by Sally Mason
“Bitsy’s taking a bath,” Gordon says. “She has a thing about public transport and germs.”
He yells out: “Bitsy, Jane’s here when you’re done delousing yourself!”
Despite herself, Jane has to bite back a smile at his unchivalrous behavior.
Gordon points to an armchair.
“Please, sit. Can I get you a drink?”
“I’d kill for a Heineken.”
He crosses to the bar.
“I wouldn’t have tipped you as a beer girl.”
“For me beer’s the comfort food of booze.”
“Don’t tell me: summer nights on the porch with dad?”
He sees her face and laughs.
“Oh, don’t worry, I lay no claims to psychic abilities. It’s an archetypically American tableaux, isn’t it? Almost Rockwellian.”
Jane conjures him at the lectern, smugly talking down his students.
He would not have been the professor they would have wanted to buddy up to.
But, despite his priggishness—or maybe because of it—she finds him oddly attractive.
Perhaps because he is the antithesis of her ex-fiancé, who had gone as Mr. Nice before his true nature had surfaced?
Watching Gordon pop the cap of a beer and pour it quite skillfully into a glass, with just the right amount of head, Jane scolds herself.
He isn’t different.
He’s also a liar.
Remember that, Janey.
Handing her the beer he seats himself opposite her and raises his wine glass.
“Cheers.”
“Cheers.”
Gordon says, “I’m pleased to have a moment alone with you, Jane.”
“What’s on your mind?”
“Well, I’m looking forward to your comments on the book, prior to it going to the publishers.”
“I’d rather discuss that with Bitsy present, Gordon.”
He laughs.
“I’m talking about Too Long the Night, Jane.”
“Are you serious?”
“Never more so.”
“Gordon, I understand you’re invested in your novel, but—how can I put this without being rude?”
“Oh, speak, speak. I have a dartboard for a skin.”
“Okay. This is hardly the time to talk about Too Long.”
“Please don’t call it that.”
“What?”
“ ‘Too Long.’ ”
She laughs.
“But it is.”
He looks crestfallen.
So much for the thick skin.
You idiot, Jane!
She needs this man on her side.
Jane scrambles to undo the damage.
“Gordon, I’m just kidding. Too Long the Night is a huge book,” she says, somehow managing not to say a huge stinker of a book, “that deserves my full attention. You wouldn’t want me to rush through it, would you?”
He shakes his head, seemingly placated.
Jane says, “The next few days are all about Ivy. Then, I promise you, I will take the time to do a detailed reading of Too Long the Night and give you copious notes. Okay?”
“I would appreciate that.”
“Meanwhile, I need you to stay in the background, Gordon. Bitsy is going to be showcased. Yours is strictly a supporting role, do you understand?”
“Perfectly. She’s Meryl Streep and I’m Kathy Bates.”
Jane laughs and so does he.
It’s the first time she’s heard him laugh and it’s surprisingly deep and even a little ribald.
The door opens and Bitsy, drowning in a fluffy toweling robe, appears.
Her sparse, stringy hair is still damp, her myopic eyes blinking.
Jane almost loses her nerve, daunted at the huge amount of work it’s going to take to get this mousy little woman anywhere near camera-ready.
“Are you comfortable here?” Jane asks.
“Oh, gosh, yes. This place is so grand. Wow!”
Gordon, seen only by Jane, raises his eyebrows before burying his fine nose in his wine glass.
“There are a couple of things I want to bounce off you,” Jane says.
Bitsy, taking the couch, her feet folded under her like a child, stares at Jane.
“Like what?”
“Well, your name for starters.’
“My name?”
God, is this little woman going to repeat every question the media sling at her?
“I spoke at length with my boss, Jonas Blunt, and he feels that Bitsy doesn’t quite have the ring that it should have.”
“Oh? What do you want to call me?”
“Lizzie. Lizzie Rushworth.”
