Much Ado About Nothing

“Please Trix, all the bridesmaids are going with the groomsmen, you’re Maid of Honour and Best Man, you have to ride together.” Hero begged over the phone. Trixie pinned it between her shoulder and cheek, reaching across her desk to pull over the script she was working on.

               “Hero, he hates me. I hate him. We hate each other. You do not want us riding together, we’ll turn up at the venue covered in each other’s blood.” Trixie could picture it now, Ben Mountanto sitting beside her wearing his signature smirk, his hair artfully mussed. He’d say something, what didn’t matter. It would be biting. A barb that would sink through her defences and lodge in her chest. She’d snap back at him, that was their way, and then it would be a fight. Bitter and vitriolic. A competition to see who could sink their teeth into the meatiest, most vulnerable flesh.

               “Trixie, I am literally begging you, please?” Hero was so sincere. So kind. So good. She was the best of them. The Messina family had been the Coppolas of the UK since 1912 when their great grandfather, at barely 20, had started making films. They were sprawling, an octopus of nepotistic creative power. Hero had become an actor. She was pretty, with luminescent dark eyes, and a mane of sleek chocolate curls. She’d started at 5 years old and hadn’t been out of work since. Trixie went a different route. She could have been an actor, like her father had been, like Hero was, but in front of the camera was not where she did her best work. Trixie was better in her imagination, and her imagination was exceptional. She wrote a little, mostly under pseudonyms, but her real skill? Her real skill was scouting. People, locations, objects, music. If you needed it, whatever it was, Trixie could find it. People came to her, relatives at first, and then friends of the family, and the friends of friends, and then suddenly she was in demand. Her first business cards read ‘Beatrice Messina/ Scout/ Even your wildest dreams can come true,’ until one of the directors she’d worked with had crossed through ‘Scout’ with a red fountain pen and written beside it, in a swirling elegant script, ‘Miracle-worker.’ She’d sent it across to her designer the same day. Maybe it was cheesy, but she enjoyed, when asked, being able to name drop the handwriting on the front.

               “H, I would literally die for you. You don’t need to beg. If it’s so important to you, of course I’ll do it.” Trixie replied, distractedly. She’d found the page in the script she was looking for and was mulling over the description of a cafe interior as, ‘looks like it smells like orange cake.’

               “Good,” Hero said, a halting quality to her voice which meant another favour was going to be asked, “because there’s also the Moneyhoon.” Trixie let the script fall shut. 

               “Honeymoon?” She asked, hesitantly. Hero had a real complex about people correcting her. She was so used to underestimation, the assumption that she was dumb because she had a pretty face and a well-known surname, that she’d developed a vicious refusal to be corrected. She always said, ‘I’d rather be wrong and left alone.’ Which was fair enough, honestly.   

“No, Moneyhoon. I know it sounds silly, but everyone is always so busy, and the wedding is in Greece so, well, we thought it would be nice to have a getaway before the wedding! With everyone. The opposite of a Honeymoon really, I mean we are still going to have a Honeymoon, but we thought-”

“Take a breath H. Of course, I’ll be there. Send me the dates.” Trixie needed to get back to her work, if she was going to be away even longer than she thought, there was a lot of tying off to be done. Hero squealed down the line, her excitement palpable.

“Thank you! I love you Trix, I’ll send it all over. We’ll get everything sorted, I’m so- oh, yes… yes… no, of course, I’ll come now. Trix? Sorry, I have to go! We need to reshoot something before we lose the light.” Hero didn’t wait for a goodbye, only rang off. Trixie wished there was a dial tone, the silence, after her cousin’s effervescent excitement, was too much. She let herself be sad, only for a moment, and then she let her work consume her once more.

–

The details of the Moneyhoon came through two days later in an email that took nearly 10 minutes to read in full. Five days after that Trixie stood, loungewear clad, in the first-class departures lounge at Heathrow. She knew, without looking, who came to stand beside her by the shadow he cast, and the suddenly overwhelming scent of sandalwood and tonka. 

               “Taking a break from eating children and cursing damsel, Messina?” Ben purred. Trixie glanced up at him through her lashes. He looked good. He was pushing 35 and had finally aged out of playing party-boy 20-somethings; he’d found a new niche as an action star / romcom lead. Every new role was a battle, usually pitting him against several Hollywood Ryans and Glen Powell. He had the look. Five o’clock shadow; blue-green eyes, just lidded enough to give him a natural sultry charm; a wide, toothy smile, and a complementary crooked smirk; shoulders like a linebacker, and the muscle tone of an athlete; a forever tousled fall of blond-brown waves.

               “Mountanto,” she trilled back, “just the man I was hoping not to see. I am, as it happens, and yourself? Skipping treatment for whatever new strain of gonorrhoea you’ve developed? Dodging another paternity suit?” He smirked in reply. These were their roles. She was the shrew, the perpetually single, never pleased, child-hating, cold-hearted bitch. And he was the unfaithful man-whore, partying from shore to shore, never pinned down, incapable of love.

