Plain Jayne (31 page)

He cocks an eyebrow at me. “Honey, if I looked like you do
right now, any old Tuesday would be a good enough reason.”

“Stop it. You’re going to make us late with all this silly,
superficial nonsense.”

“You will
not
be coming back to this room alone tonight.
Or at all.”

Pushing him through the door, I shrug on my coat and pull my
keycard from my pocket. “Yes, I will. Unless
you
want to spend the night
here with me tonight. A sleepover would be fun.”

Adamantly, he says, “No way would I interfere with the other
kind of fun you’ll be having with Luke-Ass. It’s inevitable. It’s gonna happen.
Don’t fight it.”

I know better than to argue with him when he thinks he’s
right (or heaven forbid, having one of his “premonitions”), but he’s not right
in this case. At all. There’s nothing Luke could say to me to change my mind
about how things have to be between us. One word nullifies all others: 
married.

As angry as I was with Miles for what he said to me and
assumed and presumed about me that day in his office, it didn’t take much
thinking on it to know deep down how right he was, even if he was speaking out
of turn and didn’t have all the facts. It boils down to this:  I deserve better
than to be someone’s mistress. Period. It doesn’t matter that I wouldn’t ever
wonder who he loved more or that I wouldn’t even have to share him with her.
She would always be there, between us.

Us.

Ha! Oh, man. I think I inhaled too much hairspray.

*****

My face is starting to hurt from all the fake smiling I’ve
done the past two hours. I also have a repetitive use injury from looking over
at the door every time someone new walks in. But Luke has never been the person
walking in. He’s not here. He didn’t come to my party.

Nevertheless, I’ve limped my way through some painfully dry
conversations this evening, trying to remain animated and engaged so that I
don’t look like a drooping dullard if and when he finally does arrive, but…
he’s never going to arrive.

With that realization, I hardly mutter a reasonable excuse
for abandoning the current group that has been boring me for the past ten
minutes before shuffling over to Gus, who’s back at the buffet table for at
least the third time I’ve seen. I murmur next to his shoulder, “I want to
leave.”

He looks down at me, finishes chewing, and says, “Oh,
Babushka… it’s your party!”

“I don’t care.”

“But look at all the copies of your book scattered around!
Hard copies! Have you sniffed any of them? They smell fantastic.”

“Whatever.”

He sighs. “I know he’s not here, and that’s disappointing,
but… I’m sure there’s a good reason. I know he wouldn’t miss this unless he
couldn’t help it.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “Is there something you’re not
telling me? Again?”

With a casual shake of his head, he answers, “No. I can’t
imagine why he’s not here. Maybe someone knows where he is.”

Without thinking, I nod over his shoulder at Blanche. “You
could ask Jessica Rabbit over there.”

He looks around, sees to whom I’m referring, and turns away
from me. Before I can make myself believe what’s happening, he’s halfway across
the room, headed toward her. When he gets a few feet away from her, he asks,
“Where’s Dr. Edwards tonight?” I follow him like a pitiful puppy.

She looks uncertainly from Gus to me and says, “Dr. Edwards…?
Oh, you mean, Luke?” She laughs and swirls her drink.

Gus waves away her deep chuckle like irritating smoke.
“Yeah. I call him Dr. Edwards.”

“Gus…” I’ve caught up to him and pull on his elbow. He
shrugs me off.

“The doctor and I are good friends, and I expected him here
tonight,” Gus explains smoothly. “And you are…?”

Blanche stiffens as she answers, “A colleague of Luke’s,
Blanche Turner.” She turns to me. “Congratulations on your book’s success so
far, Jayne. We don’t like to jinx things around here, but it looks like you
have a bestseller on your hands.” Her smile is surprisingly warm and
sincere-looking.

“Yeah. Thanks,” I inarticulately reply. “Uh… I, too, was sort
of expecting Luke to be here.” Quickly, I tack on, “Since he’s my editor. Of
course.”

She seems to think about something for a second before
pulling Gus and me aside and saying quietly, “Not even Arthur knows this, but…
I think Luke would want you to know.”

“Yes?” Gus asks impatiently.

I nudge him in the ribs. “Sorry,” I tell her. “Go on.”

“He’s been having some problems lately,” she practically
whispers so I have to strain to hear. “His ex-wife has gone off the deep end,
doing some increasingly-crazy things to try to hurt him.”

