A certain appeal, p.5
A Certain Appeal, page 5
For Jane’s sake, I don’t share that I know perfectly well how shallow that supposed impression was. So I grin back, throwing my arms up in the same position as on the card—forgetting about my nudity.
In the split second it takes for the comforter to drop from my shoulders, I go from embarrassment to mortification. But the goose down piles into a barrier just above my boob region, and Charles is spared an eyeful.
He makes a show of covering his eyes, then continues to the hall, still chuckling.
* * *
I take my time getting ready, in case Charles and Jane need more than a few minutes to say or otherwise convey their goodbyes. The front door opens and closes late in my hair regimen, the scrape of the door over the thick mat competing with the hiss of my hairspray.
I poke my head into Jane’s room, hoping for some sign of whatever he and Charles got into during those predawn hours. But the space is as perfectly put-together as ever, the charcoal bedding and goldenrod throw at the foot of his bed with corners so tight, Jane barely makes an indentation where he sits putting on his shoes.
“So.” I settle beside him, almost bouncing on the taut bedding as I arrange my skirt. “How did that happen?”
“He came back! Not long after you left, he and his friend came in for a drink.” He purses his lips in delight. “He looked for me. Spotted me at family meal and asked if I was free to join them.” His voice is dreamy, like he still can’t believe it.
“His friend excused himself, and after we finished our drinks, Charles came to the after-hours gig. I sang, then he had a car bring us down to the Slope and we caught another drink and a bite at the Black Horse, then, ah—” He averts his eyes. “Then we came here.”
Before I can voice my appreciation for my earplugs, he nudges me, grinning.
“By the way, his friend? Will, I think. Charles calls him by his last name, like how people do with you. Darcy? Gorgeous. I didn’t notice at first, because of Charles, but damn.”
“Agreed on the gorgeous. Too bad he’s a dillhole.”
Jane smacks my shoulder. “He seemed nice!”
I share the overheard commentary. At this point, it’s kind of funny: “thoroughly tolerable”? Who talks like that? But Jane can tell it rubbed me the wrong way and sticks out his lower lip with an appropriate degree of sympathy.
“That is harsh,” he says. “Charles mentioned that he takes a while to warm up. Darcy doesn’t like crowds, and Charles sprung the show on him last-minute and got there late. Maybe he was in a bad mood?”
I shrug. Darcy said that “tolerable” line with confidence; he’d made up his mind. Still, I’m willing to entertain the possibility of redemption, if for no other reason than it would be a waste of such a gorgeous face for his personality to be so lacking. “You gonna see Charles again?”
Jane bites his lower lip.
“Wow. You are in some deep smit, friend.”
“He’s really nice. And really cute, but he’s only around for a few weeks. They’re in from the West Coast for some business stuff. I dunno; I checked out during that part. I was watching his lips move.”
“They are very nice lips.”
“They are amazing lips.”
“Oh?”
“More like O-face.”
“Oh. My. God,” I marvel. “He has you making sex puns. This boy toy has potential.”
“Do you think?” His voice is bright.
I smile and stand, reaching out to haul Jane from the bed. “You are hopeless.”
* * *
When we arrive, the line at Stone Park Cafe has already curved around the patio seating, the potential diners shifting to accommodate the constant flow of scooters and strollers en route to the playground across the street. I spot Andrea waving at us from a four-top, her large sun hat drawing us in like a black hole. Jane and I “Pardon me” and “Excuse us” our way through the front door, and the beleaguered hostess shows us to our seats.
“Quickly!” Andrea snaps her fingers to get a waiter’s attention. “Do either of you want biscuits and gravy? We have to get the order in immediately, they’re almost out.”
“Oh, very yes,” I say, and Jane makes a request as well.
Andrea snags a server, places the order, then busies herself with pouring us mimosas from the pitcher she’s already largely consumed.
“Jane,” she says, her tone too light to be genuine. “However was your evening?”
