Elizabeth the First Wife Page 2

  “Feynman. Richard Feynman.”

  “Yeah. Wasn’t he the founder of Popular Mechanics or something?”

  I thought for a second. “You must be thinking of quantum mechanics. And actually, Feynman worked on quantum electrodynamics. He was a theoretical physicist and a friend of my father’s.”

  “Quantum Mechanics! That’s a good name for a movie. Does your dad still talk about me?”

  “FX, my dad won the Nobel Prize in Physics a few years ago. He never talks about you.” I snatched the photo out of his hands with a little too much impatience.

  FX threw up his hands in admiration, “See, nobody puts me down like that anymore! I’ve missed you, Lizzie. Wow, a Nobel Prize. That’s pretty impressive.”

  Yeah, kind of. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that the last time my father noticed an ad for one of his movies on the side of a bus, he pointed at it and said, “Isn’t that what’s-his-name?” My father exists in a world without TMZ and always has. When your day job involves determining the origins of the universe, you simply can’t be bothered with the mundanity of pop culture. Or a boy your daughter used to know. “Did you just stop by to run lines, or did you need something?”

  In one graceful move, he grabbed my extra chair, pulled it closer to my desk, and sat down on the edge of the seat, “I have a proposal for you, Professor Lancaster.”

  Our knees were almost touching. A proposal? I was afraid to open my mouth, convinced unfortunate squeaking noises would come out. Like the Tin Man in The Wizard of Oz, only not so charming. So I used my timeworn technique of lifting my eyebrows and lowering my chin, as if to say, “Go on.”

  It worked. One of the world’s biggest movie stars continued. “I want you to come to Ashland with me this summer for the Shakespeare Festival. I’m doing a production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. You, me, Shakespeare. How perfect is that, right? Remember sophomore year? I need you on the team. As a producer or consultant or whatever you want to call yourself. And guess who might be directing?”

  I managed a shrug and a head shake.

  “Taz Buchanan. Freakin’ Taz Buchanan. The original director dropped out because the surrogate delivered early and he and his partner are home with twins. But then I ran into Taz in a bar in London and the next thing you know, boom, he’s interested. I go to New York next week to seal the deal, I hope. But I need your help. We have two months to pull it together. A couple weeks of rehearsal with an eight-week run. Please say you’ll do it.”

  Of all the proposals that might have come out of FX’s mouth—Let’s go for a beer! Can you dig up my Counting Crows CDs? Would you be a character witness at my trial?—this is the one I least expected. I finally found my voice, “That is a proposal. But why me? Don’t you have people who would be better suited?”

  He shook his head. “Better suited? Just your use of the phrase ‘better suited’ makes me realize how perfect you are for this.” He relaxed back into the chair like my acceptance was a done deal. “And Taz Buchanan? You’ve gotta want to work with him, right?’

  Yes, FX, I often fantasize about working with brilliant but temperamental directors like Taz Buchanan in my role as faculty advisor to the campus Theater Appreciation Club. “Ah, that possibility has never really come up in my career,” I responded, then shook my head a little. “FX, what’s the real story? Are you down a babysitter? Is that why you want me?”

  His face got serious. “I did not sleep with that babysitter. Seriously, have you seen her? She’s like sixty. Or fifty anyway. Things are over with Bebe, but not because of any babysitter. Although, I could use some time out of the limelight. …”

  Now we were getting somewhere. Here was the thing about FX—despite the box office, despite the perfect dimple on the perfect chin, despite the ease with which he glided through the world, he was not a bad guy. And, much as I hated to admit it, he was impossible to dislike. Not liking FX was like not liking bunnies.

  “What’s going on?”

  “I have a movie coming out in the fall. It’s really good, Liz. And I’m…really good in it.” I knew, of course, about his movie. Starting with last year’s Super Bowl ad, Dire Necessity had been called everything from “a masterpiece” to a top Oscar contender months before its premiere. It starred FX Fahey as General George Washington in the days leading up to the crossing of the Delaware. Only in Hollywood could somebody with unrelenting bone structure and a personality like a yellow lab be cast as a brilliant soldier with a pockmarked face and wooden teeth. But according to the story I read in US Weekly (I was at the nail salon), FX Fahey quite simply embodied the leader of the Continental Army. Or so said his PR person. He was also getting credit as a producer on the film, a first for him. “This is a big deal for me, and I want to make sure everything that could happen, does happen.”

