Day 13, Continued
The drive to the airport felt eternal. Jane listened to a rock playlist on her headphones and tried hard to convert her sadness into a nice, proactive anger.
“You vexing, contemptible worm,” she muttered. It was at herself.
Yes, Martin was a worm too. The sheer certainty of that felt invigorating.
But really, after all those boyfriends and pseudoboyfriends, she was surprised she still had to learn anew that most nonfictional men were some variety of worm, be they vexing, contemptible, lying, self-interested, callous, despicable, or all of the above.
It didn’t help her humiliation much that she’d had no illusions about Martin.
She knew that he’d just been a fling, motivated by her desperation to feel like a genuine woman amid the pageantry.
But then she went and let herself get played like a gullible bumpkin.
She’d even convinced herself that Mr. Nobley might have been actually fond of her.
“Dream on,” a song crooned.
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 Park had done 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 and zippy 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 though actor and bastard were 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, it is Martin.”
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.
“Jane and I got close these past weeks and—” Martin began.
“Got close. That’s a load of duff. It’s one thing when you’re toying with the dowagers who know what you are, but someone as openhearted and idealistic as Jane should be off-limits.
” He turned to Jane. “You can’t believe a word he says.
I tried to warn you to stay away from him because he’s the worst sort of cad.
But I didn’t realize until after you’d left that you might not have known the whole truth. You see, Martin is actually an actor.”
“Yeah,” Jane said.
Nobley blinked. “Oh.”
“So, what are you doing here?” She couldn’t help it if her tone sounded a little tired. This was becoming farcical.
“I came to tell you that I—” He rushed to speak, then composed himself, looked around, and stepped closer to her so he did not need to raise his voice to be heard. The brunette leaned forward.
“I apologize for having to tell you here, in this busy, dirty . . . This is not the scene I would set, but you must know that I . . .” He took off his cap and rubbed his hair ragged.
“I’ve been working at Pembrook Park for nearly four years.
All the women I see, week after week, they’re the same.
Nearly from the first, that morning when we were alone in the park, I guessed that you might be different. You were sincere.”
He reached for her hand. He seemed to gain confidence, his lips started to smile, and he looked at her as though he never wished to look away. Her heart started to soften and got dangerously close to melting, so she pursed her lips and arched an eyebrow, refusing to be gullible again.
Martin groaned in mockery. Nobley immediately stuck his cap on and stepped back, and he seemed unsure if he’d been too forward, if he should still play by the rules.
“I know you have no reason to believe me, but I wish you would. Last night in the library, I wanted to tell you how I felt. I started to. But I let myself speak the same tired sort of proposal I used on everyone. You were right to reject me. It was a proper slap in the face. No one had ever said no before. You made me sit up and think. Well, I didn’t want to think much, at first. But after you left this morning, I asked myself, are you going to let her go just because you met her while acting a part?
” Nobley paused as if waiting for the answer.
“Oh, come on, Janie,” said Martin. “You’re not going to buy this from him.”
“Don’t talk to me like we’re friends. You . . . you were paid to kiss me! And it was a game, a joke on me, you disgusting lurch. You’ve got no right to call me Janie. I’m Miss Erstwhile to you.”
“Don’t give me that.” Martin’s patience was fraying. “You’d have to be dense not to see that all of Pembrook Park is one big drama. You were acting, too, just like the rest of us, having a fling on holiday, weren’t you? And it’s not as though kissing you was grotty.”
“Grotty?”
“I’m saying it wasn’t.” Martin paused and appeared to be putting back on his romancing-the-woman persona. “I enjoyed it, all of it. Well, except for the root beer. And if you’re going to write that book, you should know that I believe what we had was real.”
The brunette sighed wistfully. Jane glared at her as if to say, “Come on, sister, you’re better than this.”
“We had something real,” Nobley said, starting to sound a little desperate. “You must have felt it, seeping through the costumes and pretenses.”
The brunette nodded earnestly.
“Seeping through the pretenses ? Listen to him, he’s still acting.” Martin turned to the brunette in search of an ally.
“Do I detect any jealousy there, my flagpole-like friend?” Nobley said. “Still upset that you weren’t cast as a gentleman? You do make a very good gardener.”