Jane in Love

by Rachel Givney

  ‘Don’t tell anyone I did that, or I’ll crush your bollocks,’ she muttered afterwards.

  Next thing he knew, he was acting as an extra on the set of her new movie. ‘It will be fun,’ she had said when making the ludicrous request. ‘Sister-brother bonding!’

  Fred had laughed; normally Sofia couldn’t get far enough away from her family, and now she wanted a member of it lurking around her workplace. Something was up. ‘Please?’ she added, when he scoffed at the idea. The ‘please’ signified more than the request itself. Sofia never said please. ‘It would be nice to see a friendly face on set,’ she’d mumbled then, and looked at the floor again. He’d never known his big sister to be anything but brimming with obscene confidence, pouty and haughty. He’d finally agreed to go to set with her, and relief had danced across her face like he’d never seen.

  Almost as soon as he agreed, he regretted his decision. For two weeks already, he’d been initiated into the ludicrous world of film sets. Movie-making seemed mostly to involve standing around and occasionally being shouted at by people with headsets. The production people dressed him in a Regency-era costume that included a frock coat and jodhpurs. He complained of feeling silly but this was the one part of the whole thing he secretly enjoyed. He often instructed his A-level students on the Napoleonic Wars, and he also suspected he looked quite dashing in the clothes, maybe like someone who fought pirates. They told him his character was an officer in the navy and gave him a plastic sword to complete the look. When no one was watching, he swished it back and forth.

  The set teemed with attractive women – fantasy women, really, from magazines and commercials, who looked unreal at close range, with ludicrously svelte figures and angular, alien faces. But any grand plans for one of those on-set romances the magazines rejoiced in were thrown from his mind as soon as he spoke to these people. They were only interested in one thing: Sofia. Either they wanted to know the gossip on her break-up, or they wanted to be introduced. Fred refused to indulge in the first, but he did naively introduce a couple of them to his sister early on. He regretted it almost instantly. The first woman gave Sofia her show reel. The second woman ignored him afterwards, defeating the purpose.

  He sipped his beer. That’s why when he’d met Jane, she had confused and infuriated him. She spoke nothing of acting, dancing, show reels, agents, platforms, publicity, high-protein low-carb or influencing. She bore none of the falseness of the other women, who were nice to him solely to get to Sofia. In fact, her behaviour was quite the opposite. She made no attempt to conceal her dislike for him. She was downright hostile. He still found himself reeling from the exchange, and he felt agitation. She infuriated him. She was bewildering.

  Fred put down his beer again, a little too hard. Paul looked at him and sighed.

  ‘Okay,’ Paul said. ‘You asked her out. She turned you down.’ He sipped his drink.

  ‘She didn’t turn me down. I asked her out and she said yes,’ Fred argued.

  ‘Then what happened?’ Paul asked.

  Fred shrugged. ‘Then she ran away,’ he mumbled.

  Paul folded at the middle like a hinge, silently chortling. He taught PE and Health at the school where Fred worked. His preferred teaching method for safe-sex education was to show his students close-up photos of gonorrhoea.

  ‘Are you finished?’ Fred asked. He rolled his eyes.

  ‘Sorry,’ Paul said. He composed himself and sat up. He raised his glass. ‘A toast. To the woman who ran away. Good luck to her, I say!’ He offered his glass towards Fred’s. Fred made no move towards it. Paul scoffed warmly and chinked the glasses together anyway. ‘I’m so happy right now,’ Paul said. ‘It annoys me how much luck you have with women. I really like this Jane character. Too bad she ran away from you. I would have liked to shake her hand. First woman to turn “Mr Sexy Eyes” down. You normally don’t even try. Women just flock to you.’

  ‘They don’t,’ Fred said.

  ‘They do,’ Paul said with a nod. ‘You’ve got that dark, brooding, self-destructive look about you that women go gaga for. And you’ve got great hair, like your sister. You never have to romance women. They just sit next to you and flick their hair and then it’s on for young and old. No one ever flicks their hair at me.’

  ‘You’re married,’ Fred said.

  ‘That’s even worse,’ Paul said. ‘Not even Nadine flicks her hair at me, and she’s legally obliged to. It’s ironic.’ He sighed. ‘The first woman you’re actually interested in, she runs away from you.’

