Plain Jayne

by Brea Brown

  He laughs at what he must perceive to be modesty. “Yes. I’m sure,” he replies drolly. “Speaking of…” He produces a pile of pink message slips from his pocket. “Liz was collecting these for you this morning in the main office. I told her I’d deliver them to you when I saw you.”

  Glancing down, as the pink papers pass from his hand to mine, I see they’re all from Luke. I quickly look up at Miles again as I shove the messages haphazardly into my jeans pockets.

  His brown eyes crinkle at the corners. “I let my cell phone battery die all the time, too. Nothing to be embarrassed about. That’s what Liz is here for. Check in with her regularly, and she’ll give you your messages. Or she’ll email them to you at the end of the day, if you haven’t checked in. She’s amazing.”

  I smile weakly. “Yeah. Okay. Thanks, Dr. Brooks.” I back away from him, in the direction of my closet-sized office.

  He holds up my syllabus and runs a hand through his rusty hair. “I’ll… uh… take a look at this and shoot you an email later. I’m sure it’s fine, of course. I don’t expect to have any suggestions or changes…”

  “I can take constructive criticism,” I assure him while I continue to edge down hall. “You don’t have to worry about hurting my feelings. I followed the example you sent me, so your biggest criticism may be that I’m not very original. But since it’s my first time, and all…”

  With a general wave at me, he says, “Don’t worry about it. It’s only an outline, anyway. You’ll have plenty of creative license once the semester gets underway and you get to know your students and how they work best. Please, call me or stop by my office if you have any questions… or if you want to talk. I have an open-door policy.”

  Whatever that means. But I smile and say, “Thanks,” before turning around and speed-walking to my office, the messages in my pocket crackling and practically calling out to me to be read.

  What on earth could possibly be so important that Luke would resort to calling Fairfax’s English office to get in touch with me? I have a cell phone (fully charged, thank you very much) and email. I also have an agent. So, I may not be returning his messages, which are all very vague and curt, but that’s my prerogative. His calling the office makes me seem like such a self-important prima donna. Like I told people to contact me there, so I could show off to the faculty that I’m a big deal. Arrrgggh! Damn him!

  As soon as I’m in the cozy confines (claustrophobic’s hell) of my office in the basement level of the English building, with the door closed, I pull out the messages and read them. The good news is that he didn’t go into any detail in the messages, so Liz—and Miles—aren’t privy to any of my business. The bad news is, he didn’t go into any detail, so I still have no idea why he’s so aggressively trying to reach me. I check my personal email one more time (nothing) before resigning myself to calling him back… after I check with Tullah.

  Tullah knows nothing. She hasn’t heard anything from anyone at Thornfield in more than a week. I’m about to ask her to call Luke and see what the deal is, but it makes me feel too much like a chickenshit, so I bravely tell her, “I guess I’ll give him a call back, then.”

  “That’s usually the logical step when someone’s left you numerous messages to that effect,” she replies wryly. “Is everything okay? Is there a particular reason you’re hesitant to call him back?”

  “No! Not at all! I’m… busy.” Irritably, I tack on, “And I don’t want to get into some stupid conversation about the implications of choosing to use ‘that’ rather than ‘whom’ in a certain context. He’s so nitpicky!”

  “Hmm... Well, you could have already called him back by now,” she points out unhelpfully.

  I sigh and snap, “Fine. I’ll call him back. I wish he’d be more specific in his messages so I have some idea of how long the conversation’s going to take and if I need to have my manuscript in front of me.” I look at the clock. The afternoon is stretching in front of me; I have nothing else to do. But it’s the principle of the thing.

  “Call him back,” she intones blandly. “You’re only serving as the logjam in the process by dodging him. I know he’s not the easiest person to work with but…”

  “He’s fine to work with!” I suddenly and instinctively (not to mention, irrationally) find myself defending him. “He’s a genius! I mean… he’s very good at what he does. I’m not in the mood to talk to him, that’s all.”