“He has a crazy
ex-
wife, too?” Gus breathes
incredulously and then mutters, “Sheesh. Well, we know what his type is…”

Blanche shoots him a dirty look but returns her attention to
me. I hope she can’t tell that my heart is in my throat and beating so quickly
that it’s about to wiggle up and out of my mouth. If she can tell, she’s not
letting on as she lists, “She tried to run him over in her car, right here at
the office, in the parking garage; she came at him with a knife at his beach house;
and then she pretended to overdose on some pills. Her family’s very powerful,
you know, so they’ve kept it all hush-hush, but they blame Luke for her
meltdown. It’s been very upsetting to him.”

Suddenly, her disclosures feel gossipy. Curtly, I say, “I
don’t know that he’d want me—or anyone—to know this; he’s very private.”

“Right, but you guys became… close… last summer. Right?”

“Not really,” I deny. “Not at all. I mean, I stayed at his
place in Marblehead, but… that’s it.”

She narrows her eyes at me but lets it go. “Hm. I guess I
misunderstood… Anyway, he wanted to be here tonight, but she tends to show up
wherever he is, especially when there’s an opportunity to embarrass him in
front of a lot of people.”

Gus rolls his eyes. “The brother needs to get a restraining
order on her ass.”

“It’s more complicated than that,” Blanche says but doesn’t
explain how it’s more complicated, so Gus sighs and wanders away. Blanche seems
relieved he’s gone. “Listen,” she says confidentially, “I don’t know what
happened between you and Luke—”

“Nothing happened!” I insist too loudly and too firmly.

“—and I don’t care. It’s not my business. But he’s my
friend, and I know he was bummed not to be here tonight.”

Bummed?
What are we, high schoolers? I try to conceal
my distaste for her word choice and focus on the meaning. I don’t know how to
respond. Self-preservation takes over. “It’s okay. It’s not a big deal. I was just
wondering if you knew why he wasn’t here. Tell him I said hi.” I edge away from
her.

“Jayne!” she calls after I’ve rejoined Gus.

I turn to face her, so she takes that as an invitation to
proceed and approaches me. Quietly, she says, “Again, I know it’s none of my
business, but… maybe you could call him while you’re in town?”

Gus, ever my protector, steps in. “You’re right; it
is
none
of your business.”

She blinks at him. When I don’t contradict his assessment,
she says stiffly, “Okay, then. Forget I said anything,” and walks away.

As soon as she’s out of earshot, Gus says to me, “So, he
divorced that crazy Caroline chick.”

“You finally puzzled that out?” I snap. “And what’s the deal
with you? You’re suddenly my bodyguard? My posse of one? Makes me look even
lamer than I already am, thanks.”

My ire doesn’t faze him. “She was getting awfully chummy.
Plus, she strikes me as the office gossip.”

“She’s friends with ‘Dr. Edwards.’ For real. I’ve seen them
together. I think they have the potential to be more than friends.” I can’t
keep the pout from my voice.

“She’s a lesbo.”

“Grow up!”

Defensively, he replies, “I’m not saying it as an insult,
you bonehead. I mean, she’s actually a lesbian. Luke-Ass told me that weekend I
stayed in Marblehead with him.”

This news—or the question of how Blanche’s sexual
orientation ever came up in conversation between Luke and Gus—hardly causes a
ripple in my consciousness. There are too many other pieces of information
vying for my attention. Staring into space, I say, “I should call him.”

“I’ve been telling you that for months.”

“Why didn’t he ever call
me
?” I ask in my own defense.
“If he loved me so much—as he claimed to you—then why didn’t he call me the day
his divorce was final? Or sooner, even?”

Gus inspects an olive before popping it into his mouth.
While chewing, he offers, “Sounds like he’s been keeping busy, trying to stay alive.
Not to mention, you were a total bitch to him the last time you two talked.”

“Well, how do I know whether he hasn’t contacted me because
he’s too busy or because he’s plain over me?” I grab a flute of champagne from
a passing waiter and toss it back. “I don’t want to make an ass of myself.
‘Hey, Luke. It’s Jayne. Heard you got divorced. Wanna hook up?’”

“Uh… old guy at six o’clock, headed this way,” Gus mutters
down at me.

“What?” I spin around to see Arthur Thornfield coming at me
with arms spread wide.

