Teaming With the Shrew
Copyright© 2025 by Argon
Chapter 8: Ye Olde England
Three days later saw Jenn driving a rented Vauxhall out of Heathrow Airport and westward, with me in the passenger seat. Windsor Castle was the first destination Jenn had picked, but she drove on for a few miles to a B&B in Maidenhead, where we unloaded our luggage before driving to Windsor Castle. After standing in line for about a half hour, we were admitted to the Castle grounds, along with a few hundred other tourists. It is an awe-inspiring complex of buildings, the oldest dating back to the 13th century or earlier — I’m not good at memorizing historical dates. Anyway, the place is huge and we spent over three hours there, before we found a pub, The Prince Harry, where we had our dinner. English cuisine, of course. Jenn had promised me an immersion into English life and culture, and food ranked at the top. The chicken and mushroom pie gave me no reason to complain.
After driving back to Maidenhead — Jenn drove since I had sampled all the ales they had on tap — we spent some time bar hopping until the jet lag caught up with us. I slept like a stone and only woke up once, to unload a lot of ale. After an English Breakfast with all the bells and whistles, we then found a boat rental and spent some time on the River Thames, with me at the oars and Jenn supervising. There were also quite a few sleek sports boats on the river, all originating from a boat club on the left bank.
We stayed a while, watching the young people doing practice races against each other, and then, in the parking lot of the boat club, I saw something that had me drooling: a 1930s sports car in British Racing Green. I begged Jenn until she agreed to land briefly to give me a chance to salivate over the old roadster. It was a freaking Bentley, likely from before the merger with Rolls Royce. The leather interior had to be original and was a tad bit faded, and the exterior had to be the original paint job. There was dirt under the mud wings, confirming that it was regularly used. About when I made my fifth round of the Bentley, a trim man in his forties sauntered out from the club house.
“Are you an old timer fan?” he asked with an amused smile.
“Somewhat. Is this yours?”
“So says the registration.”
“Let me guess. I’ve never seen one, but is this the 4 1/2-Litre?”
“Got it in one. You’re American?”
“What gave me away?” I asked. “Let me try again: Pretty jolly car, old chap, isn’t it?”
“Don’t be a jackass!” Jenn hissed from behind me. “Nobody will ever mistake you for being British.”
“It was an honest, but pathetic effort. I’m Harry, Harry Ruiz-Costa.”
“Richard Borgward, from LA, and this is Jennifer Saint David. She’s from Warwickshire.” I looked at Jenn. “Did I pronounce it right?”
“Barely. I found him overseas. Pickings were slim, but now I’m stuck with him.”
“Oh damn! I know you guys! BTV has picked up your show last fall. Utilities Included, right?”
Jenn blushed a little, tickled at being recognized. “Guilty as charged. I’m trying to introduce Ricky here to civilization. The poor man was raised in Noo Yawk, in Bensonhoist, of all places, and then moved to California. My work is never done!”
Mister Ruiz-Costa looked at his watch. “Listen, my daughters will kill me if I don’t invite you out to our place for lunch. They are huge fans; my wife too. What do you say?”
“Free lunch? I’m in,” I agreed with a smile. “You coming, Jenn?”
“Stop being a jackass! Yes, Mister Ruiz-Costa, we’ll be delighted. Did you hear? This is how one accepts an invitation!”
“Have you transport? If not,...”
“Yes, I’d love to ride with you,” I answered immediately. Jenn blushed with second-hand embarrassment, but nodded in agreement.
“Fine. Let me make a call.”
He picked a number from recent calls and a few moments later, he spoke to his wife. I could tell from the way his lips formed an unconscious smile.
“Josie, can we accommodate two guests for lunch? — You’ve seen them, but you don’t really know them. — Yes, make certain that the girls will be there, too, or there will be hell to pay. — No, from them. — All right. I’m firing up the beastly Bentley. See you in a few minutes. — Yes, Mum, I’ll drive carefully, and I’ll wipe my shoes before I’ll enter. See ya!”
“Everything set. You rented the boat from Portman?”
“Yes, we can return it in a jiffy.”
“Pick you up there. Maybe five minutes.”
“Oh, may I ride with you, Mister Ruiz-Costa?” Jenn simpered, grinning at me evilly. “Ricky is soo clumsy at the sculls, and I’ll end up soaked if I go back with him.”
“No problem, Miss Saint David. We’ll see you, Mister Borgward!”