  She laughs. “As puzzling as this conversation is, I have a teleconference to join in about three minutes. Regarding the adaptation of your book into a screenplay, as a matter of fact. We have several excellent candidates for the job…”

  “Yeah, okay, whatever,” I reply distractedly, already trying to figure out how I’m going to act when I talk to Luke. I haven’t spoken to him since we rode back to Boston together.

  Tullah breezily ends the call without another question. She obviously thinks my indifference stems from the same ennui I explained away a few weeks ago when I told her I was sick of the book and the characters after so much writing and re-writing.

  Placing my phone gently on my desk, I stare at it like it’s a deadly weapon with a mind of its own that could go into attack mode without warning at any second. I really don’t want to call him. Because I really do want to talk to him.

  The last message he left gave me instructions to call him back at a number I know to be his cell phone number. No. Too personal. I’ll call his direct office number and be patched through by Sally, like any other author.

  Sally greets me brightly and says she’ll put me through “right away,” which is unusual in itself. I’ve never waited less than two minutes on hold for him to answer one of my calls. The situation’s peculiarity continues when he hardly lets me get out a “hello,” before saying, “Call me back on this number,” rattles off ten unfamiliar digits, and makes me repeat them back to him before unceremoniously hanging up on me.

  What. The. Figgity?

  Intrigued, I punch the numbers into my cell phone, but when he answers on the first ring, I say, “Listen, James Bond, I don’t know what the subterfuge is all about, but—”

  “Be quiet,” he interrupts shortly. “Why has it taken you so long to return my messages?”

  “I have a life,” I reply simply.

  “That you do. A very interesting one, from what I’ve gathered recently.”

  If he has a private investigator tailing me, the idiot’s been following the wrong person, because nothing I’ve done recently can be remotely described as “interesting.” Instead of asking him what he means, I say, “I’m calling you back now, so what’s going on? And why did I have to call this other number? I don’t have time to play games.”

  He also ignores everything I say, so it seems like we’re having separate conversations when he asks, “Where does your family live?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Your family. Mom. Dad. Siblings. Where are they?”

  My heart thuds. My mouth dries. “None of your business!”

  “Don’t fuck with me, Jayne,” he says in a low growl. “I’m not asking out of idle curiosity. You can either tell me, or I can assume what I’ve heard is true.”

  “What have you heard?” I practically whisper, leaning back in my chair and hitting my head on the wall behind me.

  “Answer my original question, damn it!”

  “Why? I don’t understand why you want to know. Or why it matters.”

  “That’s exactly why you need to answer it. God! After all this time, you still don’t trust me?” he laments.

  “I think our history is precisely why I don’t trust you.”

  “I have always been honest with you, Jayne, to a fault. At my own peril sometimes. So stop playing the victim and answer my fucking question!” he yells.

  My hands are shaking so badly that it’s hard for me to hold the phone to my ear. “I won’t tell you anything if you’re going to shout at me. I don’t have to take your abuse. You may think I do, because I’m
inexperienced and plain and… and a bit player in the publishing world, but I don’t. If you don’t have questions about my manuscript, then—”

  “A lot of people have big questions about your manuscript. Myself included. Which is why I ask, again…” He pauses, takes a deep breath, and says calmly, more gently, “Where is your family?”

  This is obviously about more than what’s going on between Luke and me. Dread grips me by the throat.

  I gulp, not sure if I’m physically capable of saying the words out loud. I’ve almost thoroughly convinced myself that The Devil I Know is fiction, a fabrication, and that I sprang from the earth and never had a family, which is what I’ve basically told myself for years to keep the truth from ever coming to light.

  Tenderly, he mutters, “I already know the answer, Jayne, so you don’t have to say it out loud, if you don’t want to. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t bully you.”

  Pressing my fingertips into my eyes, I squeak, “How did you find out?”

