Backstage Romance: An Austen-Inspired Romantic Comedy Box Set Gigi Blume (fantasy books to read .txt) 📖

The piano clanged into the fierce intro to Oh! False One, and I sprang upon those operatic notes without looking back. Stella, of course, was brilliant in her usual Stella way. She got a few laughs from the comedic moments in the song. Clearly, her character stole the show. I much preferred playing a gullible pirate than a male ingenue. A… mangenue? Bing was better suited for the role of Frederic. In many ways, he shared some of the same qualities. Young. Wholesome. Naive.

And easily influenced by the Pirate King. Me. It was right there in the lyrics. You have deceived me. I who trusted so.

Yep. I royally messed with things I shouldn’t have. Bing wasn’t my sister or my father. I didn’t need to protect him. And I had no place to interfere.

I was a dirtbag.

The song ended with robust applause, and Stella did her little bit where she ran in circles before making her dramatic exit. And there I was alone on the stage, feeling crappy. But it was the perfect emotion for the recitative Beth sang as she entered. “My Frederic in tears? It cannot be that lion-heart quails at the coming conflict.”

Yes. A terrible disclosure has just been made. I’m a dirtbag.

I did my best to struggle the music out of my lungs through the sting of that damning epiphany. Even Beth’s lines echoed the sentiment.

“Oh, horrible! Catastrophe appalling.”

It wasn’t a far cry from the things she had said on New Year’s Eve. But her voice was bright and lyrical, and she took my hands in hers and sang, “Stay.”

Stay. No shadow of a shame will fall upon thy name. Stay.

And her eyes! It was as though she secretly told me nothing mattered anymore because she knew me now. And even though I deserved the painful hair pulling and all those names she’d called me, she realized I had good intentions. Albeit in a messed-up, egotistical way, but good intentions, nonetheless.

And then, like a nightingale, she softened her tone and let her voice linger in light, fluttering notes. “Ah, leave me not to pine alone and desolate.” It was mesmerizing. I almost forgot to sing my part when the time came. But never before were lyrics so apt when I echoed, “He loves thee.”

At that point, once we had sung our gentle harmonies, there was a lull in the music. Usually during this time, the pause allowed the audience to applause and the actors transitioned into the next section of music. We’d rehearsed it holding hands as we now were, and I was supposed to plant a soft kiss on her knuckles before bravely declaring my long-suffering fidelity while serving the Pirate King until 1940. It was a funny line because the show took place during the Victorian era. But I wasn’t ready to go there yet. I couldn’t bring myself to let go of her hands. Our eyes were locked in a heavy-lidded gaze—and let’s be real here—it was probably not as long as it seemed. Fitz embellished the accompaniment tastefully and effortlessly. The audience most likely didn’t notice the few extra seconds at all, but Beth’s expression was pure tenderness and longing, and I could have stared at her forever. My chest swelled with an overwhelming desire to care for something outside my self—beyond the duty of family or even my name. It was every cheesy fairytale, the heartbeat in every single novel—even horror, a common theme in all the classics…

‘A love of the most exquisite kind. The kind of which people do not admit even to themselves.’

So with a quick caress of the lips, I covered her mouth with mine and let the music play its sweet melody into the next scene. The kiss was slow and tentative, asking permission. Asking she not pull my hair. Asking for this to be real. Beth was a superb actress. And a superb kisser. If this kiss was an act, she had me fooled. Her performance was flawless in every other way. Why should this kiss be any different? I kept telling myself to get in line with reality. We were in the middle of a scene. She was acting. Right?

But I ignored the pesky voice in my head that so annoyingly reminded me she wouldn’t pull my hair in front of an audience of Hollywood gatekeepers—no matter how much she wanted to. At least, I hoped she didn’t want to. And maybe I was a fool to believe it for the few short moments we had to transition into the next sequence. If this were the only chance I would ever have to feel her lips on mine, I would take it and chance the consequences. I wasn’t all that attached to my hair anyway. The Hair Song wasn’t even in my vocal range.

27

Lights, Cookies, Snoopy

Beth

Oh. My. Bard.

All I could think was wow. We didn’t rehearse the song this way. And even if we’d rehearsed the kiss a thousand times, it wouldn’t have been half as good. The applause echoed around us and lingered into the next part of the scene. My little heart (let’s call her Kitty) clapped too, probably giving the performance a standing ovation. “Bravo!” Kitty exclaimed enthusiastically. “Encore.”

An encore would be nice actually. Good idea, Kitty. I’ll speak with the management.

In the meantime, we had work to do, and Will was singing the recitative into Oh Here is Love. Kitty was still applauding, and I had to tell her to pipe down, so I could sing the next part with some breath left for the high notes. There I was, playing Mabel, declaring my love to the man playing opposite me. I didn’t loathe him anymore—far from it. But were the lyrics so close to home?

Here is love, here is truth.

Was it though? I didn’t know what the truth was anymore. That kiss sure was a zinger. I knew that. But… was I falling for Will? It had to be the wine, or the Yorkshire pudding,