The Grumpy Count, page 8
I purse my lips to kill my satisfied grin.
She shifts from one foot to the other. “Do you mind turning the volume down?”
“Of course not, but I’m not sure how much that would help.”
“I could barely hear anything until tonight—”
“And yet the volume was exactly like now,” I lie shamelessly.
She lifts her eyebrows. “Really?”
“You see, the wall separating the master bedroom from the dressing room isn’t Georgian but new Elizabethan.”
“Eh…?”
It will make sense in a moment, trust me!
“It’s modern architecture,” I clarify. “A quick and dirty thin partition pretending to be a wall. Not even soundproof.”
“I see…”
“It’s pure luck that my viewing the rushes didn’t bother you until now,” I say. “But I have a solution!”
“Do tell.”
“Mrs. Everly and Oli will ready the coziest part of the attic for you. You’ll have more wiggle room than in your current quarters, and you’ll be at the other end of the house.”
“You’ve been very kind to us, and your staff are having a lot of extra work to do as it is—”
“They get extra pay for extra work,” I point out.
“Even more so! I won’t be the troublemaker entailing additional cost for you.”
“Don’t worry about that.”
She fidgets with the belt of her robe. “Already, I was undeservedly mean to you in the library yesterday… I’ve been feeling guilty about it all day.”
“You shouldn’t have. What you said wasn’t mean, or unwarranted. It was honest.”
“That’s the thing…” She swallows. “It wasn’t.”
I stare at her.
She supplies no further explanation.
Am I reading her right this time around?
Is she messaging that she’d like me to make a move? Does her leaning into my space mean she wants me to take her in my arms? Are her parted lips signaling she wants me to kiss her?
Is our uptight Margot a sex kitten who just quit playing an alpha bitch?
I peer at her beautiful, racy face. My gaze drops to her pert breasts, her slim, high waist, the gentle swell of her tummy, sexy as hell, begging for my hand…
I mustn’t! It could endanger the mission. Besides, what if I’m imagining her lust for me? What if my own lust, coupled with my being used to female attention, makes me misread her cues?
She hasn’t asked if she can come in, or said anything at all, be it explicit or suggestive. She’s leaning closer, but she has yet to take an actual step in my direction, or touch me, or make any kind of gesture that would leave no doubt about her intent.
If it’s there—and I do believe it is—then she’s fighting it. The woman before me is uncommonly rational and constant. Her principles that made her reject me last night are clashing with what her body wants. How unusual! I have never seen this much restraint in a woman this pretty. Is Margot the ultimate anti-Donna, the anomaly, a beauty endowed with a brain and self-discipline?
It’s also possible that her standing on my doorstep now has nothing to do with desire, but everything with her exasperation over the noise I’ve been making.
I draw back.
As if waking up from a trance, she staggers. “Please, forget about the attic! Forget I ever said anything.”
“It’s no trouble at all to set you up there.”
“I refuse to add to everything Mrs. Everly and Oli already have on their plates.” She forces a smile. “There’s an easier solution. I’ll find some earplugs for tomorrow. Good night, Jonas!”
“I’ll use headphones,” I grunt, shutting the door on her. “Good night, Margot.”
CHAPTER 16
MARGOT
This Wednesday marks our fourth performance of The Immersive Pride and Prejudice Experience.
It also marks the day Mom, Dad, and Doreen are in the audience to see me play Caroline Bingley. That Doreen didn’t cancel due to some last-minute unmissable career-boosting event is a small miracle. And it makes me more nervous than I was before Sunday’s opening night. My stage fright is so bad today that when the show begins, I suddenly can’t remember my lines. The panic when I greet the hosts of the Meryton Assembly makes my heart drop lower than the shallow curtsey Caroline is bobbing.
Luckily my memory hole lasts about thirty seconds, no more.
As we move through the scene, my anxiety melts away. I find myself fully in character. Act 2 passes in a blur as we talk, walk, dance, roll the backdrops out at the end of a scene, wheel in new ones, and then talk, walk, and dance again.
