Rent A Husband (17 page)

He glimpses the watch on the dresser: 7:56 p.m.

There is no time to go across to the diner.

He’ll have to do this himself.

Billy drapes the tie round his neck and with the concentration of Houdini busy with one of his more perilous escapes, he tries to knot it.

The necktie has a life of its own, rearing like a snake in his hands and it ends up flying to the floor.

He tries again.

7:58 p.m.

Again the necktie defeats him.

Red in the face, panting, almost ready to pound on Brontë’s door and beg her to help him, Billy flashes on Porter Pringle in the bookstore a few days ago, with that little bimbo on his arm.

Dapper Porter, wearing an expensive suit over a dress shirt buttoned to the collar, but with
no necktie
.

Billy closes his eyes, challenging his memory.

Could he be right?

Could Porter—a man who has traveled to Paris, who entertained business associates in fancy restaurants—really have been wearing a suit without a necktie?

Yes, Billy decides, it was what he’d seen.

So he throws the necktie to the floor, shrugs on his suit jacket, making sure that it covers the rip in his pants and hurries to the door.

Other than a painful tumble on the stairs—he’ll bear a bruise on his knee tomorrow—he makes it down to the parking lot in time to see Darcy’s SUV ease to a halt.

As he walks over to the car the driver’s window slides down and Darcy, a vision of loveliness in the spill of light from a streetlamp, says, “Hi Billy, why don’t you ride with me?” 

 He grunts something and falls up into the passenger seat of the car as Darcy pulls away.

She’s wearing a black dress and smells like heaven.

For a few seconds Billy wrestles with the seatbelt, then surrenders and lets it coil itself back into its mount with a little click.

They stop at a light and Darcy smiles at him.

“I like the no tie look. Very continental.”

Billy gulps and tugs at his collar.

The light goes green and as Darcy accelerates her dress rides up a little, showing her shapely knees and Billy, quite overcome, has to look away at the passing stores.

46

Now, Darcy is no expert on plays (she snoozed through Shakespeare at high school and her idea of a theatrical experience is curling up on the couch with a tub of butter-free popcorn and a
Cats
DVD) but even she knows that this performance of
Pygmalion
would have the fearsome looking George Bernard Shaw—glowering from the program with his pointy beard and piercing eyes—spinning in his grave.

The local librarian, Miss Simms, as Eliza Doolittle begins with an accent that’s more Calypso than Cockney and—during the flower seller’s transformation into a lady—sounds like
she’s
speaking around a mouthful of marbles.

Eddie Hancock, owner of the Chevron station, forgets more lines than he remembers (Miss Simms helping him along in hissing whisper) and plays Professor Higgins as a cross between
Christopher Walken
and a gigolo on
The
Love Boat
.

By the intermission Darcy is ready to hurry home, but she puts on a brave smile and lets Billy get them drinks (
will he spill them
? she wonders) as she head for the ladies’ room.

She checks her muted cell phone for messages.

Nothing.

As Darcy washes her hands, Carlotta McCourt sweeps in, dressed as if she’s going to a gala performance at the Lincoln Center.

“Darcy, how nice to see you have a date. I’ve always thought Billy was more your type.”

“Billy’s a treasure,” Darcy says, drying her hands.

“Yes, a deeply buried one.”

“And how’s Walt?” Darcy asks with a smile like a dagger. “As husky as ever?”

She pushes out of the bathroom before Carlotta can dredge up a reply and returns to where Billy stands with his back to her, staring at a corkboard of photographs of the stars of the show.

His jacket has ridden up and Darcy has to bite back a smile when she sees a tongue of white poking through a split in his pants.

She eases up behind Billy, and without him noticing, slides down his jacket.

He spins and—of course—sends half of Darcy’s white wine over the front of her dress.

“Oh, God, I’m so sorry!”

He sets down the drinks and fishes a handkerchief the size of a table cloth out of his pocket.

When he advances on her, Darcy backpedals dabbing at herself with a Kleenex.

