Rude Awakenings of a Jane Austen Addict (20 page)

“You’re not serious.”

“Where I come from, everything I’ve been doing, everything I am doing now, goes against what I have been taught. Everything, from living like this”—I wave my hand to indicate the apartment—“to receiving morning calls from a single man without another person present.” I cannot even look him in the eye. “How can I make you understand? It is not that I do not enjoy the solitude and independence, but it is all so very . . . unprecedented. In truth, I do so very much enjoy our conversations.” Why do I feel the blush spreading all the way down my neck? “But surely you must realize that if I were to be employed by you, I would not be your equal. It would be like Jane Fairfax going out as governess and unable to mix with the family on equal terms. Can I speak any plainer?”

“Who’s Jane Fairfax?”

“Oh. I thought perhaps you had read
Emma
.”

“I will if you want me to. . . .”

“That is not the point. What I mean to say is that one is not, cannot, be on an equal footing with one’s employer.”

“That is the most antiquated thing I’ve ever heard. Courtney, I’m asking you to do me a favor. To work w
ith
me, not for me, okay? Truth is, my accountant’s gonna kill me if I don’t get my receipts into some kind of order. But I’ve got so many jobs, I don’t have time to do it myself.”

Is it possible that he is making me a reasonable offer? I start to pace the room. “And you are not simply acting out of pity?”

“I’m the one who needs pity. If you can’t help me, I’ll have to hire a complete stranger, give that person access to my confidential files.”

Certainly, I would not wish to be overly scrupulous and refuse a friend who has been unstintingly kind to me, regardless of what mistakes he may have made in the past. And working with such a man would be a far more agreeable prospect than risking the possibility of being engaged by another such as David.

“I shall give it some thought.”

A rhythmic, syncopated song starts to play, and Wes pulls his phone from his pocket. “Sorry. I have to take this,” he says, and strides into the kitchen to take the call. I find it fascinating that everyone seems to have his own personal sound signal—ringtone, it is called.

As I bid good-bye to Wes, who apologizes for having to go and meet a client, I wonder whether my promise to consider his offer stems purely from a desire to reciprocate his kindness, or to spare myself from poverty. Certainly not an easy question to answer.

I decide to distract myself from such grim musings by trying my hand at the clothes washing machine that stands in a tiny room off the kitchen, next to the outdoor staircase. I cannot deny that I am most particularly tempted to work for Wes—and yes, it is for, not with, regardless of how he gilds his words—because I fear being without money.

It is easier to be principled when one is sitting on a pretty little fortune than it is when one is necessitous and poor. Which is why it was all very easy for me to refuse two unexceptionable offers of marriage before Edgeworth came along. I was then surrounded by every comfort, every luxury, with the protection of a landed, respectable family. But here I am, with little in the way of a character to protect and no income to speak of. I have not even sufficient funds to settle the electric and telephone bills. How shall I pay the rent and buy food?

I do not know if I could face a lifetime of poverty in America in the twenty-first century. There is very little dignity to the state of poverty, no matter the age, for I did not fail to notice several bedraggled persons in rags on the streets of this wondrously modern city, which seems to have eliminated every inconvenience of my time except that of poverty. I hope that Sandra persuades David to pay me for an extra week or two. And that the money arrives quickly. I do have some days before the shutoffs occur. And I do not think I should be in Wes’s employ, tempted as I am to rely once again on his kindness and generosity. No, I do not wish to risk spoiling a friendship which has become most dear to me in these few days which already seem like a few years, so much has happened. I shall find employment some other way. I must.

I shall not think of this any longer. I shall be mistress of myself. At least, that is, till my clothes are clean.

I
t is but a couple of hours later that I deposit a pile of washing upon the bed’s soft red coverlet. My satisfaction in having learnt how to use the washing machine has an alloy, for despite my certainty of having followed every instruction on the lid of the device, I am left with a miniature version of a white dress that I now hold in my hands. I suppose I might pull apart the dress and make a set of handkerchiefs. Or a fichu. If, that is, I could but locate a needle and thread. I have seen neither a workbag nor a needle-case. Not even a thimble in this house.

