Not to Scale, page 15
Jack lets loose a sharp whistle and flaps an arm toward the cats. With indignant trills, they disappear around the corner of the house.
“Tomasina and Maxine are the true ladies of the manor. Gilly and I live here at their pleasure.” He steps aside and gestures us through.
“And our quartet of power couples is complete.” Deidre LaRochelle raises her wine glass. “Happy Thanksgiving.”
I get my first good look at Doolin as he rises from his perch on the arm of the couch next to where Deidre sits. The language master is quite the handsome silver fox, in slacks and a dark magenta V-neck sweater that compliments the streaks in Deidre’s hair. He meets us with an outstretched hand. “Elodie is it? I’m Doolin Byrne. It’s grand to put a face to the woman Bobby’s been on about for months.”
Finally, confirmation Bobby did mention me to his friends. It explains the constant winks and knowing looks we’ve been subjected to.
His grip is strong and decisive. I always planned to greet him with a well-practiced Irish phrase I’d learned from my app, but the entire language flies right out of my head. “Hi.”
Doolin points a finger at me. “You’re long overdue in my classroom.” He claps Bobby on the shoulder. “I don’t see a golf club in her hand yet.”
“It’s on my list,” calls Gilly from the archway to the kitchen. “Jack, will you put the leaves in the table? The pies are almost ready.”
“Cian’ll help,” says Meg from an armchair in the corner of the room near the fireplace. She vacates the lap of yet another hot guy. Ah, this is the infamous Cian, Meg’s fiancé, an excellent souvenir she brought back from the show’s debut at San Diego Cali Con last July. His khakis and blue dress shirt could have come from Bobby’s closet. Cian’s cropped hair and facial scruff read more LA than Kerry.
The main room is so small, he has to squeeze around us to join Jack in the dining nook. “Hi, Elodie. Heard you’re shakin’ things up over at The Clan.” Instead of a handshake, Cian leans down to dot a kiss on my cheek. A charmer for sure.
The look Bobby shoots him is a thinly veiled hands off. I already got an earful about the network shenanigans True Time pulled by trying to replace Meg with Cian as head of PR for the show. Bobby’s grudge is targeted more at True Time than Cian, but I get the sense my man isn’t a big fan of Cian’s. Judging from the smitten way Meg watches her man cross the room, Bobby’s going to have to mellow out.
“You can stick your coats in the bedroom and then come get something to drink,” calls Gilly from the kitchen.
“Two men walk into a dining room and turn into a pair of fools,” says Doolin, crossing the room to help Jack and Cian, who don’t seem to be able to unravel the mystery of which way the table leaves fit in the space they’ve created after yanking the ends of the table apart.
Bobby’s hand on my elbow guides me toward the door into the bedroom. Once inside, he helps me out of my heavy cardigan. It’s cold enough to wear my puffer jacket, but I wanted to look a little classy for the evening.
“Power couples, huh?” I say, straightening my recently acquired Aran knit pullover and giggling.
He tosses his leather jacket onto the bed. “Deidre is into defining character dynamics. Have you read her books?”
“Do you see us as a power couple?”
He gives me an enigmatic grin. “Do you?”
“I…” I whisper as I step past him, “am not into defining character dynamics this early in a relationship.”
“So noted,” he says with a sneaky pinch to my ass before we rejoin the others.
When we near the kitchen arch, a dishtowel comes flying through the air and almost smacks Bobby in the face.
Jack catches it with one hand as Bobby ducks. “I already wiped it, love.”
Gilly fills the kitchen arch with hands on hips. “Not with the leaves in. It’s so fecking dusty around here with the construction. I’ll throw a real party when the add-on is finished.”
“Did Gilly just say ‘fecking’?” Cian grins.
Deidre’s robust laugh fills the room. “Our girl is going native.”
Gilly leans on the jamb. “I think fecking is much cooler than its American alternative. Cursing-adjacent is all the rage with we transplants.”
Doolin rolls his eyes and reclaims his seat next to Deidre. “Yanks. Are there any of you left in America or have every one of you come here to torment us?”
“Bobby, Elodie, Guinness, cider, or wine? Deidre brought something very pink,” says Gilly as Deidre raises her glass.
