Elizabeth the First Wife (25 page)

FX didn't hesitate. “Have you seen the guy playing Lysander? He's ripped! I don't want to be compared to him.” Of course. This was more about his abs than his art.

Well, at least we were both on the same page, even if it was for different reasons. But something about how it all went down was bothering me. I didn't trust that Taz. “So let me get this straight. Did Taz just drop this bombshell on you today?”

“Yeah. I mean, he's been hinting at some form of skin, making the whole production really hot. But I didn't think he meant
this.”

It was almost like Taz was practicing some kind of directorial
hazing, testing the mettle of his actors in a sinister way. I knew FX didn't want to look weak in the director's eyes. “Well, can you play along and then a few days before opening, tell him you just can't do it? It's just not working for you?”

“We have this press conference on Monday, announcing the show and the special ticket sales and the unusual nature of the production. So I don't really want this announced to the public if I have no intention of going through with it.” Tick-tock, the clock was running. I wasn't Bumble but I could hear her voice in my head: This could be a PR fiasco. It had the potential to be
Coriolanus 2: The Undoing of FX Fahey
before the show even opened.

“What are we going to do?” he asked.

Didn't he mean
I?
“You can't just say no? I mean, at this point, Taz won't bail, will he? Or have your agent call him. Hank can tell him you don't want to do nudity.”

FX cocked his head and shrugged his shoulders, but not in a puppy-dog way, more in a pit-bull way. “I'd rather it didn't come from me. Or Hank. I'd rather it came from you, so it seems like more of an artistic decision, not a personal decision I'm making for the benefit of my career. Just convince Taz like you convinced me. It's not authentic to the text. End of story.”

Ah yes, it was time for the FX Fahey Industrial Complex to spring into action. If I wanted that Caesarstone countertop, I was going to have to get him out of this.

Back inside, I contemplated my situation and reheated my squash for the third time. The fried capers looked more like limp capers, but I was starving so it would have to do. While the oven did its thing, I checked in on Maddie. She was tucked into bed, fully engrossed in multiple electronic devices when I knocked and entered. She glanced up from her laptop to greet me. I explained my earlier panic. “Sorry,
I didn't mean to lecture you about the nondisclosure agreement. It's just really important to FX that this play goes off well. I know you won't say anything.”

“I won't. I like FX. And I kinda get it, you know, having to be careful about revealing what goes on behind the scenes.” Of course, she was talking about her own mini-fishbowl-life in Pasadena.

Her phone buzzed. “One of the Emmas?” I asked.

“No, it's Dylan. The other intern who's working for Taz?” Of course, the pale hipster in the glasses who was also sent to fetch dinner. “He's cool. He grew up in Klamath Falls, doesn't that sound magical? He's in college here in Ashland at Southern Oregon. You know what he's majoring in?”

I shook my head, but I was pretty sure I knew the answer: freshfaced, sheltered high school girls from California. But maybe I was being too protective.

“History with a minor in Shakespeare Studies, how cool is that? Have you ever heard of that minor?”

“No. That sounds fantastic.” Goodbye, Swarthmore, hello Southern Oregon. Her father would have a field day with that educational trade. On the downside, Maddie was a goner. But on the upside, I had an inside source. “Like a dream. Makes me want to be an undergrad all over again. So are you going to rehearsal tomorrow? With FX and everybody?”

She hesitated, “If it's okay with you. I think Taz thinks I'm working for FX. And FX seems to kind of think that, too. But I know you wanted me to put together a list of Shakespearean breakup lines, so I can do that before the ten o'clock call time.”

I feigned understanding when I really felt elation. “Don't worry about the book for now. This is an incredible opportunity to see a show come together in a really short time. Do what you need to do to be helpful to FX and the production. Once the show's up and running, we'll have plenty of time to work on the book stuff.”

The phone buzzed again. Apparently, Mr. Minoring in
Shakespeare was getting impatient. “Maddie, do you tell people right off the bat that your dad is a congressman?”

“Not usually. I used to in the beginning because I thought it was awesome. But then people would say things like, ‘All politicians are crooks.' Or ‘Republicans are facists.' It really upsets me when people say stuff like that. So now I wait to see if it's even worth it. You have to pick your moments.”

So true.

I was supposed to be the Shakespearean scholar, so I asked myself: What would Iago do?

I sat on a stool at the kitchen counter, eating my dried-out dinner and contemplating my next move. I had to think like Othello's villain if I was to outwit Taz. Unfortunately, I didn't have an Iago bone in my body. My only thought was to go to Taz and beg for mercy, which didn't exactly fall in the master manipulator category. I thought about calling my sister Sarah for advice, but it was too late to call a doctor and not have the reason be life-threatening. She barely got to sleep as it was without me interrupting her for my petty problems. And I thought about calling Bumble but feared the resulting Pandora's box of recriminations. And forget calling my parents. The fake Redfield resume was gnawing away at the piece of my soul still affected by Guilt Generated by my Mother, and my father simply didn't operate on this plane. I looked at Puck and he wagged his tail. He believed in me.

Just then, my phone beeped; it was my dad. His text said: Did you watch Wimbledon tune-up. New American kid looks good.

I texted back: Missed him. Will check out tomorrow.

When another ping sounded, I expected another tennis-related text. But it was from Rafa: Thanks for dinner “date.”

His quotation marks, not mine. Oh well. The day wasn't a total washout.

Regan & Goneril FROM KING LEAR

WHO THEY ARE:
The two baddest sisters in all of literature: scheming she-wolves who lie, cheat, and plot their way through life. The game is on after their father, King Lear, sets up a nowin competition called “Who loves Daddy the most?” These wicked daughters declare their filial love to secure their half of his kingdom, then humiliate dear ol' dad. Also included in their relationship bag o' tricks: philandering, emasculating, and murdering. In the end, they both die horrible deaths.

WHY THEY ARE RIGHTEOUS:
They are utterly shameless. And in a world in which we are constantly exposed to manufactured shamelessness—like those fake housewives or those fake sisters from Calabasas—Regan and Goneril are the real deal, driven by their desire for power and ambitious for their own sake. They are females who are unafraid of being feared. You have to appreciate their commitment.

WHAT TO STEAL FROM THEM:

Their extreme self-love. Low self-esteem is not an issue for the Lear girls.

Their support of each other. Until they don't and both end up dead.

A No Guts, No Glory attitude. And by guts, I mean actual guts on the ground.

Their intolerance of houseguests. No knights for multiple nights, Dad.

WHAT TO SKIP:
Going after your married sister's hot boyfriend is never a good idea. Neither is poisoning her.

WHO THEY REMIND YOU OF:
Cinderella's tormentors, Drizella and Anastasia, on steroids.

WHERE THE MODERN-DAY SISTERS WOULD HAVE WORKED:
Lehman Brothers.