At least, I was at the boat rental before them, settling the fees and leaving a tip for the youngster who looked after the little bathtub. Only a minute later, I heard the unmistakeable rumble of a large, poorly muffled car engine, and a moment later, the green monster came to a stop in front of me. Jenn had left the left side passenger seat for me, and once I sat, she briefly caressed my shoulder.
Then we were off. Mister Ruiz-Costa did not rush, but he drove the classic car with absolute confidence through the city traffic, once even opening the throttle to dash past a slow-moving bus.
“What do you drive, Mister Borgward?” he asked conversationally once we were past the city limits.
“A Borgward, actually two of them,” I replied with assumed nonchalance. “A ‘59 Isabella and a ‘54 Hansa Cabriolet, but the latter is in storage.”
“Can’t say that I know the brand. German?”
“Yes, they went into receivership in the early sixties. Finding spare parts is getting a little iffy.”
“I take it they are rather smaller than this one?”
“Considerably. Seating is for four very good friends.”
“We’re almost there,” our host announced and braked, before turning into a yew-lined access road. Very classy.
Soon, a jolly old manor house was in sight, and the old Bentley skidded to a stop in the gravel in front of it. A gaggle of women from late teens to mid-forties stood waiting for us, and one of them, a tall, trim blonde in her early twenties, squealed when she recognized Jenn.
“It’s Pris, Priscilla Aldershot, and Ricky Ryder!”
Okay, now you know Jenn’s full name in the show, Ms. Pricilla Aldershot, Esq., of the Essex Aldershots, of course.
“Jeez, Megan, she’s not. She’s Jennifer Saint David,” a perfect copy of the young woman, a twin most likely, corrected her sister.
“Stop bickering, you two,” a younger, Eurasian girl admonished her ... sisters? She was the same size as the blondes, with short black hair, while — whilst? — her older sisters were younger versions of the blonde Lady of the Manor, who stepped closer.
“Hi, I’m Josie. Welcome to Oxford Manor. We all enjoy your show.”
“Thank you for having us,” Jenn smiled. “We were taking a river tour when your husband lured Ricky to the bank with his Bentley.”
“I used to attract the young ladies with it, now it’s only middle-aged guys. The world isn’t what it used to be,” Ruiz-Costa complained.
“Are you calling us ‘middle-aged guys’, Harry?” one of the twins asked sharply.
“You are really outnumbered here, aren’t you?” I asked him sympathetically.
“You have no idea. There’s still two more in the house and two more coming over from next door,” he replied. “You did call Ellen?”
“Of course, I did,” his wife snorted. “I’m not suicidal. Henry’s cousin and her daughter will also join us. They are ... in fact, here they come.”
Indeed, two women were approaching — on horseback! The younger one was close to twenty and pretty enough, but the older one — goodness, gracious! She was a stunner! I swallowed. Hard.
“Keep your eyes on me, and all will be good,” Jenn mocked me, but I could see that she was impressed.
“Miss Saint David, it is such a pleasure to meet you! Sandy and I are big fans,” the woman called Ellen smiled. “And Mister Ryder?”
“Richard Borgward. Ryder is a stage name, but I also answer to Rick or Ricky.”
“Why don’t we all go in. Milena set the table,” the hostess then announced, already leading the way.
The inside of the manor house was as impressive as the exterior, with the entrance hall dominated by two life-sized paintings showing 18th century personages. Ruiz-Costa explained en passant.
“My forebears were Spanish, but their son moved to England to marry the daughter of a Royal Navy admiral. This house and the lands were her dowry, and the family has lived here ever since. Well, it was empty for a while when I was in the military.”
The dining hall was another revelation. I mean, there are some posh mansions in Beverly Hills and in Malibu, and I was at smut shoots in some of them which were between owners, but this was the real deal. High ceilings with plaster work, hardwood floor — original but freshly waxed to a shine — and a solid oak dining table on a raised dais, with a lower table, presumably for the commoners. Well, only the lower table was set, and that’s where we sat. We met another inhabitant, a wiry, mid-thirties Latina named Christina, clearly no relation to any of the rest, but obviously still family. Two four-year-old boys also came barging in and were sent back to wash their hands first. The goddess called Ellen admitted to ownership of one of them, and our hostess claimed the other.
We learned that the twins’ names were Megan and Patricia, both master students home for the summer, and that the Eurasian woman was called Tammy, but also answered to Midshipman Tamara Ruiz. She looked eighteen at the most, but she was a junior Navy officer on shore leave. It also turned out that her father, our host with the beautiful Bentley, was a retired colonel in the Royal Marines. Our hostess, Josie, was also impressive, chairing the board of directors of a high end consumer electronics company. We had wandered into a patchwork family of over achievers!