  FX gave me the same openly sincere look he threw my way during our first-night freshmen mixer at Wesleyan, fall of 1993. Back when he was simply Francis, a Seattle-bred, Nirvana-loving aspiring English major in a flannel shirt and Doc Martens. “I want to change my generation with my poetry,” he had said that night, as if he really, really meant it. And I really, really fell for it. It didn’t matter that most of the poetry he quoted to me was actually written by Kurt Cobain. I was in a heart-shape box for the next five years.

  And here I was, falling for it again after more than a decade of being Francis-free. At least this time I wasn’t wearing a thrift-store granny dress and cowboy boots. Small victories.

  “I get that the movie’s important. That’s great, FX. But where does the Shakespeare fit in? Sounds like you need a marketing team, not a professor-slash-producer.”

  “Oh, I have a team. That’s who wants me to go to Ashland. According to my agent, my manager, and my publicist, I need to raise my acting profile before the movie comes out to be taken seriously for a nomination.” He was all business now. He didn’t get this far in his career because he didn’t understand the score. “Doing live theater is exactly what my resume needs now. It’s real, it’s brave, and, you know, Shakespeare is classy. Not every action hero can do that shit. Can you imagine Channing Tatum as Hamlet?”

  “Well, Midsummer is not exactly Hamlet, but I guess I see the point.” But I was still vague on what my role might be in the FX Fahey Road to the Oscars. “You know, FX, I haven’t worked on anything but student productions in the last ten years. Sure, I’ve led some tours to Ashland for students and friends of my mother, but Taz Buchanan and the Oregon Shakespeare Festival are both kind of out of my league.”

  The Oregon Shakespeare Festival, or OSF as it was commonly referred to, was one of the top repertory theaters in the country, thanks to consistently excellent directing, acting, and production values. It produced about a dozen plays a year, everything from four or five Shakespeare titles to new plays by emerging writers. Hundreds of thousands of theater fans made their way to the tiny charming town of Ashland during the season to sit under the stars and feel the power of live theater. It wasn’t a place for amateurs.

  “You’d work for me. You’d be my person. I need you to keep me on track, to make sure I don’t do anything too stupid. To be the voice of good judgment, like you always are.” FX noticed my raised eyebrows. “Onstage. Only onstage, not offstage. I’m a big boy. I’ll lay low when the curtain comes down. I’m totally focused on this. We have, like, no time to produce this thing, and Taz is Taz. I just need to know the production won’t go off the rails. Creatively. And I know you won’t let that happen. You care too much about this stuff. It’s just, I mean, I haven’t done live theater, you know, since. …”

  Ah, yes, since what Frank Rich, the New York Times theater critic at the time, called “the most self-indulgent three hours ever produced for the Broadway stage,” otherwise known as FX’s turn in Coriolanus in 2002. (And that was one of the better reviews.) He offered up his performance as a “gesture toward healing in the post–September 11th world”—a fatal miscalculation about his worth to the American psyche. He pa
id for his hubris for years, with mocking referrals and unrelenting ridicule. I admit, at the time, it pleased me. Since then, the green screen has been his friend, and he hasn’t stepped foot on a stage other than at the Golden Globes. Now, to get his Oscar nomination, he was ready to conquer his demons, but he thought he needed me there.

  I was flattered.

  I shuffled papers around on my desktop, stalling for time. “What role are you playing?”

  “We’re doing the dual-role interpretation. I’ll be Theseus and Oberon.”

  Perfect, the King of Athens and the king of the Fairies. One powerful in reality; the other powerful in the dream world. Now I was impressed, damn it. And interested.

  “I have to think about this. I do have a life here, you know. I have a lot going on. A lot.”