“I’ll grab a Guinness,” says Bobby, turning to me. “El?”
“I’m feeling half a glass of pink since I’ve got a predawn call to start prepping the beach.”
Bobby disappears with Gilly into the kitchen. I tense in expectation of an awkward moment, since Deidre and I are the only ones left in the living room.
Before I formulate opening remarks, she pats the couch next to her. “Sit yourself down, Elodie, and tell which of my books is your favorite.” My ass is barely on the cushion when she offers her glass to me. “You should taste this before you dive. It’s a twelve on the sweet scale.”
When I devoured The Chieftain’s Son series of books, sipping out of the author’s wine glass was nowhere on my radar. To be polite and buy a few moments before answering her question, I taste the bubbly pink liquid. “Wow, dessert before dinner. I’m in.”
“Ah, a kindred spirit.”
I rub my nose to alleviate the bubble tickle from the sparkling wine. “No contest—book three, Skies of Mist and Wind. I’m thrilled to help bring that story to life.”
“Why?”
And here I was afraid of a behind-the-scenes interview on set. Deidre’s pointed look is hotter than any spotlight.
“I love a good chicken shit chieftain whose escape plan is to flee to an island a stone’s throw from the mainland. When I read it, I went straight to the Monty Python place and imagined ole Duagh standing on the highest point of Skellig Michael, blowing come and get me raspberries at his enemies.”
Deidre’s explosive laugh draws everyone’s attention. Thank goodness I timed my comment to avoid a bubbly pink spit take. She snaps her fingers. “Opportunity missed.”
I rest my arm on the back of the couch. “Is book eleven finished? If not, the Pythons could swing by and give Duagh the chance to mock them from his island.”
She pats my hand. “Alas, wrong era, my dear.”
Jack’s voice booms through the little house. “Chow time.” Gilly’s Americanisms are rubbing off on him. I hope they don’t go too far. Jack is freaking iconic as the quintessential Irish warrior. It would be a crime for him to lose a single shade of his enchanting accent or witty native phrases.
Gilly sets a bowl overflowing with roasted veggies on the table followed by a gorgeous cream-colored, stoneware platter with tiny shamrocks around the edges piled high with medallions of beef. She and Jack together carry in the grand finale, three steaming glass pie plates. “My cheese and onion pie opening night,” she says with a curtsy.
“I’ve been at all her rehearsals,” says Jack, slinging an arm around his wife’s waist. “Your lives will never be the same.” He kisses his wife with passion usually reserved for private.
I seem to be the only one who gives typical O’Leary PDA a second glance. There’s a stitch of longing in my chest for a similar demonstration from Bobby.
“What, no turkey?” says Bobby.
“No Thanksgiving here, no turkey,” says Doolin, spearing the beef.
“Maybe I’ll do turkey next year,” says Gilly. “I’m not up to the challenge with the insane work schedule my boss insists on.” She purses her lips at Bobby.
Bobby raises both hands. “Don’t turkey shame me. Aim that sneer at True Time.”
Jack wasn’t kidding. The savory pie is the stuff of poetry and song. The table erupts in the chatter of cross-conversations. I field so many inquiries about myself it feels like a rehearsal for my on-camera interview. The swirling anxiety over being a focal point begins to dissipate.
Meg wipes her mouth with one of the fancy linen napkins from the table. “I wouldn’t make a habit of these, Gilly, if you want to maintain your fighting weight for the wife-carrying competition.”
“Let my woman eat,” roars Jack. He pounds his breastbone with a fist, then flexes his arm muscles. “Nothing’s too big for these fellows.”
I swallow down another delectable bite of cheesy heaven. “Wife carrying?”
Cian, who sits on one side of me, answers my question while the others jab at Jack for his muscular hubris. “It’s a worldwide competition. Husbands literally carry their wives over an obstacle course to vie for the win. Championships are in Finland.”
I swallow a mouthful of wine. “What do they win, a divorce?”
“The wife’s weight in beer.” Cian grins and eyes his fiancé with affection. “Having Jack and Gilly compete in the Irish prelims is part of Meg’s plan for the big reveal of their relationship. My future wife is master of the big-ticket PR splash.”