We had a lovely dinner with them nonetheless. They seemed happy together and close-knit. Even their cook seemed to be a part of the patchwork, sitting at table with us and bantering like the rest. Strange, but lovely.
All too soon, it was time for Jenn and me to thank our hosts and be on our ways. We issued invitations to them to visit us on the set if they ever ventured to LA, and provided our show would still be running then. The young midshipman —-woman? — drove us back to Maidenhead in a much less impressive Volkswagen, showing us a few sights — speak: listed buildings — on the way. She dropped us off at the car park, and we shook hands again, before we returned to our B&B.
“That was fun. Those people are great,” Jenn remarked.
“They live grand, too. That close to London, the manor house must be worth millions.”
“The upkeep alone runs to a hundred grand a year, but I guess the woman, Josie, brings in a bob or two as chairwoman,” I offered.
“Likely. They’re all very down to earth though. So tomorrow we’ll drive north to Stratford upon Avon?”
“I guess there is no way around this,” I grinned back at Jenn. “It’s not far, is it?”
“About 80 miles, give or take. If we leave after breakfast, we can have lunch there.”
“Sounds good to me. Did you get theatre tickets?”
Jenn made a face. “It’s The Two Gentlemen Of Verona.”
“You don’t like it?”
“Not his best play, but I promised you Shakespeare, and you’ll get Shakespeare.”
“We’ll live through it. Anybody you know playing?”
“Not when I booked, but the cast is not etched in stone, as you may remember.”
“This must be your dream, performing there.”
She waffled with her hand. “Not necessarily. I have grown to like the spontaneity of our little show. I liked playing in Montreal, too. The cast and crew were fun, but once you enter the big leagues, there are all these machinations and jockeying. Right now, I’m happy where I am.”
“Me too. Mostly, I’m happy to be with you,” I answered truthfully.
“Yeah, that too. How about we walk off some of that opulent food? Just along the river.”
“Talked me into that.”
We had small supper that evening, after returning from a stroll along the river and after some fun time up in our room. It’s amazing how great sex can be with a woman you love. It also helps that no director was there, checking off positions and acts from his laundry list. We were wonderfully sated in body and soul when we went to bed, and we slept like babies.
We took our time at breakfast and did not leave before ten-thirty, and then we picked secondary roads to get to Stratford. Our room at the Hotel Du Vin would not be available before three in the afternoon, but we could park the rental car on their private lot and went for a stroll. Of course, everything was Shakespeare-themed, from coffee mugs to city tours, and every place where the Bard took a piss was mapped and marked. We restricted ourselves to visiting Holy Trinity Church with Shakespeare’s grave and then did a canal and river tour. We barely made it back to our hotel before an afternoon thunderstorm moved in, drenching the city with rain. Fortunately, it was over quickly and we used the time to move into our room and to have a quick shower, together of course, which was an adventure in itself in the minuscule shower stall.
This was followed by an evening spent about town, having an excellent dinner and visiting two pubs to try the local brews. The next day was spent with similar touristy things until, after a light dinner, we found the Royal Shakespeare Company theatre and our seating. This is a great place. The patrons sit in a horseshoe-like arrangement around the stage, making you feel almost like a part of the play. We sat close enough even to hear the actors’ breathing and the rustle of the costumes.
Okay, the play itself was not awe-inspiring, but I immersed myself watching the actors’ delivery. Okay, I’m an untrained hack milking a stereotype when I’m in the studio, but I noticed things that I might use myself, like the right inflections, the pauses and the small tilts of the heads to convey meaning.
Jenn watched, too, but I would bet that she was critiquing her colleagues in her mind. Still, she enjoyed herself as evidenced by the tight grip she had on my hand, and by the smiles she sent in my direction from time to time.
During intermittence, we had two glasses of Chardonnay, standing at a table by ourselves, when a woman our age approached us, grinning at Jenn.
“Look at you, Hollywood,” she told her.
Recognition showed in Jenn’s face. “Des! What are you doing here? How are you doing? Ricky, this is Desdemona Clarke. We studied together. Des, this is Ricky, my man.”
“Nice to meet you, Des,” I said casually. She was a slip of a woman, perhaps 90 pounds soaking wet, with dishwater blonde hair and a pleasant face. Mind you, not beautiful, but pleasing to look at.
“And you, Ricky!” she smiled at me with a hint of mockery. “So it’s true. You guys are an item?”
“We sure are,” Jenn answered lightly. “Are you here professionally?”
Des nodded. “I’m the understudy for Silvia.”
“Good for you,” Jenn said warmly. “You get in from time to time?”
