Elizabeth the First Wife Page 11

  It’s not easy to upstage FX Fahey, but Taz Buchanan was a close, close second. Tan and robust, he looked like he spent his summers surfing at Bondi Beach. To go with the sarong, he threw on a fitted Lacoste shirt and a black beanie to cover his famously bald head. His blue eyes were, well, spectacular. I’m really going to enjoy working with him, I thought.

  “There. Fully dressed, milady.” Taz gave a little bow.

  So I’d already been identified as the prude.

  “Thank you.” Yes, I should have come up with something more clever than that, but I didn’t have that “instant rapport” gene that so many Hollywood types possessed. I’d watched Bumble do it—immediately assimilate to her surroundings with false intimacy. The inside jokes from the get-go. The nicknames on day one. The complete ease with complete strangers simply because they, too, were in the business. Maybe because I wasn’t in the business, I tended to wait to get to know a person before I pretended to know a person. But I tried my best to play the part. “I was just working on some CliffsNotes for our boy there.”

  “Thanks, Liz. Make sure you put in the phonetic spellings for any really tricky words.” Taz continued to mock FX, much to my pleasure.

  “Will do.”

  FX piped up. “Good thing you’re both here to back me up. I’d be standing onstage shell-shocked without you.”

  A slight, dark-haired woman dressed in black appeared with a tray of sushi, some exotic-looking rolls, and miso soup. She set them down soundlessly on the teak table and didn’t make eye contact with any of us. I wondered if that was in FX’s contract rider, negotiated of course by Angie: “Staff is not to speak until addressed, or make eye contact with Mr. Fahey or any of his guests during the term of agreement.” Was FX really that kind of diva? But just then he said, “Thanks, Ming. Looks wonderful. So, should we get on with it?” Oh, good. FX hadn’t gone totally diva.

  “That’s my cue,” Taz said, taking a healthy swig of beer and going into director mode. ”All right, Professor. I hear you’re a tough audience, but humor me for a bit. Imagine this. A big party in a bucolic setting, youth versus the establishment, magical forces at work, a traveling band of merry pranksters, the ‘love the one you’re with’ ethos. …”

  Taz had me so far. Pretty much all the essential elements of Midsummer, but in that Australian accent, they sounded new and fresh. I couldn’t help but smile.

  He paused dramatically and then announced, “It’s hot. It’s sexy. It’s young. I’m talking about A Midsummer Night’s Dream…at Woodstock 1969.”

  Whoa.

  “Can ya dig it?” FX added lightly, but his expression was serious. This was his career, and it was my only job to make sure he didn’t get humiliated again. I recognized the flicker of doubt. Either “A Midsummer Night’s Dream at Woodstock 1969” was an off-the-charts concept that worked beautifully or it was a hokey disaster. At this point, he wasn’t quite sure which. Neither was I.

  I bought some time, grilling Taz on a few of the details to make sure I really understood his vision. I’d developed this method over my years of teaching—it’s how to poke holes in a student’s thesis statement without coming right out and saying that it doesn’t work. “So, take me through this. The big party in a bucolic setting. …”

  “That’s the main event,” Taz said. “The wedding of Theseus and Hippolyta. They’ve got four days of partying before the ceremony.”

  “Youth versus the establishment?”

  “Young lovers Hermia and Lysander escaping the wishes of the king to be with each other instead of being forced into an arranged marriage.”

  “Magical forces?”

  “Fairy dust, aka LSD, or pot—take your pick.”

  “Got it. And I take it the Merry Pranksters are the traveling players, the Rude Mechanicals?”

  “Yeah, as Deadheads.”

  “Love the one you’re with?”

  “Never a stranger passion than Titania the Fairy Queen falling for Bottom the Ass,” Taz concluded with a satisfied grin.

  “Well?” FX stared at me. “What do you think?”