“It’s fine, Billy, really,” she says and is relieved to her the bell announcing the second part.

She takes his arm. “Come, let’s go in.”

“Are you enjoying it?” he asks.

“I’m loving it.”

He leans in and says, “Darcy, it’s awful, isn’t it?”

She has to nod.

He whispers in her ear, “Eddie Hancock’s doing Christopher Walken.”

She nods again, giggling.

“Let’s get out of here,” Billy says and she feels a surge of affection for him when he takes her arm and leads her out.

He trips up only once between the hall and her car.

47

As Darcy drives them back toward the bookstore Billy knows he only has a few minutes before she’ll leave him in the parking lot of the Book & Bean.

He has to make his move.

But how?

Billy remembers Carlotta McCourt speaking to him the other day in the coffee shop: “Don’t breathe a word of this, but Darcy has let it be known that she likes you.”

Could it be true?

Well, Darcy had agreed to come tonight, and seemed genuinely pleased.

And Carlotta said she was all alone and unhappy.

Before he can stop himself, Billy says, “I’m sorry if you’re lonely, Darcy.”

She looks at him, moving a strand of hair from her face as she drives.

“Well, divorce is never easy. But you know all about being on your own, don’t you, Billy?”

Was this an opening?

Was she leading him on?

“Yes, I do,” he says, “and it’s not something I enjoy.”

“Oh, then you must do something about it.”

This, even a man with Billy’s limited—make that non-existent—experience knows is a come on.

“Oh, I intend to change it.”

“Do you have somebody in mind?”

“Yes, I do.”

“And who’s the lucky lady?”

This is going really well, way better than he could have imagined, and as Darcy turns into the Book & Bean parking lot, Billy takes a deep breath and says: “You.”

Darcy brings the car to such a sudden halt that Billy, unfettered by a seatbelt, bumps his head on the windshield.

“Oh, Billy, I’m so sorry” Darcy says, and Billy knows this is the moment.

He must kiss her.

He’s leaning in, puckering up, when he feels Darcy retreating from him.

“Billy, no, this is a terrible misunderstanding.”

His mouth opens and closes like a goldfish, before Billy says, “It is? I thought, when you wanted to go out with me, that you liked me?”

“Oh, but I do like you, Billy. You’re a wonderful friend.”

“That’s what I am? A friend?”

“Yes, Billy. And you always will be.”

He sags back in his seat, deflated.

“Of course. I’m sorry I tried to kiss you.”

“Don’t be, it’s very flattering.”

“You don’t have to be nice, Darcy.”

“I’m not being
nice
. It’s true.” She takes his hand. “Billy, I’m just coming out of a divorce, I’m not ready for a relationship.”

“And even if you were, I’d be the last man on the planet you’d look at . . .”

“Billy, I’ve known you too long to see you as anything other than a very, very dear friend. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. I understand.”

“But when you said just now that you had someone in mind, I thought you were going to ask my advice about Brontë Baines.”

“Brontë?”

“Yes, haven’t you seen the way she looks at you, Billy?”

“No,” he says, confused.

“Hell, what do you need? Brontë to send you a message in skywriting? She’s crazy about you. And you two would make a perfect couple.”

“We would?”

“Yes. You both love the same things, like books and culture.”

“Mnnnn,” he says, “I suppose we do.”

She touches his cheek.

“Promise me you’ll ask her out.”

“Okay, I promise.” He looks at her.

“What?”

“This is going to sound crazy, but there’s something I’ve wanted to do with you since high school.” He sees her face and has to laugh. “Relax, Darcy, not that. I’ve wanted to dance with you.”

“Dance?”

“Yes.”

He clicks on the radio and searches for a station.

After a buzz of static he hears Billie Holliday crooning “My Man.”

Billy climbs out of the car, steps out into the beams of the headlights and says, “Darcy, would you do me the honor of this dance?”