It is only upon folding the pile of garments that I discover they, too, come with instructions. It appears that each garment requires a different washing temperature and method of drying. I do hope there are a greater number of literate people in this time than there were in mine. Otherwise a great many people will find themselves with doll’s clothing.

With the washing now put away, I believe I deserve a reward: the
Pride and Prejudice
movie. Besides, I have Googled “credit cards” and discovered yet another means of buying necessities until I have an income. Granted, it is also the means of sinking further into debt, but if I must borrow, I would rather it be from a bank than from my friends. No, I shall not think of this anymore today. Instead, I reach for the remote control for the DVD. I have become so adept at mastering the manifold devices of this world (indeed, my fingers seem to know what to do more than my mind does) that it is but the work of a minute before the disk is in place, the movie beginning, and I am snuggled atop the coverlet, cool drink in my hand. This is surely a most agreeable way to spend the rest of the day.

“You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love
—” Suddenly, Mr. Darcy disappears into blackness, and I am awakened from my hours-long/days-long/what-is-time-in-such-a-state
Pride and Prejudice
reverie. I work the remote control to no avail; the screen is still and silent. What can this mean? Indeed, the room itself is now silent—and as dim as a nighttime room in this city can be with the curtains open and the streetlamp outside enabling me to pick out its major features without bumping into furniture. Even the computer screen is dark. I fumble around attempting to turn on the lights, the air conditioner, the movie. All in vain.

And then I remember the shutoff notice. But how can that be possible? The letter stated clearly that there were ten days to pay before the electricity would terminate.

I fumble in the darkened kitchen for candles; finally, I find a few in a drawer and light two with the flame from the stove. I carry one of them over to the pile of mail on the kitchen table and peruse the letter from the electric company, dripping wax on the pages until I find the part that says ten days. There, it must be a mistake, for I only just received the letter the day before. So how can it be that—I examine the letter more closely, and I see that the date at the top of the first page is eleven days ago. How can that be when I just received the letter yesterday? Ah, yes; the mail had been in a pile, Wes said, and this is my fourth day here, and who knows how long Courtney let the mail sit unopened, and besides, who knows how long it takes for a letter to reach its destination and . . . oh, none of that is of any consequence when I am sitting here in the dark.

Why did I have to inherit such a disordered life? Here is a woman who cannot make prudent choices, neither in matters of the heart nor in matters of economy. Well, well. Listen to me. It is all well and good when I look into the mirror and am thankful for this shapely form and this delicate complexion. Or look round this modest apartment and want to fall upon my knees with gratitude that it is a place I can wholly call my own, without dependence on any person’s whims or pleasures. Is it not right that if I am to enjoy the benefits of my new person and situation, with all the attendant helpful friends, clever devices, and splendid book collection, I should take responsibility for the disadvantages as well? For how can I lay claim to one and not the other?

In any case, it is fruitless to repine when the most pressing question is how shall I get the lights back on and is that even possible and when shall I see the end of this movie and . . . ? I have to laugh at myself now, for truly I am become a lady of the twenty-first century who feels herself ill-used indeed when deprived of electricity for a whole five minutes. I, who knew nothing more than candlelight just four days ago. Four days and 196 years.

What shall I do for relief? I dread Wes’s discovering my state of affairs, for he would no doubt settle the bills with or without my permission, as would Paula and Anna. How fortunate I am to have inherited such affectionate friends, but I dare not be a burden on anyone who is not a blood connection. I do so wish I could contrive the means to settle it all myself.

What, indeed, would I do were I to find myself stranded in my own country, in my own time, but far from home? I would apply to my father, of course, by post, and he would manage it all and keep it from my mother. Strange that on my first morning here, Wes asked if he should call my mother but said nothing of my father. Perhaps Courtney has no father. And clearly her mother is not a person I can turn to in a time of distress. I must clear my mind somehow. Walking. That always restores my spirits, provides me with commonsense ideas. I snatch my bag from the table and run down the stairs.

