The Jane Austen Marriage Manual

by Kim Izzo

  We had consumed a pot of tea and a platter of scones and clotted cream by the time I got to the part where I boarded a plane for London. She looked at me aghast.

  “Bloody hell, you have had an adventure!” She laughed.

  I could tell that my antics from Palm Beach to St. Moritz had cheered her, at least temporarily, and we were giggling like old times. Then she became serious again.

  “Kate, darling, your masquerade may have fooled the Americans, maybe even this Russian bloke, but you can’t be calling yourself ‘lady’ here. The English frown on that sort of thing unless, you know, you’re a real lady.”

  “Technically I am a real lady,” I insisted. She raised an eyebrow and gave me a look that said I was only kidding myself. “Emma, really, who will notice?” I asked firmly. “You can’t pick up a magazine or a newspaper in this town without lady this or baroness that splashed across the pages, there must be hundreds; what’s one more lady in their midst? Besides, it’s not like anyone checks this sort of thing.”

  “Very well,” she said with a slight shake of her head. “Just be careful. Does anyone else know about your ‘estate’?”

  “Just my friend Fawn. Oh, and Griff.”

  “Griff?” she gasped. “You told him? You two became fast friends?”

  “Don’t think ‘friends’ is the right word,” I admitted and filled her in, though deciding at the last second to omit the gay part, just in case they didn’t know, either, and besides, I told Griff I could keep a secret.

  “He is a bit broody; I think he likes to keep people at arm’s length, though he’s harmless. But honestly, Kate, are you sure marrying for money is really a solution?”

  I nodded. “What choice do I have? And when you meet Scott, if you meet him, you’ll understand. We have a real connection. The fact that he’s wealthy, well, it would really help me.”

  She nodded and patted her stomach. “Well, better to do it now before you end up like me, barefoot and pregnant with an unemployed man.”

  “But you love Clive,” I said.

  “I do.” She smiled. “I really do.”

  Three days later I was at the London Art Fair and completely out of my element. Scott had left me a ticket at the front gate and I was to meet him in one of the makeshift galleries somewhere. The space was enormous, more like a convention hall than any art fair I’d seen. I know nothing about collecting art, so I wasn’t sure how this was going to go. On the one hand, I could admit my ignorance and acquiesce to Scott’s valuable opinion, which he would probably like. But I couldn’t buy anything. I decided it best to hate everything in the place to avoid any awkward moments.

  I walked around trying to find the Gallery Blume that was written on the ticket. I had dressed as artsy as I could and went for the beatnik look with a black cashmere turtleneck sweater and black wool pants with high-heel boots and it was a good choice; nearly everyone was in black.

  Halfway down one aisle of exhibits there was a rectangular sign with Gallery Blume written in Day-Glo orange. I gave my ticket to a waif-with-attitude-plus-clipboard and she granted me entrance into the room. There was Scott, holding court as always, surrounded by people I didn’t know, no familiar faces from either Palm Beach or St. Moritz. The man knew a lot of people.

  I had given Fawn’s advice lots of thought, as she knew I would. How to make myself indispensable and a seamless part of his life was a tough call. He had everything he wanted and then some. So I focused on what I had that Tatiana didn’t. My maturity, grace, and confidence, even if I had to fake those occasionally, were benefits to a man in his position. And I was Lady Kate; that had to count for something. I had a plan to execute; all I needed was the right entry point, and that depended on Scott.

  Studying the sullen faces and drab fashion sense of the crowd in the gallery, I felt confident that I could lend an air of sex to the room and swanned around, making a show of casually touring the exhibit, waiting for Scott to notice me. The sculptures were all life-size human forms with ragged edges and grotesque facial expressions. According to the exhibition notes the artist was depicting people at the precise moment of death during a biological terrorist attack. These would be easy to reject.

  “Kate!” Scott called out as he came to greet me. “So glad you made it!”

  He kissed each of my cheeks and put his arm around my shoulder. This was a hopeful start.