“Sounds like the madam of an Elizabethan bawdy house,” Gordon says.
Jane shoots him a dirty look and he smirks into his glass.
Bitsy says, “I’ve never thought of myself as a Lizzie.”
“It’s just a game,” Gordon says. “Like we discussed on the train.”
“Yes,” Bitsy says. “I suppose it is. That’s okay, I guess. But you two will have to keep on reminding me. I’m terrible with names. Even my own.”
“We’ll be with you every step of the way, I promise,” Jane says.
“Now, I’m not sure what you want me to wear. I brought a few outfits, maybe you could have a look?”
Jane holds up a hand.
“No need. Tomorrow we’re going to give you a complete makeover. Top to toe.”
Bitsy stares at her, looking anguished.
“Gosh, really?”
“I’ll be here at 9 A.M. and we’ll spend the day together, getting your hair done, getting you a range of clothes and working with a stylist on your make-up.”
“I don’t wear make-up.”
Gordon says, “Bitsy, everybody wears make-up for TV and photographs.”
“Gordon’s right. It’s just part of the deal,” Jane says.
“I have a terribly delicate skin. I’m allergic to almost everything.”
“Don’t worry, we’ll work with a professional.”
“Oh, I’m feeling all panicky now, Jane. This seems so . . . so stressful. Can’t I just be myself?”
Gordon stands and puts a hand on his sister’s shoulder.
“Bitsy, just think of the author photographs on the romance books you vacuum up. Those women make Jacqueline Susann’s war paint look positively understated.”
Bitsy giggles.
“I suppose you’re right. Some of them look almost embalmed.”
“Exactly,” Gordon says, tipping Jane a wink.
Jane stands.
“Well, I hope the two of you have a pleasant night.”
“Some meditation and then to bed for me,” Bitsy says.
Gordon shows Jane to the door and Bitsy disappears into the bedroom.
“She’ll be okay, I promise,” Gordon says. “She’s just a little overwhelmed.”
“Thanks for what you said back there. You helped.”
“Oh, it was nothing. That’s why I’m here.”
“It’s weird, Gordon, but when you allow yourself to, you really get women,” Jane says. “Which is probably why Ivy is so huge.”
“I fear that Heineken has gone to your head.”
“Good night, Gordon.”
“Good night, Jane.”
She walks away telling herself that she won’t look back, but—just before she reaches the elevators—she does sneak a look and he’s still standing in the doorway, watching her.
When he sees her turn he ducks inside and Jane steps into the elevator feeling oddly buoyant.
19
“So this is how a bridesmaid feels?” Gordon says to himself as he unlocks the room two floors below his sister’s suite.
The room is perfectly pleasant (he can’t recall ever staying in a better one) but it pales beside Bitsy’s luxurious accommodation.
“Your ego taking a dent, Gordy?” Suzie asks, appearing by the window.
“You’re not here,” he sa
ys, turning his back on her.
She pops up by the mini-bar.
“Oh yes I am. I’m wherever you are.”
“Why are you tormenting me?”
“Because I’m you, Gordy. Don’t you see? I’m the other you waiting to be freed.”
“What are you saying? That I have a transgender psyche?”
“You’re a putz.”
When he heads to the mini-bar she disappears and he pours a shot of Scotch, hoping he’s seen the last of her.
But when he turns she’s perched on the bed.
“Lay off the sauce, Gordon. You’re becoming a lush.”
“Why the hell do you speak like a character from a dime novel?”
She smiles at him.
“Because I’m your id, Gordy. I’m everything that’s primal and carnal and just plain fun waiting to burst out of you like a geyser. I’ve had enough of this life of the mind crap.”
“Please go away.”
“When last did you get laid Gordon?”
He takes a belt of his Scotch and says nothing.
“Four years ago? Five?”
“I’m not going to dignify that with an answer.”
“I saw the way you were eyeing that babe, Jane, earlier. You want to do the wild thing with her. Admit it.”