“The more eyes on your people, the better,” says Meg, who leans into Cian for her own kiss.
“Meg, I’m still holding out for you and Cian to join Jack and me,” says Gilly with a twinkle in her eye. She nods at Cian.
Cian snaps his fingers. “Darn. We won’t be married by then. Maybe next year.”
Gilly shakes her head. “Nope. Useless excuse. You don’t have to be married to enter.”
Deidre leans one arm on the table and targets Bobby. “Maybe Bobby and Elodie should give it a go.”
My face heats. I’m sure I’m as pink as the center of the beef medallions at the suggestion. Sure, I’m econosize, which makes sense for wife carrying. I wonder if her suggestion means she’s caught a glimpse of the golf muscles Bobby’s hiding under his sweater. I prejudged his physique as being gawky high school basketball player, and boy was I off. The man has gorgeously defined chest muscles, tapering to a thin waist. There are some serious sleek guns lurking in those sleeves. Picturing Bare-chested Bobby spikes my temp even more. I guzzle the rest of my wine, which only increases my flush.
“Aren’t you going to be in the states then, Bob?” asks Jack.
I don’t think much about the comment, since I know Bobby flies to LA intermittently to bow down to the True Time overlords until Deidre pipes up. “You’re the prettiest fellow at the Hollywood party lately, aren’t you Bobby?”
Bobby takes a turn at red face. He waves a dismissive arm around the table. “It’s a game. Your show does well, your stock goes up.”
“And the offers get shinier,” says Meg.
Offers? What offers? I want to ask but I seem to be the only one at the table who isn’t savvy as to what they’re talking about. It’ll embarrass both Bobby and me if I open my mouth. My happy cheese and onion pie-filled tummy suddenly feels bloated and miserable.
Cian chimes in. “And True Times’s luster gets duller.” He attacks the last chunk of roasted carrot with his fork, aiming it at Bobby. “I don’t miss those sorry sons of bitches one bit.”
When I realize it’s shaking, I drop my hand to my lap. Under the table Bobby crooks his ankle around mine. The chatter resumes, except for Gilly, who reads the tension in my scrunched forehead.
Bobby leans toward me as she intercedes. “Elodie, will you help me carry some of these plates to the kitchen, then I’d love to get a designer’s opinion on the window placement in the add-on.” Gilly sets her napkin on the table and stands.
I detangle my leg from Bobby’s. When I move away, his fingers brush my wrist and linger as if he’s afraid to let me go.
After we dump a few plates in the sink, I follow Gilly through the kitchen door into the dark construction zone. I’m greeted with the smell of freshly cut wood and the brisk air sneaking in through gaps in the heavy plastic sheeting around what appears to be the frames of a trio of rooms. The mingled scents work wonders to de-escalate my anxiety.
She glances back at the kitchen door. “I could tell by your face Bobby didn’t let on he’s got the Hollywood hounds sniffing around him.”
“Not a peep.”
“Do you want my advice, or should I walk around and gesture, pretending we haven’t already figured out where the windows go?”
I suck in as much air as my lungs allow. “You’re the writer. What subtext did I miss in the scene back there?”
“Let me lead with this… I swear Bobby’s been giving off light since you arrived.” She laughs. “Don’t get me wrong, he always buzzes with energy, but there’s something softer about him lately, happier. It’s you, Elodie.”
“I make him happy, but I’m not entitled to the big picture?” My quiet gut rumble threatens to flare.
She wipes the air between us with flat palms. “Absolutely not. Secrets are their own special brand of poison where I’m concerned. I’m sure what’s going on with Bobby is the same thing going on with Jack. They’ve hit a homer with The Chieftain’s Son and proved themselves. Hollywood feeds off lightning striking twice. Of course studios and networks start dangling offers.”
I draw a squiggly line with the toe of my black ballet flat through the thin layer of sawdust on the floor. “Is Jack considering any?”
The sweetest smile blooms across Gilly’s face. “We’re both content here. The two shows fill our lives fine for now. Jack and I are homebodies at heart.” She sighs. “We know we’re in a bubble. There will come a time when he’ll jump at movie offers. We’ll adapt.”