               “You’re looking good, Messina, Botox? No, no, filler, right? Finally putting that fat on your arse to good use?” He made it sound conversational, shifting into her line of sight. The wall was glass, with a metal bar run across the middle. Ben leaned against it, lounging in a way that said, ‘we all know I’m the view.’

               “It’s a natural tightening actually, see my body goes into really intense fight or flight whenever I encounter total slimeballs. You’re looking well though, one of your vapid little fuckbuddies turn you on to a new skincare routine?” She kept her tone sugary sweet. Ben smirked harder, the corners of his mouth almost a proper smile.

               “Girlfriend, actually.” He said, after a beat. Trixie turned the words round in her mind, but if they were a trick, or a jab, she couldn’t find it.

               “Did hell freeze over?” She asked, acerbically. Ben laughed.

“We broke up. 3 and ½ weeks, my best run yet.” There was a sardonic edge there, like they were both in on the joke. His inability to commit a punchline they both relied on.

“What a sad little life, Jane.” Trixie muttered, shaking her head disappointedly. 

“‘Come Dine With Me’ references? You’re losing your touch Messina, that was appallingly millennial. Frankly, tawdry.” Ben crossed his arms over his chest as he spoke, raising one eyebrow in a challenge.

“Tawdry!? You-”

“Hi!” Hero cut off her budding tirade before it got started, coming to stand between them. She looked young and hot in a tight Juicy Couture tracksuit, cream velour the only hint to her upcoming nuptials. She had just finished press on a new film, set in 2005, and would be wearing throw-back looks anywhere she might get papped until release date. Trixie had felt immaculately turned out in her sage green lounge trousers, and chicly slouchy cream jumper, her huge leather tote the same shade of khaki as her Birkenstocks. She’d felt like she should, a professional woman, 33, moneyed, with a good name. Now she felt dowdy. Conspicuously older than her 26-year-old cousin. They exchanged greetings and niceties. Trixie shot Ben a look. He was already watching her.

–

Beatrice Messina was the most frustrating woman Ben had ever met. Sitting next to her on the plane had been a fresh kind of hell. She smelt great, warm, and expensive, like old money vanilla. They were in little pods, and he could still smell her, and hear her behind him, talking softly and politely to the flight attendant. When he stood to use the bathroom, she was asleep, curled on one side, arms around her pillow, her legs kicked out in front of her, sleep mask on, but not covering her eyes. She was… he could admit it, couldn’t he? Beautiful. So beautiful. Hero got the doe-eyed Gallic thing from her mother, but Beatrice was all Messina. Strong nose; sharp cheekbones; a noble forehead; her eyes were deep-set and, when open, a startling blue; her hair a thick mass of tight curls in shades of chestnut, gold and auburn, an autumnal array of colours. She used to dye it a plain brown like Hero’s, but at some point since he’d last seen her, nearly 2 years ago, she’d stopped. He went to the bathroom, not looking at her when he came back. He took his seat, pulled noise cancelling headphones on, and pretended he couldn’t smell her. Pretended his heart didn’t beat just a little harder at the thought of her curled up against him, instead of that pillow.

–

The two weeks between the flight and the night before the wedding passed in a blur of verbal sparring and drink. Ben called her a ‘frigid megalomaniacal banshee,’ mid-way through a barbecue; Trixie called him a ‘metrosexual peacock with a stuffed crotch,’ during alterations; Ben offered to book her in for a chest waxing at dinner; Trixie asked if his hair-plugs were falling out the next morning at breakfast. It was all good fun. For the most part at least. It was them. The others noticed, of course, their animosity wasn’t a secret, but no one said anything. The ‘let’s all get along’ ship had been wrecked and abandoned long ago. It would all be over soon enough. There was tonight, the joint Hen and Stag, tomorrow, the wedding day, and the day after, when everyone flew out. Three days, and then Trixie could go back to her life. 

She checked the mirror. The theme was club appropriate Classics, and Trixie was nothing if not down for a theme. Her dress was short, a pale gold halter-neck with a draped skirt, and ties along the sides. It read ‘toga’ as clearly as ‘sexy night out on the town.’ She was risking her life, or at least her comfort for the next few days, and wearing strappy gladiator style heels. Her hair was part pinned, gold flower clips holding twisted bits back, so she looked ethereal and carefree, and not at all like half a can of hairspray had also been involved. And she was even wearing make-up, a proper full-face of the stuff, for the first time since they’d landed in Santorini. Hero knocked on her door, already opening it. Trixie whirled to meet her cousin, stretching her arms out in a ‘how’d I do?’ kind of gesture. Hero gave her a tearful smile.

“What’s wrong?” Trixie gasped, teetering over as fast as her heels would let her. She took Hero by the upper arms, guiding her to sit on the end of the bed. She looked stunning too, all in white, a long, bias-cut dress that clung, and pooled just right.

“Nothing.” Hero laughed back, the tears still coming. She caught them before they could ruin her makeup, swiping her fingers along her lower lash-line.

“I’m just… I,” she took a deep breath, “I’m getting married tomorrow.” She said at last. Trixie smiled back at her,

“Yes,” she said, “you are.” And pulled her cousin into her arms. Downstairs Ben’s familiar grating voice boomed.

