Love and Loathing Read online

  Underacting is a thing, by the way. People usually classify poor acting with overacting. But when someone is just blah, delivering their lines with no feeling at all, that’s underacting.

  So this underacting action star looked at me like a vegan would look at a plate full of raw meat. He closed his music binder, turned on his heel, and left the room without so much as a syllable from his lips.

  So much for introductions.

  I immediately searched for Jane before rehearsal could resume. I wanted to tell her all about my encounter with Will Darcy. But she was floating in some weird cloud of euphoria. While I was being scrutinized by a cocky movie star, she was quite happily getting acquainted with his friend.

  She flipped through her script, not really looking at it, the side of her lip curling slightly. Bending her head closer to her binder, her buttermilk locks covered her face, but I could still see the flush of pink overcome her cheeks.

  “Spill it,” I said. “I want details.”

  “Nothing to spill.”

  “Liar. I can see your face.”

  Jane’s face flushed deeper, but she tried to stifle a smile as she tilted her head and turned to face me. I rarely saw her in such a state unless she liked a guy.

  “So, what’s he like?” I pried.

  “He’s nice.”

  Apparently, she considered this description sufficient enough. Getting information out of her was like reading Proust’s In Search of Lost Time from start to finish within one lifetime. She wasn’t much of a talker. In short, after some probing and unabashed bribery concerning ice cream, the little I could extract from her was that he was a very polite, gentlemanly sort of fellow. Her words, not mine. The girl watched too much Masterpiece Theatre.

  But after a long day of rehearsals, I conceded that true to Jane’s nineteenth-century description, he really was a polite, gentlemanly sort of fellow. He was all smiles all the time. Everyone was smitten by him.

  But his friend Mr. Action Flick, I’m sorry to say, didn’t disappoint in the boorish department.

  My prejudices of his character were spot on, and everyone in the cast soon discovered he was the most ill-mannered, self-centered, arrogant man ever to be birthed from the bowels of Hollywood.

  2

  Loathe Pie

  Beth

  The first few days of rehearsals were a whirlwind of arpeggios and pitter-patter tongue twisting, Gilbert and Sullivan nonsense. Fitz wasn’t at all easy on us. He expected perfection, and I was about to shove the many cheerful facts about the square of the hypotenuse up his modern major falsetto.

  “Again,” he’d say. “Take it from the pick up to measure one hundred and twenty-six.”

  It felt like one hundred twenty-six billion. Twice.

  I did have to admit this was what I signed up for. But I was so tired.

  I worked a hodge-podge schedule at Lucas Lodge, a swanky establishment on Santa Monica Boulevard, owned by the father of my childhood friend Charlotte. I couldn’t tell you what his concept was when he first opened the lodge, but it turned out to be an eclectic mixture of sports bar, gastro pub, tea house and a novelty dining experience. All the staff was required to wear renaissance costumes in varying degrees of historical accuracy. We wore name tags that labeled our rank in the Lucas Lodge realm. I was Lady Elizabeth, my friend was Princess Charlotte, and we were all to address her father as Sir William Lucas. We could never abbreviate it by calling him Sir or even Sir William or heaven forbid Mr. Lucas. We were to use his complete title every time we mentioned him or spoke to him.

  It was, perhaps, the closest my friend’s father could get to performing. Charlotte mentioned once her father was a frustrated actor in his youth but inherited the restaurant before she was born. He transformed it into his own creation and became quite successful despite himself. I think it was part accident, part dumb luck, and part location being situated close to several studios and agency offices and less than a mile from the Gardiner Theatre.

  During the 90210 heyday, Aaron Spelling brought an entourage of Hollywood gatekeepers for lunch, and the rest was history. Now, we got a handful of celebrities and big shot producers every week.

  Night shifts at the lodge took their toll, and I didn’t have time to memorize the gazillion lyrics by the next day’s rehearsal. So now, I felt Fitz’s laser eyes burn holes in the top of my head as I tucked into my sheet music. It was probably my imagination, though. Then I noticed one of the pirates across the room. His mouth moved, but he didn’t even make any attempt to pretend to sing the right lyrics. It looked like he was repeating watermelon, watermelon over and over again. I leaned over to Jane and whispered, “Who the Zuco is that guy?”

