Elizabeth the First Wife (43 page)

That Saturday, the texts started coming in at about four in the afternoon, as I was sitting in the salon getting the hair and makeup that Bumble had insisted on. “You need your face to last for hours on a night like tonight, and the only way that's going to happen is if you have Lenore spray paint it on. Just shellac that foundation right on. I'll treat.” So I was in the chair having my eyelids airbrushed with color when the first one popped up: Meeting over. SFO fogged in. Plane late.

An hour later, I was slipping into my binding underwear and my fabulous dress that was (thank you, Tina) exactly right when the next one came in: Delayed again. I showed the text to Puck, who threw himself back down on the hardwood floor with a sigh. I felt the same way. “I know, little guy, me too.”

And I was standing in the courtyard of the Pasadena Playhouse, nursing a glass of chardonnay and making conversation with a group of locals who'd spent five hundred dollars a ticket to get a glimpse of FX and his pals, when the last text arrived: Think we're taking off.

Please get here, I thought as I surveyed the tented courtyard, marveling that all these people were here because of my idea. The Lizzies were the very definition of festive—no tasteful sequined T-shirt was spared. Candy, Helen, and Tina were being photographed by
Look Out Pasadena!
while Zizi, needless to say, was posing/auditioning for FX and Taz for some higher-profile publication.

I spotted my parents holding hands and chatting with the Girls and Pierce DeVine, resplendent in a midnight-blue velvet blazer.
Earlier in the evening, my mother had weighed in with a trademark comment: “I wasn't too sure of that dress when you described it earlier, but it works on you.” Ted and Bumble were holding court with a cabal of well-suited Friends of Hank, using the event to secure new supporters. Sarah and Steven observed from the corner; they'd brought Hope and Honor, because Elle Fanning was performing the
Romeo
&
Juliet
balcony scene with one of the boys from One Direction, and for that the twins were willing to sit through “some guy named Jude” doing the St. Crispin's Day speech.

Even Maddie was paired up, introducing Dylan, a surprise guest, to the Emmas, whose parents had thrown down the cash to get their daughters on the guest list—the next generation of the Elizabethan Guild. Dylan, on the other hand, was there courtesy of FX, who'd paid for his ticket and encouraged him to join Maddie onstage to speak about his summer experience. (“Ever since
Portlandia
, everyone loves people from Oregon,” Hank had assured me in a conference call when he told me the secret plan.)

Oh well, I thought, chances are that no one even notices I'm solo, because I usually am at social events. Besides, my immediate issue was stage fright, not singledom.

“You ready?” FX tapped me on the shoulder.

I turned my ashen face to my ex-husband and started to speak but couldn't get much out. “I'm a little nervous. …”

Now it was FX's turn to be my cheerleader. Or to get revenge. He pecked me on the cheek, took both my hands in his, and mimicked, “Oh for God's sakes, Elizabeth, it's hardly
Hamlet.”
Then he broke into his Oscar-nominated grin.

“Thank you. That's very helpful.” FX was still holding my hands, warmly and gently, without the slightest hint of anything more, like an old friend. Which, I guess, he was now.

“You'll be great,” he said, looking right at me, then letting his eyes drift around the room. “This is great. Right? You should have no worries. You're in the right spot. We're in the right spot.”

I teared up slightly, realizing that never in a million years did I think I'd get here, we'd get here. To the right spot. I pulled myself together and nodded. “Yup.”

“Showtime.”

Backstage was a reunion of sorts, with Taz embracing me like a long-lost lover and Lulu following suit and gushing over my Missoni. Drunk Puck was there to reprise his role and, yes, he was slightly drunk. I waved to the young lighting director and the costumer from Taz's crew who were catching up with Dylan and Maddie. I searched for Sabrina, only to discover that she'd been replaced in the Titania/Hippolyta role by Scarlet. Yes, that Scarlet. I guess she hadn't bothered with the pre-party out front, rubbing shoulders with strangers. She'd slipped in the back and was in her dressing room. “Their chemistry is insane! Rehearsal blew my mind,” Lulu told me. “I think she's committed to Lincoln Center, too.” Poor Candy. At least the extensive dermabrasion had taken five years off her face, even if it wasn't going to lead to FX.

I felt bad for poor Sabrina, jilted for the bigger name. But, of course, Lulu had the scoop. “Sabrina's fine. FX got her an audition for a TV pilot and she got it. Some doctor-lawyer show. I think she actually plays a character that's both a doctor and a lawyer. That's all she ever wanted from FX anyway. A new agent and a shot at a pilot.”

I smiled at the thought of someone using FX instead of vice versa, then remembered my new European extra-quiet, low-flow dishwasher and didn't feel so superior. Sabrina and I do have something in common.

I excused myself to collect my nerves in a dark corner, like I'd seen FX do last summer. I don't know how these actors do it, I thought. Maybe Drunk Puck was onto something.

My phone pinged: In the cab.

And then: Don't worry. Just be yourself.

I was wrong. My appearance following Sir Patrick Stewart wasn't just a letdown, it was a complete plonking meltdown. FX's effusive introduction included the fiction, “Elizabeth and I were married for a short time, and I think once you hear her speak about her work, you'll understand why it didn't last. She's way too good for me.” The audience ate it up, like we were the alt Demi and Bruce, and I made my entrance on the applause.

