by Julia Kent
Or all three.
She continues. “I am, of course, most flattered that you would choose me for your costumer. I’ve taken the liberty of ordering a barouche for you—”
“A what?”
“A carriage. A horse-drawn barouche is difficult to find this time of year, but I have one on hold. The owner is awaiting the date, time, and location for his arrival to be at your service.”
“Were horse-drawn carriages part of courting?” I explicitly told Gina that none of this should take place outside. A muscle in my jaw starts twitching.
“Of course! Your administrative assistant is printing your calling cards, as we speak, unless you would prefer hand-drawn calligraphy. As you said that time was of the essence...”
“That is fine.”
“Rise!” she shrieks, looking at my crotch like Marie looks at my cousin Hamish. “You have a freakishly long rise!” The satisfied chuckle that erupts from her makes Patience twitch as the intern hands over two pairs of pants.
I stand tall. That’s right. I sure do. Too bad Vince isn’t present to hear that.
“This will take some adjusting, Mr. McCormick.”
I repress the bizarre urge to mutter, That’s what she said.
“Call me Andrew.”
“Andrew,” she purrs, putting on a set of tiny glasses, peering at my package. “I’m afraid all of our existing costumes are for men considerably shorter than you, but we can do a fitting with my samples. This will require made-to-order trousers after we find your exact measurements.”
Meanwhile, little Emo Patience is taking notes suddenly while chewing on a fingernail until it bleeds.
“Fine. My tailor in Milan can give you my measurements.”
The woman titters. “Oh, dear, no, that won’t do at all. You see, Regency-era trousers are quite different from any bespoke modern day suit.”
She’s holding that tape measure like a dominatrix with a whip. “Or shall we fit you with breeches?” Her eyes narrow as she circles around me, taking in my body, the tip of her pink tongue poking out to lick her lips.
“Breeches?”
“Pantaloons?”
“I want whatever’s in Gina’s report.” What started out as a silly joke to call Amanda’s bluff has turned into something more annoying. I should call this off.
“She calls for the full Mr. Darcy treatment.”
“Fine.” I widen my stance. “Let’s get my measurements and just do it.”
Ten minutes later, the professor has recorded all my inches along with whatever last vestiges of innocence I used to possess. I feel like I should offer her a cigarette. I’ve had less intimate sexual encounters at frat parties.
“Did you have to be that...thorough?” I ask, resisting the urge to adjust everything.
“Nothing but the best for you, Andrew.” She hands me one of the pairs of pants she’s brought. “Please change into these. They are made of a fine wool and while the length is unacceptable, I believe the rise will be a near-perfect fit. We will recreate the design.”
I sigh and walk into my bathroom like I’m on Death Row, then repeat the walk two minutes later to show her the result.
Only this time, my stride is about six inches. I walk like a nineteenth-century upper-class Chinese woman with bound feet.
“These are—”
“Perfect!” the professor squeals.
“—cutting off blood supply.”
“One must suffer for historical authenticity. Men in Regency England were unashamed of their stallion-like figures.” She gives me a long look, eyes hooded. A long sigh ripples out of her. “And yet, we do have an issue with the front flap buttons.”
“Flap?”
She drops to her knees in front of me and pulls out a small measuring tape and a magnifying glass. “One moment,” she declares with a sigh, holding up a flap of fabric with buttons on it.
Just then, the door to my office opens. I look up.
And in walks Vince.
“I am having a hard time finding it,” Professor Kensley-Wentingham announces in a breathy voice. “I might need to get my tweezers.”
Vince crosses his arms over his chest and leans one hip against a chair near my desk.
“When dealing with a freakish rise like yours, Andrew, I am forced to be creative.”
“Freakish?” Vince asks.
“Freakishly long,” I clarify.
“The magnifying lens in her hand tells me everything I need to know, Andrew. No need to elaborate.” His tone tells me I’m never, ever living this down. At least he’s not Declan.