  “So glad you invited me,” I said and pointed to the sculpture. “Though I hate to say it, these aren’t what I had in mind.”

  “Yes, awful, aren’t they?” he said with a dismissive sniff. “If you’re not in a hurry, I just have to finish chatting up some old clients and then I can play tour guide. People are so frightened about their investments they want constant reassurance.”

  That was my sign to launch the plan.

  “If you like I can talk to them,” I smiled sweetly.

  He looked at me with an expression that said, “You? What could you say about finance?”

  “I can talk up the work you do and how great you are with money, all that stuff,” I explained quickly.

  He still seemed doubtful.

  “Speaking in general terms,” I continued. “Just to be supportive.”

  “You’d do that?” he asked. “Be my wingman, so to speak?”

  “Of course!”

  He pondered this for a moment. Then an invincible smile unfurled across his face; it was an expression that was hard to read but I said nothing. There was no backing out now.

  “That would be lovely,” he said and held out his arm. “Allow me.”

  I smiled happily and followed him over to a group of people who had gathered around a tray of champagne.

  “I’d like you all to meet my latest client, Lady Katharine Billington Shaw,” he announced.

  “Happy to meet all of you. But please do call me Kate,” I said, taken aback by his telling everyone I was a client. I had to go along now and smiled glowingly. “Scott is such a gifted financier, I’m thrilled to know he’s taking care of me.”

  I looked at Scott and he nodded and smiled. I had become very good at being Lady Kate.

  That was how I found myself seated in an upscale restaurant, opposite Scott, sipping a glass of Veuve. My little plan had gone well. I made it sound as though the only person who could guide millions through the recession was Scott. Then he would toss in a few specifics and I would nod in agreement, even though I hadn’t the faintest idea what he was saying. We volleyed back and forth until I was convinced his real clients were breathing a collective sigh of relief that their lives were in his hands. Scott was grateful. He told me as much.

  “You’re something else,” he gushed. “Now if you really want me to handle your money, I will do so happily and I won’t charge you a thing to set it up.”

  “That’s so generous of you, but I wouldn’t want to put you out,” I said evasively and tried to think of a legitimate reason why I had to turn down his offer. Other than the obvious, that I was broke.

  “No pressure,” Scott said kindly. “Let me know.”

  “I will,” I said, relieved. “My family has a long history with the advisor we use currently, so I’d have to figure a few things out.”

  He nodded as if he understood and I politely changed the subject. There was one thing I was dying to know, his side of the Tatiana tale. He needed little encouragement and he told me how he had caught Tatiana rifling through his e-mail and the fight that had ensued and that she had apologized and he begrudgingly accepted in order to make his appearance at the polo tournament.

  “I really wanted to watch the game in peace,” he confided.

  I didn’t let on that I knew the whole story but gave him all the sympathy and indignation that such an admission deserved. Though I must admit I began to feel a little sorry for Tatiana. I imagined her cold and shivering in some tiny apartment in Slovenia, cursing herself for having blown it with a man like Scott. For his part he seemed much more into me than I had ever imagined. He com
mented on how he’d found me attractive way back in Palm Beach and we had a laugh over my falling into the manure. He admitted that he was secretly thrilled when he spotted me on the tarmac in St. Moritz.

  I was, of course, ecstatic at this amazing turn of events. I began to relax and enjoy his attention. After all, the scene was perfect: glamorous location, great lighting, champagne, and an abundantly charming billionaire.

  “There’s a big art event, a charity thing, at the Serpentine Gallery on Friday,” he said with a billion-dollar smile. “Would you be my guest?”

  “I’d love to!” I said, a bit more shrilly than I intended.

  “But I need something new to wear!” I exclaimed to Emma. The party was in two days and I was desperate. As much as I loved my Chanel, Scott had seen me in it twice. And besides, I didn’t want understated glamour, I wanted out-and-out sexy. We were sitting on the bed in her spare room, going through my wardrobe, when she came across my dog-eared copy of Pride and Prejudice, which she picked up. It brought a smile to her face.

