While We Were Watching Downton Abbey

by Wendy Wax

  “I understand all that,” Edward interrupted calmly. “But this is my company and my reputation. There is not one without the other.”

  Edward waited for the protest he could see forming on Jackson’s lips. It took a few moments, but Jackson managed to squelch it. It was good to know he had the capacity to think before speaking when the occasion demanded it.

  “No one who hasn’t worked in the trenches and learned firsthand what Private Butler is will ever represent me or my company. And not to put too fine a point on it but it’s a matter of ‘my company, my rules.’”

  Edward paused waiting for another protest, which would, as far as he was concerned, conclude this interview. Jackson remained silent. As Edward watched, the other man’s tight jaw loosened.

  “If you’re interested, I’ll assign you to the entry-level projects I think you’re best suited for and will train you as I have the others.”

  He waited, watching Jackson carefully as he did so. “Is that something you can live with?”

  Edward wasn’t completely sure what Jackson’s answer would be. Finally Jackson nodded. “Yes.” He stood and extended his hand. “I’m ready to start whenever you are.”

  Edward stood and shook the younger man’s hand. He gave him paperwork to fill out and walked him out to the lobby.

  Jackson stopped briefly at the concierge desk to flirt with Isabella. The girl’s giggle had nothing British about it and she blushed crimson when she noticed that Edward was watching.

  But as he watched Hunter Jackson leave the building Edward wasn’t thinking about Isabella. He was thinking that Hunter Jackson had a lot to offer. That with the right training and supervision it was possible that he could become a true asset to Private Butler. But Edward Parker had not just fallen off of the parsnip truck. He mustn’t allow himself to forget that Hunter Jackson was a person one should never turn one’s back on.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  BY FRIDAY AFTERNOON CLAIRE’S RELIEF AT THE salvaging of her book signing had begun to dissipate. Thanks to the Downton Abbey posse, disaster had been averted. She’d sold enough books to walk out of the store with her head up. It had not, however, improved her focus on the book she was supposed to be writing or eliminated the guilt she felt at the breadth and depth of her procrastination. In the days since, she’d sat and stared at her computer screen for maybe two or three hours each day, struggling to envision her heroine, now named Alana, whose goals and motivations continued to elude her and whose name she could not yet fully commit to. Claire’s mind felt as close to blank as it was possible to get without going on life support. That is to say she produced what might charitably be called . . . nothing. No matter how many times she asked herself what Nora would do, she could not bring her brain to heel or will her fingers to pick out the letters that would turn into the words that would allow her to begin.

  This time when Claire’s phone rang she recognized the New York phone number as that of her agent, Stephanie Rostan. Its appearance on her caller ID was rare; her agent did not dodge her as some agents dodged smaller, lesser-known clients, which she was. But she didn’t call to chitchat, either. Theirs was a business relationship. They communicated largely via email and talked only when there was something to talk about—a contract clause, a manuscript delivery date, a question about language.

  “Hello?” she answered tentatively.

  “Claire?” Stephanie’s voice was quick and clear, her manner direct. She was not unfriendly, but she didn’t pretend to the warm fuzziness that might allow an author to think he or she was in a business where anything but the marketability of the final product truly mattered.

  “Hi, Stephanie,” Claire said. “How are you?”

  “Good. You?”

  The pleasantries, such as they were, out of the way, her agent came to the point of the call. “Scarsdale is grateful that you stepped in Tuesday night. Wendy McCurdy called me,” she said, naming Claire’s editor at Scarsdale. “She’s eager to read what you’ve got on the new book. They’ve had a slot open up for next November, which would get you on the shelves almost five months earlier than we expected. You could have that slot if you can deliver a complete manuscript by June first.”

  Claire may have stopped breathing. Surely that was what was causing the lack of oxygen to her brain. “I’m sorry. What did you say?” Claire’s heart pounded and her mouth had gone dry. She hadn’t even committed to her character’s names or completed a serious character sketch.