“Jayne!” Before I can do anything to stop it, I’m enfolded
in a smothering hug, and he’s kissing both of my cheeks. Wet kisses. Ugggh!
It’s all I can do not to grab the cocktail napkin from Gus’s hand and scrub my
face with it. I seriously want to gag as I feel the publisher’s spit drying
below my cheekbones.

“Arthur,” I coldly acknowledge him.

“I hope you’re enjoying yourself here tonight. This is all
for you, you know.
The Devil I Know
is, as we expected, a raging
success. I hear from Tullah that your appearances have been packed. Good for
you!” He pats my shoulder.

I want to punch him in the face. Instead, I coolly reply,
“Yes. Everything’s going swimmingly. I’m holding up very well, despite the
super-personal questions people feel entitled to ask me, thanks to your
decision to splash my tragedy on billboards, buses, and magazine ads. Oh, and
the Internet. Don’t forget the Internet.” Champagne makes me sassy, apparently.

“Now, Jayne. Let’s not quarrel about this. Let’s not hold
grudges. We’re like a family here at Thornfield.” He points to his chest. “I’m
the father who knows best.” He rests his hand on my shoulder. “You’re the
daughter who will blossom under my guidance, if you’ll only trust my judgment.
I pay you a very generous allowance, after all.” He grins proudly at his
comparison.

“It’s not about money!”

“Oh, yes it is. That’s one of the things you haven’t learned
yet. But you will. It’s all about money.” Pityingly he looks down at me. “I
know it’s been a while since you’ve had any family to rely upon, so this may be
a foreign concept to you, but—”

Gus grabs my hand. “We’re leaving,” he announces loudly.

I’m glad he can still speak and move, because I’m dumbstruck
and frozen at Arthur’s audacity.

When Arthur simply tuts indulgently at us as we move toward
the door, Gus says, “She has family, you miserable sonofabitch. You, however,
are not a member of it.” This declaration silences the rest of the room and
brings the focus of attention on us more effectively than a spotlight ever could.
At the threshold from the ballroom to the lobby, Gus stops long enough to say,
“But if you were, you’d be the pervert uncle who molests his nieces and nephews
and tries to pay them to be silent. Well, fuck you!”

Two security guards in suits approach us, but Arthur waves
them off. “They’re already leaving,” he informs them in a bored tone.

“That’s right, we are!” Gus confirms. “This dysfunctional
family reunion is over.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

New England loves me. Probably because Thornfield did a
major marketing push here, close to home, where they could closely monitor the
results and feel most proud of their dastardly efforts. The outcome is that I’m
stuck here for three weeks, hitting every bookstore—chain and privately-owned
alike—within a thirty mile radius of the city center. When I’m not at an event
and Gus isn’t at work, he tries to keep me occupied and entertained, but the
hours of his full-time job happen to coincide with the free hours I have before
signings and readings and photo ops, so I spend a lot of time alone… stewing.
And obsessing.

It wasn’t until Gus had delivered me to my hotel room and
was running a hot bath for me that I had any reaction to what had happened at
my Thornfield party. Even then, all I could do was sit on the side of the cushy
bed and cry. Suddenly, I was that eighteen-year-old orphan again. Only I cried
much harder in my hotel room than I ever did in the aftermath of losing my
family. I couldn’t afford the luxury of a breakdown then. Now, I can afford a
lot of things my eighteen-year-old self couldn’t. I’m not sure that’s such a
good thing. It would probably be better if I were still in survival mode.

I want to call Luke, but fear of the unknown (what he’ll say
to me; what I’ll say to him) keeps me from tapping that entry in my phone’s
contacts. I
was
a bitch to him the last time he called me. And he was only
trying to help. I blush at the memory as I imagine him dodging Caroline’s
attempts to kill him, absorbing her family’s hatred, and bearing my accusations
and verbal barbs. Talk about being everyone’s scapegoat! Despite what Gus told
me months ago and Blanche insinuated recently, he probably hates me. I’m just
one more person who’s made his life unpleasant lately.

I’m bored, though. And boredom (combined with cabin fever)
pushes you to do some dumb things. So today, I dialed the number Luke gave me
when he revealed what Thornfield had discovered about me and how they were
going to use the information. I was both relieved and crushed when the voice on
the other end told me the number was no longer in service. Damn. If he had
picked up, I would have swallowed my pride and apologized for the months of
silence. I’m that ready to stop being in limbo with him.