Elizabeth the First Wife Read online

  PRAISE FOR ELIZABETH THE FIRST WIFE

  “Lian Dolan has created the perfect blend of vulnerability, complication, and wit in this outstanding second novel. Our main character Elizabeth is definitely the kind of friend you’d be lucky to have! With timeless storylines that play out on the stage and in the real world, this is a purely enchanting read.”

  —ROBIN KALL, HOST, READING WITH ROBIN

  “I loved Elizabeth the First Wife. Lian Dolan’s Elizabeth is smart, sassy and just As You Like It. This is a love story about moving on from young love and finding the right spot for yourself, in work and in relationships, interspersed with fun insights about the Bard. You’ll laugh out loud at the pop culture comparisons between Shakespearean couples and today’s notorious duos. Romance, celebrity, and Shakespeare—there’s nothing better than that.”

  —KAIRA ROUDA, BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF HERE, HOME, HOPE AND ALL THE DIFFERENCE

  “Elizabeth is a smart and lighthearted yet complicated woman whose journey will enthrall you. And with the references to Shakespeare, it will have book clubs talking for hours.”

  —MARI PARTYKA, MANIC MOMMIES BOOK CLUB

  PRAISE FOR HELEN OF PASADENA

  * A full year on the Los Angeles Times Bestseller List

  * #1 Mover & Shaker on Amazon.com

  * Finalist for Best Fiction, Southern California Independent Bookseller Awards

  “A compelling narrative and a memorable cast.”

  —PUBLISHERS WEEKLY

  “A send-up of a 40something mom who finds herself suddenly widowed, broke, and forced to reinvent herself…opinionated, energetic, and sassy.”

  —MANDALIT DEL BARCO, NPR

  “A knockout debut…it mixes up the classics and class structure in a deliciously witty romp.”

  —CAROLINE LEAVITT, NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF PICTURES OF YOU

  “Every reader will see something of herself in Dolan’s likable heroine, Helen of Pasadena. Offering up every woman’s worst fear, Dolan pulls the rug out from under Helen, and we get to watch as she recovers and reinvents herself with wit, charm, and smarts.”

  —SALLY BJORNSEN, AUTHOR OF A SINGLE GIRL’S GUIDE TO MARRYING A MAN, HIS KIDS AND HIS EX-WIFE

  LEARN MORE ABOUT LIAN DOLAN AT WWW.LIANDOLAN.COM

  PROSPECT PARK BOOKS

  Copyright © 2013 by Lian Dolan

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner.

  Published by Prospect Park Books

  969 S. Raymond Avenue

  Pasadena, California 91105

  www.prospectparkbooks.com

  Distributed by Consortium Book Sales & Distribution

  www.cbsd.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data is on file

  with the Library of Congress

  For reference only:

  Dolan, Lian

  Elizabeth the First Wife / Lian Dolan.

  ISBN 978-1-938849-06-0

  1. Novelists—Fiction. 2. Shakespeare—Fiction.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  DESIGNED BY KATHY KIKKERT

  IN MEMORY OF MY PARENTS

  EDNA KLARMAN DOLAN

  JAMES JOSEPH DOLAN

  Contents

  Boy Meets Girl, Shakespeare-style

  Chapter 1

  Kate & Petruchio

  Chapter 2

  Portia

  Chapter 3

  6 Great Lines Guys Should Steal

  Chapter 4

  Oberon & Titania

  Chapter 5

  Elizabethean Fashion Dos & Don’ts for the Modern Woman

  Chapter 6

  Juliet Capulet

  Chapter 7

  Which Shakespearean Bad Boy Is for You?

