Page 14 of Playing With Matches
“Pity,” she sighs. “You seem so uptight. I think you could really benefit from a good shagging.”
“Mum!” I protest. “We’ve been here before. If I need your advice about my sexual health and well-being, I will seek it out.”
“I’m just saying it couldn’t hurt,” she sniffs. “What’s the point of this show, anyways? They can’t be serious. Aren’t all the shows ultimately about getting laid?”
“No, Mum. This one is about finding your soulmate.”
“Ah. That drivel again.” I can hear the eye roll. “Well if it helps to sell your books and gets me a new bidet….”
“Not everyone is like you and Daddy,” I retort. “Some people still believe in true love.”
“Sure they do,” she says. “And there’s height-restricted rides, lovely costumes, and fairy bubble wands waiting for them at Disneyland.”
“Ibelieve in true love,” I argue. “Even if our family curse means I won’t ever get to experience it for myself. I am honored to have been asked to help other people seek it out.”
“Oh Isla, again with the Fairfax curse. There is no curse, Darling. It’s just a story, and you’re using it as an excuse. And I think it’s lovely that you’re such a romantic. But at some point, you have to stop with these whimsical ideas, grow up, and bepractical.”
Says the woman with a barn jacuzzi.
“What exactly is it I’m not being practical about?”
“Well, taking care of your father and me, for one thing. And protecting your inheritance. You’re going to have to marry well if you want to keep the estate in the family, Isla. Has that ever even occurred to you?” My mum lectures me haughtily, as if she’s been lifted straight from the pages of a Jane Austen novel.
“Right, Mum,” I say, biting back all the things I’d love to say to her. Things like,How about youget a jobandHorses don’t need hot tubs. “I’ll give you a call later and let you know how it goes with the show. In the meantime, maybe you and Daddy should stay in the apartment in the East Wing. We haven’t really got the budget for a hotel right now.”
“Fine,” she sighs. “I don’t know who I would have gotten to take care of the horses if we tried to get away anyways. It’s impossible to find good help these days.”
After I hang up, I use the rollerball applicator in my purse to apply some lavender and mint essential oil to my pulse points. I do a short breathing ritual, attempting to quiet my mind. It involves focusing all my attention on my breath work.
In and out. In and –
“Motherfucking-son-of-a-motherfucker!” The driver curses and hits the brakes, causing me to slam into the back of the passenger seat.
* * *
The receptionistat Goodfellow Productions offers me some Fiji water before she resumes ignoring me. Otherwise, the office seems quiet. I take a seat on the white leather IKEA sofa in the lobby. Most of the team must be out to lunch. A tall thin young woman in tailored cream pants and a matching fitted jacket strolls by speaking perfect Italian into the phone.
“Si, si, Marco,” the woman is saying. “We will have everything set up for you. Don’t worry about anything. I will take care of it.” She sees me and waves. Turning towards me, she wraps up the call. “I have to go now. I’ll call you back later, and we can go over your wardrobe requests.”
“Buongiorno,” I smile and hold out a hand to greet her. “I’m Isla.”
“I thought so!” she replies in English, smiling broadly and shaking my hand. “I’ve heard about you. I’m Rory, the assistant producer forPlaying with Matches.” Rory perches against the end of the sofa taking stock of me. “Love that dress; is it silk?” she adds, in a perfect American accent. She seems a bit young to have such a big job. Younger than me, for sure.
“Yes, it is,” I smooth my skirt. “I dyed it myself in a natural dyeing workshop I took in Rome. I love the vibrations turquoise has.”
“Wow. I’d make a mess if I tried to dye my own clothes. It’d be like the sad little summer camp shirts I used to make, only sadder. You’re so creative! You really are the whole package,” Rory gazes at me appreciatively.
“So I understand you met our host Marco last winter in Italy?” Rory mentions. “I was so excited to land him for this project - he was the star of an Italian show I was working on. Pazzi per Amore?”
“I’m familiar with it,” I reply in a complimentary tone, sensing Rory’s need to be acknowledged. “It was a fun show.”
Rory preens at the praise.
I don’t bring up the fact that some people in Italy called the show “Pazzi per Cazzi,” which translates roughly to “crazy for dick.” The show placed a dozen hyped-up romance readers in a house with Marco, the world’s sexiest cover model. They’d had to compete for the chance to re-enact select scenes from the books he’s posed for, in the hopes of becoming his real-life leading lady. It was a cute concept. But the contestants were really over the top, and rumors abounded that none of them were really there for the “right reasons” - especially Marco. He hadn’t stayed with the winner for more than a week post-production.
“The show did really well,” Rory polishes her phone screen on the sleeve of her pristine jacket. “Anyways, Marco is the one who mentioned your books to me and pointed me to your website.”
“Marcopointed you to me?” I’m surprised. I’d only met the man once, briefly, at a book signing when he ripped off his shirt and jumped on a table. I’d promptly ducked out the side door.