  “You definitely want to jump on this while they’re feeling grateful and have you on their mind,” the agent said. “It’s a very good thing you’re writing full-time now. How soon can you get the synopsis and first three chapters to Wendy?”

  It had never before occurred to Claire that being in her publisher’s thoughts could be a bad thing. She’d flown underneath their radar for so long she could hardly process this.

  “Claire?”

  Claire’s brain was racing now, but not in any discernible direction. She knew the right answer was “next week” or even the week after that, but that, of course, was impossible. “Um, I’m not sure how long it’ll be until I have something that’s ready to be looked at,” she finally said. “I’m, um, waiting for a few things to gel in my mind.”

  There was a silence, but it, too, was quick and efficient. Stephanie Rostan needed nowhere near as long as Claire did to regroup.

  “Why don’t you send me what you’ve got and I’ll take a look at it?” Stephanie said.

  This was an unprecedented offer. Rostan had been an editor before becoming an agent so her feedback would be valuable. If, in fact, there were anything to offer feedback on.

  Claire began to pace her apartment, the phone pressed to her ear, her thoughts jumbled and uncertain. This was the opportunity she’d been waiting for. Somehow all of the publishing stars had miraculously aligned. And she was nowhere near ready to take advantage of it.

  Should she tell Stephanie what was going on? Or rather what was not going on?

  What would Nora do? The question caused a knot to form in the pit of her stomach. Nora would not be in this mess. Nora would have been writing her twenty pages a day every single day and would be only too happy to send off whatever her agent or editor wanted to look at.

  No. Claire stifled the admission of writer’s block and panic that threatened to spill out. Admitting what was going on would not be the relief she coveted. It would be a mistake.

  Her agent was not her friend. To be too honest about her lack of progress would be a fatal error; one her career might never recover from.

  The silence spooled out between them. Too much silence could be just as damning as too many words.

  “I want to read over what I’ve got and play with it a bit,” Claire finally said, feeling out and weighing each word. “I’ll let you know when I’m ready to send it.”

  It took an immense act of will not to allow this last statement to turn into a question. And an even greater one to hang up without adding an apology or an attempted clarification.

  In real life as on the page, there were times when less was, in fact, more.

  * * *

  NOT A SINGLE PERSON SKIPPED THAT SUNDAY NIGHT’S screening of the final episode of Downton Abbey’s first season. Samantha arrived ten minutes early and found the clubroom already abuzz with excitement. Everyone from Mimi Davenport to Callan and Logan Ritchie were already huddled around the drinks and hors d’oeuvres, fortifying themselves for the occasion, debating which story threads might be tied up and which would be left hanging to lure them back in.

  “I can’t wait to see what’s going to happen to Anna and Bates,” Melinda Greene said.

  “And what comes after that kiss Mary gave Matthew,” her partner Diana added.

  There was laughter as drinks slid down throats. Plates were emptied and refilled.

  “What is this?” Claire sniffed her drink tentatively. “That’s not lemonade I smell in there, is it?” She eyed the bellman in his livery
.

  “No,” James replied. He shook his head. “Absolutely not.” He looked to the concierge for backup.

  “It’s Pimm’s Number 1,” Edward said. “It’s a mixture of dry gin, liqueur, fruit juices, and spices. It was created in 1859 and to this day the recipe is so secret that only six people know exactly how it’s made.” He’d dropped his voice to illustrate just how hush-hush a thing the recipe was. “We also have Buck’s Fizz—champagne mixed with orange juice—what you would call a mimosa.” He smiled at Claire. “I’ve made a vow that lemonade will never again darken a Sunday evening screening. So you may drink assured that there is not a shandy in sight.”

  “Why, thank you, Edward. That’s very civilized of you,” Claire teased.

  “My pleasure, madam.”

  “Cheers then!” Claire raised her highball glass and clinked it against Edward’s, Brooke’s, and Samantha’s. Isabella came up to them with a tray of English cheeses and water crackers. The other hors d’oeuvres were less easily identifiable.

  Samantha peered more closely at what looked like sausage bites and . . . “Is that mashed potato?”

