Backstage Romance: An Austen-Inspired Romantic Comedy Box Set by Gigi Blume (ebook reader with highlighter txt) 📕

bag slung over her shoulder. “I’m late for an appointment but I can’t leave this lying about.”

It took me a moment to register what she was saying. My brain was still clearing out the bad hoe puns. And so I stared at her for a few seconds longer than was socially acceptable. Derp. Yo speako English.

“Would you be a dear?” she pleaded, offering the bolt of fabric to me.

“Oh!” I said with a jolt. “Do you want me to take that down for you?”

She most likely thought I was a ninny. I took the fabric and smiled, nodding like a clod, and she gave me a big hug, bidding her appreciation and before running toward the door, called over her shoulder, “Just put it on the cutting table and shut the door on your way out. It will automatically lock.”

And then she was gone like the enigma she was. A little bit of an odd birdy, that one. It was a small wonder she wasn’t completely nutso with a workshop so many flights of stairs below the theatre.

Down in the bowels of the theatre.

I amused myself by singing as I navigated my way down, down, down those narrow stairs. The air became cooler the further my descent into the dungeon of black despair, my geeky musical theatre brain just an endless loop of songs on repeat.

As I continued through my repertoire, I found myself testing the echo in that long stairwell with an eerie reverberation reminding myself to keep my hands at the level of my eyes.

I must have spooked myself out because I thought I heard footsteps behind me, masked in the echo of my voice.

I realized in that moment that although I was most likely perfectly safe, it would have given me more peace of mind if I had only waited to find Jane before taking this endeavor all alone. A faint light at the end of the corridor like a beacon in the darkness peered through the costume shop door and as I reached it, I could hear music coming from inside. That scatterbrained woman left her music player on. I thwacked the bolt of fabric on the cutting table and went in search of the offending music.

Three things happened at once.

One. I found the source of the music. It was a small Bluetooth speaker.

Two. The music shut off, but I wasn’t the one to do it.

Three. The figures of two people moved in the shadows.

I was already spooked from the creepy dungeonous stairwell and the freaky echoes reminiscent of the secret passageways to the fifth cellar. To say I was startled would be an understatement. I screamed. Reality dawning, my addled brain devised it could either be A) a deformed man obsessed with a soprano or B) a rat catcher. This is what happens when you’re tired, haven’t eaten much, and allow yourself to get worked up over an ominous yet harmless stairwell.

In the half second after my B-movie scream, I sobered to the vision before me. Jane and Bing were shuffling apart with guilty faces. They were totally smooching. I was equal parts embarrassed, delighted, and furious. The two of them likely felt the same way, but not in the same order.

For the next few moments that felt like ten minutes but was probably only three seconds, we had a staring contest. I stared at them eyes wide, mouth open. They stared at me, cheeks flushed, hair askew. I opened my mouth wider to say something, but nothing came out. So many thoughts ran through my head at once, I couldn’t figure out which to give voice to. Apologize? Give them high fives? Yell at Jane for sneaking off?

To my chagrin, I was spared the effort because the bustle of heavy footfall exploded into the room and the imposing, shark-like form of Will Darcy appeared, followed closely by his very own remora fish—Caroline.

“What’s going on?” he said rather threateningly. I nodded in agreement, deciding that’s exactly what I would have said had I been given the chance—if he hadn’t barged in or, more accurately, if I’d remembered how to use the faculties of my mouth. It seemed to be contagious because neither Jane nor Bing could remember how to use their mouths either, other than opening and closing them like fishies gasping for air—fishies about to be eaten by a great, big Darcy shark.

“Uhh, uhh…” was all Bing could manage to say before a shrill scream came from the direction of Caroline.

“What is it with the screaming?” growled the Darcy shark.

Caroline danced like a leprechaun on hot coals, shrieking, “Spider! Spider!”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” cried Will. “Step on it.”

At that moment, my animal activist roommate suddenly remembered how to speak and shouted, “No, don’t kill it.”

It seemed to happen in slow motion like I was a distant spectator to the most ridiculous scene: Caroline shrinking away from a spider, Jane rushing to save it, Bing looking for something to humanely capture it, and Will staring everyone down like they had gone insane. I didn’t watch sports, but I imagine that was what the instant replays must look like. Then, as the crazy town scrimmage played out, Caroline swung her leg in one swift motion and kicked the spider like a football through a field goal—the goal posts being the threshold of the costume shop door which she quickly and abruptly shut.

A robust “Noooooo!” resounded from the remaining four occupants of the room because we knew—we knew what Caroline obviously was too dumb and self-absorbed to realize—the door locked from the outside.

5

It's Hard to Be the Bard (or MacGyver)

Will

What sort of moronic architect would design a door to lock from the outside? Unless guarding a bank vault or sensitive government documents, there was no reason for a door to have a Fort Knox security system like the one currently employed by the costume shop in the Gardiner Theatre. I would have felt inclined to credit the idea to that crazy woman who ran