“Don’t be obscene.”
“Oh, come on. I saw you undressing her with your dirty little eyeballs.”
“This is juvenile.”
Gordon turns from the bed only to find Suzie leaning against the closet, arms folded.
“You haven’t had any action since you ended it with Ludmilla, have you?”
Ludmilla Orson, a fellow academic at the University of Northern Colorado, where Gordon had spent a year.
He and Ludmilla had shared a love of dead philosophers, and this, after many conversation-heavy meals, had led to tentative talk of marriage.
A union of like minds.
When the university didn’t renew his contract and he’d moved on to South Dakota they had promised to stay in touch but a few desultory emails had dwindled to nothing and he hadn’t heard from her in four years.
Suzie says, “And action isn’t really the right word to describe you and Millie in the sack, is it? I vividly recall a journal entry of yours at the time: Ludmilla is about as easy to thaw as a layer of permafrost. And half as passionate. Quite amusing, Gordy, if a little sad.”
“Go away.”
“C’mon, Gord, own up to some real, red-blooded feelings. You want recognition. You want the limelight. You want to bed hot babes who swoon over you at book signings. Why else did you spend ten years sweating over that monster of a tome?”
“Not for any of the reasons you have just mentioned.”
“Why don’t you come out and admit to writing Ivy, Gordon? Think of all the fun you’ll have. It’ll be you, not frumpy little Bitsy getting to hang out with hot Ms. Cooper tomorrow, getting pampered and preened. And it’ll be you getting all the media attention. Think of the stir you’ll cause if you reveal that Viola Usher is a man.”
“Over my dead body.”
“Don’t talk to me about dead bodies, Gordon, that’s my field of expertise. And it saddens the hell out of me to see you squandering what’s left of your youth and vitality on that boring, pretentious book when a world of pleasure, happiness and even love could be yours.”
“I’m a serious writer. That is what I live for. Now leave me in peace.”
And just like that she’s gone, leaving Gordon alone with his empty Scotch glass and a horrible, traitorous impulse to call Jane Cooper and spill everything.
To let the cat among the publishing pigeons.
But he reigns in this urge, pours himself another very small Scotch purely for medicinal purposes and takes to his bed thinking of Kierkegaard and Sartre and Nabokov and Camus.
And not thinking of Jane Cooper.
No, not at all.
20
When Bitsy Rushworth wakes she hasn’t the foggiest idea where she is.
She lies a moment in this massive, very, very comfortable bed, blinking up at a high, foreign ceiling, sunlight bleeding in at the edge of drapes that are definitely not hers.
Fighting back panic she decides she is dreaming and listens for the familiar morning sounds of East Devon.
Birdsong, the trundle of the milk cart and the tolling of the church bell.
But all she hears is a muffled, almost predatory roar.
A sudden realization has Bitsy sitting bolt upright, throwing off the comforter and rushing to the window, tearing open the curtains to reveal the vertiginous view over Manhattan, with its traffic clogged streets so very far below.
Panic takes hold and Bitsy battles for breath, turning away from the window, fumbling for the glass of water beside the bed.
As she sips from the glass Daniel Quant’s gorgeously weathered face appears before her and he says in that deep, melodic voice: “In the midst of all the movement and chaos that is to come, keep stillness within you.”
His presence, even though it’s a trick of her memory, is enough to calm Bitsy and remind her of her purpose: she is not here for herself.
She is here to save the Quant Foundation.
She will endure whatever hardships and privations are hurled at her to achieve her objective.
Bitsy checks the time on the bedside clock: 7:00 A.M.
Still plenty of time to prepare herself before Jane Cooper arrives.
Drawing on a robe, Bitsy goes through to the bathroom—a huge expanse of marble littered with gold fixtures.
She brushes her teeth and then returns to the bedroom, wondering what she should wear today.
It doesn’t matter, does it?