  Chapter 8

  The Macbeths

  Chapter 9

  6 Classy Ways to Throw Down an Insult

  Chapter 10

  Love vs. Lust

  Chapter 11

  Henry & Katherine

  Chapter 12

  3 Guys Your Mom Will Love

  Chapter 13

  Relationship Red Flags

  Chapter 14

  Regan & Goneril

  Chapter 15

  Rosalind & Orlando

  Chapter 16

  TEAM ROMEO VS. TEAM

  Chapter 17

  Othello & Desdemona

  Chapter 18

  3 Surefire Lines to Get What You Want

  Chapter 19

  Why William Shakespeare Would Be a Bad Boyfriend

  Chapter 20

  Friends vs. As You Like It

  Chapter 21

  3 Simple Steps to Be a Cleopatra in the Bedroom

  Chapter 22

  Beatrice & Benedick

  Chapter 23

  Elizabeth I

  Chapter 24

  Epilogue

  Q & A With Author Lian Dolan

  Book Club Discussion Topics

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Boy Meets Girl,

  Shakespeare-style

  MIX & MATCH YOUR ROMANTIC PLOTLINE

  BOY

  GIRL

  Troubled Prince

  Young Maiden

  Exiled Duke

  Fairy Queen

  Banished Black Sheep

  Frosty Countess

  Handsome Rogue

  Shipwrecked Cross-dresser

  Alleged Pirate

  Sharp-tongued Shrew

  FALL IN LOVE

  At a Ball

  On an Island

  Against All Odds

  With an Ass

  COMPLICATIONS ENSUE

  Mistaken Identity

  Prolonged War

  Murdered Relative

  Fatal Miscommunication

  Vengeful Mother

  Filial Ingratitude

  Bad Fairy Dust

  Jealous Rage

  Unfortunate Duel

  Political Ambition

  Forged Letter

  Crazy Sister

  AND IN THE END…

  They marry

  They die

  They rule

  CHAPTER 1

  “So, is this a relationship built on manipulation or intellectual attraction?”

  Please God, someone have an answer. Anybody. Nobody. I looked out at my class of twenty-four students, only about sixteen of whom were feigning interest in the material. Not a single hand was raised, not even Lydia’s, which was a bad sign. Lydia was my prize student in Shakespeare 401, my upper-level English class at Pasadena City College. A bright young Korean second-gen with UC Berkeley dreams, she was my go-to responder on days when even I didn’t feel like discussing the Bard. Lydia would pull some question out of thin air and keep the discussion going until the bell rang or Antonio’s cell phone went off (Party Rockers in the House Tonight!), whichever came first.

  But on an unusually hot and smoggy Tuesday in April, even Lydia couldn’t have cared less about The Taming of the Shrew.

  God, I hate this play.

  Which is why I taught it, to make my point that even a writer as brilliant and timeless as Shakespeare can miss the mark. But apparently, not a single student in my class was interested in my reverse (perverse?) psychology. Not Morgan, the spectacularly beautiful private-school girl who spent one semester at NYU then fled back to Pasadena after discovering that college in NYC was n
ot at all like shopping in NYC. Not George the Ukrainian (his moniker, not mine), who wanted to become a teacher after driving a truck for ten years. Not Emilia, the young single mom who was somehow putting herself through school and working at Bed Bath & Beyond. My usually lively class was otherwise occupied. It was the last week before spring break and, clearly, they were all mapping out the quickest route to the frozen yogurt emporium post-lecture.

  “So no one has an opinion on one of the most famous relationships in all of Shakespeare? Kate and Petruchio. Fire and Ice. Sexist Pig and Cold-hearted Be-yotch. You read this scene and you thought, what? Fine, great. I gotta get me a guy like that.”

  Laughter rippled throughout the classroom, reminding me why I get up in the morning. “Professor Lancaster, I have no idea what’s happening in this play,” Nico Andregosian piped up. Nico faithfully wore his high school letterman’s jacket every day to class, despite the heat and without irony. Nico wasn’t headed to Berkeley anytime soon, but he did help me change a tire last week. Another reminder of why I got up in the morning. “I don’t get this at all.”

  “Did you actually read it, Nico?”

  “Yeah, kinda. But it’s crazy, about the sun and the moon.”

  This is where the class gets good, I thought. Where I, Elizabeth Lancaster, community college English teacher and theater enthusiast, feel most in my element. “Okay, let’s do this. Let’s read it together, Nico. You and me. Like I always say, Shakespeare’s words are meant to be spoken, not studied at arm’s length. It’s living, breathing dialogue. And in this scene, the sexist pig is trying to convince the cold-hearted be-yotch that the sun is actually the moon. It’s his way of exerting power, and she is employing her own manipulative techniques to shut him down. Raise your hand if you’ve done this in your own relationships. Who’s played mind games in a romantic relationship?”