  Jane laughed. She knew I didn’t like to cuss. Instead of curse words, my thing was to replace expletives with characters from musicals. This was my Grease day.

  “That’s Denny,” she replied. “He’s Cole Forster’s nephew.”

  I furrowed my brows and stole another glance in his direction. “He looks like he’s auditioning for Bad Lip Reading.”

  I couldn’t help staring. It was like watching Milli Vanilli in a train wreck. My mouth might have been hinged open with incredulity. Denny shifted his gaze toward me and locked eyes with mine, giving me a sly wink. Ugh, Rizzo! My face went hot, and embarrassment flushed over me. Goodness, he thought I was checking him out. I didn’t find him remotely attractive. Then, trying to avert his stare, I turned my head only to see Action-Flick Guy giving me the stink eye. He unabashedly stared me down. What was his deal? Was he making a mental list of the many cringeworthy facts about Elizabeth Bennet? I had to tear my eyes away before he also thought I was into him.

  Ugh!

  Lydia, who sat next to me, coquettishly smiled in Denny’s direction and dramatically crossed her legs so her skirt could inch up a little. Holy Rizzo and Frenchie. Now all the guys in the cast would think we were a couple of boy-crazy teenagers. That wasn’t the way I’d hoped to make my professional debut. I grimaced and buried my face deeper into my sheet music.

  “I’d like to be congically matrimonified with that guy,” Lydia chimed between stanzas. “Well, not the matrimonified part.”

  Typical Lydia.

  I rolled my eyes at her lyric quoting and snickered. “Musical theatre boys are a special breed, Lydia.”

  “It’s Lettuce, thank you,” she corrected. “And I’ll bet my bra that one is straight.”

  “You don’t wear bras.”

  “Whatever.”

  She shrugged and scanned the room. “Who do you think we’ll be matched up with?”

  “What?”

  “Matched up with,” she repeated as if I didn’t speak English. “You know… the Stanley sisters all get matched up with pirates and cops in the end. You’ll probably get matched with the Pirate King. That’s the way they usually do it.”

  I kinda knew that. The delicious Kevin Klein played the Pirate King in the movie with Linda Ronstadt. He was sublimely dashing in an Errol Flynn kind of way, and he kissed every single one of the Stanley sisters. Especially Edith. Images of swashbuckling pirates in billowy, open-chested shirts danced in my head like sugarplums. Merry Christmas to me. I amused myself with that thought for maybe three seconds then shook it off when I remembered the uncivilized ogre playing the Pirate King in our production. I stole a quick glance at the movie star to remind myself of my dark and dismal fate and was horrified when his eyes glanced up and caught me staring.

  Great.

  I’m a professional, I’m a professional, I’m a professional.

  I sunk my face deep into my sheet music as though it were the most interesting thing in the universe. As Fitz worked with the tenors on their harmonies, I did my best to look busy.

  Avoid contact with every single person here. That was my new motto.

  “Oh, gag me,” Lydia exclaimed.

  “What now?”

  “Kate’s already got her claws in the Pirate King’s britches.”

  Lydia already had
an intense loathing toward Caroline, the actress cast as Kate, who twirled her hair and laughed as she took the empty seat next to Will. He wasn’t laughing, though. He wasn’t even smiling. Maybe he had bad teeth? They can do wonders with CGI. Nevertheless, I found it hilarious he had a clingy groupie in Caroline.

  I didn’t particularly hate Caroline. More like felt sorry for her. Let’s just say Caroline was the type of musical theatre performer to look down her nose at any play that the actors didn’t break into spontaneous song. She would erect shrines to the genius of Andrew Lloyd Webber, Steven Sondheim, and Lin Manuel Miranda. But Neil Simon? Lame. August Wilson? Loser. Shakespeare? Imbecile.

  In other words, people like her didn’t get straight plays. They wore leotards and character shoes e-ver-y-where, usually had a full face of makeup at rehearsals and would cling to the male leads like sequins on Liberace. I was being generous by calling her an actress. Plus, she was a first-rate snob. When she found out I worked nights as a server, she flipped her hair and laughed. She actually flipped her hair. Mean Girls style.