  ‘I wasn’t interested in her,’ Fred insisted.

  ‘Sure,’ Paul replied. ‘I’d happily believe that, but you’ve had a great many admirers over the years, and this is the first one you’ve ever spoken to me about.’ He took another sip of his beer and looked over for Fred’s reaction. ‘Another one?’ Paul asked.

  Fred looked down; he’d emptied his glass.

  ‘Thanks.’ He shrugged. Why not? He’d checked with Sofia three times that there was no rehearsal tonight until, eventually, she told him to stop asking and declared he was weird. Fred and Sofia had both inherited the same creative streak from their father, a deadbeat poet and drunk. Sofia embraced it, while Fred buried it deep down, so it only revealed itself in odd, strangled places. Teaching was safer.

  ‘Fred. We’ve been mates since teachers’ college,’ Paul said then. He put his glass down and cleared his throat.

  Fred watched him, uncomfortable. It felt distinctly as though a declaration of manly affection was looming. ‘Because I feel sorry for you,’ Fred said, hoping to bat the conversation in a less serious direction. ‘No one else will talk to you.’

  ‘I’m not good at the mushy stuff, so don’t expect a grand speech.’

  ‘I’m fine, seriously, Paul. I will be fine,’ he insisted, a little too loudly.

  ‘I know you will, mate, this is about something else. Yikes.’ He looked at him with a look of mock concern.

  Fred swallowed and nodded for him to continue. ‘What’s it about then?’

  ‘If it’s not too much trouble, will you be Maggie’s godfather?’ Paul looked proud, hopeful.

  ‘Oh,’ Fred said. He inhaled. He had expected an invitation to an ill-planned hunting trip in the woods above Bath, where one of them ended up shot in the buttocks, or a hastily booked drinking weekend to Prague, where they each lost a shoe and their dignity. Those were the invitations he normally received from Paul. But this? To be the guardian of the most precious and beautiful little bundle, whose hobbies included drinking milk and smelling like heaven? He smiled. ‘I’m flattered, Paul, thank you. Maggie’s an awesome little girl.’

  ‘She’s pretty cool, isn’t she?’ Paul said with a smile.

  Fred nodded and held up his glass. ‘To Maggie,’ he said.

  ‘To her godfather,’ Paul replied, raising his own.

  ‘Fred?’ a female voice called. Paul and Fred both looked up.

  ‘Hi,’ Fred said. Two women, vaguely familiar, were walking towards them. He searched his memory frantically for their names.

  ‘It’s Laura, from St Margaret’s?’ the first woman said mercifully. ‘We played against you guys at Teachers’ Games.’

  Of course. ‘Laura, hi,’ Fred said. ‘You guys creamed us, as I recall.’

  ‘I didn’t want to say, but yes,’ she replied, with a laugh. Fred remembered now: Laura, the bubbly lady who had turned into a swearing dominatrix on the netball court. She’d almost made Paul cry at one point. ‘Netball is a tough game. You guys did okay, considering.’

  ‘I think the ref could have thrown a few penalties our way,’ Paul said. ‘That game was unfair.’

  ‘How was it unfair?’ Laura asked. A fire danced in her eyes, terrifying Fred. He harked back to a moment when she had torn the netball from him and growled like a wildebeest.

  ‘You guys were really good, and we were crap,’ Paul said. ‘Not fair. We should have received a head start.’

  The woman behind him smiled. Fred rememb
ered her – Simone, was it?

  ‘I’m Simone,’ she said.

  ‘Wing attack, right?’ Fred asked. She was a graceful player and had shot many goals.

  She nodded.

  ‘What are you guys up to tonight?’ Laura asked.

  ‘Just drowning our sorrows,’ Paul said. He glanced over; Fred elbowed him. ‘Ouch,’ he added.

  ‘We’re heading to Infernos,’ Laura said, mentioning a notorious establishment around the corner. Upon exiting this nightclub, most people resembled a public service announcement on the dangers of binge-drinking. ‘They’re doing two-for-one buckets tonight.’

  ‘What’s in the buckets?’ Fred asked.

  ‘Alcohol,’ Laura replied in a satisfied tone. She pumped her fist like she’d scored a goal.