If Billy’s clumsy pass surprised Darcy—she knew he had a crush on her, but never thought he’d act on it—this invitation to dance leaves her flat-out astonished.

She sits behind the wheel of the SUV, staring open-mouthed as Billy executes a courtly little bow.

Darcy fears for her feet—imagining those delicate little bones crunching and cracking beneath Billy’s size thirteens—but she’s already spurned the poor man’s advances so how can she refuse his request to dance?

Taking a deep breath, summoning all her courage, Darcy steps down from the high car and walks toward Billy who takes her in his arms, and to the sound of Billie Holliday’s husky voice, sweeps her into an elegant quickstep.

The hulking, buffoonish Billy Bigelow is transformed, and as Darcy—never anything more than an adequate dancer—is led expertly around the parking lot, she laughs with sheer delight.

48

Brontë Baines is woken from a sleep haunted by dreams of William Bigelow and Darcy Pringle—oppressive, tormenting dreams.

Music wakes her, and it takes her a moment to realize that it’s coming from the parking lot below.

She edges toward the window, lifting a corner of the drape, peering out.

When she sees William twirling Darcy Pringle around the
lot
, the two of them spotlit by the beams of the idling SUV, it is her worst nightmare come true and she tears herself away from the window, falling face down on the bed, covering her ears with a pillow to smother the music, her tears soaking the comforter.

The dance ends and Billy releases Darcy, taking a step back.

She blinks and shakes her head.

“My God, Billy, where did you learn to dance like that?”

“My mother taught me. She said I was a natural.”

“Well, she was right. You’re brilliant.”

He shrugs, and lifts a hand, “Good night, Darcy. Thank you.”

When he turns toward his apartment he is clumsy Billy Bigelow again, and almost takes a nasty tumble on the step up to the sidewalk.

“Billy?” Darcy says, from behind the wheel of her car.

He steadies himself and turns back toward her.

“Yes?”

“Remember what you promised? About Brontë?”

“I remember.”

“She’s a lucky girl,” Darcy says, and drives away into the night.

Billy, his blood aswirl with a cocktail of emotions, unlocks the door and takes himself up the stairs.

He hesitates outside Brontë’s room, listening for a sound from within, but hears nothing.

Then Billy is back in the car with Darcy, when she told him that Brontë is crazy about him, and a wild impulse urges him to knock on the door.

He gets as far as raising his fist but stops as his knuckles brush the wood and lets the hand fall again to his side.

Maybe Darcy was wrong, just as Carlotta McCourt had been wrong about Darcy’s feelings toward him.

Poor Billy Bigelow turns away from Brontë’s door and trudges toward his apartment.

He’s had enough rejection for one night.

Brontë, even with the pillow over her head, hears William on the stairs.

How could she not?

He sounds like an elephant thundering up the staircase, and despite what she just saw in the parking lot, her heart swells with love for this huge, wonderful, clumsy man.

And her heart nearly misses a beat when she hears him stop outside her door.

What does he want?
she wonders.

To talk of Darcy, she supposes.

To ask Brontë’s council on how to proceed from here.

And, even though she suspects this is his mission, she begs silently for him to knock.

But he doesn’t.

He turns and clumps off, banging his way into the apartment next door.

Brontë covers her head again, to mask the sound of William blundering around on the other side of the thin wall.

So near, yet so far . . .

49

Forrest Forbes tells himself that he’s at the Jaipur Palace by accident, that he was merely out for a morning stroll along the star-encrusted sidewalks of Hollywood when his feet brought him here, unbidden.

Tells himself that he isn’t here for succor, to be held—metaphorically of course—to Lakshmi’s ample bosom, to unburden himself about these uncomfortable feelings he’s been wrestling since his night with Darcy Pringle.

The Darcy Pringle he has heard not one word from.

The Darcy Pringle he is too chicken-hearted to call.

But since he’s here, it would be rude not to go inside and greet his friend, he decides, even though (since it is too early for the restaurant to be open) this means going down an alley to the kitchen door.