She will be peeled of her unsuitable clothes—like her unsuitable name—and remade in the image of what these New York publishing gurus consider to be a successful author.
How she longs for this to be over.
To be back in Vermont, traveling up to Daniel’s farm.
She imagines the moment when she hands over the first installment of the money that will keep the Quant Foundation alive.
Imagines Daniel’s smile of gratitude.
Smells the fresh, slightly cinnamony scent of his skin as he takes Bitsy into those powerful arms and holds her close, his lips finding hers.
This absurd, almost sacrilegious, reverie is shattered by the doorbell.
Who is this?
It’s much too early for Jane Cooper.
Bitsy crosses the vast sitting room, the buzzer shrieking again.
“Who is it?” she says, standing by the closed door.
“Son of Sam.”
“Is that you, Gordon?”
“Who else could it be, Bitsy?”
She opens the door and sees her brother in corduroys and a tweed jacket, his hair still damp from the shower.
“You’re up early,” she says.
He pushes past her.
“I just wanted to spend a bit of time with you, Bitsy. Brushing up on things.”
“I need to meditate, Gordon. To center myself.”
“Oh God, Bitsy, you have the rest of your life to gaze at the lint in your navel. We really need to run through things again, I don’t want any slip ups.”
“Gordon,” the new Bitsy says, “please leave.”
“What?”
“Leave. Go. I want to be alone until Jane arrives.”
He stares at her, mouth agape.
“You’re serious?”
She points at the corridor.
“Go. Vamoose.”
“Vamoose?”
“Scat. Make yourself scarce.”
He steps out of the door, his mouth still hanging open, and as Bitsy closes the door in his face she can’t quite smother a laugh.
Maybe today isn’t going to be so bad, after all.
Gosh, maybe it’s even going to be fun.
21
Jane, sitting in the rear of a cab with Bitsy (she must get used to ca
lling her Lizzie) is reminded of the pauper-to-princess fantasies she’d had as a kid.
But those fantasies always cast Jane as the one who was transformed, never in the role of handmaiden to the reluctant princess-to-be.
Watching Bitsy, who sits staring out at the crowded sidewalks with a look of barely concealed apprehension, Jane feels a twinge of sympathy for Gordon Rushworth.
No matter how he may pretend otherwise, it can’t be anything but painful for him to watch his dull sister step shakily into the spotlight that should be his.
Serves him right, Jane thinks, dismissing this unproductive train of thought.
The taxi pulls up outside Marcel’s, one of Midtown’s fanciest hairdressing salons.
Somehow Jonas Blunt, through his society connections, has leapfrogged them over the peons on the wait list, securing them a 9:30 A.M. appointment with Marcel himself.
“Lizzie, we’re here,” Jane says, but the woman doesn’t reply.
“Lizzie!”
At last Bitsy turns and says, “Gosh, I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to this name thing.”
Jane pays the cab driver and leads the way into the salon, assaulted by a toxic brew of perm lotion and hairspray.
A girl who could’ve just flounced off a catwalk stands behind a rococo desk, staring down at Jane and Bitsy.
“Yes?”
“We’re from the Jonas Blunt agency. We have an appointment.”
The girl sniffs, then uses a long-taloned finger to check an appointment book.
“Yes,” she says, astonished, “with Mr. Marcel.”
On cue something straight out of La Cage aux Folles appears: a short, plump man with a shock of teased red hair, squeezed into a pink jumpsuit.
“And who is zis?”
He looks at Bitsy, dismisses her, then flicks at Jane’s bob with a beringed finger.
“Mnnnn, mnnnn. That was done with a guillotine not a scissors.”
“The appointment’s not for me,” Jane says, “it’s for Ms. Rushworth.”
The man steps back and stares at Bitsy in horror.
“Holy mother of God, I am a hairdresser not a magician! What ees zat on your ’ead? Last week’s linguini?”
He flounces off and Jane nudges Bitsy in the side.
“Go with him.”
“Are you sure?”