  All the hands went up except Sahil’s, whose closest personal relationship has probably been with his PlayStation controller. “That’s what I thought. Get up, Nico. You’re Petruchio and I’m Kate. Let’s go.”

  He heaved his squat body out of the chair, as his classmates hooted. His buddy from high school, Aron, hissed, “Duuude.” Nico’s reluctance was skin deep. He was a ham at heart. “Please, don’t make me do this.”

  I took a swig of Diet Coke and did my best faux-ghetto “Oh, it’s on.” The students whooped, like I knew they would.

  Nico began haltingly, adding several more syllables than in the original. “Come on, a’ God’s name. Once more, um, um, toward our father’s. Good Lord, how bright and goodly shines the moon!” He inserted a dramatic hand gesture for emphasis, then gave me a triumphant look.

  Oh, it was on. I tapped into my Inner Shrew, which wasn’t hard. I was a single, mid-30s woman with emerging bunions, a leaking roof, and a love life that had been in decline since the early aughts. Not to mention that I had a mother who kept setting me up with every divorced dad in Pasadena and a sister who insisted I needed to keep “putting myself out there” even though she has no idea how rough it is “out there.” Why couldn’t they just leave me alone with my books, my vegetable garden, and my growing collection of European comfort shoes? I happened to like my life. Why didn’t my family? Oh, yes, at that particular moment in time, I was feeling extremely shrewish. Watch out, Nico. “The moon! The sun—it is not light now.”

  Nico rose to the challenge, playing his Petruchio with a touch of Jersey Shore. “I say it is the moon that shines so bright.”

  The classroom door creaked as it opened. I didn’t bother to turn to see who’d arrived thirty minutes late to class. Besides, the audible gasp from a dozen young women told me it was Jordan. He was easily the best-looking boy in the room and a star baseball player who was hoping for a decent transfer offer. Jordan slid in late most days, hoping for attendance credit and a chance to flirt with Shiree. But I paid no attention to the rumble from the other students, because I was in the zone. “I know it is the sun that shines so bright.”

  Nico’s jaw dropped open, apparently stunned silent by my confidence. But the scene wasn’t nearly over, so I gave him the universal “it’s your turn” sign with my hands. He stammered, unable to get out the next line. And then I heard the next lines come from behind me. “Now by my mother’s son, and that’s myself, It shall be the moon, or star, or what I list. …”

  I turned to face the owner of the familiar voice. Good God, just what I needed.

  No wonder the girls gasped. There, resplendent in jeans and a black T-shirt that probably cost more than my car, was Francis Fahey. Or as the world knew him, FX Fahey, the third-highest-grossing action star behind Harrison Ford and Tom Cruise. His Icarus franchise had spawned video games, fast food tie-ins, and a legion of fans that believed the laid-back actor to actually be the futuristic-cop hero. Clearly, FX was used to being the center of attention, and he owned the classroom the minute he entered. He strode up the center aisle, grinning effortlessly, like he was just returning from the grocery store with a six-pack of beer instead of invading my workplace after a decade with no face-to-face contact. Oh, he was enjoying the moment. “Or ere I journey to your father’s house. Go on and fetch our horses back again. Evermore cross’d and cross’d, nothing but cross’d.”

  I wanted to kill him. “Forward, I pray, since we have come so far, and be it the moon or sun, or whatever you please.” Now he was close enough to touch, and I was tempted, because his T-shirt, stretched poetically across his chest, appeared to be made of the softest cotton ever spun. I needed to physically stop myself from petting him. Be the shrew. Be the shrew. “And if you please to call it a rush-candle, henceforth I vow it shall be so for me.”

  FX leaned in, his chin barely grazing the top of my head. He smelled like lime. “I say it is the moon,” he whispered for all to hear. The students responded with catcalls and an “Oh no, you didn’t.”

  I stepped back, a gesture of stagecraft and self-preservation. “I know it is the moon.”