“Time to make a move ladies!... And Beatrice!” Trixie tugged away from her cousin to roll her eyes. Hero laughed.

“You two need to get over this feud thing.” She told her. Trixie rolled her eyes again, making Hero laugh.

“Oh, come on,” Hero wheedled, “you must know he likes you?” Trixie reared back a little, baffled and not trying to hide it, she shot Hero a doubtful look.

“Oh, come on!” Hero said, watching Trixie’s face. After a moment, her expression changed. A dawning, a visible realisation. She blinked those huge doe-eyes.

“You don’t, do you?” It was a whisper. Trixie opened her mouth to reply, to deny. To insist that Hero had it wrong. There was no affection, there was… animosity, hatred! And yes, maybe a little humour. And okay, yes, he was attractive. But he was professionally attractive, so that wasn’t news. Another bellow cut her short.

“Ladies! And Beatrice!” The moment was gone. Trixie snatched her clutch bag off the bed beside Hero. 

“Time to go!”

–

Ben could feel the beat in his chest. The club was raging. Their party made up most of the crowd for now. Around them music pounded, and drinks flowed. Togas and pottery patterned Camp shirts the order of the day. He’d found a place to sit, a low sofa in one corner, from which he could see most of the crowd. Claude sat next to him, looking as suave and carefree as a groom could the day before a wedding. Across the room Hero and Beatrice danced, the focal point of a crowd of women. Beatrice wore gold, Hero white. Everyone else faded into insignificance.

               “You should talk to her.” Claude muttered, leaning in. Ben shot him a glance.

               “Who?” He asked, nonchalant.

               “Oh, please,” Claude scoffed, “everyone knows you like her. Except her, obviously, or she’d have done something about it.” Ben whipped round to face him. Claude sipped on his drink, all calm detachment. Ben’s heart had dropped into his stomach.

               “I don’t like her.” He snapped, a sudden child-like denial.

               “Okay,” Claude replied, unconvinced, “but she likes you. Would probably like you more if not for the John thing, but you know. Win some, lose some.” She liked him. She liked him? Ben’s heart leaped from stomach to mouth, until the rest of Claude’s sentence caught up to him.

               “John thing?” He asked.

               “Yeah, you know John? Pedro’s half-brother.” Claude replied, as though that was the part that had tripped him up.

               “Of course, I know John, I just don’t understand what John has to do with anything.” They were sitting close now, talking over the music, the rest of the club forgotten. Claude shifted in his seat, a brightness in his eyes, he studied Ben’s face for a moment.

               “You know John used to date Trix, right?” He waited for Ben to nod before he continued, “and they were together a year, broke up. It was bad. He dumped her out of nowhere, Hero said she was broken by it. Trix thought they were it for each other. Then he calls her up one night, she's working late, and says he’s realised he needs more. That you told him he deserved better than a workaholic who doesn’t even put out.” The words landed like a blow. 

               “What?” Ben choked, shock and fury made his throat dry. His poor heart, tossed around in his chest, thrummed painfully, his heartbeat ringing in his ears. Claude was watching him carefully.

               “You didn’t, did you? You didn’t say that?”

               “Fuck no-” Ben barked, cutting himself off when he got sharp looks, he dropped his volume, “I didn’t.” He finished more quietly. 

               “Well shit mate, she thinks you did. You weren’t surprised she suddenly hated you?” Of course, he was, had been. But in a way it made sense. Why shouldn’t she hate him? He’d strung her along, hadn’t he? There’d been flirtation, something there since they were teenagers, but he had never acted on it. When she’d started snapping at him, hissing insults and trading barbs, it had almost been easier. Ben shook his head. He looked across the dance floor again. She was like a golden goddess. He finished his drink and slammed the glass down on the low table in front of him. He was up and crossing the dance floor before he’d even thought about it. He caught one of her arms as she twirled, pulling her abruptly to a stop. Beatrice stumbled, but he caught her, hands around her waist. She had to grab his upper arms to keep her balance. He pulled her in closer, her flesh burning hot beneath his palms. A flush coloured her cheeks.

               “Are you okay, Ben?” She asked, confused. For a moment he froze, but the words were there. They’d been there forever, for as long as he’d known her.

               “Beatrice,” he said, not Trixie, never Trixie, her full name in all its glory, “I-” he steadied himself, took another deep breath, “I have been in love with you since we were 16 years old. I don’t know what John said to you, but you are better, more beautiful, more spectacular than anything he, or any other man, has ever deserved. I’m sorry if I ever, ever made you feel like that wasn’t true. You are,” he risked meeting her eyes then, wide, tearful, pools of midnight blue, “the centre of my universe. I have loved you, for as long as I have been able to love, and if I never speak to you, or see you, or breathe the same air as you again, I will still love you, Beatrice Messina.”

               For the first time in her life, Beatrice Messina was rendered speechless. A tear, crystalline and glimmering in the lights of the club, cut a path down her cheek. She reached for him, her hands hot, and when she kissed him, Benedick Mountanto was, for the first time in his life, rendered speechless.