  I had nothing on my calendar for the summer. Seriously, not even a dentist appointment. State funding for community colleges was so bad that all my usual writing classes had been canceled for the summer. I was actually considering starting a college-essay advising business to take advantage of all the wealthy Pasadena parents who didn’t want their kids to do time at PCC and had the money to buy their way into a small liberal arts school in Ohio, thanks to tutors. But I hadn’t even put up a flyer on the community boards at the trendy coffeehouses yet. Still, FX didn’t need to know all that. “It’s not so easy to pack up and relocate for the summer.”

  He nodded. “I’m sure you’re booked, and I know it will take some rescheduling. I’ll take care of everything, and I mean that. Housing, transportation, and whatever you want for a fee. Really. Whatever.”

  Good to see a touch of guilt surfacing. FX handed me a card with his agent’s contact information. “I need you, Liz. Think about it and then call my agent. We’ll set up a meeting. We’ll sign a contract and iron everything out. This is a real job offer.”

  “Not an au pair position. I get it. I’ll think about it, FX.” There was a knock on the door and one of my students, Julio Jimenez, popped his head in. It was time for our weekly advisor meeting. God bless Julio. I stood up to signal the end of our conversation. “Give me a couple of days.”

  FX gave me a double-cheek kiss. Yup, limes with a little bit of mint. “Come to Ashland, Lizzie.”

  As FX shut the door, Julio stared him down. “Hey, was that…?”

  “Yes, it was.”

  “Cool! How do you know FX Fahey, Professor?”

  I spun my chair around to look out the window facing the quad. “I was married to him.”

  Kate &

  Petruchio

  FROM THE TAMING OF THE SHREW

  HER: Take your pick: either Acid-tongued Shrew in need of a Good Man or Smart Ambitious Woman with limited options in sixteenth-century upper-crust society.

  HIM: Swaggering, Arrogant Gold Digger with six-pack abs. Loves money more than love.

  MEET CUTE: Lust at first sight. Blind date arranged by father looking to marry off old-maid daughter. Verbal sparring establishing the two are intellectual equals. Did I mention lust?

  HISTORICAL NOTE: The meeting of Kate and Petruchio has inspired every rom-com since the dawn of time. And the taming of Kate by Petruchio has aroused hatred in every feminist who ever read the play.

  RELATIONSHIP LOW POINTS: Forced arranged marriage; disastrous wedding (groom arrives late, wears a ridiculous outfit, and forces bride to leave without dinner); and harsh wife-taming process that includes starvation and sleep deprivation.

  WHY THEY WORK: Smart is sexy. Sex is sexy. And no one else will have them.

  HIS BEST LINE: “Why there’s a Wench! Come on, and kiss me, Kate.”

  HER BEST LINE: “Asses are meant to bear and so are you.”

  SHAKESPEAREAN COUPLE MOST LIKELY TO: Swing.

  WHO PLAYS THEM IN THE MOVIE: Emma Stone and Justin Timberlake.

  CHEMISTRY FACTOR: 4.5 OUT OF 5

  CHAPTER 2

  “Do not get sucked in.”

  My big sister Bumble was nothing if not cynical and jaded. She prided herself on being the least gullible human being in Southern California. Maybe that’s why she went into public relations. Or how she ended up married to a congressman. Those four years she spent at a women’s college did wonders for her sense of self. She was only fifteen months older than me, but she thought of herself as light years ahead of me on her life path. Now her goal was to self-actualize me, one pep talk at a time. She’d been trying for some time, with hit-and-miss results.

  “He played you once with something we in the business like to call ‘wedding vows,’ and now, what? You owe him nothing.” She was so worked up that she almost popped a button on her plum Ryan Roberts jacket, and that would have sent her over the edge. “Mr. Movie Star wants you to make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid so he can win an Oscar? Oh, so he comes running back to his ex-wife. Like you’re his rehab minder.”

  “I think maybe he respects my professional opinion,” I suggested meekly, as I watched her straighten up my living room with her prototypical efficiency and disregard for my personal wishes. “Plus, I’d have time to work on my book—you know, the one that publisher wanted me to think about.”

