The Jane Austen Marriage Manual
JANE AUSTEN
MARRIAGE
MANUAL
A Novel
KIM IZZO
For my mother, Carolynne,
and my beloved grandmother, Muriel, who is greatly missed
Happiness in marriage is entirely a matter of chance.
—Jane Austen,
Pride and Prejudice
BOOK I: THIRTY-NINE AND COUNTING
I
t’s my wedding day. The skies open up and sheets of rain and hail pelt the stone terrace where the ceremony is to take place. I suppose that any other bride would be in hysterics by now. But I don’t have time to fret over the weather, because I’m wanted elsewhere. Or I think I am. I walk stealthily down an unending hallway inside an English country manor as the rain and hailstones strike the windowpanes in a savage rhythm. My heart is pounding from nerves and exhaustion. Wedding jitters? I’m just thankful I chose a simple bias-cut gown instead of one of those corseted numbers. Besides, as a woman of forty, a corset would make me look like I was trying too hard, or worse, like some desperate reality show contestant.
I glance over my shoulder to see if anyone has noticed me, but the hall is empty. Down the grand staircase I glide, managing to move past wedding guests stuffed inside the enormous ballroom without detection and fling open the doors to the driveway. I hate getting wet, but not today—today the rain is liberating, so out I go, my bare feet making muffled, crunching sounds on the gravel as I start to walk faster. And I think that only six months ago everything was normal. I knew who I was. I had a job, a home, friends … a life that made me happy. Who knew turning forty would be so fraught? It wasn’t supposed to be this way, it was supposed to be just another birthday, just another number. But that’s not what happened.
A huge thundercloud rolls overhead, threatening to let loose. I can’t see through the rain. Not far enough to catch even a glimpse of what I came to see. Of whom I came to see. I take it as a sign. I pause and take another look at the stately mansion that’s now behind me. It is a beautiful estate deep in the English countryside. I should go back. There’s still time. A menacing clap of thunder shakes the ground. The storm isn’t letting up. Good or bad omen? The wind picks up and lifts the edge of my soaked dress, revealing my bare legs. I must decide. No one knows I’m here. I can dry my dress. Redo my hair. Going back isn’t exactly a hardship. After all, what woman in her right mind would try to escape a Jane Austen fantasy come true?
THIRTY-NINE
AND COUNTING
1.
With Child
Vanity working on a weak head produces every sort of mischief. —
Emma
SIX MONTHS EARLIER
I
t is a truth universally acknowledged that a single woman of thirty-nine and in possession of a good complexion must be in want of a husband. And a baby. Unless you are me.” My personalized version of that famous line from
Pride and Prejudice
was a mantra of sorts for me—a self-professed Jane Austen addict and an exception to this truth. Not that it mattered. I was as swept up in other women’s pregnancies and new-mothering dramas as if I did want those things.
Modern life as we know it is divided into two camps: the haves and the have-nots. The haves being those with children and the have-nots those without. As a have-not it was up to me to be as supportive and understanding of the haves as possible; after all, I had more disposable time and income than they did. At least that’s how it was in the beginning. “Get closer, all of you!” Gavin, a South Asian man of slight build and large personality yelled at us. “Us” being the entire staff of Haute—fashion magazine du jour—gathered in the staff’s overly stylish kitchen, chattering away, jobs forgotten. The occasion? Babies shower. The plural being necessary given that five women on staff were about to pop. To save catering costs the editor-in-chief, Marianne—one of the five, eight months pregnant and my best friend since college—decided to do an all-in-one shower. At least there were cupcakes.
“Closer!” Gavin shrieked. He’s our fashion director and a complete scream. “Don’t just stand there! Squeeze in as tight as you can to Kate.”
That would be me. Kate. The one minus the baby bump. The one perched on the wooden stool surrounded by pregnant bellies swathed in all-black designer maternity wear and teetering on four-inch platform pumps. The women did as they were told and moved closer. Too close. As they turned to check one another’s hair and makeup, their five swollen tummies, hard as basketballs, knocked my head in rapid-fire succession. I fought to keep my balance on the stool and tightened my grasp on the precious cargo in my hands.
