Rude Awakenings of a Jane Austen Addict

by Laurie Viera Rigler

  More blank pages, and then:

  E was adorable and so young and such great sex but I feel empty again. Definitely won’t call him. Meaningless sex not what I need right now. Keep thinking of Frank packing up his stuff in my apartment and how I wanted him to touch me and hated myself for wanting it. Wes keeps calling and texting. Why doesn’t Frank call? One feeble attempt and he’s done. Why would I even want him to I am so pathetic.

  There is nothing more in the journal, but what little there is has shocked me exceedingly. Clearly, she believed Frank and Wes to be cruel as well as dishonest. And not only had she bedded Frank, but also someone named E.

  It appears the conduct of the heroine in the movie was more realistic than I had hoped. Are more women like this? Perhaps there is something in Courtney’s bookshelves, a conduct book perhaps, that will have an answer.

  An intriguing array of titles catches my eye, including:

  STOP GETTING DUMPED!

  All You Need to Know to Make Men Fall Madly in Love with You and Marry “the One” in 3 Years or Less

  A title that would sell many dozens of copies amongst my circle.

  THE MARRIAGE GAME:

  How to Win Big

  So it is a game now, is it? I suppose a game is better than a market.

  WOMEN WHO LOVE MEN WHO CAN’T COMMIT

  Commit what, a crime?

  I pull the books from their shelves. Something that feels like a soft folio with slick paper is jammed into the space between the bookcase and the wall. I manage to extricate it. Aha—it is a bride magazine like the ones in the movie. I page through the magazine—its existence alone is proof that marriage is of prime importance in this world.

  And yet, by the time I close the last book several hours later, eyes burning and brain unable to comprehend even one more printed sentence, I am teetering between giddiness and a queasy sensation, as if I have drunk too much wine. How to make sense of it all?

  In my world, Courtney would be ruined. But here, women have sex before marriage, and with as many partners as they please. Those who would wait for marriage are deemed prudish or odd or exceedingly daring or religious, depending on the author’s viewpoint.

  “Have sex.” At least that expression is preferable to “hook up,” which brings to mind being lured to one’s death like a fish.

  Which seems not to be too extreme a metaphor after all, for despite women’s engaging in marital intimacies without the protection of an actual marriage license, they have an abiding fear of the consequences of taking that momentous step. To wit: a plethora of rules and formulae as to how to assess the man’s “commitment quotient” before having sex, how many “dates” one should have before actually engaging in sex, and how to ensure that sex does not reduce one’s chances of marrying.

  Therefore, while women value their so-called sexual freedom, they are fearful of giving away too much too soon, thus obviating a man’s reasons for marrying. Which sounds like freedom for men and not for women, in my humble opinion. And which sounds like being ruined is almost as much a risk in this world as it is in mine.

  There is, I must say, one astonishing aspect of the business that does indeed represent a degree of freedom, namely that women may engage in sexual relations without the consequence of pregnancy, both before and after marriage. Therefore, marriage is neither, as the church service proclaims it, for the procreation of children nor a remedy against fornication. Marriage is, I must conclude from the bride magazines and the movie, for the extravagance of the celebration, the richness of the dress, and the impression it makes in the eyes of the world.

  Or is it? In truth, is not the finery and the splendor of the celebration as much a lure in my world as it is in this one? Does not the idea of marriage eclipse the truth of it? I may not have attended a grand celebration with 250 guests, such as those described in the wedding magazines, but I cannot count the times I have heard of an old school-fellow who was in raptures over wedding clothes and new carriages and all manner of details that have little to do with real happiness in the married state. Nor can I count the times I have then heard of, or even seen with my own eyes, a quite altered creature in the form of the married woman from what I had seen in the bride to be.

  Notwithstanding the importance of external trappings, marriage for love is as important as it ever was. In fact, women of this century even feel they are entitled to love.

  My eyes are weary from hours of reading; I really should retire before the sun rises. Though I may no longer have a situation for which to arise in the morning, I shall not ever let it be said that I am without employment.

  B y the time I have awoken and dressed myself, it is a little before eleven, and my stomach clenches at the sound of the expected rap at the door. It is time to broach the dreaded subject, but how, I ask myself for the twentieth time, as I open the door to Wes and force a cheerful smile. Though my cheerfulness is not wholly forced; I am truly happy to see him.

  Try as I might to be on my guard, as Paula and Anna desire me to be, there is something so artless in his manner that I cannot sustain any distrust. Nevertheless, I must learn once and for all why he chose to lie for Frank rather than be truthful with Courtney. For if there is work for me to do in Courtney’s life, as the fortune-teller said, then is it not of the utmost importance that I make a study of Wes’s true character?

  And so I invited him here. I am duly proud of myself for not only having used the phone to do so, but also for learning how to make coffee with a machine. It seems there is nothing I cannot find out from my oracle, the computer. Wes, however, has come supplied with coffees for both of us, plus flaky pastries stuffed with strawberry preserves. Nevertheless, he kindly tastes some of the coffee I have prepared for him and proclaims it delicious.

  “So,” Wes says, wiping his mouth on a paper napkin, “are you going to tell me what this ‘delicate matter’ is that you mentioned on the phone? I keep telling myself you’re not gonna give me the ax if you’re sitting here having breakfast with me, but I imagine that your closest advisors have urged you to do otherwise.”

  I feel the blood drain from my face.

  “Are you okay?” he says, his own countenance now solemn. “Whatever it is, I can take it.”

  I take a deep breath. “I am sensible of the kindness you have shown me. You have watched over me, been solicitous of my comfort, and I am truly grateful.”

