Mr. Love: A Romantic Comedy (12 page)

33

Gordon finds himself on one of his aimless meanders through
East Devon, shoulders hunched, hands deep in the pockets of his corduroys, eyes fixed on the sidewalk, oblivious to the autumnal blaze of color.

Since returning from
New York he’s felt rudderless.

Adrift.

You’re in mourning
, he tells himself.

In mourning for that
God-awful book and all the years you spent writing it.

He has no idea what he’s going to do with his life now that he has abandoned his novel and academia has abandoned him.

At least he no longer has financial worries.

Since the media blitz
Ivy
is being downloaded at a dizzying rate and the first royalty payment hit his bank account yesterday, an obscene amount of money that left him almost panic-stricken when he went on-line and checked his account balance.

He felt as if the door was about to be kicked down and some shadowy truth police were going to invade Bitsy’s house, dragging Gordon out into the street and demanding that he own up to his deception.

Before they emptied his bank account of his ill-gotten gains.

Ridiculous
, Gordon tells himself as he approaches Grace’s restaurant, the absurdly named Field To Fork.

He’s drawn from his reverie by the sudden realization that there
’s way more traffic than usual in East Devon.

Cars line both sides of the street, strangers browse the stores and when he looks into Grace’s he sees the tables are all full.

A hand-lettered sign in the window of the eatery invites diners to “Try the delicious Joe Froggers that Suzie eats in
Ivy
.”

Is it possible that the awful novel is attracting people to
East Devon?

Gordon’s questioned is answered by a plain woman with permed hair who heaves herself from
the passenger seat of a Ford with Massachusetts plates, saying to her husband, a skinny, long-suffering fellow: “Isn’t it
quaint
, Desmond? It’s
just
like the book.”

They disappear into Grace’s and Gordon walks on, leaving the main road and finding himself standing outside the house where Suzie Baldwin lived all those years ago, now the home of lesbian potters.

“Hi Suzie,” he says, staring at the upper window that had been her bedroom, but he knows it’s no good.

She has kept her promise.

He hasn’t seen her since that night at The Pierre.

One of the potters appears in the window, scowling down at him.

“You’re losing your mind, Gordon,” he says and takes a deep breath and strides off in the direction of his sister’s house.

As he arrives home he is accosted by the postman, heaving a bulging mailbag.

The old coot, his face red as a beet, says, “They got me working double shifts because of the sister o’ yours.”

The postman upends his bag, pouring a pile of letters onto the sidewalk beside Bitsy’s mail box.

Gordon looks at the letters and then up at the postman who marches away, muttering to himself.

Gordon reaches down and snags an envelope.

It is addressed to:
Viola Usher, East Devon, Vermont.

He lifts another.

And another.

And another.

Scooping up the pile, envelopes slipping from his grasp as he walks up the short pathway, Gordon kicks at the front door.

After a few seconds he kicks again and Bitsy, cell phone pressed to her ear, opens the door.

“I’m talking to Jane,” she says, then she stares at the envelopes. “What’s all that?”

“Fan mail,” Gordon says, dumping the envelopes on the living room carpet.

“Here’s Gordon,” Bitsy says and hands him the phone.

“Hello, Jane,” he says.

“Gordon, are you sitting down?” Jane asks.

“Why?”

“We’ve just concluded the auction.”

“And?”

“
Ivy
has gone to Argyle
Press for eight million.”

“Dollars?” he asks.

“No, Gordon, Vietnamese Dong. Of course
dollars
.”

A sudden dizziness has Gordon sitting, staring up at Bitsy who paces the living room, looking fretful.

“Gordon, are you there?” Jane says.

“Yes. That’s an impressive
sum.”

“An understatement.”

“So, what happens now?”

“Bitsy needs to give us the nod and we’ll conclude the deal.”

“She’s nodding like her heads on a spring, Jane.”

“Good, then it’s done. I’ll be in touch with the paperwork. Congratulations all round.”

“And to you, Jane. You must be very pleased.”

“I’m ready to leapfrog the Chrysler building.”

Gordon laughs.

“I wish I was there to see it.”

There’s a pause that neither of them seems able to fill, then Jane says, “Well, we’ll speak soon. Goodbye, Gordon.”

“Goodbye,” he says and sets Bitsy’s phone down on the coffee table.

He scratches his head.

“We’re rich, Bitsy.”

“I know,” she says. “It’s terrifying.”

“We’ll get used to it.”

She sits opposite him, still with her snazzily styled hair but back in her frumpy clothes with no make-up on her face.

“What are you going to do now, Gordon?”

“I don’t know. I’ll move out, of course.”

“Where to?”

He shrugs.

“Maybe
Manhattan.”

“What will you do there?”

“The same as I’d do if I stayed here in East Devon: lots of nothing.”

“Aren’t you going to write another book?”

“No, I’m done with that lark.”

“What about another
Suzie Ballinger novel?”

