I get too caught up in endings, she thought. It doesn’t matter how it ended.
Like her paintings, the good parts of Austenland had been in the experience, not the end result. Real or not, Martin had showed her that contented spinsterhood was not an option for someone like her. And real or not, Mr. Nobley had helped her say no to Mr. Darcy. Could that be enough? Could she still walk away with her head held high?
She leaned against the window, watched the green and gold-touched countryside roll by, and forced herself to smile, though it felt more like a grimace. In many ways, Pembrook Parkhaddone its job—it allowed her to live through her romantic purgatory. She decided that fantasy was not practice for what was real. It was the opiate of women. There was no Mr. Darcy—there was no perfect man. But there might still be someone. And one day, she’d be ready.
Her flight didn’t leave for hours still, so she browsed a pre-security airport bookshop, eventually buying a best-selling romcom. She had just joined the security line when the congested voice on the loudspeaker called, “Miss . . .Erstwhile, please report to the Terminal Three customer service desk. Miss Jane Erstwhile to customer service.”
The shock of that name zapped her, static electricity grazing her skin. She stepped out of line slowly, fearing to find a camera crew crouched behind her, that she was the victim of a prank show and had been duped not privately but in front of millions of viewers. She swung around, and the airport was full of disinterested bustle. In her present mood (chagrined andzippy mad), it was hard to properly enjoy the relief that came with thinking, At least I’m not on TV.
The walk to the customer service desk felt impossibly long, the click of her low heels much too loud, as though she were all alone and no bodies were present to muffle the sounds of her solitude.
At customer service, a chirpy brunette with a permanent smile stood behind the desk. And there was someone waiting there, someone dressed in jeans and a sweater, devilishly normal in the twenty-first-century crowd. He saw her, and he straightened, his eyes hopeful. Apparently, Mrs. Wattlesbrook’s barrister hadn’t been in his office to assure her that being under contract to write a book wouldn’t nullify a confidentiality agreement.
“Jane.”
“Martin. You whistled?” She laid the rancor on thick. No need to tap-dance around.
“Jane, I’m sorry. I was going to tell you today. Or tonight. The point is, I was going to tell you, and then we could still see if you and I—”
“You’re an actor,” Jane said as thoughactorandbastardwere synonymous.
“Yes, but, but . . .” He looked around as though for cue cards.
“But you’re desperately in love with me,” she prompted him. “I’m unbelievably beautiful, and I make you feel like yourself. Oh, and I remind you of your sister. Hey, do you even have a sister?”
The chirpy brunette behind the counter furiously refused to look up from her monitor.
“Jane, please.”
“And the suddenly passionate feelings that sent you running after me to the airport have nothing to do with Mrs. Wattlesbrook’s fear that I’ll write a negative account of Pembrook Park.”
“No, of course not! And the whole time I thought you knew, and that you were playing along—”
“Do not try that,” said Jane, her pointing finger close to his face. She felt a tiny bit proud that at least she wasn’t rolling over, questioning herself, doubting her instincts. She threw a tiny, internal celebration—go Jane!
Martin put up his hands, cowed. “Okay, I know I was . . . misleading, and I’ve never actually been an NBA fan—go United—but romances have bloomed on stonier ground.”
“Romances . . . stonier ground . . . Did Mrs. Wattlesbrook write that line?”
Martin exhaled in exasperation.
Thinking of Molly’s dead end on the background check, she asked, “Your name’s not really Martin Jasper, is it?”
“Well . . .” He looked at the brunette as though for help. “Well, itisMartin.”
The brunette smiled encouragement.
And then, impossibly, another figure ran toward her. The sideburns and stiff-collared jacket looked ridiculous out of the context of Pembrook Park, though he’d stuck on a baseball cap and trench coat, as if trying to blend. His face was flushed from running, and when he saw Jane, he sighed with relief.
Jane’s jaw dropped. She had never, even in her most ridiculous daydreaming, imagined that Mr. Nobley would come after her. She took a step back, hit something slick with her boot heel, and tottered almost to the ground. Mr. Nobley caught her and set her back up on her feet.
Is this why women wear heels? thought Jane. We hobble ourselves so we can still be rescued by men?
She annoyed herself by having enjoyed his touch. Briefly.
“You haven’t left yet,” Nobley said. He seemed reluctant to let go of her. “I’ve been panicked that . . .” He saw Martin. “What are you doing here?”
The brunette was watching with hungry intensity, though she kept tapping at a keyboard as though actually very busy at work.