  This was my money moment. I could have dug in my heels and asked to hear more justification for the modern dress, not being a fan of most contemporary interpretations of Shakespeare. I could have asked a million practical questions about the production or the casting. I could have zeroed in on how FX might benefit from this concept as opposed to a traditional production. Maybe it was the wine or the tea lights in the trees, but I decided to go with my gut. “It’s brilliant. In every way. Fun, sexy, summery. Woodstock is exactly the sort of setting Shakespeare himself would have exploited for his own use. In fact, it’s the same sort of woodsy, magical setting he exploited in Midsummer. Wonderful. I love it.”

  Taz nodded in appreciation, but the set of his jaw told me he already knew that it worked. Had he just been humoring me? Did Taz resent that I was a gatekeeper?

  I let those worries go, because FX smiled a huge smile of relief. He stood up and circled the table, coming behind me to give me a hug. His arms wrapped around me completely. His body was warm against my shoulders, and I felt his breath against my neck. I relaxed back into his grasp. Clearly, I had validated his instincts, which is always a good feeling. But more than that, there was a flicker of our connection from years ago. We were on the same page. That was a good feeling, too.

  “Sushi?” FX asked, and we settled into discussing the details of the production. Taz described his vision of a stage filled with music, color, and good love. A balance between the known world and the psychedelic, the locals and the hippies. The young lovers would awaken in the woods after a night of mayhem to the strains of the famous Jimi Hendrix version of the national anthem. If the production was half as dynamic as Taz’s description, it would be a sensation, one of the hottest tickets of the summer anywhere, let alone in Ashland.

  From an interpretation standpoint, it was right on point. But I had to ask a practical question. “I know this isn’t my area, but how are you going to pull all this off? It’s only a few weeks until you open.”

  FX impressed me with his answer. He was not just a star but a producer on the play, and it showed. “This is a repertory company, so the actors are used to juggling multiple shows on really tight rehearsal schedules. Many of them have done Midsummer before somewhere, in some capacity. So staging and blocking should go really quickly. Lines are no issue.

  “And our big leap is to do most of the magic with a theater-of-the-mind aesthetic. Complicated sets are out. No time, no money. Costumes will be very simple and easy. We’ve got our designer scouring thrift stores now.

  “Imagine Theseus, King of Athens, in a Nehru jacket,” FX said.

  “Or a dashiki?” I suggested.

  “No, that’s Oberon. But exactly.” Taz took over the explaining. “The lighting and the music will be key. It’s where we’ll make the ‘theater’ happen. My people are working on the music rights like 24/7, so the whole show will be soundtracked to the Woodstock soundtrack. Whatever we can clear, we’ll use. And my lighting director is the best. We’re also using big-screen projections for a rockconcert feel.”

  FX refilled my glass and said, “The festival’s director is completely behind this. Gus Grant is new, so he wants to bring some new energy, new concepts to Ashland. The ticketing is going to be done by a daily lottery, with people lining up to get wristbands. They hope that will bring younger audiences here. Hey, normally, they wouldn’t let a guy like me show up and do one play and call it a day. I’d have to be in two or three productions and earn my repertory stripes. But I know Gus from way back. He’s happy to have me.” FX’s face registered self-consciousness. “Or, I should say, us.” Taz didn’t look comforted.

  “To Midsummer!” I toasted, hoping to cover the slight.

  “To Midsummer!” the boys replied.

  I looked up past my raised glass and saw that there were actually stars in the night sky, something we don’t really have in Southern California. They surpris
ed me for a second. I had to recalibrate my brain, recalling where I was and what was happening. It was a delightful realization that I’d have many more conversations like this over the next few weeks. Then I got another surprise.

  “So Liz, how long are you staying. Few days?” It was Taz, and it appeared to be a genuine question. I was dumbstruck.

  FX answered for me, because apparently my mouth was no longer functional. “Elizabeth’s here all summer. She’s writing a book about Shakespeare and contemporary relationships.” His eyes pleaded with me to play along. “Ashland’s the perfect place for that, right?”

  I summoned the fewest words I could get away with at the moment. “You bet.”

  “What exactly does Taz think I’m doing here?” I tried to keep the negativity out of my voice, because I was acutely aware that FX was both my idiot ex-husband and my boss.