  “How did you think nobody would?” he retorts. “In this day and age, nothing is a secret, Jayne. Especially something like your story. A zit-faced intern in R&D put your name in a Google search and hit the fucking jackpot. You never even changed your name…”

  “Yeah, I’m a dumbass!” I snap. “Anything else?”

  “Of course, there’s something else. I didn’t need to call you to get this information. But I wanted you to know that I cared to hear it from you. And that I think you should be aware that the company is going to use this as a major marketing ploy to sell your book. They’re redesigning the cover to state, ‘Based on true events,’ and—”

  “What?! No! I didn’t authorize that!”

  “You don’t have to authorize it.”

  “Like hell I don’t!”

  “Jayne… I’m sorry, but…”

  “You have to tell them not to do that!”

  He laughs bitterly. “I have no say on those matters.”

  “Yes, you do! You’re Lucas Edwards. Everyone thinks you shit gold. I’m begging you! Please! Make them stop.”

  “If they knew I was telling you all this, I’d be fired. Most likely.”

  I don’t believe him for a second. And even if it’s true, I can’t help but lash out at him. “Oh, well in that case… Thank you so much for taking such a huge personal risk!” I snap sarcastically.

  “It is a huge risk,” he insists. “But it’s worth it. You’re worth it. I don’t agree with their methods. I think you should have a say in how your book is marketed, in how much of your personal, private life is revealed. Jayne…”

  When he doesn’t continue for several seconds, I prod impatiently, “What?”

  “I—I’m so sorry… about… your family. I—”

  “Don’t be. It was a long time ago.”

  “Does that matter?”

  “Does it matter that my book is largely autobiographical? Would you have treated it any differently in this process?”

  “No…” he hesitantly admits, “…but I probably would have treated you a little differently.”

  “Exactly. That’s why I never told you. Or anybody. I don’t want to be treated differently. I’m just a plain, old person.”

  Artlessly, he blurts, “But you have no one!”

  I blink and swallow repeatedly. Finally, I manage, “Uh… thank you for pointing that out so bluntly.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Yeah. I do. Anyway, thanks for the heads-up. I guess… I mean, maybe I need to contact an attorney.”

  “Don’t waste your money.”

  “I have to try.”

  “No, you don’t. Your contract is iron-clad. You won’t win. They’re not making anything up about you. They’re stating facts. And they can travel to your hometown to corroborate everything they’ve found out on the Internet. Should you let them know you’re not happy with this marketing strategy? Yes. Should you voice your objections and ask them not to use this private information about you? Absolutely, if you feel strongly about it, which you obviously do. Should you turn this into a protracted legal battle you have no prayer of winning? No. I didn’t stick my neck out so you could take action; I’m telling you all this so you’re not blindsided. That’s all.”

  “Oh. Now I see,” I mumble. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone this information came from you.”

  “That’s not what I’m worried about.”

  “Yes, you are. You said yourself that you could be fired for leaking the information to me. What is this number you had me call? A pay-as-you-go phone registered under a fake name?” I snort. “Puh-lease, Luke. I recognize someone covering his ass when I see it.”

  “You don’t know anything.”

  “I do! That’s a common misconception among you and your colleagues when it comes to me, but I do know things. I know plenty. I definitely know when I’m being fucked over. And when I’ve been played. Well, done.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “‘I’ve got Ms. Greer under control,’” I repeat what he said to Arthur Thornfield about me.

  He pauses. “I still don’t follow. Who said that?”

  “Stop playing dumb. You’re too smart for that, considering you could write a how-to manual about charming hayseeds into doing what you want them to do. Start with intimidation, then tone it down and become generous, downright protective and indulgent, toss in some flirting and a lot of flattery, a kiss or two is a nice touch, and then snatch it all away—”

  “Nothing I ever said or did around you was calculated or manipulative!”

  “‘You’re twice the writer Tom Ridgeworthy is.’ ‘My wife makes me so miserable, but you’re such a good person.’ That reminds me… was Caroline in on everything, too?”