Homebodies. The Irish roots Gilly has put down with Jack are fat and sturdy whereas mine are thin and tentative. Where do Bobby’s roots land on the spectrum? I know he loves the show. It’s his dream come true. Would any offer be big enough to supplant that dream?
I run a finger along an upright post. “You adapted to this life quickly enough.”
“I so didn’t.” She shakes her head. “I was a failed novelist who ran away from a bad relationship to join The Chieftain’s Son circus.” Her gaze drifts through the maze of wood. “Bobby saw something in me and my work. When I thought I was a fraud, he convinced me I wasn’t.” Gilly meets my gaze. “He’s a special person. Ask Meg or almost everyone on the staff or crew, and they’ll have a similar Bobby story.”
For once, I have no comeback. Gillian Bettencourt, who won a freaking Crystal Award for a script she wrote before she was officially on the writing staff, is in the imposter syndrome club. I shore up my nerve with a deep breath. “I’ve been questioning my right to be on this show since day one.”
“I heard you’ve had challenges with your team.”
“Okay, now I’m embarrassed.”
She lays a hand on my arm. “Don’t be. I should have kept that to myself. Bobby tends to confide in Jack. He’s been frustrated he couldn’t help you more.”
I nod at the kitchen door. “Off-camera lives are every bit as messy as Donal Cam and Nieve’s onscreen, aren’t they?”
“Messier.” Gilly leans against what appears to be a future built-in bookshelf. “You and Bobby are brand new. I’m sure he’s still figuring out how it all works. He’s one of the best people I know, but that doesn’t mean he can’t fuck up.”
“Do you mean feck up?”
“Nope, this ranks a fuck.”
“Thanks for the rescue, Gilly.” I go in for a full hug. She admitted Bettencourts are huggers when we first met, and heck, aren’t we sisters by proxy?
The kitchen door opens, and the rest of the dinner party joins our tour.
Bobby’s scamper is subdued as he scoots in close, grabbing my hand. “Sorry for the Hollywood blindside,” he whispers. “Apology to be continued?”
I squeeze his hand. “I love a good sequel.” Even though he’s just opened the topic for future discussion, I can’t fight the feeling being kept in the dark about what’s brewing for him is a step backwards not forward. If we’re forging the foundations of a relationship, shouldn’t discussing something as behemoth as career trajectory be high on the agenda? Even if he’s not entertaining offers, why isn’t he sharing that with me? Shit, what if he is considering one of them?
The itch to call Kevin chafes red and raw, but running to him seems like backsliding. I believe I’ve graduated from hot mess to warm mess since I’ve been with Bobby. He’s the one I need to talk to and share my doubts with, but not tonight. My gut tells me these next few days of pulling off the Battle of Waterville is the make-or-break-it moment for me with my crew. I can’t let a personal pothole in the road knock me off course.
Bobby pulls me away from the others. “Are we okay, El?”
I hate the need to bust out my plastic smile. “Sometimes sequels are better than the originals.”
His laugh is as dry and as unconvincing as the upward curve of my lips.
Chapter 14
The Battle of Waterville
I fan a gust of prop smoke out of my face to read Bobby’s latest text. He’s earned plenty of Pettipas points for effort in the days since the O’Leary Thanksgiving by sharing elevator pitches from the offers that came his way.
I squint at my cell screen with the latest project blurb.
A sitcom pilot about a single city gal, hiding a magic fairy mushroom circle in her walk-in closet…as if.
I text back.
I’m picturing a sitcom pilot about a single city gal, growing magic mushrooms in her walk-in closet thinking fairies are real.
Three dots popcorn back.
Fairies are real. Did you forget where you are?
Bobby and I haven’t found enough together minutes in the past few days, between the battle shoot, an inhuman editing schedule, and his head-writer hat. He’s buried nailing down season three scripts.
Even though I could tell he was upset over my change of decision to stay at my Waterville flat after our power couple Thanksgiving, he was generous as usual about accepting it. Our goodnight kiss hadn’t even cooled before my regret set in. I gave myself a mental ass-kicking and had to admit derailing our sleepover plans dipped a toe in overreaction territory. Somewhere in LA a therapist developed a sudden headache.