  Wes puts his hand on mine, and the warmth of it is electrifying. “I’m the one who’s grateful, Courtney. That you let me back into your life is more than I ever dared hope for.” He gazes deeply into my eyes, and for a moment I can hardly breathe.

  “You know I’d do anything for you, don’t you?” he says.

  “I believe I do . . . which is why it is particularly awkward for me to ask what I must ask.”

  “Whatever it is, I’m here for you.”

  There is so much gentleness in his eyes, in the turn of his countenance, that I cannot form the words to ask him why he was willing to lie for Frank. I cannot. No. I cannot bear to see the pain in his eyes if I question his honor, he who has been so good to me. And what are Courtney’s words in a journal to my own experience? No, there must have been some misunderstanding, and it will all come to light when the time is right.

  But there is something else that I would like to ask him, something delicate indeed yet easier to broach.

  “In truth,” I begin, “I am in need of your advice. You see, I do not know how I am to ascertain the extent of my—ah—money matters. There are some bills which I would like to settle without delay, and I do not know; that is—”

  “Oh,” he says, and looks almost disappointed. “The shutoff notices.” What, I wonder, did he imagine I would ask him?

  And then he gives me an encouraging smile. “I can help you with that. How long do you have?”

  “Well, if only I could determine how much money I have.”

  “Sorry. Of course. You don’t remember your passwords. Let me see what I can do.
” And with that he seats himself before the computer and tap-tap-taps his fingers on the keyboard. “This could take a few minutes,” he calls over his shoulder. “It’s okay, Courtney. Whatever it is, we can handle it.”

  We?

  Yesterday I might have thought such a turn of phrase impertinent, but today I do not care. In fact, I like it very well indeed.

  “In the meantime,” he adds, “why don’t you look through the bills and see what needs to be paid first, okay?”

  I am even calmer by the time I decipher the bills and see that I have been granted ten days to pay for electricity and five for phone. Then, Wes gestures to me to join him at the computer; he has found out where my passwords are stored and directs my attention to the screen. But I am so distracted by the citron scent of his skin as he leans in close to me that I must force myself to focus on the numbers on the screen.

  “That’s your balance,” he says, indicating a sum that is over three hundred dollars. “Doesn’t look great.”

  I do some quick mental calculations. “But that is at least eighty pounds.”

  “More like two hundred pounds, but what does that have to do with anything? Pounds, euros, dollars, or rupees—you’ll probably need most, if not all of what you have in the bank to cover your phone and power bills. If it covers them.” He hands me a little rectangular book. “I found your checkbook in the top drawer. You might want to see if there’s anything in it that hasn’t cleared.” He points to the screen. “I don’t mean to talk down to you, but you do grasp that you may not even have all $317.25, right? I don’t see any recent deposits. Did you get your final check from David?”

  “No, I—”

  “Maybe you should see if Sandra can speed things up a bit?”

  “She did actually say something about asking David to throw in, as she phrased it, an extra week or two, but she was not sure.”

  “Excellent.”

  “And there was something about turning an advance into severance, but I did not fully comprehend . . .”

  Wes groans. “If he gave you an advance, he may not owe you anything. Let’s hope she comes through for you. In the meantime, how are you set for cash?”

  I go to retrieve my bag, and Wes takes the checkbook back from me. “Here, let me see if I can make sense of this while you get your wallet.” He turns a few pages, looks at the screen again, and frowns. “Long as you wrote everything down, it looks like your balance is about a hundred dollars less than what’s on the screen. If Sandra’s getting you a check, it can’t come too soon.”

  I show him the contents of my wallet: It seems the extent of my fortune is the two hundred dollars in the bank and another twenty-seven dollars in my bag.

  He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a wad of bank-notes; I put out my hand to stop him as he offers them to me.

  “Please, Courtney. Take it. You’ll pay me back. I don’t want you walking around without any money. Or running up your credit cards.” He takes my hand and presses the bank-notes into it.

  “I cannot possibly—” I am too overcome by tears welling up in my eyes to say more, but I manage to get the bank-notes back into his hands. “You are very good, but I assure you I am in no trouble whatsoever.”

  “What about the shutoffs?” says Wes. “Why don’t you let me write you a check; you’ll pay me back soon as you get on your feet again.”

  “I have several days, and it will have all worked itself out by then. Truly.”

  “Are you sure?” He points at the shutoff notices, which are strewn on the bed. “Should I have a look?”

  “I assure you I’ve not yet reached that level of incompetence, sir.” I smile at him with what I hope is an abundance of self-assurance.

  Wes grins back at me. “I like it when you call me ‘sir.’ ” He stands up, stretches. “So . . . you have a plan?”

  “Plan?”

  “For your next job. What’s in store for the multitalented Courtney Stone?”

  “What would you advise?”

  “Well, we already know you’re skilled at hand holding, enabling, and ego fluffing. Not to mention supplying a raft of creative ideas you almost never get credit for.”

  “Not a very agreeable picture, to be sure.”

  He smiles. “I think you should go in a different direction.”

  “I would have to agree.”

  “So in the meantime, while you’re figuring that out, how about you work for me?”

  “What?” I realize I do not even know what Wes’s profession is.

  “Just temporarily. And don’t worry; I don’t expect you to help me build websites. I just need someone to help organize my receipts.”

  “Certainly not.”

  He looks almost hurt. “Why not?”

  “Because—” I can feel my face flush. “Do I even have to—because it would be most improper.”

  “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 with 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 littl
e 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.

  It 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.