Free Mr. Love: A Romantic Comedy by Sally Mason Page A

she’s heard him laugh and it’s surprisingly deep and even a little ribald.
    The door opens and Bitsy, drowning in a fluffy toweling robe, appears.
    Her sparse, stringy hair is still damp, her myopic eyes blinking.
    Jane almost loses her nerve, daunted at the huge amount of work it’s going to take to get this mousy little woman anywhere near camera-ready.
    “Are you comfortable here?” Jane asks.
    “Oh, gosh, yes. This place is so grand . Wow!”
    Gordon, seen only by Jane, raises his eyebrows before burying his fine nose in his wine glass.
    “There are a couple of things I want to bounce off you,” Jane says.
    Bitsy, taking the couch, her feet folded under her like a child, stares at Jane.
    “Like what?”
    “Well, your name for starters.’
    “My name?”
    God, is this little woman going to repeat every question the media sling at her?
    “I spoke at length with my boss, Jonas Blunt, and he feels that Bitsy doesn’t quite have the ring that it should have.”
    “Oh ? What do you want to call me?”
    “Lizzie. Lizzie Rushworth.”
    “Sounds like the madam of an Elizabethan bawdy house,” Gordon says.
    Jane sho ots him a dirty look and he smirks into his glass.
    Bitsy says, “I’ve never thought of myself as a Lizzie .”
    “It’s just a game,” Gordon says. “Like we discussed on the train.”
    “Yes,” Bitsy says. “I suppose it is. That’s okay, I guess. But you two will have to keep on reminding me. I’m terrible with names. Even my own.”
    “We’ll be with you every step of the way, I promise,” Jane says.
    “Now, I’m not sure what you want me to wear. I brought a few outfits, maybe you could have a look?”
    Jane holds up a hand.
    “No need. Tomorrow we’re going to give you a complete makeover. Top to toe.”
    Bitsy stares at her, looking anguished.
    “Gosh, really?”
    “I’ll be here at 9 A.M. and we’ll spend the day together, getting your hair done, getting you a range of clothes and working with a stylist on your make-up.”
    “I don’t wear make-up.”
    Gordon says, “Bitsy, everybody wears make-up for TV and photographs.”
    “Gordon’s right. It’s just part of the deal ,” Jane says.
    “I have a terribly delicate skin. I’m allergic to almost everything.”
    “Don’t worry, we’ll work with a professional.”
    “Oh, I’m feeling all panicky now, Jane. This seems so . . . so stressful . Can’t I just be myself?”
    Gordon stands and puts a hand on his sister’s shoulder.
    “Bitsy, just think of the author photographs on the romance books you vacuum up. Those women make Jacqueline Susann’s war paint look positively understated.”
    Bitsy giggles.
    “I suppose you’re right. Some of them look almost embalmed .”
    “Exactly,” Gordon says, tipping Jane a wink.
    Jane stands.
    “Well, I hope the two of you have a pleasant night.”
    “Some meditation and then to bed for me,” Bitsy says.
    Gordon shows Jane to the door and Bitsy disappears into the bedroom.
    “She’ll be okay, I promise,” Gordon says. “She’s just a little overwhelmed.”
    “Thanks for what you said back there. You helped.”
    “Oh, it was nothing. That’s why I’m here.”
    “It’s weird, Gordon, but when you allow yourself to, you really get women,” Jane says. “Which is probably why Ivy is so huge.”
    “I fear that Heineken has gone to your head.”
    “Good night, Gordon.”
    “Good night, Jane.”
    She walks away telling herself that she won’t look back, but—just before she reaches the elevators—she does sneak a look and he’s still standing in the doorway, watching her.
    When he sees her turn he ducks inside and Jane steps into the elevator feeling oddly buoyant.

19
     
     
     
     
    “So this is how a bridesmaid feels?” Gordon says to himself as he unlocks the room two floors below his sister’s suite.
    The room is perfectly pleasant (he can’t recall ever staying in a better one) but it pales beside Bitsy’s luxurious accommodation.
    “Your