.

  It was a comfort, and I reassured myself with the idea of holding my own amongst these seasoned professionals. My imposter syndrome was on a need-to-know basis. I decided I wasn’t one of those who needed to know.

  You’re good enough. You can do this.

  I repeated the affirmations in my mind all throughout the first day, pushing aside self-doubt and the nagging nostalgia of old habits. Things I could hold on to. Kansas was easy. Kansas was comfortable. Oz was scary and massive and overwhelming. But it was also magical. It was home. I glanced at my surrounding friends. Lydia the scarecrow and Jane as Glinda the Good Witch. Was I Dorothy or the cowardly lion? Neither, I decided at last. I was the freaking tornado, fools! And I was ready to blow everyone away.

  Emboldened by this confidence, I took the opportunity to introduce myself to Mr. Action Flick on one of our breaks. I found him in the green room finishing a call. I considered it incredibly convenient to catch him at the same moment I needed a bottled water. I had a few seconds to observe him before he turned around. He wore a crisp pair of jeans that looked like they were tailored for his tall form and tucked into those jeans was a black button-down shirt which reminded me of something Gene Kelly would wear. The short sleeves were cuffed just enough to showcase the long line of muscles and sinews on his arms. Action hero arms—but not too bulky. His hair, a sandy light brown, fell in careless, tousled waves and framed his aristocratic features, dotted with a two-day stubble. But his eyes. That’s probably where I lost my ability to speak in intelligent words. They were a piercing blue, rimmed with speckles of dark grey. Like the Pacific on a sunny day when there’s a single cloud over the horizon, promising an oncoming storm. And when those eyes fell over me, I suddenly felt freakishly tiny.

  “Hi,” I stammered. It actually surprised me I even got that word out.

  He didn’t respond with words. He did that chin nod thing that’s the gangster equivalent of ‘Hey, wut up.’ Then he frowned at his phone and tucked it in his messenger bag. Yes, the man carried a messenger bag like a bohemian hipster. It didn’t add up to his Gucci loafers and Bulova watch.

  I allowed myself to recover from that somewhat standoffish greeting, giving him a smile anyway. Sometimes people just need a smile. I continued on with the office of hydrating myself with the complimentary water. I noted with a measure of discontent that all the bottles were kept c
old. I preferred room temperature water as a rule. Better for the vocal chords. But I was thirsty, and I’d forgotten to bring my own.

  Mr. Action Flick, A.K.A. Will, was scowling at his sheet music by this point. I knew exactly what he was thinking. The score was incredibly hard, operatic in nature and lots and lots of words. Especially the pitter-patter songs.

  I strode towards him, feeling comical and witty. And standing on my tippy toes to glance over his shoulder at the sheet music, I quipped, “Far too many notes for my taste.”

  “What?” He turned his head just enough to glare over me sidelong.

  “Uh… notes?” I grasped at the hope he’d get my humor and laughed. “From Phantom of the Opera. Just a little musical theatre joke.”

  He didn’t get my humor. He seemed adamantly opposed to it. There was a definite Ebenezer Scrooge quality to his stare. Next, he would surely say, ‘Every idiot who goes about with musical theatre jokes on her lips should be boiled in her own pudding and buried with a conductor’s baton through her heart.’

  What was with this guy? I was just trying to be friendly.

  His lips drew into a thin line, and his eyes moved over my form in open assessment. I supposed by the way his eyebrows lurched down, he didn’t like what he saw. There wasn’t much to see, really. I was five foot one and a half on a good day. This particular day, I wore black yoga pants and a Guardians of the Galaxy t-shirt, and my hair was fashioned in two loose braids. I wasn’t trying to impress anyone. And I certainly didn’t feel the need to make myself attractive for an underacting movie star.