  “It doesn’t matter what Taz thinks. You work for me. Can you slow down?”

  I slowed my race walk to a stomp to allow FX to catch up with me. We were on our way back to my cottage. I thought my head might explode. “I’m not that comfortable with vague job descriptions and undefined relationships. Ever. I need to know the plan. The whole plan. And where I fit in.”

  “I respect that. But Taz is Taz, and I have to respect him as well.”

  “What?” I stopped stomping long enough to call FX out on his human-resources mumbo jumbo.

  “Here’s the deal. If Taz knew that I was more concerned about my reputation than his artistic vision, he’d never have agreed to work on this. Taz is all about Taz, and you gotta get on board the whole way. No questions asked. He doesn’t tolerate, you know, the riskaverse.” FX was clearly struggling to not look like a complete wimp. “I told him you were helping me with the text and the lines, as a Shakespearean scholar.”

  “But not that I was your ex-wife here to make sure you didn’t humiliate yourself prior to an Oscar campaign?”

  “Right.” At least he was being honest with me now. I flashed back to the conversation I’d had with my father near the fountain. He thought FX wasn’t being honest. How had he known?

  “So now what’s the plan? I just stick around, show up at rehearsal and insinuate myself into the production? Keeping one eye on Taz and the other on details like making sure you don’t look like a fop in a Nehru jacket?”

  “Yes!” FX was thrilled that I’d come up with the exact right wording to complete my job description. “Nice use of the word fop!”

  “I was kidding.”

  ‘Well, I’m not.”

  I took a deep breath and started walking again, slower this time, more resolved to my predicament. There was nothing I could do. “I wish you had told me.”

  “Then you wouldn’t have come,” he said. That was true. I would have stayed home with my beets and my kale and my crappy kitchen. But I’d already cashed the first paycheck and, back in Pasadena, Pierce DeVine had pulled the permits, so I’d just have to play along.

  “Tell me what to do.”

  FX casually put his arm over my shoulder. “You just said it. Watch rehearsals. Keep a low profile. Give me your notes. That’s all. And don’t worry, everyone will just assume you’re there because we’re sleeping together. You won’t have to explain much.”

  Really? Would the cast and crew actually think I was the followup to a Brazilian supermodel? My green tea regimen must be working. Much to my chagrin, I was tickled by the thought and oddly comforted. He may have worked the old bait and switch on me, but apparently I still had it going on. “Fine.”

  We arrived in front of my cottage, and the screen door opened. Maddie stepped out on the front porch and waved. Puck headed down the stairs and trotted out to the sidewalk, circling me like I was his long-lost BFF, even though we’d been acquainted for less than twenty-four hours.

  “Who’s that?” FX asked quietly, pointing to Maddie.

  Now I had an omission to confess. Oh well, mine seemed insignificant in comparison. “My assistant Maddie. Thanks for approving her via Angie. She’s also my seventeen-year-old niece. So do not even look in her direction or my sister Bumble will beat you.”

  “Say no more. And who’s this?” FX leaned down and rubbed Puck’s belly.

  “My assistant’s assistant. Puck. He’s on your payroll, too.”

  FX stood up and looked straight into my eyes. For one second, I thought he might kiss me, but instead he gave me a light punch on the shoulder, brother-style. “We’re quite a team. Goodnight, Lizzie.”

  When the phone rang about fifteen minutes later, I was already in bed enjoying several Anthropologie catalogs I’d packed for just this purpose. I loved spending my last few waking minutes in a fantasy world of home products and flowing skirts, especially tonight, when the situation with Taz looked so grim. I couldn’t even bear to mention anything to Maddie, who was chomping at the bit to meet the Great Oz. I’d exchanged a few pleasantries, thanked her for the tip on the sheath dress, and headed to my room with Puck, who must have really disliked his former owners, because he’d certainly made himself at home at Sage Cottage over the last sixteen hours.

  I picked up without looking at the number, assuming it was FX. “Yes, dahlink,” I said, using an extravagant Zsa Zsa Gabor accent.

