Elizabeth the First Wife (8 page)

I took the coward's way out.

I could have made explanatory phone calls to family and friends about why I had decided to spend the summer working closely with my ex-husband under intense circumstances in a small, remote town in Oregon. Or I could just show up at the biggest social schmooze of the year, ex-husband in tow, and let them figure it out for themselves. I chose the latter.

Really, who was going to question my sanity in front of
le tout
Pasadena? Not even my mother, the benefit co-chair, would let a scowl cross her face, so terrified was she of an unflattering photo on her night of nights.

Thanks to my cowardice, FX and I were in a Prius limo headed to the event, like we were just another couple and this was an everyday occurrence. FX, wearing his producer hat, was on the phone to Somebody at the Studio discussing the poster for the Washington movie. I listened to the conversation with one ear, amazed at how
long people could discuss fonts.

Over the course of the week, I'd been sucked into the vortex that is FX Fahey. The meeting with his agent was exhausting in its Hollywoodness. There were seven people in the sleek, high-rent conference room: five men in suits, FX, and me. The Suits introduced themselves but handed out no cards, assuring that I would never remember any of their names, except Hank, who appeared to be the Number One Suit in FX's world. A credenza on the far side of the room held an array of fresh muffins, juice, and fruit salad, despite the fact that snacking of this sort had gone out of fashion in 1997. I was dying for one of those muffins, exactly the kind of oversize baked good that those of us in the public sector never had access to in our work environment. But I couldn't have six men watch me eat a muffin.

Having proven myself to be a terrible negotiator in the past with FX, I'd Googled “How to write a Hollywood deal memo” before the meeting. After eleven rewrites, I possessed a sheet of paper outlining everything I wanted, including a fee that I assumed was at least three times what FX expected to pay. After opening chitchat and some vague creative discussions, I preempted any offer that FX might have put together by sliding my deal memo across the extremely large conference table toward the Suited Ones.

“Look at you. All ready to go,” FX said, picking up my memo with a smile on his face. A face sporting the perfect three-day growth.

“I have people, too,” I responded. “Esquires Google and eHow.”

The Suits laughed. FX nodded. “So this is it? Accommodations, per diem, and the fee. This looks doable. Hank?”

Hank, in a blue shirt–and–blue tie combo, gave it a quick onceover. “Looks good. We'll get this going. My assistant Yvonne will send the paperwork. Let me know if there's anything else that comes up. It's great to have a scholar like yourself onboard.”

A scholar like myself? Yes, exactly, that's what I was: a Shakespearean scholar. I had done it! Gotten my kitchen and then
some. I was satisfied but nonetheless made a mental note not to mention the ease of the agreement to Bumble. Clearly I could have gotten more, maybe much more. I didn't want her to yell at me for, once again, being taken in by FX.

As the Suits turned their backs and headed out the door, I shoved that orange cranberry muffin in my messenger bag.

My confidence was surging, so I contacted the agent's assistant who once thought my take on Shakespearean romances could be turned into a self-help book for literate women. A few years ago at a conference she'd heard me give a paper entitled
Will Shakespeare Meets Bridget Jones: Romantic Comedy Then
&
Now
. It was a big hit with the women in the crowd and a fun bit of scholarship for me. Over drinks in the hotel lobby, the young go-getter had said, “This is a book! It's a book! You know, like
Shakespeare in Love
. But literally.” I promised to be in touch and then proceeded to do nothing for years.

But buoyed by my
Midsummer
deal, I found her e-mail address and whipped the unfocused ideas that had been bouncing around in my head for years into a laser-sharp one-page pitch for a book called
All's Fair: A Shakespearean Guide to Contemporary Life and Modern Relationship
s. I hinted at chapter ideas based on archetypal couples like Rosalind and Orlando (“Blinded by Love”); the Macbeths (“the Power Couple Corrupted”); and Silvius and Phoebe (“Straight Women Who Fall for Gay Men”). There would be lighthearted how-tos on flirting with double entendres, swordplay as foreplay, and cross-dressing to get your man. I outlined a section on Faking the Shake, or how to impress your friends with references to the Bard while knowing next to nothing about the Bard. To gild the lily, I tossed in shameless references to FX Fahey and Taz Buchanan. Without overthinking, a first for me, I hit “send” and off my pitch went to NYC.

Melissa Bergstrom-Bennett, the once assistant to an agent and now a junior agent herself, replied immediately. Her e-mail started
with the headline: FX FAHEY IS YOUR EX-HUSBAND!!! WILL HE BLURB IT?

Ms. Bergstrom-Bennett said she'd love to take a look at a full book proposal. She managed to mention things like zeitgeist, Pippa Middleton, and
Downton Abbey
in her reply, which, frankly, didn't make sense in the context of my pitch, but I tried to make a connection. Make it highbrow and British, but not too highbrow, because it needed to appeal to American women. Oh, and she added, “Sex up the title, because
All's Fair
sounds like a book about divorce settlements.” Got it, MB-B.

On the surface, I was making the kind of bold, brave career choices I'd never made before. But there in the Prius limo, I was starting to feel a little sick to my stomach. It was a lot to pull off, starting with this evening. Maybe my strategy for informing the world of this arrangement was a mistake. But, as my depressive colleague in the English Department always said whenever a faculty member expressed concern about something, “Will anyone die? No? So, really, how big a deal could it be?”

Right. All that was happening was a play and a book. Nobody would die during the production of either.

I hoped.