  “Is there something wrong, Miss Bennet?” Fitz bore his icicle eyes on me. His eyes were a remarkable shade of arctic blue. He reminded me of 1995 Hugh Grant but more intense. An angry Hugh Grant.

  Every set of eyes in the room swooshed in my direction. Most looked surprised, Will’s looked annoyed.

  “No, I’m fine,” I said.

  “Are you sure?” asked Fitz. “You weren’t singing.”

  Oh snap. The sopranos were supposed to join in. I could see Caroline’s smug grin in my peripheral vision like she could smell my fear. She nudged Will with her elbow and said something snarky out of the side of her mouth. I could feel the weight of his intense stare. A wave of burning humiliation washed over me. I may have momentarily blacked out. Why was Fitz singling me out? Crazy Lips Denny wasn’t even facing the piano. He had somehow migrated behind Fitz and sat on a stack of eight chairs with his legs dangling. Lydia was chewing gum for crying out loud. The accompanist looked irritated. Furthermore, everyone stared at me, probably annoyed to have the song interrupted.

  Mr. Action-Flick Darcy couldn’t be bothered to take part in any of the lowly ensemble numbers—obviously. He must have had a direct line to Gilbert and Sullivan, channeling their spirits through the divine talent bestowed upon him from heaven on high. He snorted, got up from his chair, and left the room.

  Fitz, unfazed by this display of Hollywood entitlement, awaited my reply. I swallowed hard and looked down to my music. There were so many words!

  “Uh,” I said. “It’s just…” I already regretted the words before they came out of my mouth because it was a stupid, small, trivial thing, which didn’t justify the interruption. But I was now the subject of everyone’s dog stare and rather than reveal the true reason for my distraction, I blurted, “There’s a typo.”

  “A typo?”

  “Yes. It’s no big deal.”

  Fitz stared at me without blinking, his frigid, blue eyes piercing deep into my self-confidence. He closed the gap between us in three easy strides.

  “Let me see.”

  I pointed to the error in the music and placed the sheets into his outstretched hand. He examined it with a squint, took the sheets to his music stand and compared them to his own, grunted, and brought them back to me. I was eighty-five percent sure I’d made a mistake and expected him to make an example of me by citing my ignorance of Victorian English. But he nodded and said, “Good catch. Everyone, mark your music. Measure seventy-eight, change infinity to divinity.” He stepped neatly behind his music stand as the cast whipped out pencils, all of them frantically making the change in the text. I couldn't help but notice Caroline didn’t bother with a pencil and instead, opted to sip her alkaline water with an obvious scowl in my direction.

  I resolved to keep my head down and direct all my attention to my sheet music, like it was the most interesting thing in the world. Sixteenth notes. Fascinating. I was totally not thinking about Will Darcy or the way his beautiful eyes tore right through me, shredding all my pretend poise. It was almost as though he didn’t exist.

  My perfect indifference was put to the test when I was packing up my bag after a long day of rehearsal. How was I supposed to know he was on the other side of the costume rack? Unfortunately, I overheard the tail end of his conversation with Bing.

  “You should come out with us, Will. Just a couple of drinks.”

  “A couple of drinks and then what?” There was a frown in Darcy’s voice. “You’re not being smart about this.”

  Wow. He was even rude to his friend. Poor, misguided Bing.

  “A lot of the cast is going,” Bing pleaded. “Don’t be such a snob.”

  “I told you I would help springboard your career. You need to focus.”

  “Yeah, I know.” Bing paused like a child under the scrutiny of a schoolmaster. “Listen. Jane asked if I was going. I just want to get to know her better, you know, so our stage kiss won’t be so awkward.”

  “Do you plan on going out with every actress you have to kiss on stage or screen?”

  “No, but—have you seen her?”

  “She smiles too much.”

  “She’s a goddess. And her voice!”

  “She’s the only girl with a trace of talent in this whole cast.”

  “That’s not true. What about her friend? Beth, the girl that plays Edith. She’s seems good.”