  “Kate, you have to read modern fiction at some point.”

  I looked at the tattered paperback in her hand. How I loved that book. I shook my head. “I haven’t been able to read it since my grandmother died,” I admitted. “I just carry it with me like a lucky charm.”

  “A talisman against falling in love with unworthy men?” Emma grinned.

  I giggled. “Let me show you the article I’m working on,” I added, and pulled out my notebook and handed it to her.

  “Jane Austen tips to marry a rich man? What rot!” She laughed. “Is this what your plan involves? Copying P and P?”

  “It’s a foolproof plan that’s worked for centuries. The trick is I have to play both roles now, Mrs. Bennet, the meddling mother in search of a man of good fortune for her daughter, and Elizabeth, who will only be tempted into matrimony by a great love. Scott fits the bill!”

  “Are you in love with him, then?” she asked.

  I contemplated this. “I’m definitely on the way to love.” I smiled.

  This seemed to satisfy her. I kept looking at my dresses and eventually threw my hands up in the air in defeat.

  “I know where we can look,” she said and grabbed her purse.

  That was how we ended up at Selfridges. At first the enormous showroom floor oozed potential with racks upon racks of designer gowns. But after two hours of trying on inappropriate and unflattering dresses I was exhausted. We had eliminated dozens as “too slutty,” or “too frumpy,” or my least favorite, “too young.”

  “I have to compete with twenty-five-year-old blondes in hot pink,” I said, dismayed.

  “You’re gorgeous and mature,” Emma consoled me. I hated the word “mature,” such a fake way of saying “old.” “You don’t look forty; no one will think you’re a day over thirty-two.”

  “I hope not!”

  “Try this one!” shrieked Emma. She had been the huntress on the sales floor all morning and threw a frothy black number that consisted of two layers of chiffon, and not much else, over the change room door. I shimmied into it and opened the door. Emma whistled.

  “That’s the stuff,” she said with a firm nod.

  I stood in front of a three-way mirror. It looked gorgeous and fit in all the right places; it had a plunging neckline that showed the appropriate amount of cleavage, was nipped in at the waist, and had a skirt that swung if I twirled, not that I planned to twirl, but it was an option. It was the right dress. Sexy but not over-the-top sexy, it was still a classic—and it came with a classic price tag. I stared at the tag. The money from my London perfume story had finally come in and I had slapped it down on my Visa. There was just enough room to cover the dress but I would have to forego new shoes.

  “I need to look the part,” I said confidently. “You have to spend money to make money.”

  Emma looked at the price tag and whistled. “He better be worth it,” she said with a raised eyebrow.

  “He is,” I answered, a bit defensively. “Billions, in fact.”

  “I suppose you could always return it the next day,” Emma suggested as we headed to the checkout.

  “That’s a possibility, isn’t it?” I said. Emma shook her head.

  “I was joking,” she said.

  “I never joke about clothes or money,” I replied.

  My new dress snug inside its garment bag, we headed to the escalator.

  “See, Emma, I do rich well,” I announced triumphantly and held my garment bag up high.

  “Don’t we all,” she said.

  27.

  An Exhibition

  No one can be really esteemed accomplished who does not possess a certain something in her air, and manner of walking, the tone of her voice, her address and expressions.

  —Pride and Prejudice

  Emma had poured me a vodka tonic to settle my nerves. This was a big night and I didn’t want to mess it up. I was sitting alone on the edge of my bed, poised for battle, when the doorbell rang.

  “He’s here!” Clive called up from downstairs. “Or at least his driver is at the door.”

  I leapt up and switched on the ceiling light to get a final look in the full-length mirror. What I saw made me shriek. Why hadn’t I noticed before now?

  “Are you coming down or shall I tell him to go without you?” joked Clive.

  “Emma!” I shrieked louder this time. “I need you!”

  I heard her run up the stairs.

  “What is it, Kate?” she asked, panic-stricken.