“I had an excellent night, thank you very much.” He takes a dainty sip of his mimosa. I respond with a Ming-inspired cackle, and he smacks at me with his free hand.
Andrea chuckles along, and her smoker’s rattle borders on sinister. Jane glances my way, and I find my unease reflected in his expression.
She puts down her drink, her laughter ebbing. “Jane, my dear, your evening may prove to have been excellent for all of us.” She taps the stem of her glass tunelessly, her painted face growing solemn. “You should know we are in a bit of a situation at Meryton. The landlord’s considering selling the building—”
“What?” Jane gasps. I do my best to feign wide-eyed shock.
Andrea scowls. “Oh, for Christ’s sake, Kitten, I know you know. Michael can’t keep his mouth shut. Anyway,” she continues, “as Kitten is well aware, I plan to buy in.”
Jane crosses his arms, facing me. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“We had other priorities.”
He tips his head, eyes going dreamy. “Yeah . . .”
Andrea clears her throat, and Jane and I straighten, properly chastened. “The owner had the building appraised and got some numbers on renovations. The back of the house is in desperate need of upgrades, and there’s no question the dining room could use some love. He’s reluctant to put in the money and is considering offloading the property.”
I scowl, suspicion eroding the novelty of a free meal. Why is she telling us all of this?
“Our current options are to find an investor to back me, relocate the show, or simply be at the mercy of whoever ends up taking on the space.”
“But you have a backer, right?” I say, hoping further evidence of Michael’s loose lips doesn’t get him in trouble.
“Oh, I have a moneyman.” Andrea grins. “You chatted him up quite thoroughly, Kitten, but Jane won the day—or night, I suppose.”
The implication creeps up on me, a slow march toward the obvious. “Charles?” I blurt. “Jane’s Charles is the one backing you?”
Andrea takes a smug sip of her mimosa, which turns into a downing of her glass. She places the empty champagne flute on the table with a raised pinky. “He’s the one.”
Jane’s jaw goes slack. “Charles wants to help you buy Meryton?”
I fall against my chair, shaking my head. That explains his comment about Andrea’s being persuasive. “Why didn’t you say anything about him coming in?”
She shrugs, refilling her glass. “It’s just as well I didn’t. I assumed the Charles Bingley in question was the senior, not the junior. Old money can be so eccentric,” she muses. “Handing off fortunes to their offspring like they’re doling out Monopoly money.”
“Why are you telling us all this?” As I ask, a possible reason comes to mind. “Don’t you say anything about using Jane as a damn honeypot. That’s gross.”
“But everybody wins.” Andrea waves her champagne flute to take in the general area. “We keep the show going; Jane enjoys a sweet, handsome fellow with a fortune; and Charles gets a talented, delightful boyfriend and a fun investment in the Manhattan property game.”
“I’m sorry,” Jane interrupts, his palm raised like he’s a student waiting to be called on. “You’re talking like I’m not right here. Are you saying it’s on me to keep Meryton intact?”
“No, Jane. I’m simply informing you of the situation.”
“But no pressure.” I prop my chin in my hand and finish my mimosa. Lord.
“Of course not,” says Andrea. “The odds are simply more favorable if the young Bingley has a vested interest in the show’s success.”
Our food arrives. We’re quiet as the plates of biscuits and gravy are distributed, and the waiter departs with Andrea’s request for a refill on the mimosa vat. My irritation with Andrea isn’t mixing well with the bubbles and orange, so I dig in before my hanger hits in earnest.
“There’s a slim possibility the current owner will pass the property on to a nephew,” Andrea says, picking up the thread of conversation as she slices into a biscuit. “Unlikely, though. He’s already had a few failed ventures and wouldn’t have the talent connections—”
I swallow. “Unless we’re willing to stay on with him.”
Andrea freezes, her fork just shy of her mouth. “Well, that’s the rub, isn’t it?” She places the fork back onto the plate. “If it goes that way, there’s no guarantee the nephew would employ the same concept, but given the show is the club’s biggest draw, the best move would be to change as little as possible.”