  “It’s that all right.” Isabella curtsied smartly and bobbed her head. “If you’re feeling a bit feckless it’ll be bound to ’it the spot.”

  “That’s ‘peckish,’” Edward sighed. “Meaning a bit hungry, as opposed to worthless.” His tone was beleaguered, but his lips twitched. They had discovered that Edward Parker’s formality ran bone deep, but his marrow was warm and soft and infused with a decided naughtiness. “Isabella’s accents are evolving and developing nicely,” he continued. “Sometimes her word choice is a bit . . . dicey.”

  “This is a version of bangers and mash,” the concierge explained. “A miniature version. I do hope I won’t be struck dead for playing around with such a traditional dish. Normally you’d be served a heaping plate of it. Tonight all you have to do is dip the sausage bit into the mashed potato and . . .” The concierge popped the potato-covered sausage into his mouth and chewed it with polite relish.

  Samantha and the others did the same.

  “Yum,” Brooke said.

  “Ditto,” Samantha said as she savored the appetizer’s combination of warm gooiness and firm chewiness. “I’ve always been a closet meat and potatoes junkie. This hits all my favorite food groups.”

  “I’ve never met a food group I didn’t like,” Brooke admitted as she chewed the mini banger and mash. “But at the moment I choose to believe that this delicious meat-and-potato moment is going to be too brief to do real damage.”

  “Well, if it does, we’ll just have to burn it off on the elliptical,” Samantha replied though, in fact, she had no idea whether Brooke had been on the machine since their first encounter. Nor did she know how Brooke was dealing with having her ex-husband and his girlfriend in the building.

  “You’ll most likely burn it off shopping,” Edward said to Brooke. “I understand you’ve scheduled a shopping expedition with Marissa Dalton.”

  Brooke blushed. “Yes. We’re going on Wednesday.” Her voice held both enthusiasm and embarrassment; it was hard to separate them out. Samantha promised herself she’d take the time to reach out to Brooke. At the moment she would have liked to reach out to Edward and ask whether he’d heard from Hunter, but she was afraid that the answer was no.

  “Was your publisher pleased with your signing event?” Edward asked Claire, pulling her into the conversation. He really was a master at making everyone feel included.

  “Yes,” Claire said. “Thanks to you all, I seem to be a somewhat larger blip on the radar screen up in New York.” She smiled, but her tone sounded far more worried than satisfied.

  “Isn’t that a good thing?” Brooke asked.

  “Yes. It’s supposed to be.” Claire nodded and flashed another smile. But something didn’t quite jibe.

  Looking up, Samantha noticed that people had begun to move toward their seats. Claire and Brooke went to the bar for refills while Samantha stayed with Edward, debating once again whether to come out and ask about Hunter.

  “Your brother came by Friday to discuss Private Butler,” Edward Parker said, ending her internal debate.

  Unable to trust her voice, she watched his face. When it came to her siblings, she’d learned to hope for good news but brace for the bad.

  Edward gave her a white-toothed smile. “It went well. Better, I think, than either of us expected,” he said, putting her out of her misery.

  “That’s great,” she said, trying to mask her sigh of relief. “I hope that something mutually beneficial will come of it.”

  “That would be nice,” the concierge said in an equally casual tone. But there was something in Edward Parker’s eyes that made her suspect he could see right through her to the embarrassingly frantic happy dance that was taking place inside her.

  * * *

  THEY WATCHED THE LAST EPISODE OF SEASON ONE in a delicious silence as one after another of the elegant soap opera’s story lines played out. Lady Mary came back from the London season no longer the desirable debutante she’d once been. In a move that owed much to Margaret Mitchell’s Scarlett O’Hara, Lady Mary ruined her sister Edith’s marriage prospects while dampening Matthew’s affections. Mrs. Patmore’s eyes were worse, which made cooking for both family and staff at Downton a serious problem, and a new-fangled device called a telephone was installed.