  ‘Amazing,’ Paul said. ‘Keeping up the grand tradition of teachers getting sloshed.’

  Simone smiled again, at Fred this time. Paul seemed to notice, and he raised an eyebrow at Fred.

  ‘You guys are free to join us,’ Laura said. ‘I can show you some netball moves, point out where you were going wrong with your passing, stepping, shooting.’

  ‘We’d love to,’ Paul said.

  ‘We’ll think about it,’ Fred said.

  ‘No pressure. We’re heading there now – maybe we’ll see you guys a little later.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Paul said. The women waved and walked off.

  Paul turned to Fred. ‘Okay, enough of this moping,’ he said. ‘Did you see her smile at you? Not Laura the netball monster, the other one.’

  ‘Simone,’ Fred said.

  ‘Exactly. We’re hitting Infernos.’

  Fred laughed and shook his head. ‘No way. You have a wife and a child.’

  Paul shook his head. ‘Nadine put me up to this,’ he said. ‘My wife, after hearing your tale of hilarious woe, insists I be your wingman tonight.’

  Fred sighed. ‘A tempting offer but I think I’ll hang here. Thanks, Paul. Another time.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Paul stared at him for a moment.

  ‘Positive,’ Fred replied.

  Paul exhaled. ‘Oh, thank God. For a minute I thought I was going to Infernos. I was getting a hangover just thinking about it.’

  Fred laughed. ‘I knew it.’

  ‘Okay, mate,’ Paul said. He smiled and patted his pockets for his keys. ‘See you tomorrow?’

  Fred shook his head. ‘Off to London tomorrow. Meeting those French exchange students we’ve got coming.’

  ‘Yikes. Enjoy, mate. See you Thursday, then.’ They shared an awkward fist bump where each fist missed the other, and then Paul left.

  Fred looked around the dilapidated, half-empty pub and walked to the bar. Perhaps he should kick on at the nightclub? Maybe he could go on his own? It could even turn into an amazing night. He could dance and drink from a bucket!

  As he mulled over the idea, one pint on his own turned into three, and when he tripped over the fruit machine at twelve-thirty a.m., the publican had no choice but to ask him to leave.

  Fred agreed. Fair call.

  Stumbling home, Fred, the full-time brooder and part-time underachiever with great hair, who had always had luck with the ladies until last night, tripped through his front door. Earlier he’d seen a commercial promoting an Alien marathon that would be playing on the television from midnight. Splendid. What did he need her for, when he could watch five films’ worth of galactic carnage? He nodded at the certain genius of his plan. By morning all would be well, and he’d be done thinking about that infuriating woman.

  The television in the spare room wouldn’t wake Sofia. He made a detour to the kitchen and found a half-drunk bottle of pink moscato in the fridge. He stumbled through the house with the bottle, putting it down briefly to unbutton his shirt and fling it into the air, where it landed on the blade of the ceiling fan. He unbuckled his trousers and let them bundle to the floor, mid-stride. If he was to give five Alien films his full attention, he needed to be unencumbered by clothing.

  He pretended his belt was a whip and lashed an imaginary snake on the floor. Then he picked up the bottle again, danced up the stairs and entered the spare room in his boxer shorts.

  He switched on the television. The first film had started, but no aliens yet.

  Splendid.

  He took a swig from the wine bottle and remembered why it had been left half-drunk, then backed onto the bed and sat down on someone’s head.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Jane woke. She tried to scream but a tremendous weight on her head muffled any sound. It also blocked her sight, and she couldn’t breathe. She battered the unidentified object with her fist. The weight shifted off her and she pulled back the bedsheet and jumped out of bed, gasping for air. A figure loomed above her in the darkness. Jane felt around for a defensive weapon; she located her leather boot on the floor and bashed the intruder’s head with it.

  ‘What is the meaning of this?’ Jane demanded into the darkness, striking the intruder once more.

  ‘Youch!’ shouted the figure. ‘My head!’

  ‘Who are you and what business have you here?’ Jane asked.

  ‘It’s my houshe!’ they slurred in a drunken voice. ‘What business have you here?’