“Where would you be, in this scenario?” Jane asks.
“That . . .” She pauses. “That remains to be seen. Charles’s involvement is specific to Meryton; outfitting some other venue for our shows would be too much of a gamble for him. I certainly don’t have the assets to start anything of my own, and finding another investor would take time.” She sniffs. “You all would scatter to the four winds, getting scooped up by other producers and shows.”
I roll my eyes at the unnecessary drama and make my next bite large enough to let me avoid having to placate her. It earns me a kick from Jane, but I chew on, defiant.
Jane sighs. “We wouldn’t abandon you, Andrea.”
Andrea’s eyes soften, likely more at Jane’s acknowledgment of her emotional fronting than his loyalty. “Let’s just hope it doesn’t come to that. Thank you, darling,” she says to the waiter, who has returned with another ungodly amount of $2 bubbles and orange juice concentrate. He tops off each of our glasses, and Andrea raises hers in a toast. “To artful negotiations. And happy couplings.”
* * *
“On a scale from one to Silkwood, how badly do you need to shower after that conversation?” I weave my arm through Jane’s, and he gives mine a squeeze. We’ve opted to aid digestion with a stroll through the park instead of heading straight home.
He sighs. “Andrea gonna Andrea.”
Andrea left as soon as her plate—and mimosa vat—was clear. At least she’d done us the courtesy of paying for the meal. I’m still livid over her suggestion about Jane, but Jane’s been quiet. When I peek at his face, his expression is shuttered, brows low in thought.
“It doesn’t have to change anything with you and Charles,” I say.
He blinks. “Why would it? Andrea’s just being her, and I don’t mind that Charles didn’t mention it. I don’t know when it would have come up.”
“I bet not.” I elbow him. “You got a love bite on your neck—”
“That’s two Cher references in less than thirty seconds, Bennet.”
“That one was Olympia Dukakis.”
“Still Moonstruck.”
“Still stalling.”
Jane releases my arm. I let him walk ahead a few paces. He turns, scrubbing his hand along his jaw. “I like him, Bennet. I want to get to know him better in the time he’s here. We only talked a little bit about him; he was the one asking what brought me to New York and about my interests and . . .” He shakes his head, eyes distant, then bright. “I really like him.”
While I love seeing Jane so buoyant, my thoughts touch down on the potential fallout of this hypothetical love affair. An image of Jane, depression-dulled and couch-bound, mainlining nature documentaries, flickers in my memory.
I force it aside. It’s been three years. He’ll always be a softie, but Jane’s more resilient now. Plus, he’s braced for a short-term thing here. “Then that’s all that matters.”
Jane nods, beaming. “I saw your folder out, by the way. Andrea did mention renovations.” He links arms with me again, and we turn onto a path lined with benches. “You feeling inspired?” His angling hooks the excitement I’ve been holding in check all morning.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “I am sorry I didn’t say anything about the sale last night. Part of it was how wrapped up I was with Ol’ Tolerable, but . . .” I grit my teeth. “I didn’t want to mention it, in case it fell through.”
Jane tugs me to take a seat on a bench. A few yards away, a group of children play in a water feature, a man-made stream that will be turned off in the coming weeks. For now, the weather is still warm enough to keep it running.
A little girl in a pink sundress beelines for the water, launching herself into it. The resulting splash flecks our shins. She holds her arms up in triumph, though a few smaller kiddos wail at the unexpected deluge.
Jane chuckles at the spectacle, then tips his head my way. “I know you closed that chapter, Ben. I also know you love interior design. You’re good.”
“I am good,” I concede, helpless in the face of the praise.
“And I do have a special relationship with the moneyman.”
I let my head fall onto his shoulder. “Dearest, are you volunteering to honeypot yourself for little ol’ me?”