But even with my memory recovered, I avoid making eye contact with my folks. I shun them even during the interactive scenes in which they take part. My excuse is that I’m kept busy enough as it is. Today’s audience is the hungriest and most enthusiastic we’ve had so far. They’re so engaged that it’s as if they were swept away into Jane Austen’s enthralling world body and soul.
During the intermission, I dash to the bathroom for a tampon change. My period is on the downward slope now, but after Monday’s mishap that resulted in embarrassment and a ruined costume, my new life motto is Better Safe Than Sorry.
At the end of the show when the cast, Sandra, Liam, Julia, Tami and the musicians line up for the curtain call, the audience erupts into a thundering ovation. Like that wasn’t cool enough, they give us another one after we’ve bowed. It’s so bloody rewarding that for a moment there I forget to worry about what Doreen will say. I just gawk at the delighted, grateful faces of our spectators and bask in their love.
When it’s really over and everybody exits the Sky Hall, I spot Mom, Dad, and Doreen waiting in the hallway for me.
Mom throws her arms around me. “Bravo! Bravo, ma petite Margot!”
“That was amazing!” Dad hugs me in his turn. “I’m so proud of you! If only your grandmother could see this!”
Doreen smiles. “Well done, big sis.”
Did I hear that right? Was that praise?
Is the end of the world scheduled for tomorrow? Because the last time my younger sister praised or complimented me was never.
“Ladies, I’m taking you to a celebratory dinner,” Dad declares.
I make a moue. “Sorry, Dad, but I have to be back in forty-five minutes for the postshow debrief.”
“Are you allowed to eat between now and then?” Mom’s expression is one of genuine concern.
I laugh softly. “Of course! We usually have pizzas delivered, and then we eat them in the kitchen or out in the garden.”
Mom splays her fingers against the breastbone. “In this weather?”
“There’s a glass orangery in the back,” I say. “We can hide there from the drizzle. If we keep our coats on, we’ll be just fine.”
“Very well, but no pizza tonight.” Dad half turns toward the main entrance. “I spotted a nice deli on the corner. Let me get us some wraps and salads. We’ll eat them in your orangery.”
I suggest Mom, Doreen, and I head to the orangery at once to make sure no one else lays claim to it in the meantime.
While we wait for Dad, Peter steps out into the garden, a pizza box in his hands. He looks around, searching for someone. Me, no doubt. I sidle behind Mom, hoping that her rounded figure will conceal me. But my efforts are in vain. Eagle Eye Peter detects me anyway. He flashes a smile and beelines to the orangery.
Introductions made, he apologizes to Mom and Doreen and says, “Since I only have one medium pizza, we can split it—”
“Actually,” I interrupt, “we’re waiting for my dad who went out to fetch some wraps from the deli.”
“Ah…” Peter’s face falls. “I’ll leave you to it, then. Bon appétit!”
He says goodbye to Mom and Doreen, and trudges back to the house. I don’t try to stop him.
“Your new boyfriend?” Doreen asks me as soon as he’s out of earshot.
“We’re just friends,” I say.
She looks skeptical as if she doesn’t believe me before saying, “He’s sweet.”
Matter of fact, he is.
And you know who isn’t? Jonas!
Our host is many things—most of them bad, some of them good, and exasperating most of the time. But “sweet” isn’t a term anyone would use to describe him. It simply doesn’t apply.
Last night, when I went over to complain about the noise, I noticed a substantial erection his bathrobe couldn’t really hide.
Had he been having a bit of solitary fun, or had he been making out with someone? Who? Hyacinth? Melody? Tami? Was one or more of them in his room when I knocked? That would explain his sudden disdain for headphones and why he’d turned the volume up. Headphones can’t muffle the sounds of sex.
Like I said, they can have him.
On Sunday night in the library, I told him I had an issue with gratitude sex. It was a lie. My real objection was to having casual sex with a completely wrong-for-me macho man. A macho man who I can’t stop thinking about. And who a bunch of other women seem to be taken with even more. Or, at least, in a more outspoken way. I’d rather have no sex at all for yet another month than become Conquest Number Four in the “Ride Me, Jonas” Flying Circus!