  FX closed the gap. “Nay, then you lie; it is the blessed sun.”

  “Oh, snap, Professor,” Nico interrupted from his seat, where he had returned to watch.

  “Then God be blest, it is the blessed sun. But sun it is not, when you say it is not; and the moon changes even as your mind.” I brushed away a lock of brown hair from his forehead, in what I believed to be a saucy fashion. That was a mistake. “What you will have it nam’d, even that it is, And so it shall be for Elizabeth.”

  FX broke character, beaming, “Don’t you mean, ‘So it shall be for Katherine’?”

  Busted. “What did I say?”

  “You said Elizabeth. That’s you. I think you meant to say Katherine, because while Kate might agree with Petruchio to shut him up, Elizabeth Lancaster would never agree with me for expediency’s sake.”

  Oh, snap.

  “You haven’t changed a bit, Lizzie,” FX said, looking around my tiny office, taking in my decorating style, which I referred to as Oxford in Southern California. Basically, my look included a couple of walls of leather-bound books, some gold-framed flea-market oil paintings, and one of those good-luck Chinese bamboo plants that a student had given me years ago and I didn’t want to tempt fate by tossing out. He wandered around, touching everything like a five-year-old at Target. “You look good.”

  Compared to whom? The Brazilian supermodel he’d been living with, or the supermodel’s nanny he was sleeping with, according to Stun magazine?

  “Thanks. So do you, Francis.” His amused look told me that only his mother still called him Francis. “Sorry, FX. Or is it really just X now? That’s how Matt Damon referred to you on The Daily Show.”

  “On set, it’s X. Short, simple. Kinda boss. Remember when you helped pick my stage name? The X was your idea.” Of course I remembered. We were lying on a futon, the only piece of usable furniture in our tiny, oven-like apartment on the Lower East Side, just before the gourmet cheese shops and a John Varvatos boutique invaded the dodgy neighborhood. It was the su
mmer FX landed his first professional acting gig with the Public Theater, and I followed along, as an intern to the artistic director. There was already a Francis Fahey and a Frank Fahey registered in the union, so I suggested replacing his actual middle name, Christopher, with the more traditional match to Francis: Xavier. FX Fahey was born. That was a name, I declared, that made him sound like a member of the IRA. Back in those days, terrorists were cool.

  “I remember,” I answered, but I didn’t want to remember all of it, so I moved on. “What are you doing here? How did you find me at work?”

  “I have people, Liz. That’s their job.”

  “You couldn’t have just Facebooked me, like everybody else I haven’t seen in a decade?”

  “I’m an actor. I like to make an entrance.” He smirked. “Plus, I was in Pasadena for a photo shoot, so I thought what the hell? I’ll swing by.”

  Ah, I was convenient. Got it.

  FX was studying my framed diploma collection: BA from Wesleyan; MA and PhD from UCLA; First Aid/CPR certification from the Rose Bowl Aquatic Center. He turned, “You have to admit, we were good in there. I think your students were impressed.”

  “They’ve seen me do Shakespeare. Pretty much every class.”

  “I meant with me. I think I impressed them.” Was FX Fahey seriously looking for props from a classroom of nineteen-year-olds and George the Ukrainian? Still insecure about his talent, I noted. He carried on, “Remember the last time we did that scene together? I think we were better today.”

  I did remember, and it filled me with embarrassment and a touch of nausea.

  FX picked up a silver-framed photo of my family taken several years earlier. There was my father, the man of the hour that night, Dr. Richard Lancaster, in white tie with decorations, standing stiffly next to my mother, Anne, who was flashing a triumphant grin. My mother was clearly at her spousal zenith that night, taking her victory lap wrapped in peach silk taffeta and her grandmother’s diamonds. Next to my parents stood my two sisters, Sarah and Bumble, as different as night and day, but both in black sequins, flanked by their husbands, solid citizens each. And then there was me, on the end, in a vintage Lanvin gown and excruciatingly painful heels, posed next to the King of Sweden. FX didn’t seem to notice the royalty. “How is your dad? He gave me all that grief for years because I didn’t know who that famous science guy was, what’s-his-name?”