Seventeen

I
walk the two blocks towards the principal street where all the shops are, though I’ve no intention of spending what little money I have, and luckily I dined earlier on the remains of yesterday’s dinner, that lovely chicken mole, so I have no need for food. Not yet.

Just before I reach the main road, a car catches my eye. Well, not the car itself, for its brown bulk, dulled by a veneer of dust, is plainer than most of its neighbors. No, what commands my attention is behind the car’s large front glass, lit up by the streetlamp above it: a tiny stuffed lion hanging from the mirror—and I know it is a lion even before I get close enough to see its features. And suddenly I, as Courtney, am holding that little stuffed toy and offering it to Frank. It is his birthday, and the little lion is a present. I am sitting on a tall stool at the bar, in the public house where Glenn works, the place that all at once I know is called The Fortune Bar. And I know, with all my being, that what I am seeing in my mind’s eye is a memory, even though I also know that it is not my memory. It is Courtney’s memory. I am in the bar with Frank, and my stomach is tightening with hurt because he has refused the present.

“Come on, admit it,” he says, his full lips smiling. “This is a present for you, not me. You know, like those red lace panties I got you for Valentine’s Day. Definitely a present for me. How ’bout you hang this little guy off the rearview mirror and he’ll protect you from all those clueless drivers and rapacious meter maids. I like that word . . .
rapacious
. How come we don’t use words like that every day?”

“Because we don’t want to sound like pretentious wankers?” says Paula, who has suddenly materialized in a cloud of sheer, pale blue fabric, a frothy scarf and a matching frock, a saucy smile on her glossy red lips, and lands on the vacant seat between Frank, who is standing, and me.

I whisk the stuffed lion out of sight and into my bag. Frank glares at the intruder.

Paula’s eyes are wide with mock innocence. “Did I say something wrong?”

Frank says, “I suppose using British profanities when you’re from Wisconsin isn’t pretentious.”

Paula inclines her chin towards Glenn, who grins from his station behind the bar and raises his glass to us. “He’s been teaching me.”

“Excuse me, ladies,” says Frank, making his escape and heading over to the other, presumably more hospitable end of the bar, where he begins conversing and smiling with another tall, handsome young man with spiky brown hair and thin arms.

“Be nice,” I hiss at Paula. “It’s his birthday, for God’s sake.”

A tap-tap-tap at the side window of the car jolts me from this strange memory. I am now actually sitting inside the car with merely a vague sense of having opened the door and taken a seat while wrapped in the memory of Frank’s birthday. And, as if that memory has conjured the man himself, Frank’s grinning face lowers into view on the other side of the window. Tap-tap.

Feeling a flush of anger which no doubt crimsons my face, I insert the key that I have been clutching in my right hand into the lock beside the driving wheel—the steering wheel, I correct myself—and turn it. The engine roars to life.

Tap-tap. I glance to my left. Frank’s face is a question; his lips form words I cannot make out, do not wish to make out. I turn and face the front window; I do not owe him anything. And who is he to have the assurance to call on me and intrude upon me at all hours after having betrayed me?

Me? He betrayed Courtney, not me.

But I am she, am I not? Like it or not, impossible or not, I am she. I see her in the mirror, I answer to her name, I live in her home. Those who are true to her are true to me. And those who are false to her are false to me.

My right hand moves the gearshift to D—Drive. I have watched Paula and Sandra do this, but till this moment I did not realize that D was for Drive. Till this moment I knew not which pedals my foot must depress in order to move and brake. I know not how it is so, but my hands and feet know exactly what they need to do to drive. My hands turn the wheel towards the street; the car rolls an inch and—

Pounding on the side window. A muffled “Courtney!” My right foot touches a pedal and the car rolls even more. A whizzing roar, the blast of a horn, and my foot slams on the brake as a speeding two-wheeled vehicle races a mere inch beyond my door. A woman sits on a pillion behind the driver, long blond hair streaming from a helmet; my blood courses furiously through my veins, and my hands freeze on the wheel. For a moment I cease breathing, and then it comes fast and hard as my body trembles.