Hyacinth, Melody and Tami can have him, including the fine eyes, charming manners, and stinky ideas. His physique is tolerable, I suppose, but not out of the common way. And not enough to tempt me.
Hey, snap out of it, Margot! You can pause Caroline for the rest of the day.
Let’s rephrase in my own words. The man is hot. His is a frostbite-inducing sort of hotness but it’s there. It’s undeniable. When I stood on his doorstep last night, all he had to do was reach out and touch me. The slightest brush of the back of his hand against my cheek like he’d done in the library, and I would’ve stuffed all my qualms down a memory hole. The consequences would’ve been devastating.
How do I protect myself from him?
For starters, I could stop pooh-poohing the solution that’s right in front of me. Here’s the plan: I take a much better man who’s really into me out of the friendzone, and I give him a chance to boot Jonas from my mind.
Hey, Jonas, I’m going to Peter you out!
CHAPTER 17
MARGOT
Dad arrives clutching two bags full of wraps, salad boxes, and cans. Suddenly famished, I tuck into the food. While we eat, Mom and Dad tell me how proud they are with how effortlessly I handled my lines and interacted with my co-actors and audience members.
“You ashed your first major role!” Dad slurs with his mouth full.
“All that hard work paid off!” Mom exclaims.
Doreen dabs a napkin at her mouth. “Did I tell you I got a promotion?”
The three of us turn to her.
She throws her hands up in the air and grins. “Can you believe it?”
“Details, please,” Dad asks.
“I got headhunted by another bank, so I went to talk to my supervisor.”
“When was that?” Mom asks. “Well done, ma chérie!”
I pat Doreen’s arm. “Congrats!”
Dad knits his eyebrows. “Why are we hearing about it only now?”
“It just happened, Dad. Like, literally yesterday,” she reassures him without as much as a glance at Mom or me. “I’d never hide something like that from my old man, knowing how much the news would please you.”
Dad wipes his hands. “Go on, then. What did your boss say?”
“I told him I’d received an offer and I was mulling it over.” She puffs her chest out. “He said he’d do anything to keep me.”
Dad’s eyes twinkle. “So, you went ahead and asked for a promotion and a raise. That’s my girl!”
“And he agreed!” She beams. “Only six months after my previous raise. Is that cool or what?!”
Mom claps her hands together. “It truly is! What wonderful news, Doreen!”
Her eyes never leaving Dad’s face, my sister goes on and on about how much she’ll be making, how big her new office will be, and how the news was already changing the office dynamic, prompting the heads of other departments to take notice and ask for her opinion.
Envy rears its ugly head in my soul, reawakening the worst kinds of thoughts.
My sister got promoted. Again. She’s two years my junior, but she’s already making more than twice what I’m making. Salaries aside, I’ve been auditioning like crazy, trying to land a part with more than ten lines for years. Years! The fact that Sandra hired me to play Caroline, is probably only because during the audition I’d swallowed my pride and name-dropped Anna Chancellor.
When that mention got Sandra and Liam’s attention, I stooped lower still. I informed them that I, too, was related to the woman who gave the world Mr. Darcy. In an unprecedented bout of self-aggrandizement on my ancestors’ back, I even bragged about the invaluable gift my grandfather made to the British Library. Shortly before his death, he donated Jane Austen’s nifty portable desk to that venerable institution—the one at which she’d penned several books including the first draft of Pride and Prejudice.
Pathetic, I know.
But I was that desperate. And I got the part.
A shadow flits across the edge of my field of vision and pulls me back into the present time. I look up at the imposing redbrick house. A well-built male figure, backlit by a desk lamp, has appeared in a window on the third floor. It’s Jonas. I squint, straining to make out his face at this distance, and my heart jumps as I realize he’s staring down at the orangery. At us.
“Wait, is that Mr. Darcy?” Doreen asks, following my gaze.