“I fear my muse has deserted me, Bitsy.”

Before his sister can reply they are startled by an amplified voice bellowing from outside: “And this, folks, is where the author of
Ivy
lives. Viola Usher, aka Lizzie Rushworth, wrote the book in this
very
house.”

Gordon
dashes to the window and stares out.

A bus idles in the narrow street, belching diesel smoke and a squad of women brandishing cell phones spill out onto the sidewalk, looking right at him, their cameras clicking.

Gordon draws the drapes and turns to sister.

“What have you done, Gordon?” Bitsy
asks.

He can find no answer.

34

It’s 9:00 P.M. and to celebrate the day of extraordinary success Jane lies on her couch dressed in her most comfortable sweats, drinking Heineken, eating Chinese take-out and binge-watching Netflix.

She refuses to
acknowledge the realization that there’s something sad about being alone tonight.

What the hell, she’s on top of the world.

Jonas called the office when the auction was concluded and blew kisses at her through his
mobi
and sang (seriously!) “
Bo-bo-bo-bo-bonus time
!” to the tune of “Barbara Ann.”

She floated out of the Blunt Agency on a cloud of French champagne (Jonas sent a bottle of Cristal along with a bunch of blood
red roses) and watched night fall on Manhattan from the back of the cab taking her to her apartment.

An apartment that was sprucer than it had ever been thanks to the crew of cleaners organized by her assistant Belinda while Jane finalized the
Ivy
auction.

There’s no sign that her home was searched by the cops.

And, best of all, the cleaning solvents used by the housekeepers have erased any lingering traces of Tom Bennett’s aftershave and hair gel.

Realizing that she’s about to slide down a mental rat hole that’ll lead her into a world of anger and hurt,
Jane purges Tom from her mind and, the antics on the TV screen not holding her attention, finds herself thinking of crusty old Gordon Rushworth.

Crusty, yes.

But not really
old
.

For all his affectations, Gordon can’t be more than thirty-five and once you looked past the slightly disheveled exterior there was something oddly attractive about him.

And (despite all his protestations to the contrary) he had written those pretty hot sex scenes.

Jane finds herself wondering if he
merely has a very good imagination, or whether he was drawing on personal experience.

Whether he had been a campus lothario.

This train of thought leads her toward another area of discomfort: does she seriously expect the truth of
Ivy’s
authorship will be kept secret?

A nasty stab of anxiety has Jane hopping up from the couch and hurrying through to the kitchen for a fresh beer, popping the cap and taking a hefty slug.

Before she can stop herself she sits down at the table and calls home, pleased when she hears her father’s voice.

She cares for her mother, but he
’s the person she needs to talk to right now.

“Daddy,” she says.

“Sweet pea,” he says. “How are you?”

“Doing great
. Made a big deal today.”

She tells him about the auction.

“Hey, that makes your old dad real proud, sugar.”

“How are you doing?” she asks.

“Ah, never better. Your mother’s got me on some low fat diet and I take my pills like a good boy. When are we going to see you?”

“Soon,
Daddy,” she says. “Very soon.”

“What am I hearing,
sugar? What’s got you blue?”

“Nothing,
Dad.”

“Don’t kid a kidder. What’s up with you and that Tom character?”

“That’s over.”

“Awww, baby. I’m sorry.”

“Hey, what can you do?”

“Get back on the horse is what you do.”

She laughs.

“Yeah, in a while maybe
I’ll take the old pony for a canter.”

“
Why don’t you come home and drink beer with your dad? I just got me some classic Steve Martin recordings that are cracking me up.”

“I’ll come, Dad
, I promise. Just let me get through all this work stuff.”

“Okay, sweet pea. Love you.”

“Love you too, Daddy.”

Jane rings off before she surrenders to little self
-pitying sniffles.

She wanders through to the bedroom, falls face down on the bed and with the TV still blaring in living room, sobs herself to sleep.

35

As her Volvo rattles over the cattle grid at the entrance to the Quant Foundation, Bitsy’s eye is drawn to her purse wobbling on the passenger seat.

The purse that she has been unable to stop sneaking glances at all of the twenty minutes it has taken her to drive from
East Devon.

Because there’s a check in the purse.

A check with a dizzying number of zeroes.

Gordon, true to his word, deposited a terrifying sum of money into her bank account yesterday.

Merely fifty percent of the first of the ebook royalties on
Ivy
, he told her.

And there was a vast amount of money to come.

So, leaving just enough in the account to pay her meager expenses, Bitsy wrote out the check to the Quant Foundation, her hand shaking as she signed it.

Her hands are still a little shaky and she grips the wheel of the Volvo to still the tremor as she sees Daniel Quant’s house through the
Fall leaves.

She checks her watch: 10
:00 A.M.

She is precisely on time for her audience with Daniel, set up in a telephone call with his assistant Carlos last night.

