"The Corset Diaries" - читать интересную книгу автора (MacAlister Katie)

“Roger d’Aspry—he’s the producer; we went to Oxford together—is trying for realism as much as he can. Everyone hired has some sort of link to the part they’ll play. Max, for instance, he’s the duke, and is he gorgeous! Girl, I wet my pants just thinking about him! Max is actually a descendant of the Duke of Bridgewater. Fifth cousin once removed or something like that. It was his ancestors who lived in Worston Old Hall, which is where the shooting takes place. Big old place, lots of oak and marble. You’ll love it. Anyway, Roger told me to find him an American who was related to one of those American heiresses, the ones you were telling me about a couple of years ago when you were researching them, so immediately I thought of you.”

“The dollar duchesses,” I said, still trying to absorb everything he was tossing at me. It was a lot to swallow. So much, I started choking immediately. “All those American heiresses marrying English peers—it was fascinating research. . . . I’m flattered you thought about me for this, but there’s two major problems.”

He sighed again, a big, heavy, dramatic, long-suffering sort of sigh that was supposed to impart to me just how much I was trying his patience. I didn’t pay any attention to it. “What problems?”

“First off, you never went to Oxford.”

“Oh. That. I thought it sounded better saying Roger and I went to Oxford rather than he was my boy toy when we were both in L.A. What’s the second problem?”

I hesitated to say it, but of all my friends, Pierce was the least judgmental. I might be uncomfortable with my appearance, but I knew he honestly didn’t think anything about it, which just made it harder for me to explain to him why it wasn’t at all possible for me to fly halfway around the world to pretend to be the wife of a man so gorgeous he made other men wet their pants. “Pierce, I just can’t, I’m . . . I’m too big.”

“No, you’re not. Max is tall—taller than me—and I’m just a smidge taller than you.”

I ground my teeth. I hated this. “Not tall . . . big. As in hefty. Chunky. Plump plus. Beyond chubby into the land of fat!”

He laughed—he actually laughed at me. I bristled and thought lovingly about slamming the phone down in his ear. “Don’t be stupid, you’ll have a corset! That and the long skirts will take care of anything you’re worried about.”

“But—”

“Just bring yourself and your glorious hair, and let the wardrobe people do the rest.”

“But—”

“I’m overnighting you the rule book. Oh, and I thought of something to make this even more attractive! You know those journals you’re always keeping about stuff happening to you? Start a new one today, and record everything that happens. I bet you’ll be able to sell that later for oodles of money! The show is bound to be a hit, and I can almost guarantee you that publishers will beat down your door to find out all the behind-the-scenes happenings of a real-life duchess.”

“But—”

“Must dash. Evan, that darling boy, just popped his head in and waved his hands around, which means one of the studio people is on the other line. I’ll see you tomorrow! Toodle pip, and all that crap!”

The line clicked twice, then went dead.

I stared at the receiver in my hand for another minute before hanging up. Corsets? Long Victorian skirts? A duchess? Me?

And just who was Cynthia?










Monday

August 30

After dinner