editor-cum-journalist-cum-photographer of The Bugle hurrying up, looking as harried as ever, his combed-over hair flapping in the slight breeze in the open playground.
He looks around and says, “Your husband on his way?”
One of the women makes frantic signals, tapping her own ring finger—indicating Darcy’s empty one (Forrest Forbes’s ring is back home in her safe) but the man doesn’t get it, staring in confusion.
“Mr. Pringle and I are no longer married,” Darcy says, with as much composure as she can muster. “So I’m afraid you’re going to have to make do with just me today.”
“Of course, I see. I’m sorry, I had no idea,” the man mumbles, fussing with his camera.
The photograph is taken and Darcy spends a little more time with the kids, her broken heart broken all over again ( is that even possible, Darcy? ) when she has to say goodbye, watching Sam—always the last to go inside—waving at her through the fence.
As she drives home, the afternoon sun silhouetting the rusted old rigs, she feels a sadness so profound that when her phone (left untouched in her purse these last days) rings she draws it out, expecting it to be Eric, begging to be recalled from purgatory.
But it’s not Eric.
CALLER UNKNOWN is displayed on the face of her BlackBerry, and she almost ignores it, thinking it’ll be a phone marketer trying to unload something useless on her.
But she answers and hears a voice saying, “Hi, Darcy, this is Forrest. Forrest Forbes.”
27
Forrest has found the last few days strangely liberating.
What was it that great 20 th century philosopher Kris Kristofferson once said about freedom being just another word for nothing left to lose?
With his winnings—Mr. Darcy has his eternal gratitude—Forrest was able to square the debt with Raymond Gomez.
The bookmaker had seemed almost disappointed when they met at a juice bar in Westwood.
“I thought I was going to have a bit more fun with you, Forrest.”
“Sorry to deprive you, Ray.”
Raymond shrugged. “So, what do you fancy today?”
Forrest shook his head. “I’m swearing off the gambling, Raymond. I’ve learned my lesson.”
The bookmaker laughed. “You know how many times I hear that on any given day, my friend?”
“I mean it.”
“Yeah?”
“You can make book on it.”
“Sure. I’ll take that action.”
Forrest laughed too, declined the offer of a Spirulina Surprise, and headed out into the eternal Californian sunshine, off to look at a couple of apartments in the Hollywood area.
He found a furnished studio off Bronson—close enough to the Hills to hear the wail of the coyotes at night—as soulless a place as he’d ever seen, but it was conveniently located.
Lying on his bed, staring up at the ripples made by the communal pool catching the afternoon light—trying desperately (and failing miserably) to find some Hockneyesque glamor in all of this—he wondered what he was going to do with the rest of his life.
Face it, old fellow, you don’t even know what you’re going to do with the rest of your day.
The answer to that, at least, was supplied when his phone rang and a very youthful-sounding girl told him to be at a studio down in the Valley in two hours for the casting session of Eric Joyce’s show.
He was to wear a tuxedo.
Forrest muttered something and hung up.
Did he want to host a hidden camera show?
God, no.
Was he going to attend the audition?
Hell, yes.
He showered and shaved and put on the outfit he’d worn to the silly Ball.
Wearing a tux during the day made him feel like a parking valet.
He sat down on the bed, staring at the blank white wall.
Forrest was mildly surprised that he’d being called in for this audition, he’d been convinced it was merely a ploy to get him call Darcy Pringle.
Which he had no intention of doing.
But since Eric seemed to be making good his promise, wasn’t Forrest obliged to honor his?
He dialed Darcy’s
He looks around and says, “Your husband on his way?”
One of the women makes frantic signals, tapping her own ring finger—indicating Darcy’s empty one (Forrest Forbes’s ring is back home in her safe) but the man doesn’t get it, staring in confusion.
“Mr. Pringle and I are no longer married,” Darcy says, with as much composure as she can muster. “So I’m afraid you’re going to have to make do with just me today.”
“Of course, I see. I’m sorry, I had no idea,” the man mumbles, fussing with his camera.
The photograph is taken and Darcy spends a little more time with the kids, her broken heart broken all over again ( is that even possible, Darcy? ) when she has to say goodbye, watching Sam—always the last to go inside—waving at her through the fence.
As she drives home, the afternoon sun silhouetting the rusted old rigs, she feels a sadness so profound that when her phone (left untouched in her purse these last days) rings she draws it out, expecting it to be Eric, begging to be recalled from purgatory.
But it’s not Eric.
CALLER UNKNOWN is displayed on the face of her BlackBerry, and she almost ignores it, thinking it’ll be a phone marketer trying to unload something useless on her.
But she answers and hears a voice saying, “Hi, Darcy, this is Forrest. Forrest Forbes.”
27
Forrest has found the last few days strangely liberating.
What was it that great 20 th century philosopher Kris Kristofferson once said about freedom being just another word for nothing left to lose?
With his winnings—Mr. Darcy has his eternal gratitude—Forrest was able to square the debt with Raymond Gomez.
The bookmaker had seemed almost disappointed when they met at a juice bar in Westwood.
“I thought I was going to have a bit more fun with you, Forrest.”
“Sorry to deprive you, Ray.”
Raymond shrugged. “So, what do you fancy today?”
Forrest shook his head. “I’m swearing off the gambling, Raymond. I’ve learned my lesson.”
The bookmaker laughed. “You know how many times I hear that on any given day, my friend?”
“I mean it.”
“Yeah?”
“You can make book on it.”
“Sure. I’ll take that action.”
Forrest laughed too, declined the offer of a Spirulina Surprise, and headed out into the eternal Californian sunshine, off to look at a couple of apartments in the Hollywood area.
He found a furnished studio off Bronson—close enough to the Hills to hear the wail of the coyotes at night—as soulless a place as he’d ever seen, but it was conveniently located.
Lying on his bed, staring up at the ripples made by the communal pool catching the afternoon light—trying desperately (and failing miserably) to find some Hockneyesque glamor in all of this—he wondered what he was going to do with the rest of his life.
Face it, old fellow, you don’t even know what you’re going to do with the rest of your day.
The answer to that, at least, was supplied when his phone rang and a very youthful-sounding girl told him to be at a studio down in the Valley in two hours for the casting session of Eric Joyce’s show.
He was to wear a tuxedo.
Forrest muttered something and hung up.
Did he want to host a hidden camera show?
God, no.
Was he going to attend the audition?
Hell, yes.
He showered and shaved and put on the outfit he’d worn to the silly Ball.
Wearing a tux during the day made him feel like a parking valet.
He sat down on the bed, staring at the blank white wall.
Forrest was mildly surprised that he’d being called in for this audition, he’d been convinced it was merely a ploy to get him call Darcy Pringle.
Which he had no intention of doing.
But since Eric seemed to be making good his promise, wasn’t Forrest obliged to honor his?
He dialed Darcy’s
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