“Don’t get those out of order, Kate,” snapped Ellie. She was seven months along and also one of the smuggest pregnancy snobs I’d ever met. Ellie routinely boasted about getting in the family way after only one attempt, even when she knew others on staff were up to their ovaries in IVF treatments. Still, I smiled reassuringly, recalling my duty to be supportive of all pregnant women no matter how unruly their hormones made them.
“They’re irreplaceable, you know,” she barked.
“They” are the five-part series of ultrasound images I held in my hands. For some inexplicable reason the mothers-to-be had decided to bring their collection of ultrasounds to the party for comparison. Somehow I was given the task of holding them before they were to be pinned to the inspiration board that was normally reserved for fashion tears and layouts. I wanted to ask if we could play a game of pin the tail on the baby, but thought better of it.
“Say ‘cheesy,’ ” Gavin called. We did. He snapped away as if we were supermodels striding down a Paris runway. “Perfection!”
That task complete, the women went back to sharing their child-birthing anxieties and thrusting baby bumps in my face as though I were invisible. I stood up to avoid the line of fire—which made all the difference because I’m five ten in bare feet, six two in my four-inch Mary Janes—and that’s when I spotted Jennifer, twenty-seven, stick thin, bottle blonde, drop-dead gorgeous, and the new features editor at
Haute
. She was munching a celery stick and rolling her eyes at me in sympathy. She had a reputation for being ruthless and had written articles about how to network with winners and avoid losers; how to
be a good frenemy to those who count; and how to rise above your colleagues even if they’re better at the job than you are. She had even complained about having to ante up cash for other people’s unborn children and their toys. I smiled slightly and moved away.
“The fetus has turned,” Ellie gleamed to Marianne and glared at me for daring to listen in on a story that I couldn’t possibly relate to. Now that I think back, Ellie was a bitch long before the invasion of the hormonal body snatcher.
I wanted to say “so has the worm,” but bit my tongue.
“I think the fetus is actually bigger than normal for this stage,” she said proudly. “At least the doctor says the fetus is bigger.”
How many times can one person say “fetus”? Whatever happened to “baby”? Now don’t misunderstand me, or my tongue, which sometimes speaks like it has acid reflex. I have nothing against babies or pregnant women, and I offer my support whenever possible. That may mean choosing the perfect gift or baking the perfect lasagna—my signature dish—for when a new mother arrives home with the baby and can’t bear the thought of cooking.
I get along just fine with pregnant women. And pregnant women, especially of a certain age (those closer to forty than thirty) were everywhere. Which was all right with me because my livelihood depended on them. You see, I am hired to fill in for women on maternity leave at fashion magazines. I work contract to contract, so I even keep a journal of who is newly wed, who is trying desperately to get pregnant, and which of the slutty girls at the various magazines around town had a drunken weekend.
I had found my niche as a beauty editor, which means I spend my days writing about the latest mascara innovation, lipstick shade, and antiaging procedure. Or, more accurately, I’m an acting beauty editor, emphasis on “acting,” making me the ideal solution for every pregnant woman who still worried about her career before the birth, the sleepless nights, and diaper changes hit. Most women who have kids later in life view their career as their firstborn, and so they panic when faced with the prospect of handing the reins over to a stranger. That’s where I come in. I’m a career contract player and I like it that way because each contract comes with an end date and that comes with freedom:
freedom from office politics, freedom to frequently change scene, freedom to freelance, and freedom to travel at a moment’s notice. That I hadn’t traveled or freelanced or even changed scene as much as I had envisioned was beside the point. I could if I wanted to. But none of that mattered now because my pattern of short-term employment was about to change. Darlene, whom I replaced three pregnancy contracts ago at
StyleView
, a sister magazine of
Haute
, had resigned to be a full-time mom. The magazine had to hire someone to fill the vacancy. And that someone would be me. I had turned down permanent offers in the past, so I knew the company wanted me. Just thinking about it made me smile. This is where all those years of playing hard to get would pay off in an above-average salary, private office, and—I was convinced—a signing bonus. An injection of cash that I needed desperately because I was broke. Through no fault of my own. Or at least not entirely. Put it this way: I had misjudged a man, but more on that later. Besides, there comes a time in every woman’s life, even a self-described intrepid one such as me, where stability is as sexy as adventure. This job would give me what I needed to be happy.