Professor Kensley-Wentingham looks up. “Oh, my goodness! You’re not the person he’s proposing to, now, are you? Because fitting a body like yours into breeches will require a crowbar!” she chortles.
“Proposing?” Vince asks, eyebrows up.
“Oh, dear. Have I ruined the surprise? Were you going to pop the question to your boyfriend? You used the term ‘partner’ and I—”
“Girlfriend,” I say tersely. It’s hard to be angry when a woman has a pincushion millimeters from parts of me that should poke, not be poked.
Professor Kensley-Wentingham stops what she’s doing, hand in mid-air, and slowly drops every implement, including the thimble perched on the tip of her tongue. She stands and gives Vince an aggressive visual inventory, taking in the broad muscles, the long black hair. It takes her a while. It should. He’s the size of a small mountain.
“You,” she finally says, “are a biological female?”
“No.”
“Then by girlfriend, Andrew’s referring to...?”
“Not me.”
“I am quite confused.”
“We noticed,” Vince and I say together.
“You’re not a couple?”
Gina walks in at that exact moment, eyes twinkling, pinging between me and Vince before settling on the professor. She punctuates that question with a shrug.
“Isn’t it obvious?” she asks the professor. “You see it too?”
Vince glowers.
“I’m preparing to propose to Amanda. My girlfriend.”
“Amanda Warrick?” Gina peeps. “The woman from Consolidated Evalu-shop who has all those two-hour meetings with you three days a week? Ohhhhhhh.” Her face twists with disgust. “Meetings?” she asks, using finger quotes. “I need more Lysol in my desk drawer,” she says out of earshot.
Except she’s not.
“And my sexuality is none of your business,” Vince declares. “But Andrew’s not my type.”
“I could be your type,” I insist, a little offended.
He gives me a funny look.
“Not that I want to be,” I quickly add.
Professor Kensley-Wentingham claps her hands twice and shouts, “Boys! Boys! As lovely as this sweet argument is, we have more important issues to attend to, such as your leggings.”
“Leggings?” I keep my voice nice and low. Masculine.
“Yes. In theater, the men wear thick pantyhose—”
Vince snorts.
“But for this custom fit, I suggest thigh highs.”
Gina snorts.
“Thigh what?”
“Thigh highs. Long leggings much like dress socks for men of your stature. They need to go far above the knee to fit the look. The fine wool we’ll use for the pants will be dry-clean only. Wouldn’t want to wash it and have it shrink!” she adds, with a laugh that sounds like a happy teakettle. Not that I would know, because I’ve tuned her out. The only sound I really hear is the mocking laughter radiating off of Vince.
“You are literally a walking vagina, Andrew,” Vince mutters.
“Why are you here?”
“To torment you.”
“That’s it? This isn’t our regular time.”
“Your Human Resources department hired me to do a wellness program.”
“On what? How to kill people through spin?”
“Reiki.”
“Reiki?”
�
�Yeah. Reiki. I’m a master.”
“You believe in that shit?”
“You don’t? You’re the one paying for it, Andrew. Anterdec’s writing me a big fat check.”
And with that, he walks out, leaving plenty of life force energy in the room.
“What a fine, strapping young man,” Professor Kensley-Wentingham says, craning her neck to watch Vince as he exits. “If he is ever interested in performing in a production of Beauty and the Beast, I would love to stay in touch.” At the word touch, she flutters her fingers on my forearm.
“How soon can the courting materials be ready?” I snap.
“During our earlier call, you said you needed this in three days. That was your request.”
“And?”
“I can do this in one week, exactly. I do need your girlfriend’s measurements.”
I mull this over. One week works. “Gina!”
“Yes?”
“Get the tailor from my brother’s wedding on the line and ask for Amanda Warrick’s measurements. Give them to the professor.”
“Oh, she will look delightful in a sheer bonnet! Or shall we do a capote? You are breathtakingly efficient, Andrew!”
So efficient that I escort her to the door—and make her Gina’s problem.