“Four times so far. The school classes. You’re doing quite well for yourself with that show of yours.”
“Yes, it’s fun, and with the producer under my thumb,” she pointed at me, “I can call some of the shots.”
“So, Ricky’s the producer?”
“Under my real name, yes,” I answered for Jenn. “Sharon and I are a good team. She handles the network and the financing, and I recruit the cast and interface with the writers.”
“Poor Ricky has no couch in his office, so we have to make out in my dressing room.”
“Sounds lovely. So no theatre work?”
Jenn shrugged. “I played the Shrew last year in a summer production in Montreal. It was fun. This year, we are taking some time off. The last weeks of the season were a bit demanding.”
“Look, I have to clear it with Geoff, but we have an after-show party today. It’s Geoff’s birthday.”
Geoff Harding played the Proteus, the second male lead, a douche by any other word — the character, not the actor.
“I’m game if you are,” I told them.
“Yeah, why not,” Jenn smiled at her ... friend?
“Stay behind after the last curtain, and I’ll pick you up, okay?”
“Okay, thanks, Des.”
“Gotta go. Maybe Miriam sprained her ankle,” Des joked, leaving us behind.
“Poor girl,” Jenn sighed.
“Desdemona?”
“Yes. She’s the perennial understudy. She’s reliable, she’s a solid performer, but nobody will ever buy a ticket to see her. No spark whatsoever.”
“How can she make do?”
“Oh, she has a niche. She plays murder victims on crime shows, and mentally disturbed characters. She’s really good at that stuff, so she must make a good living. Only, that’s not her dream, and so she clings to the chances to fill in for leading ladies.”
“I imagine there are many good actors relegated to the bench,” I mused. “Then, there are hacks like me who get star billing,” I added with a grin.
At the after show party, Jenn and to a certain extent I were met with a mix of signals, depending on the person, from supercilious disdain, over barely veiled envy, to enthusiastic acceptance. The first two groups, once identified, were easily avoided, and we ended up with a small group of actors who saw no sacrilege in a classically trained actress starring in a sitcom. The birthday boy, Geoff, even pointed out that during the Bard’s lifetime, performances of his plays were raucous affairs, with the patrons a wild mix of minor noblemen and -women, wastrels, merchants, loose women and kept men, who all had a grand time.
Geoff is an interesting character himself, a consummate Shakespearean on a stage, a first rate comedian in movies, and a Renaissance man in real life. After a few pints, he laughingly admitted that he would try to charm Jenn, but for the fact that she was likely used to a bigger donger than he could provide. While I actually blushed a little, Jenn was laughing her head off while agreeing with him.
No, I was not offered to fill in as Grumio, but Jenn left the party with me and an offer to apply for roles with the RSC in their summer productions. Upbeat as Jenn was, sleep was postponed until the wee hours.
We left Stratford for Bath in the next morning, or maybe late forenoon. Okay, it was half past eleven. Bath, as implied by its name, is famous for its 1st century Roman baths, and has been such for almost two-thousand years. It is the archetypical Georgian spa town and a World Heritage Site. Need I say more? For two days we soaked in healing waters, were exfoliated, massaged, steamed and pampered all around. Jenn’s mother had organized it all, and when we escaped and tried to recover in a local pub, we looked so rejuvenated, they carded us. I’m kidding, but not much. They don’t card much in the old country.
After a very healthy breakfast and still hungry, we saddled up for the drive to Okehampton, to see Jenn’s parents. In fact, the plan was for them to spend a week with us in the Lake District, in a rented cottage on Lake Windermere. Lots of green foliage, water aplenty, excellent air quality — the perfect vacation place for an LA dweller. But first things first — pick up the in-laws, or in-common-laws as it were.
We had no idea what we were in for until we drove up to the Saint Davids’ house. There was a shiny Bentley parked in front.
“Oh bugger! It’s my grandparents. They’re here, too.”
“Is that bad, Love?” I asked innocently. Jenn had never mentioned any grandparental units.
“My grandfather is a stuffed prig, and grandmother is a sanctimonious shrew.”
“I’ve been accosted by born-agains and wannabe feminists. I can handle them.”
“Yeah, but they’ve cut me out of their wills thrice already, and I feel Nº4 coming up.”
“You think they know about my past?”
“I’m assuming they do.”
“You know, if you assume...”
“ ... I make an ass out of u and me. I know. So how are we playing this?”
“I am your producer and your co-star. I am a juris doctor. I collect antique cars, too. What’s not to like about me, unless gramps has a private collection of porn with me in it?”
“You mean, let’s play it by ear?”