  Sofia rushed in. She lit the magic candle in the ceiling and light flooded the room. Jane stood by the bed in her pink nightgown and surveyed the scene. An inebriated man of at least thirty swayed in his underclothes and rubbed his head. The picture frame mounted to the wall portrayed a theatrical scene, but unlike a painting, where the actors froze as eternal statues, the characters in this frame moved.

  ‘This pervert attempted to have his way with me,’ Jane said, pointing to the man in his underdrawers.

  The man glared at her and raised his arms in surrender. ‘Steady on. I came in to watch the telly,’ he said.

  Jane scoffed and regarded the man in front of her. He presented a preposterous anatomical display of muscle and skin; her cheeks flushed all manner of pink and crimson, offended by the sight. Their eyes met, and Jane looked away.

  ‘You’re her,’ he said. ‘From the rehearsal the other night.’

  Jane appraised his face. He was right; they had danced together. Her heart thumped.

  ‘What a shurprise,’ he said. He stumbled. ‘This must be awkward for you.’

  ‘I do not follow your meaning, sir,’ Jane said. She reminded herself of how much she disliked him.

  ‘You know, if you didn’t want to go out with me, you could have said up-front. No skin off my nose. You didn’t need to stand me up!’ He grabbed the doorknob for balance and almost toppled over.

  ‘Jane, this is my brother, Fred,’ Sofia said. ‘Fred, this is my . . . colleague, Jane.’

  Jane and Fred stared at each other. Jane felt her cheeks heating once more. She grabbed the bedsheets and wrapped them around herself.

  ‘Okay. Show’s over,’ Sofia said. She grabbed Fred’s arm. ‘Fred, you can continue this party alone in your room.’ She shovelled him out the door, then turned back to Jane. ‘Are you okay?’

  Jane nodded.

  ‘He didn’t really interfere with you, did he? He doesn’t seem the type.’

  ‘Goodness, no. He merely surprised me. I am well, thank you.’

  ‘Good. Sorry about that. Fred’s a civilian, not an actor. He won’t play along.’

  Jane gave Sofia a confused look.

  ‘Don’t do the whole “I’m Jane Austen” thing with him,’ Sofia said. ‘Just trust me on this one. He didn’t vomit on you, I hope?’

  Jane shook her head and Sofia wished her goodnight. Jane lay back down in the bed and stared at the ceiling. The obnoxious man – the one who had refused to dance with her, the one who had annoyed and teased her – was Sofia’s brother. He lived in this house! She forced her mind to stop focusing on how much this aggravated her and tried to sleep.

  Jane stood in the bathroom the next morning in astonishment. Kensington Palace apparently had an indoor privy, but t
o see running water with her own two eyes was enough to make her admire the water closet for forty minutes. Sofia had departed for her profession earlier that morning and left her with some clean clothes and instructions for using the waterfall which spilled over the bathtub. She called it a ‘shower’.

  ‘This is hot, and this is cold,’ Sofia said, pointing to the taps. She turned them on to demonstrate. Steaming water poured from above. Jane had stared at the marvel before her.

  Now she attempted the feat herself. She turned the cold tap to the left and admired the icy stream which spouted down. She had seen taps before, in water pumps, but the water came out of them in blobs and drips of yellow, nothing compared to the elegant crystal stream which now poured forth from the silver head. Next, she turned the hot tap to the left, in increments, as Sofia had showed her. She placed her fingers in the stream and felt the water grow warm. She turned the tap more to the left and the room filled with steam.

  In her house in Sydney Place, they possessed a bathtub which Margaret filled every Sunday with water she boiled in a pot. Her father, as head of the house, used it first, then her mother, then Cassandra. Jane, as the youngest, used the water last. By the time she stepped in, the water ran beige. Now Jane looked up at the steaming pristine waterfall which she had all to herself. She tested the water once more. It felt warmer than anything she knew. She inhaled, then removed her pink nightgown and laid it over the chair. She stood in the room naked and imagined herself luxuriating like Cleopatra about to bathe under a goat-milk waterfall. She climbed into the bathtub and stood under the water. The hot water bubbled and rolled over her back. Her shoulderblades prickled. She placed her arm on the wall as the water tumbled over her. ‘Oh,’ she gasped. ‘That is obscene.’ She stepped back from the water and stood in the freezing air. She shivered but did not return to the water. If she went back, she might decide to stay there forever.