What is it? Tell me. How do you know that Phillip is the one?”
Molly picked at some dried spaghetti sauce on her pants.
“When I’m with him, I feel like the best version of me. I feel like I’m at home.”
“Wow. You’ve never told me that. Why didn’t you ever tell me that before?”
Molly started to shrug, then stopped. “Since we were kids, you wanted your own family even more than I did, but I got married and had kids first. It’s not fair, and I don’t want to rub your nose in the poop of my happiness, so to speak.”
“If I didn’t love you, I’d slap you.” Jane reconsidered and threw a pillow at Molly’s face, which she easily dodged. “You need to tell me those things, loser. I’ve got to know what’s possible.”
Or what’s impossible, Jane thought.
“Are you okay?” Molly asked.
“Yes. I am. Because I’ve decided to give up men entirely.”
“Come on, you don’t mean that. Sweetie—”
“I’m serious. I’ve had it. I know in my bones that I’m never going to find my Phillip, and all this hoping and waiting is killing me. This is good, Molly. You’ll see. I don’t need romance.” Or a life partner, a husband, a father of her children, her own family, a home . . . Jane took a shaky breath. “I don’t.
It’s time to take my life off hold, embrace what is actually possible, and—”
“Watch out!” Molly said, dropping the brochure and jumping up just as Jack placed a full bowl of milk and cereal onto his head like a marvelous dripping hat.
Hannah picked up the glossy paper and handed it to Jane, backing up onto her lap. The little girl felt so cozy and perfect, like warming her hands on a cup of hot chocolate, and with the familiar bliss that came with holding someone else’s child, Jane felt that weird ache in her gut, that ugly nudge that warned she might never have one of her own.
“My ovaries are screaming at me,” said Jane.
“Sorry, honey!” Molly called from the kitchen.
“Book.” Hannah shook the brochure, so they looked at it together.
“There’s a house,” Jane said. “Where’s the man? That’s right! And where’s the woman? Yep, that’ll be me. Did you know that your aunty Jane is a chump? That she secretly wants to be someone else in another time and be loved like a fictional character in a book? And that she loathes this part of herself? Well, no more!”
“The end,” said Hannah. She shut the brochure, squirmed off Jane’s lap, and ambled away while chanting, “Hippo, hippo.”
Jane lay back, this time placing the throw pillowunderher head. For months she’d tried to convince herself that she was over her dream of a family, and yet she still felt hooked by it, an invisible fishing line running right through her heart. This city was full of women like her living full, vibrant lives, while that hook and line in Jane’s chest kept yanking her back to her fantasy.
Aunt Carolyn’s face flashed in her mind, her eyes so wise. She’d had far more insight into Jane than had made her comfortable. And then she had thoughtfully chosen this gift for Jane. Perhaps, in her wisdom, Carolyn believed somehow it would be good for her.
Surety was settling over Jane like a weighted blanket. Perhaps this trip was her best chance at a path out of her fantastical forest and into reality. So far, it hadn’t been enough just to say “I’m done!” Now Carolyn was giving her the chance to live out her dream, having a last hurrah to get it out of her system, before fully embracing spinsterhood.
Okay, all right, she would go. Like her friend Becky, who’d taken herself to an all-you-can-eat pasta bar before giving up gluten for good, Jane was going to have one last live-it-up before quitting men entirely. She’d dive headfirst into her fantasy, see firsthand that it wasn’t so great after all, and then bury it forever. This was her best and quickest bet to becoming a perfectly normal woman, content to be single.
And after becoming disillusioned with Austenland, she’d return so changed, she’d toss her DVDs in the trash. Farewell to the impossible dreams that had been holding her back. Farewell, Mr. Darcy.
Day 1
Jane flew economy class to London and found a black town car waiting for her at Heathrow. The derbied driver opened the door and took her carry-on bag—just a change of clothes, toiletries, and travel entertainment. She’d received a thick packet of information, and the cover letter insisted she wouldn’t need anything once she got to Pembrook Park.
“Is it far?” she asked.
“About two hours, ma’am,” he said, keeping his eyes on the pavement.
“Another two hours.” She tried to think of something witty and British to say. “I already feel like a thrice-used tea bag.”
He didn’t smile.