Mom cranes her neck. “You mean the sponsor and male lead of the show? Such a handsome young man!”
Jonas steps away from the window, probably spooked by my relations’ insistent looks.
Doreen slides her gaze down to me. “What did you say his name was?”
“Jonas d’Alenq.”
“D’Alenq… Continental nobility?”
Mom’s eyes light up. “French?”
“Monegasque,” I say.
“Much better!” Doreen gives a satisfied nod, oblivious to Mom’s disappointment. “Is he single?”
“Divorced with a kid.”
“He’ll do.” Doreen smiles brightly.
In your wildest dreams, Sis! “Ask yourself, why would a woman leave her rich and handsome husband and the father of her child?”
“I can’t imagine any good reason.”
“He must’ve cheated on her,” I say triumphantly, as if delivering a punch line. “Would you be willing to put up with that?”
“Ah, why not? He can have a bit of fun on the side as long as he takes good care of me!”
My parents burst out laughing as if she said something hilarious.
Wake up, people! It wasn’t a joke. She meant it.
It’s good to know I’m nothing like her. I will never let a man “take care” of me. I will be my own woman—the opposite of what my mother is and what Doreen dreams of becoming despite her career prospects and ambition. No man will ever get Margot Nolan to offer servility and obedience in exchange for financial security and social status.
“Will you introduce us?” Doreen presses her palms together. “Pretty please? Or take me as your plus-one to your after-party!”
“Or not,” I say.
Pouting, she turns to Dad. “Why does she envy me so, Daddy? What’s wrong with her?”
“Girls, girls!” He takes Doreen’s and my hand, like he used to do when we were children. “Both of you made your parents proud today. Please, be nice to each other. Support each other. Let the world envy both of you!”
Ignoring his appeal, Doreen quirks an eyebrow at me. “You know, I must admit I thoroughly enjoyed watching your Caroline relentlessly brownnose Mr. Darcy. And the way he put you down time after time was pure joy.”
A decade ago, I might have stalked out at this point. But I’m an adult now, and I’ll prove it by staying.
Doreen addresses Dad again, “She’s a natural at toadying, don’t you think? For a self-described feminist, she licked Darcy’s hunting boots like she was born to do it.”
“She was playing a part,” Dad says. “And doing a great job of it!”
Mom’s round face contorts with dismay. She often says that her life’s biggest regret is that her girls don’t get along.
Am I surprised at Doreen’s attack? No.
Regardless, it affects me. The pity in Mom’s eyes makes it even worse. I don’t want it. It would’ve been nice if she’d spoken up to put Doreen in her place. But she won’t. She’s too flustered for that. We’re alike that way, Mom and I. Taunts throw us off balance. I tend to find a retort minutes later when it’s too late. Mom never does.
There—it just came to me! What I should’ve said to Doreen is “It’s called ‘projection,’ little sis. Brownnosing men is your MO, not mine. That’s how you got where you are now and that’s how you got your promotions!”
That reply would’ve been just as unfair and mean as her unwarranted attack.
But it’s too late now. That train has left the station, and it isn’t coming back. Time doesn’t work that way. Which reminds me…
Pointing at my watch, I say to Mom and Dad, “Got to run! Thanks for coming and for the wraps.”
My parents hug me, Doreen and I exchange dry nods, and I race back into the mansion.
CHAPTER 18
MARGOT
Our fifth day’s performance was so flawless that Sandra cancels the debrief and authorizes us to leave the mansion for a proper dinner outside. She herself is going home to spend the evening with her husband and kids. She must’ve been missing them badly. Or maybe she couldn’t stand the idea of another pizza dinner.
Whatever her reasons, our director’s decision causes everyone to start calling up the restaurants in Bloomsbury. Unfortunately, none can be reserved for the entire company at such a short notice. We break up into smaller groups, and expand the search to Camden. Peter manages to book a table for six in a seafood restaurant in Kentish Town. In addition to himself, Peter’s group includes Hyacinth, Phil, Anand, Jonas, and me.
