She lets out a hearty laugh and makes off.
Yesterday and the day before, Liam ordered cheap, puffy, reduced-tomato Margherita pizzas for our lunch. I couldn’t bring myself to eat that stuff for a third day in a row.
We’ve been practicing Regency dances and rehearsing the show from dawn to dusk since Monday morning. Tomorrow we’ll do the dress rehearsal, and then on Sunday, it’s opening night.
Throughout this week, I’ve divided my precious evening hours between four activities so there was no time left for unwanted thoughts.
After the rehearsal, I’d grab a bite and a glass of wine with the others at the third-floor bar. I’d always do that first, and always take French leave at the most propitious moment before Hyacinth could test a new seduction technique on me and while Margot talked with someone. That someone was usually Peter—my stage BFF Charles Bingley—and he’d typically do all the talking.
Margot tried very hard to give him her undivided attention. She’d pretend I wasn’t there, that no electricity crackled between us every time we were paired for a dance. She mostly succeeded. But occasionally, her gaze darted to me. It lingered if I acted unaware of her. If our eyes met, she immediately refocused on Peter. I fought the urge to interrupt his rambling monologue, kidnap Margot, take her to my room, and entertain her nonverbally all night.
But I can’t do that. I’m saving myself for my future wife, Giselle.
Ha-ha.
After the bar, I would either do a video call with Matteo and then head to the basement gym for a half-hour workout, or the other way around. And after that, I would return to my computer to view the dailies. As a producer and co-owner of the studio, it’s part of my job.
And then I would hit the sack.
* * *
When we reconvene after lunch, Sandra waves us over into a compact circle around her.
“First of all,” she begins, “Julia, Liam, and I wanted to let you know that we’re very pleased with your progress. Sure, there are still a few kinks to iron out, but by and large, you’re ready.”
We welcome the news with a round of applause.
“Second,” Sandra continues, “we’re in Bloomsbury. Do you know what that means?”
“That means everything is a lot more expensive than in Sutton where I live,” Phil offers a guess.
He gets an approving thumbs-up.
Melody tries, “The British Museum is five minutes’ walk from here. We could visit it if we had a free half day.”
“The St Pancras station is a ten-minute walk,” Larry says. “If we had a full day and a couple hundred pounds to spare, we could jump on the Eurostar and visit Paris.”
Sandra flaps her hand as if to say,Enough now. “What if I told you we can spare two hours on this sunny afternoon? And what if I added that two hours is enough time to check out several Jane Austen locations?”
Liam takes over, “It would be remiss of us to squander such an opportunity. At the behest of Sandra, I researched and mapped out a Jane Austen Bloomsbury and Beyond Walking Tour for us. Departure is in five minutes!”
Much rejoicing ensues. Everyone rushes to their rooms, grabs their coats and reconvenes outside the main entrance, ready for the tour.
Liam and Sandra are already there, right underneath the marquee with the name of the show that went up yesterday. Liam is beaming with glee, a map in hand with a hand-drawn itinerary for the tour.
“All righty,” Sandra says. “We’d better get started.”
“Our first stop is Brunswick Square.” Liam leads the procession.
I didn’t know it was connected to Jane Austen. At my regular pace, it takes me less than ten minutes to get there. But we are a large group, and we walk sedately, observing the beauty of historic squares. We stop at an intersection on the messy modernity of Tottenham Court Road and wait for the light. After we cross, we spend some time admiring the imposing classicism of the British Museum.
“On your left,” Liam says, “is one of the best-preserved Georgian squares in London, Bedford Square.”
Our group halts for a moment. Surrounded by Georgian townhouses very similar in style to mine, this square can’t have changed much since Austen’s day over two hundred years ago. Most people take out their phones to capture the view.
I scan the group for Margot. There she is, a long scarf around her neck and mouth, a wool hat on her head, eyes bright and cheeks pinched pink by the chill. She’s very, very lovely. There is no point in denying it.
As if she could sense my gaze, she turns her head slightly and stares back at me. Then, Peter blocks my view of her as he motions to one of the buildings and whispers in her ear. She responds with a smile.
