Mr. Love: A Romantic Comedy (8 page)

19

“So this is how a bridesmaid feels?” Gordon
says to himself as he unlocks the room two floors below his sister’s suite.

The room is perfectly pleasant (he can’t recall ever staying in a better one) but it pales beside Bitsy’s luxurious accommodation.

“Your ego taking a dent, Gordy?” Suzie asks, appearing by the window.

“You’re not here,” he says, turning his back on her.

She pops up by the mini-bar.

“Oh yes I am. I’m wherever
you are.”

“Why are you tormenting me?”

“Because I’m
you
, Gordy.  Don’t you see? I’m the other you waiting to be freed.”

“What are you saying? That I have a transgender psyche?”

“You’re a putz.”

When he heads to the mini-bar she disappears and he pours a shot of Scotch, hoping he’s seen the last of her.

But when he turns she’s perched on the bed.

“Lay off the sauce, Gordon. You’re becoming a lush.”

“Why the hell do you speak like a character from a dime novel?”

She smiles at him.

“Because I’m your
id
, Gordy. I’m everything that’s primal and carnal and just plain fun waiting to burst out of you like a geyser. I’ve had enough of this
life of the mind
crap.”

“Please go away.”

“When last did you get laid Gordon?”

He takes a belt of his Scotch and says nothing.

“Four years ago? Five?”

“I’m not going to
dignify that with an answer.”

“I saw the way you were eyeing that babe,
Jane, earlier. You want to do the wild thing with her. Admit it.”

“Don’t be obscene.”

“Oh, come on. I saw you undressing her with your dirty little eyeballs.”

“This is juvenile.”

Gordon turns from the bed only to find Suzie leaning against the closet, arms folded.

“You haven’t had any action since you ended it with Ludmilla, have you?”

Ludmilla Orson, a fellow academic at the University of Northern Colorado, where Gordon had spent a year.

He and Ludmilla had shared a love of dead
philosophers, and this, after many conversation-heavy meals, had led to tentative talk of marriage.

A union of like minds.

When the university didn’t renew his contract and he’d moved on to South Dakota they had promised to stay in touch but a few desultory emails had dwindled to nothing and he hadn’t heard from her in four years.

Suzie says, “And
action
isn’t really the right word to describe you and Millie in the sack, is it? I vividly recall a journal entry of yours at the time:
Ludmilla is about as easy to thaw as a layer of permafrost. And half as passionate.
Quite amusing, Gordy, if a little sad.”

“Go away.”

“C’mon, Gord, own up to some real, red-blooded feelings. You want recognition. You want the limelight. You want to bed hot babes who swoon over you at book signings. Why else did you spend ten years sweating over that monster of a tome?”

“Not for any of the reasons you have just mentioned.”

“Why don’t you come out and admit to writing
Ivy
, Gordon? Think of all the fun you’ll have. It’ll be you, not frumpy little Bitsy getting to hang out with hot Ms. Cooper tomorrow, getting pampered and preened. And it’ll be
you
getting all the media attention. Think of the stir you’ll cause if you reveal that Viola Usher is a
man
.”

“Over my dead body.”

“Don’t talk to me about dead bodies, Gordon, that’s my field of expertise. And it saddens the hell out of me to see you squandering what’s left of your youth and vitality on that boring, pretentious book when a world of pleasure, happiness and even
love
could be yours.”

“I’m a serious writer. That is what I live for. Now leave me in peace.”

And just like that she’s gone, leaving Gordon alone with his empty Scotch glass and a horrible, traitorous impulse to call Jane Cooper and spill everything.

To let the cat among the publishing pigeons.

But he reigns in this urge, pours himself another very small Scotch purely for medicinal purposes and takes to his bed thinking of Kierkegaard and Sartre and Nabokov and Camus.

And not thinking of Jane Cooper.

No, not at all.

20

When Bitsy Rushworth wakes she hasn’t the foggiest idea where she is.

She lies a moment
in this massive, very, very comfortable bed, blinking up at a high, foreign ceiling, sunlight bleeding in at the edge of drapes that are definitely not hers.

Fighting back panic she decides she is dreaming and listens for the familiar
morning sounds of East Devon.

Birdsong, the trundle of the milk cart and the tolling of the church bell.

But all she hears is a muffled, almost predatory roar.

A sudden r
ealization has Bitsy sitting bolt upright, throwing off the comforter and rushing to the window, tearing open the curtains to reveal the vertiginous view over Manhattan, with its traffic clogged streets so very far below.

Panic takes hold and Bitsy battles for breath, turning away from the window, fumbling for the glass of water beside
the bed.

As she sips from the glass Daniel Quant’s
gorgeously weathered face appears before her and he says in that deep, melodic voice: “In the midst of all the movement and chaos that is to come, keep stillness within you.”

His presence, even though it’s a trick of her memory, is enough to calm
Bitsy and remind her of her purpose: she is not here for herself.

She is here to save the Quant Foundation.

She will endure whatever hardships and privations are hurled at her to achieve her objective.

Bitsy checks the time on the bedside clock: 7
:00 A.M.

Still plenty of time to prepare herself before Jane Cooper arrives.

Drawing on a robe, Bitsy goes through to the bathroom—a huge expanse of marble littered with gold fixtures.

She brushes her teeth and then returns to the bedroom, wondering what she should wear today.

It doesn’t matter, does it?

She will be peeled of her unsuitable clothes—like her unsuitable name—and remade in the image of what these
New York publishing gurus consider to be a successful author.

How she longs for this to be over.

To be back in Vermont, traveling up to Daniel’s farm.

She imagines the moment when she hands over the first installment of the money that will keep the Quant Foundation alive.

Imagines Daniel’s smile of gratitude.