“Only you,” he croons, and kisses my temple. “Now c’mon. All that Cher talk has me wanting to watch Mermaids.”
CHAPTER
5
The phone’s shrill ring bounces off the glass walls of the reception area. I pick up the receiver without taking my eyes from the computer screen, smile already plastered to my face. “Work It, this is Liz speaking. How may I help you?”
Toby laughs loud enough that I have to pull the phone away from my ear. “Liz, you sound like my mom.”
Toby is my day-job boss, the president of Work It, a (since last month’s friendly acquisition of three competitors) national chain of communal workspace facilities. I’m his administrative assistant here at HQ: a glorified receptionist of the highest order and reliable semi-adult who can man the fancy Italian espresso machine in the break room.
“Your mom hired me.” I pivot to face him at his own desk, separated from the lobby by a partition twenty feet away. Headphones set his glasses askew, making him look about a decade younger than the thirty-three years already undermined by his baby face. “Reception, admin . . .”
“Occasional babysitting,” he chimes, concluding the list of duties in the job posting I stumbled on two weeks after I got to New York. Assuming the last bit meant childcare, I applied. Toby’s mom, who’d been functioning as admin since Work It got off the ground, had written the post. She meant him.
The traditional nine-to-five nature of my day job baffles the burlesquers, who seek work with flexible hours or have side hustles more in line with their creative efforts. Jane teaches voice and piano, Tonic does aerial lessons in addition to her job at the high-end lingerie boutique, and Ming is the go-to seamstress for the better part of the burlesque scene, creating and adjusting costumes and clothing for those of us who don’t know our way around a sewing machine.
“How may I help you?” I ask.
“I was looking over the contract for the venue hosting Saturday’s function.” He squints at his computer screen. “Is that all we’re paying, or is more due later?”
I sit taller. Toby told me to go all out when finding a venue for the merger party—“Spare no expense!”—but I kept my feet on the ground. One of my “babysitting” duties is reining in his occasionally impulsive spending habits; he got the espresso machine on an afternoon when I was at the dentist. Incidentally, his mom was filling in for me and called to tattle.
“I haggled,” I admit. “Pemberley is new to the scene. We’re one of their first contracts, so they were willing to deal.”
“Great. And, your, um”—he clears his throat, voice high with forced nonchalance—“friends from your weekend thing. They’ll be . . . appropriate?”
“You said you wanted it to be memorable,” I say, feigning confusion.
Toby’s eyes go round, shaving another handful of years from his features, forcing me to laugh. I recruited the Twins and Jane for entertainment. They’ll do their respective things, though Ginn and Tonic will keep their act second-tier-city-friendly, and the venue has a piano, which is where Jane comes in.
“No nudity,” I assure him, and he relaxes into an expression less likely to get him carded. “Just acrobatics and Gershwin.”
“Perfect.” Toby’s attention shifts back to his computer screen. “It’s an amazing space, Liz. You really have an eye.”
He’s right on both counts. Pemberley’s exterior is lovely, a brick façade with a giant chrome sunburst over its broad double doors, but the interior is like nothing I’ve ever seen. An indoor lake takes up half of the venue’s main floor, with seating on little islands connected via a walkway. Seeing Pemberley in person a few weeks ago, I about swooned. I handed over the deposit check without a second thought. While it meant I had to figure out how to incorporate the venue’s stage into the flow of the room, there was no way we were going to have that party anywhere but that Hell’s Kitchen gem.
I put my hands behind my head, rocking in my desk chair. “Anything else you’d like to compliment me on? I’m terribly important and busy.”
Toby laughs. “You’re a lifesaver, Liz.”
“It’s what I do.”
Toby hangs up, cutting off his chuckle, and I open the email I received from Andrea earlier. Pemberley’s owner had inquired after liability insurance for aerialists, and I asked Andrea about how Meryton handled that coverage. She initially held out on the grounds that I’d poached her talent, but she relented at my promise to leave Meryton flyers at the door.