  There were gasps as the bitter and ever-nasty O’Brien ended any hopes of an heir that might supplant Matthew Crawley. There were sighs as what began as a garden party ended with Britain at war with Germany.

  They sat quietly, barely moving, through the closing credits and the very last note of music. Edward Parker turned off the screen and gently raised the lights. He smiled at them, patiently waiting as they drifted slowly back to the present.

  “I’ve enjoyed our first season together,” he said with real warmth. “I hope you’ll stay for a bit. We’ve got sticky toffee pudding and brandy for ‘afters.’ And I think we’ll take just one week off before we begin season two.”

  There were groans and protests.

  “That will allow us to end just in time for the holidays. Which will leave us ready when the brand-new season airs in January on the Atlanta PBS affiliate.”

  They stood and stretched, then moved toward the tables where dessert had already been set up. As had become their habit they carried plates and snifters to the conference table. Samantha, Claire, and Brooke took seats together.

  “Thank God we start season two right away,” Claire said. “I don’t think I could wait a year to see what happens next.”

  “I know. It’s been hard enough to get through the whole week,” Brooke agreed.

  “I can’t tell you how tempted I’ve been to order season two and then just pretend ignorance when we start back here,” Samantha said, only half joking. “Except that I’d have to make sure it arrived in a plain brown wrapper.” She shot a look of feigned worry over her shoulder toward Edward Parker.

  “Or went to a PO box,” Brooke added.

  “Or a secret drop box, which you could only access in a trench coat in the dead of night,” Claire said.

  Samantha bit back a smile. “Leave it to the writer in the room to come up with the most complicated scenario.”

  Brooke laughed.

  “I heard that,” Edward said. “Delayed gratification is a character builder.”

  “So are natural disasters,” Samantha replied. “But no one would intentionally experience one.”

  “I should perhaps warn you that the PBS affiliate has been airing repeats,” Edward said. “But I assure you you’ll enjoy the experience more if you watch them in order.”

  He gave them all a mock stern look. “Perhaps we need to institute our own abstinence campaign.” He said this in the driest of tones, but an almost impish smile played around his lips. “I could get each of you to swear a pledge.”

  “Oh, my God,” Samantha said as laughter erupted around the ta
ble. “‘Just say no’ is about to take on a whole new meaning!”

  Everyone was reluctant to leave and the good-byes were long and drawn out. Samantha, Brooke, and Claire lingered longest, only leaving the clubroom when Isabella and James had finished cleaning up and left. Edward said good night and locked the clubroom door. The three women lingered in the hallway near the elevator.

  “It’s so weird to go home to an empty apartment. And even weirder to think the girls are sleeping just a few floors away,” Brooke said.

  “I know. I still find myself thinking I need to get home for Hailey even though I don’t,” Claire said. “I can’t imagine what it would feel like racketing around our old house in the suburbs all by myself. I feel kind of like one of the three bears saying this, but at the moment my studio apartment feels ‘just right.’”

  Samantha thought about her palatial apartment and the man who’d provided it. Relations between her and Jonathan had normalized, but Jonathan’s accusation that she didn’t know him at all still hung in the air between them. She’d caught him looking at her, some question that he didn’t ask and that she was afraid she couldn’t answer, in his eyes. If it hadn’t been for Hunter . . . but if it hadn’t been for Hunter and Meredith, would she even be married to Jonathan?

  “Are you really doing another job for Private Butler?” Samantha asked Brooke, the thought of Hunter pulling her back. “I thought the birthday party was a onetime deal.”

  “So did I,” Brooke said. “But the money’s great. And the Daltons are . . .” Her voice trailed off. “Well, I’m glad I have a chance to fill in some gaps for Marissa now that her mother’s gone. And I have to admit the idea of her father trying to navigate a girls’ clothing department, well, I can’t decide if it makes me want to laugh or cry.”

  Samantha thought about Hunter again. She was relieved that Edward Parker was going to give him a chance. But as much as she’d pushed for this, she couldn’t quite picture what kinds of tasks he might be assigned to. “My brother’s going to be doing some work for Private Butler, too,” she said.