Jessica’s at it again, a text from Amanda declares as I read through my phone.
Sighing, I check out the Twitter stream. Jessica’s posting pictures from the Turkish restaurant and my hashtag:
#mccormickmendipitincrazy
“Ugh.” I click on the hashtag and find thousands of retweets, comments about Amanda and Shannon, links to the YouTube video of Amanda rescuing that dog from the hawk, and pictures from Dec and Shannon’s failed Boston wedding.
See? Amanda’s next text reads. She has more power than you think.
No, she does not, I text back.
I’m ending this. Now.
“Gina!”
“Yes, sir?”
“Call me Andrew, damn it.”
“Uh....yes, Andrew?”
“Get the local media buyer on the line.”
“The media buyer for all of Anterdec?”
“Yes.”
This is simple. Jessica’s power comes from being an influencer. If you want to cut an influencer off at the knees, you take away their ability to influence. Local restaurants, public relations firms, marketing specialists and more all feed Jessica a steady stream of information and magnify her importance by referring to her on Twitter, re-tweeting, and elevating her importance in social media.
Remove all that and she’s the peak of a pyramid of cheerleaders without a base.
And comes tumbling down.
“Cassandra Horning, Mr. McCormick. I do most of Anterdec’s Boston-area media purchases,” says a confident woman. I close my eyes and conjure up an image of a woman about my age, short brown hair, smart eyes behind glasses.
“Cassandra, I have a project for you.”
Within thirty minutes, we’ve banged out the details.
Amanda’s about to see exactly how powerless Jessica really is.
Chapter Seventeen
In the time since Declan and Shannon’s wedding, I haven’t gotten a haircut. The professor comes to my apartment this afternoon, exactly one week after our first encounter, for the final fitting and proclaims, “Your countenance suits the character! Dark, angelic hair with a touch of curl about your face. Pity you couldn’t grow out your sideburns enough to give yourself more authenticity.”
I think I paid her too much.
She insists on having me tuck my shirt into the breeches, and uses needle and thread to tighten the waistband, adding a few stitches at the back.
“Is that necessary?” I ask.
She seems offended. “I wouldn’t do it if it weren’t necessary.”
She sounds just like Dad.
By the time I evacuate her from my apartment and take a good look in the mirror, I realize she was right:
I could be a movie actor.
Amanda’s empire-waist dress, a dark beige on top and a billowy white skirt on the bottom, is slung over my arm, with a bonnet on the hanger. If I’m going to court her, she has to play the part, too.
Like it or not.
I arrive at the agreed-upon corner around the block from Amanda’s duplex just as the horse-drawn carriage makes its entrance. I drove here myself, in full costume, and I park the Tesla on the side of the road, hoping Newton is a decent town with low crime.
“Mr. McCormick? Will Sawyers.” The carriage driver is dressed in similar fashion to my own sartorial flair, though Professor Kensley-Wentingham was quite clear that my 1809 suit replica was one that an aristocrat would wear, while the liveryman’s suit was “for one of his station.”
Sniff.
I shake Will’s hand and look at the carriage. A throng of kids stands across the street, gawking. A few adults come out onto their front stoops and curiosity makes a few pull out their phones, snapping pics.
“We need to move fast, before social media beats us to Amanda.”
He doffs his hat and opens the carriage door. It’s an open-air barouche, with a single horse pulling the entire load. Lightweight and made of thick black material with huge metal wheels, it reminds me of a spider in carriage form. Amanda and I will sit next to each other, facing front.
Riding in a horse-drawn carriage along the streets of Newton, Massachusetts is a surprisingly uneventful process until you reach a stoplight. We’re stuck behind two cars, unable to make the quick right turn to go three houses down to find Amanda’s driveway.
“Filming a movie?” someone shouts from a group to our right.
I ignore them.
“Are there zombies? I loved that historical zombie movie!” a kid in a baseball cap screams.
“ZOMBIES!” a little girl shrieks. “I hate zombies!”
She bursts into tears just as the light changes.