  “Oh, sure. Great idea. A summer with FX will really clear your head so you can get that book proposal together. The one you’ve been talking about for three years,” Bumble countered, restacking my coffee-table books with expertise and speed.

  “Please stop cleaning my house,” I begged. That did nothing to slow her down. She moved onto rearranging the furniture.

  Bumble Lancaster Seymour was a force of nature, the type of operator who could squeeze anything out of you and then make you feel like you have to write her a thank-you note for the privilege. (Dear Bumble, I know I asked you to stop cleaning my house, but you were right and I was wrong. It does look better your way. With love, your sister Elizabeth.) Christened Beatrice, she’d never been called by her given name. “Bumble Bea” is what the family called her from the get-go, because she never stopped buzzing about. Eventually, the Bea fell by the wayside, and she’s been Bumble since toddlerhood. Though why, at the moment, she was so intent on repositioning the objets d’art on my bookshelves, I wasn’t sure.

  “Listen, Francis-slash-FX-slash-Icarus broke your heart. He married you and then screwed around with the first co-star he could find.”

  “Thanks for not mincing words.”

  Bumble carried on, taking out her long-held anger on my pillows, which, frankly, didn’t deserve it. “And then he walked away without paying you a dime. Not a dime. Do you think that timing was a coincidence? Don’t you think he knew he was about to sign a three-picture deal? The ink was barely dry on your one-page divorce agreement that was, air quotes, mediated by whom? Some barista in the Village? And the next thing we know, there’s FX Fahey walking down the red carpet to a giant payday. He did you wrong, really, really wrong, Elizabeth. I don’t know why you care if he has professional success.” During this rant she was refolding our grandmother’s antique Hawaiian quilt.

  “That was a long time ago, okay? The divorce or how it went down is water under the bridge. Yes, I’m sorry I married him at twenty-two. We never should have gotten married. Then when it ended, it would have just been twentysomethings going through the inevitable post-college breakup. But what happened happened.” That was my story and I was sticking with it.

  Bumble artfully placed the quilt over the arm of a mushroom-colored Pottery Barn couch she had helped me select. “How come Gigi left you her house and this great quilt? I think I deserved the quilt.”

  “Because I gave Gigi that quilt. I found it at the Rose Bowl flea market. And you got all the artwork.” Dang, the place did look better after Bumble’s whirlwind restaging.

  “Good point. And now that Helen Frankenthaler is dead, those things are worth a fortune,” she crowed, pausing for dramatic effect. “All I’m saying is don’t get sucked in.” The doorbell rang and Bumble squealed a tiny bit. “He’s here. Try to impress him.”

  Pierce DeVine
, nee Paulie DeVito, decorator to the stars, or at least the Pasadena elite and their adult children, could only be described as “gleaming.” Literally, he was the shiniest man I’d ever laid eyes on. His dress shirt was blindingly white, his blue blazer looked like it was sewn on him moments before walking in the door, and his pressed gray flannels must have once belonged to Cary Grant. His tanned complexion said Weekend Home in Montecito, but his blue eyes showed no signs of the fine lines that normally appear when that is the case. Were his teeth actually sparkling? No wonder Bumble felt the need to redecorate my home before his arrival.

  I was not worthy.

  Or was I? I could swear the gleaming Pierce DeVine was intrigued, despite the fact that my hideaway lacked the grandeur, formality, and property-tax bill of his usual transformations. He was taking in La Casita de Girasoles, or the Little House of Sunflowers, the moniker my great-grandparents had bestowed upon the home, with some admiration. La Casita was a classic California hacienda-style house, with wood-beamed vaulted ceilings, Saltillo floor tiles, and thick adobe walls that danced with light and shadows. A massive stone fireplace dominated the living room. Handmade square-frame windows and oversize doors drew the eye out to the courtyard, which was anchored by a mature olive tree and my humble breakfast table, where my coffee cup still sat from the morning. I hoped he wouldn’t mark me down for my sloppy housekeeping.