  “There was no ‘everything!’ What you saw was my actual life, unfortunately. And I meant everything I ever said to you. And a lot more that I never did say.”

  “Your commitment to this deceit is admirable. Perhaps you missed your calling in the CIA. Tom Ridgeworthy should consult you for his next book.”

  “Jayne, you’re not in your right mind.”

  “I’m sure that’s what you’ll tell Arthur and Blanche and all the others, too.”

  “Don’t be this way. Don’t think the worst of me. Please.”

  “What else am I supposed to think? Do you actually expect me to believe that you care about me? That you’ve contacted me out of the goodness of your heart? This is probably part of Thornfield’s plan, their way of giving me notice of what they’re about to do to me, so I can’t say I wasn’t warned.” Only when a sob breaks up the last word do I realize I’m crying. “I don’t know who to trust or what to think anymore. Like you said, I’m alone. I have no one.”

  “That’s not true. You have me.”

  “Shut up. Stop it.”

  “No. I can’t stand your lumping me in with the rest of them.”

  “You should have thought of that before you conspired with them to ‘control me.’”

  “I have no recollection of ever saying that, so I obviously didn’t mean it as sinisterly as you interpreted it when you overheard it. Is that what happened? You heard me say that to someone? On the phone, perhaps?”

  “Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”

  “It does matter to me.”

  “Well, it shouldn’t. I have to go.”

  “No! Please, don’t hang up on me.”

  “I’m busy,” I lie. “And I need to call Tullah to get her advice about this.” I wipe the tears that are threatening to drip from my chin. Stiffly, I say, “Thank you for bringing this to my attention.”

  “Jayne—”

  “Goodbye, Luke.”

  “No! Jayne!”

  I hit the button to disconnect the call and collapse across my desk.

  My calling him a liar is highly ironic, considering most of what I just said to him was a lie. Biggest lie: “I know plenty.” I know nothing. I have suspicions about some things, but eve
rything else? Clueless.

  Well, that’s not true. I know I’m in deep shit. Not only professionally, either. When Gus finds out—which is going to have to be sooner, rather than later, so that he hears it from me and not from a poster hanging in the window of a bookstore—he’s going to be furious. And hurt. I’ll call him tonight, after this is all a bad memory associated with a bad day. Unfortunately, that’s the least of my worries.

  Right now, I have to figure out if there’s any way to prevent Thornfield from turning me into the poster child for sad stories. To do that, I have to call Tullah. Because surely she’ll know what to do. She’ll know how to fix this.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “There’s nothing we can do,” she breaks the devastating news when she ends my hour-long wait for her to call me back after consulting the agency’s attorneys.

  “What do you mean?” I reply disbelievingly. “There has to be something.”

  “There was a way for you to protect yourself from this,” she informs me. “And that was to disclose this information when we drafted your contract with Thornfield. Then we could have specifically written a non-disclosure clause into it. As things stand now… you’re at their mercy.”

  “Oh, fuck me.”

  “Yes. Are you sure you don’t want to tell me who let you know about this? It could help, you know.”

  “No! I promised I wouldn’t say. Their job could be at stake.”

  “Alright then. Well, it sounds like your source had the best advice: request that Thornfield doesn’t use this knowledge and hope they respect your wishes,” she concurs with Luke.

  “And if they don’t?”

  She sighs. “Like I said, we don’t have a non-disclosure clause, so… they can use historical facts however they choose. Unfortunately. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault.”

  “No, I know. But… anytime something like this—something unforeseeable, I’d like to add—happens to an author, I regret it. It’s a shame your experience may be ruined by something as unpleasant as this.”

  I hate to break it to her, but my experience was ruined way before now. As a matter of fact, this is sort of anti-climactic. I always thought the truth getting out would be the worst thing that could happen to me. It’s not even close to the worst thing in all this.