Smells the fresh, slightly cinnamony scent of his skin as he takes Bitsy into those powerful arms and holds her close, his lips finding hers.

This absurd, almost sacrilegious, reverie is shattered by the doorbell.

Who
is this?

It’s much too early for Jane Cooper.

Bitsy crosses the vast sitting room, the buzzer shrieking again.

“Who is it?” she says, standing by the closed door.

“Son of Sam.”

“Is that you, Gordon?”

“Who else could it be, Bitsy?”

She opens the door and sees her brother
in corduroys and a tweed jacket, his hair still damp from the shower.

“You’re up early,” she says.

He pushes past her.

“I just wanted to spend a bit of time with you, Bitsy. Brushing up on things.”

“I need to meditate, Gordon. To center myself.”

“Oh God, Bitsy, you have the rest of your life to gaze at the lint in your navel. We really need to run
through things again, I don’t want any slip ups.”

“Gordon,” the new Bitsy says, “please leave.”

“What?”

“Leave. Go. I want to be alone until Jane arrives.”

He stares at her, mouth agape.

“You’re serious?”

She points at the corridor.

“Go. Vamoose.”

“
Vamoose
?”

“Scat. Make yourself scarce.”

He steps out of the door, his mouth still hanging open, and as Bitsy closes the door in his face she can’t quite smother a laugh.

Maybe today isn’t going to be so bad, after all.

Gosh, maybe it’s even going to be
fun
.

21

Jane, sitting in the rear of a cab with Bitsy (she
must
get used to calling her Lizzie) is reminded of the pauper-to-princess fantasies she’d had as a kid.

But those fantasies always cast Jane as the one who was transformed, never in the role
of handmaiden to the reluctant princess-to-be.

Watching Bitsy
, who sits staring out at the crowded sidewalks with a look of barely concealed apprehension, Jane feels a twinge of sympathy for Gordon Rushworth.

No matter how he may pretend otherwise, it can’t be anything but painful for him
to watch his dull sister step shakily into the spotlight that should be his.

Serves him right
, Jane thinks, dismissing this unproductive train of thought.

The taxi pulls up outside Marcel’s, one of
Midtown’s fanciest hairdressing salons.

Somehow Jonas Blunt, through his society connections, has leapfrogged them over the peons on the wait list, securing them a 9:30
A.M. appointment with Marcel himself.

“Lizzie, we’re here,” Jane says, but the woman doesn’t reply.

“Lizzie!”

At last Bitsy turns and says, “Gosh, I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to this name thing.”

Jane pays the cab driver and leads the way into the salon, assaulted by a toxic brew of perm lotion and hairspray.

A girl who could’ve just flounced off a catwalk stands behind a rococo desk, staring down at Jane and Bitsy.

“Yes?”

“We’re from the
Jonas Blunt agency. We have an appointment.”

The girl sniffs, then uses a long-taloned finger to check an appointment book.

“Yes,” she says, astonished, “with Mr. Marcel.”

On cue something straight out of
La
Cage aux Folles
appears: a short, plump man with a shock of teased red hair, squeezed into a pink jumpsuit.

“And who is
zis
?”

He looks at Bitsy, dismisses her, then flicks at Jane’s bob with a beringed finger.

“Mnnnn, mnnnn. That was done with a guillotine not a scissors.”

“The appointment’s not for me,” Jane says, “it’s for Ms. Rushworth.”

The man steps back and stares at Bitsy in horror.

“Holy mother of
God, I am a hairdresser not a magician! What ees zat on your ’ead? Last week’s linguini?”

He flounces off and Jane nudges Bitsy in the
side.

“Go with him.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, go on.”

“He’s terrifying.”

“He’s just French,” Jane says, although she’s sure this guy is more familiar with the
Bronx River than the Seine.

The mousy little woman sighs a
s she shuffles into the massive salon, the eyes of the society bitches sitting under hairdryers lasering her as she passes.

Jane perches on a spindly
legged chair by the door and thumbs through a fashion magazine.

This is going to be
one
very
long day.

22

After hours of aimlessly wandering the streets of Manhattan, Gordon—never an eager tourist—finds himself in Barnes & Noble on Fifth Avenue.

The smell of books is reassuring and he spends an hour browsing, entertaining a little fantasy of seeing
Too Long the Night
on shelves like these in the not-too-distant future.

The fantasy sours a little when he remembers that the literary opus he has toiled over for the past decade is riding piggyback on
Ivy
and when
Too Long the Night
is published there’s no guarantee bookstores will buy it.

B
ut what is certain is that the shelves will be thick with his unacknowledged piece of trashy chick-lit.

There is no justice.

Suddenly he feels sapped of energy and leaves the bookstore, making his way along the crowded sidewalks to The Pierre and the mini bar that awaits him like an oasis.

Gordon nods
when the doorman salutes him and is crossing the lobby when he hears somebody call his name.

He turns and
sees Jane Cooper coming toward him.

“Hi
, Jane. Where’s Bitsy?”

Jane laughs and Gordon realizes that the editor is accompanied by another woman, who walks a few steps behind her.

A woman in her mid-thirties, with short, modishly cut hair, dressed in a very chic suit—the skirt showing off a pair of shapely legs.

The woman is laughing
, too, and Gordon wonders what he has done to deserve being the butt of their joke.

Then his mouth sags open as he stares down at Jane’s companion.

“My God, Bitsy, is that you in there?” he says.

“Lizzie,” his sister says. “I’m Lizzie now.”

She hooks an arm through his and says, “Come on, let’s all go up and have a drink in the suite. I’m parched.”

Gordon, staring at this stranger in the mirror of the wood
paneled elevator, feels a little lightheaded as the cabin zooms skyward.