Free Love Me by Rachel Shukert Page A
Authors: Rachel Shukert
Romeo and Juliet, Harry Gordon and Amanda Farraday. ’Tis in the fair Brown Derby that we set our scene, where the two star-crossed lovers held each other’s burning gaze across a dining room filled with the grandest grandees in town. You could have heard a pin drop … and you’d have wondered if that pin was froma grenade, the atmosphere was so combustible. They don’t call it chemistry for nothing, chickens!
Alas, they went their separate ways with nary a word exchanged … but to this humble observer, they might not be separate for long. Maybe we’re sentimental, but nothing would make us happier than to see a happy Harry go home Oscar night with a sexy little gold man in one hand and a sexy little redhead in the other. This story isn’t over yet, kids. But let’s just hope Olympus’s hottest scribe can come up with a happier ending than that mopey old Bill Shakespeare.
“Hey, sister!” There was an angry pounding on the bathroom door. “Open up in there!”
“Hold your horses, will ya?” Amanda yelled back. “I’m just finishing up.”
“You’ve been finishing up for forty-five minutes. Open the door or I’m going to call Mrs. O’Malley.”
Amanda sighed. That was all she needed, for the landlady to get involved, when she was already late on this week’s rent. “All right, all right.” Reluctantly, she heaved herself out of the water and, teeth chattering, pulled on her black lace peignoir.
I really need to buy a nice thick toweling robe
, Amanda thought,
or maybe cashmere. Something warm
.
Pulling the thin wrapping of silk tighter around her body, she lit a fresh cigarette and tucked the newspaper under her arm before she opened the door to find Mildred, her down-the-hall neighbor, tapping her foot impatiently, her wide mouth twisted into a snarl.
“Took you long enough.” With her yellow hair wrapped uptightly in curling rags, she looked like Medusa with a head full of live snakes.
Mildred has probably turned a man or two to stone in her day
. “Thought I was going to have to take a leak right here in the hallway.”
“I’m so sorry,” Amanda said sweetly. “I left a bottle of Chanel Bois des Iles bubble bath in there, if you’d like to use it,” she added.
Piggy eyes widening with greed, Mildred darted into the bathroom and slammed the door without so much as a thank-you, as though she was worried Amanda was going to change her mind.
Typical
, Amanda thought, rushing down the dirty corridor toward her own bare room to dress. This boardinghouse stuff was for the dogs. Nosy neighbors peeping into her room at all hours, sniffing among her things for whatever they thought she wouldn’t miss. Stern-faced Mrs. O’Malley with trailing rosaries and endless rules about curfews and gentleman callers and “being respectable”—ironic in a house in which every tenant, to Amanda’s practiced eye, at least, either used to be a professional or was about to be. Having to wait in line for
everything:
the bathroom, the pay phone, the enormous morning vat of sludgy Irish oatmeal that qualified as the second half of room and board.
Oh well
, Amanda thought, deftly zipping up the back of her black crepe Chanel dress (might as well match the bubble bath, she figured) and pinned her velvet hat into place. Mrs. O’Malley’s was relatively clean, for what it was, and the price was right—at least, it would be once she was a little more …
liquid
.
And besides, it wouldn’t be for much longer. She’d read in
Variety
that Harry had just renegotiated his contract with the studio; he must be making a mint by now. Once they were back together, he’d bail her out. Even if they didn’t move in together right away, he’d find her a better place to live, maybe even talk the studio into giving her a bungalow like they did Margo Sterling. Harry would take care of her. She was sure of it.
Parked on a crumbling corner next to a broken parking meter licked with rust, Amanda’s gleaming
Alas, they went their separate ways with nary a word exchanged … but to this humble observer, they might not be separate for long. Maybe we’re sentimental, but nothing would make us happier than to see a happy Harry go home Oscar night with a sexy little gold man in one hand and a sexy little redhead in the other. This story isn’t over yet, kids. But let’s just hope Olympus’s hottest scribe can come up with a happier ending than that mopey old Bill Shakespeare.
“Hey, sister!” There was an angry pounding on the bathroom door. “Open up in there!”
“Hold your horses, will ya?” Amanda yelled back. “I’m just finishing up.”
“You’ve been finishing up for forty-five minutes. Open the door or I’m going to call Mrs. O’Malley.”
Amanda sighed. That was all she needed, for the landlady to get involved, when she was already late on this week’s rent. “All right, all right.” Reluctantly, she heaved herself out of the water and, teeth chattering, pulled on her black lace peignoir.
I really need to buy a nice thick toweling robe
, Amanda thought,
or maybe cashmere. Something warm
.
Pulling the thin wrapping of silk tighter around her body, she lit a fresh cigarette and tucked the newspaper under her arm before she opened the door to find Mildred, her down-the-hall neighbor, tapping her foot impatiently, her wide mouth twisted into a snarl.
“Took you long enough.” With her yellow hair wrapped uptightly in curling rags, she looked like Medusa with a head full of live snakes.
Mildred has probably turned a man or two to stone in her day
. “Thought I was going to have to take a leak right here in the hallway.”
“I’m so sorry,” Amanda said sweetly. “I left a bottle of Chanel Bois des Iles bubble bath in there, if you’d like to use it,” she added.
Piggy eyes widening with greed, Mildred darted into the bathroom and slammed the door without so much as a thank-you, as though she was worried Amanda was going to change her mind.
Typical
, Amanda thought, rushing down the dirty corridor toward her own bare room to dress. This boardinghouse stuff was for the dogs. Nosy neighbors peeping into her room at all hours, sniffing among her things for whatever they thought she wouldn’t miss. Stern-faced Mrs. O’Malley with trailing rosaries and endless rules about curfews and gentleman callers and “being respectable”—ironic in a house in which every tenant, to Amanda’s practiced eye, at least, either used to be a professional or was about to be. Having to wait in line for
everything:
the bathroom, the pay phone, the enormous morning vat of sludgy Irish oatmeal that qualified as the second half of room and board.
Oh well
, Amanda thought, deftly zipping up the back of her black crepe Chanel dress (might as well match the bubble bath, she figured) and pinned her velvet hat into place. Mrs. O’Malley’s was relatively clean, for what it was, and the price was right—at least, it would be once she was a little more …
liquid
.
And besides, it wouldn’t be for much longer. She’d read in
Variety
that Harry had just renegotiated his contract with the studio; he must be making a mint by now. Once they were back together, he’d bail her out. Even if they didn’t move in together right away, he’d find her a better place to live, maybe even talk the studio into giving her a bungalow like they did Margo Sterling. Harry would take care of her. She was sure of it.
Parked on a crumbling corner next to a broken parking meter licked with rust, Amanda’s gleaming