As she nears the house Bitsy sees a small knot of people emerge and stand outside the front door, almost as if they’re posing for a group photograph.

Bitsy searches in vain for the photographer, then a mad thought strikes her:
they’re waiting for you, Bitsy.

Don’t be silly
, she tells herself.

But as the Volvo creaks and splutters to a halt outside the house and she stands up out of the car she hears clapping and sees that these radiant, youthful
, beautiful people are applauding
her
.

Led by Daniel Quant himself, who stands in the doorway, showing his very white teeth in a smile.

He walks down and grasps her by the shoulders and stares into her eyes.

“Bitsy,” he says. “How proud we are of you.”

Then he takes her by the arm and leads her into the house.

“
Una,” he says to the gorgeous giantess, “some tea upstairs, if you would be so kind?”

If
Bitsy hears Una mutter something like “little hack writer” it does nothing to dim the pleasure she feels as Daniel leads her up the stairs to his private sanctum.

They settle themselves on the cushions and Daniel fixes those laser-like blue eyes on her.

“So,” he says, “quite an adventure?”

“Oh yes. More than a little terrifying.”

“You look very different.”

She blushes.

“Oh, they did things to my hair . . .”

She wags a manicured hand near her head.

“Yes, the external changes are delightful of course,” he chuckles when her blush deepens, “but I sense something new in you. Some new
purpose
.”

“Well,” she says, “perhaps it’s not yet apparent to
me
. This whole business makes me want to cover my head with my comforter and hide from the world.”

“Bitsy, ask yourself a simple question.”

“What question is that, Daniel?”

“Do you want to be a prisoner of your past or a pioneer of your future?”

She sighs.

“I’m still trying to come to terms with it all. And I still battle with the dishonesty.”

“May I offer you an example from my own life?”

“Of course, Daniel.”

Before he can continue, Una, like a beautiful giraffe, appears carrying a silver tray with the herbal tea Daniel favors.

She bends at the waist, all long limbs and flowing tresses, and deposits the tray on the wooden floor in front of them.

“Thank you, Una,” Daniel says.

The girl inclines her head, gives Bitsy a cool look through her waterfall of hair, then slinks
back down the stairs.

Daniel pours tea and hands Bitsy a cup.

“Thank you,” she says, battling not to grimace when she tastes the bitter brew.

“So, as I was saying,” Daniel says, sipping at his tea, “many years ago I was a student by day, a waiter by night and
a member of a circus troupe on the weekends.”

He sees her face and laughs.

“I was an acrobat,” he says, “and a juggler.”

As if this is all planned, he reaches across to a bowl of fruit and picks out four red apples.

Effortlessly he juggles the apples and then catches them and puts them back in the bowl.

“You’re very good,” Bitsy says.

“It’s like riding a bicycle. Once learned . . .” He shrugs. “Anyway, my point is this: who was I? Student? Waiter? Performer?”

He looks at her.

“Uh, all three?”

“Exactly. To my college professor I was a student, to a diner I was a waiter and to a kid in the audience I was a performer.” He sips
his tea. “I was all of those. And yet I was none of them.” He stares at her, unblinking. “You understand?”

“
I think so. Uh, you’re saying those . . .
labels
were all just superficial? That the real you was something else?”

He sets down his cup and claps his hands.

“Bravo, Bitsy,” he says. “Now that you have appreciated that simple but profound truth, I think you’ll find it much easier to continue on your path. Remember, all of these external trappings,” he waves a hand around the room, “are mere illusion. Artifice. Stage craft, if you will. So does your harmless bit of play acting, seem much less conflicting now?”

She smiles.

“It does. It really does.”

He spreads his hand
s.

“Then
we are pleased.”

Bitsy reaches for her purse and
withdraws an envelope containing the check.

She holds it out to Daniel Quant.

“Daniel, here is my first contribution toward the Foundation. There will be more.”

He takes the envelope and lays it on the tray without opening it.

“We thank you,” he says, pressing his palms together.

He rises and holds a hand out to Bitsy, helping her to her feet.

Leading her toward the stairs he says, “I know that great demands are being made on your time right now Bitsy, but when the storm has passed I would like you to know that we would be delighted if you were to spend more time here at the Foundation, giving us the benefit of your talents.”

She laughs.

“Oh, I don’t have any talents.”

“Nonsense. All you have to do is identify the thing that you can do better than anyone else in the whole world
and then you will find a matching need. It would be our privilege to help you with that.”

“Thank you, Daniel,” she says and floats down the stairs, pleasantly aware of his gaze as he stands watching her from the landing.

How exciting
, she thinks.

To be welcomed into the Foundation.

And welcomed into the world of Daniel Quant.

How long will it be, she dares to think, before she is welcomed into his arms?

Blushing furiously she hurries out to her Volvo.

S
till fighting her raging emotions Bitsy stalls the car a few times before she finally gets it started and, spewing grit and dust, rattles off home.