“Or,” I add, “because you rescued our production, for that matter.”
He stares me in the eye, his expression hard. “You’re right to rebuke me. My gesture was highly inappropriate, considering—” He cuts himself off.
“Considering what?”
He stands up. “Please rest assured that this won’t happen again.”
With a quick nod, he turns on his heel and strides out the door.
Good!I should be pleased. I did the right thing. The principled thing. The only thing—
Oh, for crying out loud!
Did I just screw up the headiest, most sexually charged moment of my life?
CHAPTER13
JONAS
We’re standing in the show circle, chanting softly, “Am I ready to make art? I am ready to make art!”
Despite this previously effective ritual, concentration eludes me. My mind is somewhere else.
I was having such a great time in the library with Margot last night, before she clipped my wings by announcing she wouldn’t kiss me. But it was the statement she made after that, about not wanting to sleep with me out of indebtedness, that delivered the sucker punch I hadn’t seen coming. It finished me off.
The recollection of how I got to my room is fuzzy.Was I able to walk after Margot’s blow?I suppose so. Unless I crawled. What I do remember is that I lay in my bed for hours, eyes wide open, overcome by the irony of what had happened.
There I was, worrying about my mission to charm the precious key out of Giselle. But Margot had been on my mind from the outset, and more so with every passing day, but I had resisted the pull in order to protect the mission. I thought that my willpower was the only hindrance to us hooking up. Well, that and if my rival Peter upped his game.
It had never occurred to me that Margot might reject me. And not because she’s in a relationship with someone else, or because she’s taken a vow of celibacy. Oh, no! She rejected me because she doesn’t do gratitude sex.
Talk about pricking a helium balloon!
And then this morning, I was leaving my room to join the others for the preshow prep, and who do I bump into? Margot, of course! She emerged from the staircase and opened the door to the dressing room next to my bedroom. We said good morning. She said she’d left something behind, and she’d be down in three minutes if Sandra asked.
How come I hadn’t realized her quarters were right under my nose?
It could be because I always return to my room before everyone else and leave it after the others. In the evenings, I wear headphones for my video calls, and also when I’m viewing the day’s rushes. In the mornings, I camp in my room where I eat breakfast cooked by Mrs. Everly and delivered by Oli, while answering emails and taking calls, then I shower in my en suite bathroom. Then I meet the rest of the cast downstairs.
My newfound knowledge about the identity of my next-door neighbor does nothing to improve my mood. Of all the people Sandra could’ve put in that dressing room, did it have to be Margot?Buggeration!
My foul mood aside, I manage to pull myself together.
Within minutes, the week’s second performance begins. No incidents mar its first act.
After the intermission, the Sky Hall becomes Meryton once again.
Props, mobile scenery, and animations transform the room into the main square of Jane Austen’s fictional Hertfordshire town. A patchwork of shops, businesses, and houses is projected onto the wall. The scent machines fill the air with the smell of freshly baked bread, flowers, and hay that can be expected due to the surrounding countryside. The musicians play a jovial albeit muffled tune. In the background, benevolently overlooking the square, rises a church, its fake windows glinting in the real sunlight.
The square is teeming with audience members who play townsfolk. Next, the younger Bennet sisters arrive. Three fashionable militiamen in Regency-chic red coats stop by the bakery. George Wickham is among them. The dashing trio elicits flirty looks, giggles, and whispers from the younger women including Kitty and Lydia Bennet. The older ladies ogle the soldiers, too, before returning to their errands.
Our second Elizabeth Bennet meets up with her bestie Charlotte Lucas.
My turn now.
The background music swells as Mr. Darcy strides onto the set, his head gracefully high and his eyelids at half-mast with a sense of superiority he derives from his pedigree and money. His buddy Charles Bingley is by his side, grinning good-naturedly and greeting folks left and right.
No such frivolousness on my end!
