The Actor and the Housewife by Shannon Hale Read Free Book Online

last one tipped her over.
    “So, what was Felix Callahan like?”
    The question came from a man in the last row, one of those who had straggled in halfway through. He’d spoken in an American accent, which confused her at first. But no, it was him, hidden to all but her at the back of the room, in dark sunglasses and baseball cap, his long legs stretched out before him in a manner of casual relaxation.
    Becky felt her face flush. And her neck. It was one thing to blush daintily on the cheeks, something that could be blamed on a warm room, but when the neck got in on the deal, she might as well just announce to the world, “I’m extremely embarrassed and would like to curl up and hide. Now go about your business.”
    She shook her head. Then she smiled. Then she answered in a jaunty tone.
    “Felix Callahan was . . . what’s the word?”
    “Gorgeous?” the hatted woman offered, to tittering sounds of laughter.
    “He was okay,” Becky said. “I mean, he was dressed all movie star-ish, so you were aware you were talking to someone beyond the norm. But still, he wasn’t so handsome. I mean, you see these men on the big screen and you expect them to take your breath away.”
    “You’re lying,” said the woman under the hat. “Tell me you’re lying, because you’re ruining my favorite daydream.”
    “Oh, all right, he was a little more than so-so. He was okay. He was fine. And besides being a brutish kind of British, he did end up being kind of nice. More or less.”
    “More,” said the woman with hat. “Definitely more.”
    Felix was smiling. “But don’t you think he’s terrifically gosh-darn talented?”
    He was such a faker with shades and hat, pretending a preference for circumspection; but underneath all that, she could tell he was just a big ham. Her heart was pounding and her neck was probably bright purple by now, but her voice stayed cool.
    “He’s good enough. I mean, he’s no Laurence Olivier.”
    “You think he’s more of an Anthony Hopkins?”
    “Not so dignified.”
    “Kenneth Branagh? Robert De Niro?”
    “No, he lacks that intensity.”
    “Sean Penn?”
    “Doesn’t have the range.”
    “Chevy Chase?”
    “Getting closer.”
    The audience members were looking back and forth between them as if trying to figure out whether the guy in the back row was being difficult or whether this was a preplanned part of her presentation.
    “Then how do you account for his superhunk reputation?”
    “I can’t,” she said frankly, returning his gaze. “I’m utterly mystified. Okay, look, no one’s going to say that Felix Callahan isn’t photogenic , and it’s true that he’s brilliant both at comedy and that moody and disenchanted thing, and every woman who’s seen Rattled Cages put him at the top of her secret list of crushes. He’s got that accent going for him, and even though he’s a jerk, he can be a nice boy.”
    Felix smiled, like an imp who’s cornered his victim. “So what you’re saying is . . .”
    She glared, suddenly annoyed, and gestured in his direction. “I’m saying . . . ladies and gentlemen, may I present Mr. Felix Callahan.”
    There was the hard sound of eleven people taking a sharp intake of breath and the clutter of chairs as everyone turned to stare.
    Felix stood, reluctantly, walked to the front of the room, took her hand and kissed it.
    “Nice to see you again,” he said quietly.
    “Sure thing,” she said, because the moment felt both too bizarre and too important to say anything profound.
    He turned to the small audience, who hadn’t moved. “Don’t believe a word this woman says. For one thing, I’ve never met her in my life.”
    He left.
    And the clamor began.
    “Was that really—”
    “Did he just—”
    “I can’t believe I said—”
    “Did you see how—”
    “He was right in the room and I said he was—”
    “This is unbelievable!”
    Becky listened as if half awake and looked down at her feet to see if they were touching the