  Silence, then a voice that was definitely not FX’s responded. “I am wearing your bathrobe, but still it feels a little soon for ‘darling.’”

  Oh, no. “Rafa? My mistake. I thought you were…never mind.” My face was suddenly flushed and I felt the urge to put on lipstick. How did my hair look? “Is everything okay?”

  “Sorry to call so late.” He sounded genuinely sorry. “You’re obviously expecting someone else, so I’ll be quick.”

  No, nobody else, I wanted to shout. Who else would call after 10 p.m.? I haven’t gotten a call after 10 p.m. in years! Except for that one creepy student in 2011 and why bother Rafa with that? Instead of responding, I managed a sad little gurgling sound, which he politely ignored.

  “I’m trying to do my laundry,” he said.

  “Is this a first for you?” I was trying to get a handle on the conversation, so I overcompensated with sarcasm. If only my brain would stop picturing him in my house in my robe. Any robe. Or no robe. “Do you need me to talk you through separating the colors and the whites?”

  Rafa was up for the challenge. “Hey, I know how to do laundry. Although, I admit, I’ve been a fluff ’n’ fold guy for about the last decade.”

  I pictured him walking out of a DC dry cleaners with an armful of blue suits and stacks of crisp white shirts and ironed Brooks Brothers boxers. “Fair enough. You’re a busy man. You’re entitled to fluff ’n’ fold. What’s the problem?”

  “I can’t seem to get the water to go into the machine. All the right buttons are pushed, but the water refuses to cooperate.”

  I laughed. “Apparently you didn’t get to page ten of the manual I left in the kitchen: Helpful Hints for Living in an Old House.”

  “I only made it to page eight before the wax candles burned out.”

  “You have to turn on the master water first, then you can run the washer. In the back of the washer, to the left, look for a green handle. Turn it a half turn and then wait like ten seconds. Then the water will fill when you push ‘on.’”

  “That’s convenient,” he replied, obviously not amused by my inefficient system and slightly embarrassed that he didn’t figure out this simple system himself. “Can I ask why you just can’t leave the handle in that position all the time?”

  “Oh you can.” I paused for dramatic effect. “But then you wouldn’t be able to run the shower. Laundry or shower, take your pick.” Please pick shower. Please pick shower.

  I could hear him straining as he reached behind the washer. “I could put on my dirty clothes and wear them into the shower.”

  My face flushed again. “That’s another way to save time and resources.”

  “Got it. Thanks. Anything I need to know about the dryer? Is it connected to the
TV or the coffeemaker?”

  “The dryer is an independent. I think that’s what your people say. But don’t overload it and don’t mind the loud noises during the final minute. It’s possessed by a cat in heat. Seriously.” It’s true. Almost weekly, I was startled by the high-pitched wailing that the dryer let out. “But feel free to dry your clothes and brew coffee at the same time.”

  “Next time I’ll consult the manual before calling.”

  “I don’t mind.” Really. There was a pause and I had to quell the urge to ask him about his day. Or tell him about mine. But it was 10:30 and the guy was doing laundry. He didn’t want to hear about my life; he wanted to wash some white T-shirts, have a beer, and go to bed. “Call any time.”

  Rafa paused. “Thanks, Elizabeth. I’ll let you get back to whatever you were doing. Oh, and I’m not really wearing your robe.”

  “I know. I am. Good night.” Sweet prince.

  FAKE THE SHAKE

  Love vs. Lust

  Need some help figuring out if it’s the real deal or just a fleeting passion that’s going to flame out after a few weeks? Let the Bard be your guide. Read his words and see which ones best describe your relationship.

  LOVE:

  “My bounty is as boundless as the sea,

  My love as deep; the more I give to thee,

  The more I have, for both are infinite.”

  —Romeo & Juliet

  LUST:

  “Eternity was in our lips and eyes,

  Bliss in our brows’ bent; none our parts so poor

  But was a race of heaven.”

  —Antony & Cleopatra

  LOVE:

  “Doubt thou the stars are fire;

  Doubt that the sun doth move;

  Doubt truth to be a liar;