Darcy in Hollywood

George shrugged again. “I figured Darcy wouldn’t let me be cast in ‘his’ movie.”

“I don’t think he had anything to do with the decision.”

George winked at her. “You keep on believing that, sweetheart. I bet you’re still waiting for the Easter Bunny.”

Elizabeth had no reason to disbelieve Roberta’s assessment of George’s performance, but she could hardly share the director’s assessment. “They might need extras next week.”

George’s lips twisted in a sneer. “Ha! Only if Darcy will let me onto ‘his’ set.”

Elizabeth frowned, irritated at not being believed. “It’s not up to him.”

“I guess we’ll find out next week, won’t we?”

“Did you find another day job?”

“I’ve got a few things going on. It helps make ends meet.”

“You have a nice singing voice. Maybe you could join a band.”

George laughed uproariously. “That’s a good one! I bet you didn’t know I was part of a band a few years ago. The Flaming Spam Monsters. You probably never heard of us.” He grinned.

“I’m afraid not.”

“We cut a few albums and then broke up over creative differences.”

“That’s too bad.”

George guffawed. “I would be more upset about it if I weren’t so high.” He clapped a hand over his mouth. “Oops! Forget I said that.”

Elizabeth couldn’t help laughing. Despite everything, his self-deprecating wit was pretty damn charming.

Lydia dropped onto the pillow beside Elizabeth’s, panting as if she had been running. She thrust a glass at George. “Here’s your whiskey. What did I miss?”

“George was telling me that he used to be in a band,” Elizabeth said.

“I could have guessed that. You’ve got it going on, you know? I bet you were the lead singer.”

“I played the bass.”

Lydia giggled. “Well, I was close. Where can I get your music?” Lydia took a swig from her own glass—identical to George’s—then made a face. Good lord, had she gotten whiskey for herself as well?

“You shouldn’t be drinking,” Elizabeth said.

Lydia flung out her arms. “It’s a party. Everyone is drinking.”

“You’re underage.” Elizabeth felt like she was sixty years old, but Lydia was hardly a model of self-restraint when sober. Who knew what she was capable of when soused?

“You are? How old are you?” George asked.

“Nineteen.” Lydia took another sip of the whiskey, this time managing not to look as if she were drinking paint thinner.

“Really?” George leaned forward. “I never would have guessed. You seem so mature.”

Lydia preened. “George doesn’t mind me drinking, do you?” She gave the man a flirtatious smile.

His glass was already empty. “Noooo. Of course not.” He appeared to get distracted by a passing mote of dust. “As long as you don’t…drive…or bicycle.”

“Bicycle!” Lydia erupted in giggles.