  Darcy snorted. “Her? She is tolerably mediocre.”

  A knot formed in the pit of my stomach. Mediocre? Those were my exact thoughts about Caroline. That would have been a bad enough insult to my ego, but he went on. “She contributes absolutely nothing to this show. I wouldn’t waste my time following her career into obscurity.”

  The knot in my abdomen grew into a great, big ball of loathe pie. Have you ever had loathe pie? It is sweet on the tongue with a bitter aftertaste and sits at the bottom of your stomach like a rock. I wanted to throw that rock right at Darcy’s smug, aristocratic face. Then I wanted to strangle his elegant neck. Then I’d gouge out his striking blue eyes and reach down into his soulless innards and make him eat it. That’s loathe pie.

  But I was a grown woman, and I decided Will Darcy didn’t even deserve a slice of my loathe pie. Or any pie. He wasn’t worth a crumb. And I was determined in that moment to let him know it.

  I reached into my bag and retrieved my cell phone. A few swipes of my settings, and my ringtone sounded. Through the gaps in the hanging costumes, I could see both men turn their heads, surprised to see me—a hint of guilt played on their features.

  I pretended to take a call. “Hello? Oh, hi. No, no, I’m not busy. I’m just leaving rehearsal.” I covered the mouthpiece with the palm of my hand and whispered to Darcy who was turning a shade of white. “Sorry, it’s my agent.” The shock on his face was pure gold. So I milked it. “Yeah, I’m still looking at those scripts. Well, they’ll just have to fight over me then.” I feigned a show biz laugh. “You know it’s not about the money. It’s the art I care about. I’ll let you know in a couple of days. Sure. Love you too, darling. Ciao.”

  I pretended to end the call and returned the phone to my bag as I strut myself around the clothing rack and right next to that deplorable man. I looked straight at his pretty boy face and said with a smile, “Mr. Darcy, you dropped something. Oh, it’s just your tact. Never mind.” Then I flounced right out of the theatre, through the parking lot, and into my beat-up vintage Volvo. I’d never felt better or worse at the same time. It was some pretty awesome pie.

  3

  Fine Eyes

  Will

  She was walking away. I had the urge to run after her. Explain myself. But why? Perhaps to save face. I told myself I didn’t owe her my apology. She wasn’t the press, or anybody really. But watching her tiny little form retreat from me, her resolute chin pointed in the air, while her pigtails bounced behind her head, reminded me a little of my sister. Small but mighty. I shook my head to clear it. She certainly
wasn’t anything like my sister. Too much spunk.

  And those curves…

  “Fastidious.” Bing peered at his phone. It was that damn word of the day app he liked to use. I didn’t think it made him any smarter, but it was a distraction. I brought myself back to the present to respond to him.

  “Use it in a sentence.”

  “I would not be as fastidious as you for a kingdom,” he said with a smile.

  “Your own sentence.” I knew he liked to cheat by using the example sentence.

  He squirmed a little where he stood, twisting his features in thought. “It would be fastidious of you not to accompany me to the bar.”

  I rolled my eyes, and he quickly added, “Beth works there.”

  If he was trying to tempt me into going to some grease trap hole in the wall so he could score with some pretty blonde, he had to do better than that. Even if that pretty blonde had a hot little pixie for a friend. I didn’t need the distraction. But Bing was new in town and probably wanted to see more of L.A. than the inside of that little room he sub-rented.

  “I know a great place on Sunset,” I replied. “I don’t want to name drop or anything, but last time I was there, I ran into Leo DiCaprio.”

  I hoped a night out in a legendary Hollywood hangout would give him some perspective. Keep his eye on the prize. But he shook his head and responded with a dopey grin. “The whole cast is expecting us. Right. The whole cast. What he meant was “leggy blonde.”

  And if I were being honest, I had my thoughts on seeing a particular person myself. Just because I was curious. By the sound of Beth’s phone call, it would seem she had tons of offers on her agent’s desk. Then why would she moonlight at a dive bar? It didn't add up. She didn’t add up. So I went—not making Bing any promises how long I’d stay.