  I nodded at my reflection. “The dress,” I breathed. “It’s see-through!”

  Kate gasped. “Bloody hell,” she said and moved toward me for a closer look. After a full 360-degree inspection she called down to Clive, “Tell the driver to give her ten.”

  “What am I going to do? I’m practically naked!” I bit my lip. “I was going for class, not trash!”

  I wanted to blame Emma because she’d picked the gown, but in truth neither of us had noticed how transparent it was. The dressing room had been dimly lit and about two foot square.

  “What am I going to do?” I said anxiously.

  “Let me think,” Emma said, her finger tapping her left nostril. “The thong doesn’t help. Have you tried tights?”

  “Good idea,” I said and dashed into my suitcase for the one pair of tights I had that were black and opaque. I quickly slid them on over my thong and stood in front of the mirror triumphantly. Emma frowned and shook her head. “They won’t do. Too old lady. Looks like you’re wearing support hose, especially in those open-toed shoes.”

  I grimaced. She was right.

  “Do you have boy briefs?” she asked.

  “I just bought a package of black cotton ones from M and S today,” I said and ripped open the plastic bag. Emma waited as I removed the tights and thong and pulled them on.

  “There, much better,” she announced. I looked in the mirror; it looked like I was wearing a 1950s bikini bottom underneath.

  “You think?” I asked, still unsure. There was a knock at the door. It was Clive. He stuck his head in. “What’s all the fuss?”

  “You can see through my dress!” I said anxiously.

  “Is that all?” he said, annoyed. “Your rich bloke won’t wait forever.”

  Emma waved him off. “Thankfully your nipples don’t show through your bra,” she said with relief.

  “Hang on a minute,” Clive said and lowered the dimmer switch until the ceiling light glowed instead of blared and miraculously my underwear disappeared, or rather, my dress became opaque.

  “See, all better,” he said, a tad patronizing. “Trust me, the lights will be dim at the gallery and no one will see your pants.”

  “He’s right,” Emma confirmed. “I hadn’t thought of that; these types of events are almost always pitch black.”

  I stared at my reflection. The dress did look good. Who would have guessed that so much in life depended on flattering light—the lines on my face, and no
w the lines on my ass.

  “Thank you,” I gushed. “You saved my life.”

  “Hardly.” He rolled his eyes and clambered down the stairs. I supposed my hysteria was irritating to Clive. He had lost everything while I had become uncontrollably self-absorbed. But I had lost everything, too. And this was my one option to get it all back. I vowed that if I married Scott I would make sure that Clive and Emma were well taken care of.

  Clive was right. The lighting at the Serpentine Gallery was designed to illuminate works of art, not undergarments. As I toured the exhibition on Scott’s arm and sipped champagne, I felt confident and sexy, even as hoards of younger women paraded around the room. Scott was attentive, gracious, and thoughtful as he explained the artist’s work to me, which I needed, since I didn’t know squat about art. After we completed the full circuit I was relieved to enter the main reception area where the food stations and bar were located.

  It was here that the party was in full swing and I got to see Scott in action. He seemed to know everybody, or everybody knew him, and for the next hour I was caught up in a swirl of introductions and cocktail chatter. Of course, it’s these very situations where I shine brightest and determined to demonstrate the advantages a forty-year-old woman brings to the social table. I turned it on. I was charming. Sophisticated. Witty. And my charm, sophistication, and wit were increased each time he introduced me as Lady Katharine and each time I smiled graciously and told people to call me Kate. It created intimacy but people treated me with obvious deference and I liked it. They were his friends and acquaintances, mostly business and arts luminaries, and though I knew little of either, as a journalist I’m not shy, so asking them intelligent questions about what they did and what brought them to the exhibit was a snap. Scott had given me enough background on the art to wing it and with each conversation I amassed more opinion to pass off as my own for the next person and so on until I could come across as a bit of an expert. It was like conducting an interview. In fact, I could have written a review of the show if I’d needed to.