I took a deep breath, squared my shoulders, looked out at the audience and was immediately blinded by the stage lights. Every word of my carefully crafted two-minute speech that I'd worked on for weeks flew from my head, and I was pretty sure my paralysis lasted longer than the cocktail hour. Slowly, as I adjusted to being onstage and my eyes adapted to the wattage, I began to make out the faces of my family, the Lizzies, that guy from the BBC version of
Sherlock Holmes
. FX looked on encouragingly but with concern in his eyes, as if he were going to jump in at any second if the silence went on for any longer.

A flash of white entering the back of the theater caught my eye. My racing heartbeat slowed a bit. Fighting the glare, I could make out a figure coming down the aisle and taking a seat in the back. He made it. It was Rafa, in his white shirt, not the slightest bit festive but one hundred percent solid. He smiled, encouraging me with his expression.

Just be yourself
.

Be great in act as you have been in thought
. “My name is Elizabeth Lancaster, or as FX thinks of me, Elizabeth the First…Wife.” The whole audience laughed, but I kept eye contact with Rafa. “I teach Shakespeare, and I can't think of a better job. …”

“No one was surprised?”

“Nope.”

“Really?”

“Not a bit.”

“How long have you all known?” The after-party had moved to my house, and Bumble, Sarah, and I were sitting at the new breakfast bar in the kitchen, staring out the new picture window at the garden, having one last glass of our beverage of choice—either champagne or Martinelli's—and snacking on a charcuterie platter we'd snagged from the event. The crowd had thinned to the three of us, along with Ted, Steven, and Rafa, who were camped out on the couch in the living room. And, of course, Puck, who was lounging by the fire.

“Since the Fourth of July. I had my suspicions before that, but Sarah confirmed that you left that party at FX's place together.”

My mouth dropped open. I was sure no one had seen us leave.
“I'm a mother. Eyes in the back of my head,” Sarah said by way of explanation.

All our effort to keep the relationship secret had been wasted. The faux work conferences I'd cooked up when Rafa was in town. The “trip to New York to meet my agent,” which was really a getaway to DC. I'd even come down with “the flu” over Thanksgiving so Rafa and I could spend a long weekend in Santa Fe. All for naught.

Well, not really for naught, because it had been a lot of fun.

But now I understood the reaction when Rafa had kissed me in full view of my family, FX, Taz, and half of Pasadena after my speech. We had thought that appearing together for the first time as a couple at such a public event would cause at least a little stir. Instead, the moment invoked amusement, not surprise, and only FX let out a few courtesy catcalls. Everyone else acted like it was an everyday event that I had an attractive man at my side. My mother, not a fan of PDA, simply said, “Oh, Elizabeth, dear!”

I still didn't believe them. “Maddie knew?”

“She told us you'd been Skyping him all summer. ‘Worse than Dylan and me,' she said.”

“Now I'm embarrassed. I thought she hadn't noticed. What about Dad?”

“Please, Rafa showing up at the crack of dawn to watch Wimbledon? Even Dad's not that clueless.”

“Why didn't anyone say anything? I can't believe Mom didn't make a comment. One of her patented hanging teases, like ‘Elizabeth, I think you have something to share with us?' I cannot believe she kept quiet.”

“Oh, she said something, just not to you!” Bumble laughed. “About every three days, I'd get a call. ‘Is it still on? Or is he after some lobbyist now?' You can thank Sarah for the privacy. She read us all the riot act if we interfered. She said we owed you six months to yourself after this summer. She practically made us sign a contract. Although faking the flu over Thanksgiving was really quite desperate.
That really made us laugh. We mocked you the entire meal.”

“Well, I was desperate!” I turned to Sarah, ever-steady Sarah. “Thank you.”

“You're welcome.” She pushed her glass away. “We were shocked you could keep it quiet that long. Very impressive. That's when we knew it was serious. That and the lilacs.”

She nodded out the new window toward the back of the garden, where Rafa and I had spent a glorious weekend in October planting a staggered row of lilac bushes along the back wall. “These are called Blue Skies. They'll thrive here,” he'd said, wiping his dirty hands on his jeans after finishing the job. “I'll make sure of it.” I flushed at the memory.

On cue, Rafa strolled over with more champagne. “Anybody need a refill?”

Sarah stood up. “No, we're leaving, aren't we, Bumble?”

Bumble rumbled out of the chair, pregnant-woman style. “I'm exhausted. We'll need our sleep if Ted's going to get elected and Rafa's going to move to Sacramento!” She winked, and I had no doubt there would be a million more such comments coming Rafa's way. She was right, though; Ted had better win.

Rafa stood behind me, his hands rubbing my shoulders as we watched the foursome let themselves out, the house suddenly quiet. Now it was just the two of us, three if you counted Puck, looking out at the garden and beyond to the lilacs. Rafa leaned down and whispered,
“I do love nothing in the world so well as you. Is that not strange?”

“
Much Ado
. How long did it take you to memorize that?”

“Pretty much the whole plane flight.” Rafa reached for my hand, his lips against my neck.