“I hate zombies, too!” I call back, fist in the air. “Don’t worry.”
Her startled expression makes me laugh.
At least I don’t have to worry about the pictures finding their way to Jessica’s toxic stream of hatred in 140-character chunks.
A crowd follows, mostly full of pale kids who still have enough curiosity left in them to be peeled away from their video games, and by the time I climb out of the carriage, Will holding the door for me, Amanda and Pam are at their front door. Pam’s laughing as Spritzy barks.
Amanda is blushing, wearing a tight tank top and shorts that are about as long as my breeches.
And far looser.
“Mr. Darcy!” Pam calls out. “Does this make me Mrs. Bennet? Please tell me your per annum income.”
“I see you’ve read Austen.”
“Who do you think introduced Amanda to Pride and Prejudice?”
“Then I can blame all of this on you, Mrs. Bennet,” I say, as she comes in for a quick hug, pulling back and touching the lapel of my tailcoat, eyes wide.
I see the resemblance to Amanda when Pam smiles.
“Blame all of this on what? Because I think you’ve gone half mad, Andrew,” Amanda says. “Or you’ve been drinking. Maybe both. Did Lüq send Declan and Shannon another bottle of entheogenic wine?”
I ignore that. “You told me we haven’t dated long enough for me to think long term,” I say, making Pam’s smile freeze as if she just bit into a live lizard. “And that I needed to court you.”
“I meant go out on a few more dates before asking me to move in with you!” she contests hotly. “Not....this!”
I shrug. “I took you at your word. I am a man of mine.”
“Oh, brother.”
“Neither of them had anything to do with this, I assure you.”
Will approaches with the dress and bonnet Professor Kensley-Wentingham made for Amanda.
“What’s this?” she squeaks.
“Your dress and bonnet.”
“Bonnet? I’m not wearing that!”
“Let me go get my iPad so I can take pictures,” Pam says, clapping her hands with glee. Never seen the woman run like that.
“You brought an actual horse-drawn carriage from the Seaport District? It must have taken you hours to get here.” Her sense of marvel is not, I realize, because she’s impressed with my fine attention to detail.
It’s at the idea that I would actually spend hours doing this.
“No. My Tesla’s around the corner.”
She chortles. “The idea of you tootling around town in this—” she points to the carriage—“is absurd.”
“It’s still a better vehicle than your Turdmobile.”
The damn horse picks that exact moment to produce a giant pile of steaming manure.
“Looks like you’ve got a turdmobile of your own, Mr. Darcy.”
“Quit stalling.” I nudge her. “Go get dressed.”
“Get dressed? You’re serious?”
“I take my courting very seriously.”
“Andrew.”
“Amanda.”
“Mr. McCormick.”
“Ms. Warrick.”
Her eyes narrow and she throws her hands in the air. “Most guys would take my request for more courting and put a modern spin on it. You know. Dinner and a show. A Boston Harbor Cruise. A weekend in the Cape. Stand outside my bedroom window with a boom box playing Boston’s “Amanda.”
“I’m not most guys.” I make a note to get her that Boston album on vinyl, though. Nice touch.
“You’re really going to make me do this?”
“I’m not making you do anything, Ms. Bennet.”
She groans, but she does take the dress and bonnet with her.
Pam appears carrying an iPad and with the look I imagine most mothers have on their face when their kid goes to prom.
I wouldn’t know, because my mom died before I went to mine.
“I assume there is quite the backstory on this, Andrew.” Pam’s face lights up, her eyes smart and savvy, even if the way she carries herself is meek. Spritzy pants at me, beady little eyes blinking like he expects an answer, too.
“There is. It’s all Amanda’s fault.”
“Do tell.” Pam walks over to a cheap white plastic chair that’s on her porch and gently lowers herself, careful not to dump Spritzy out of the crook of her arm. Amanda mentioned her mom has fibromyalgia, and Dad’s mentioned Pam needing to rest more than most people, but I’ve never really noticed it.