“So what is this thing we're going to?” FX suddenly piped up, tucking his phone into his pocket, typeface conversation complete. He was used to being led around on press junkets by PR girls in short skirts and headsets, so he hadn't asked any questions when I suggested that we make this appearance.

We'd spent the afternoon in his hotel suite at the W, breaking down
Midsummer
act by act. I took him through my interpretation of certain scenes and passages that underscored the notion that although the play is a comedy, it says some pretty deep things about love. I explained that Shakespeare's central theme is the difficulty of love, and he explored that theme through the motifs of disharmony, disparities between romantic partners, and the inequalities in the relationships of the main characters. And finally, it deals with how
most of us have been guilty of being blinded by fairy dust in previous relationships. (That hit home. After talking through that theme, FX ordered two beers from room service.) Really, I concluded, the whole point of
Midsummer
could be summed up by the play's most famous line:
The course of true love never did run smooth
.

FX was an excellent student, listening, underlining passages, and asking good questions. His focus impressed me. In our student and married days, he was a let's-wing-it kind of actor, getting by on looks and energy. He learned his lines and had excellent diction and stage presence, of course, but the emotional work behind the characters wasn't always there. Apparently he'd matured. Maybe he really did become Washington, staying in character for weeks at a time as was reported on
Access Hollywood
. He was leaving in the morning for New York to meet with Taz Buchanan, and he wanted to be ready. He wanted Taz on his team. If all went well, the next time I'd see him would be in Ashland. At the end of our session, I tossed out the idea of a quick trip to Pasadena. He bit.

“It's one of those designer showcase houses. My mother—you remember her? Anne?—she's the chair of the benefit tonight. A lastminute replacement when the original chair Buffy Stevens went down with an extreme case of lockjaw. Anyway, it's a big deal in Pasadena and my whole family is showing up. Even my brother-in-law, Ted Seymour, the congressman. Maybe you've seen him on Bill Maher? I thought it would be fun to re-introduce you to everybody. I'm sure they'd love to see you again,” I lied.

“I doubt that,” FX answered, surely remembering the awful scene in our New York apartment when he walked in on Bumble packing up my stuff. I was too comatose to label boxes, but Bumble was in full fury. For years, I've tried to block out the image of her blotchy red face as she just kept repeating, “You suck, Francis!” over and over again. It was the most inarticulate Bumble has ever been. And I don't think FX was completely convinced that he did suck. He registered only slight annoyance as he changed from one black
T-shirt into another without a word and went back to rehearsal for an off-Broadway play. Now, years later, he was willing to face her and the rest of the family. “Just tell me what I'm supposed to do and I'll do it.” He sat up straight and shook his head, running his fingers through his hair, like he was getting ready to go onstage in the next breath.

Showtime.

One of the oldest home-and-garden events in the country, the Pasadena Showcase House for the Arts could be described in one word: venerable. And there is nothing that Pasadenans appreciate more than venerable. The Rose Parade. A Wallace Neff house. The apricot chicken salad at Vivienne's. All venerable, all good. The Showcase House, as it was called, neatly fit into the same category as all of the above because of its enduring, impeccable taste and the millions that had been raised for music education.

Every year, the Showcase House was a massive undertaking in scale and ambition, executed by an army of well-suited female volunteers. First, a house large enough and spectacular enough to be worthy was identified. Then the committee got to work convincing the traffic-weary neighbors that months of trucks and tourists would be worth the inconvenience when their property values soared afterward. (Let's not even discuss the year that forty disgruntled neighbors on a certain street stormed the planning committee meeting and blocked the permitting process. Never before and never again, vowed the Showcase women.) After they secured the house, got permits in place, signed contracts with designers, and chose a color palette, the full-scale renovation of house and gardens took place, thanks to the generosity of local designers, contractors, and suppliers. When the remodeled house was unveiled to the public, a month of parties and public tours followed. Hundreds of volunteers
who believed in the cause endured many hours on their feet in flat-soled shoes while they guarded the overly appointed Gentleman's Library or the whimsical Children's Tea Room.

Our exit from the Prius caused a mild stir among the crowd out in front, FX being so immediately recognizable and me being so vaguely familiar. The buzz drew the attention of Team Lancaster, who raised their eyebrows and dropped their jaws in unison, like a synchronized swim team out of water. I had certainly captured the element of surprise.

There was no red carpet, but my mother had commandeered the front hall of the 1926 Georgian Colonial house to stage a receiving line, as if she were a bride. My sisters Bumble and Sarah, the twins Honor and Hope (fully shod), and Bumble's lovely stepdaughter Maddie formed a phalanx of Lancasters around my mother. Congressman Ted Seymour (R-CA) anchored the end of the line. There he was, shaking hands and displaying his patented “I'm one of the good guys” smile. My father, never one to enjoy socializing with non-scientists, stood separately in quiet conversation with my other brother-in-law, who was fresh from work at the hospital.

Alone against the back wall stood a very attractive dark-haired guy in a blue suit who I assumed was one of Ted's aides. Mr. Blue Suit and I locked eyes for a second, and I suddenly felt wildly conspicuous, like a complete fraud arriving with a movie star.
Focus, Elizabeth
.

I executed the same head shake/shoulder set that FX had pulled in the car and started talking. “We're here. It looks fabulous, Mom! Look, I brought FX. Great news! I'm working with FX this summer in Ashland. He insisted on coming tonight to say hi to all of you. He really wants to support this fantastic cause!” I babbled like nobody's babbled before. I just kept talking until their collective blood pressures visibly lowered, then I slowed to a stop.