“I thought it was about fat girls who lose the stones, find the man, and score the rock,” Bingley says. “Who knew?”
Johnny Amor laughs.
“Honestly, Bingley Nickerson,” I sniff. “I don’t know what I find more appalling: your blatantly sizeist attitude or your ill-informed, warped view of one of the finest subgenres of literature.”
“Give it to him, love,” Johnny Amor says.
“I could even argue that Emma is a chick-lit novel.”
“Emma?” Bingley laughs. “Chick lit?”
“At the risk of sounding absurdly reductive,” Knightley says, keeping his gaze fixed on the road, “Emma is a witty tale featuring a female protagonist and themes of friendship, romance, self-discovery, and, ultimately, personal growth. If it were published today it would be categorized as chick lit, or farm lit, because the story takes place in a rural setting.”
“If Jane Austen were alive today, she would be writing about Manolos and martinis instead of kid slippers and Madeira,” I say, resisting the urge to stick out my tongue at Bingley. “Say what you will about the vacuousness of Bridget Jones, but Emma Woodhouse spends an inordinate amount of time talking about ribbons. Hair ribbons. Basket ribbons. Ribbons for her gown. Ribbons for her bonnets. How many ribbons does one girl need?”
Knightley chuckles.
“Listen, love,” Johnny Amor says. “As much as I am enjoying this convo, I must ring off.”
I feel a flush of shame and I know, deep down in my bones know, Miss Belle’s ghost is hovering nearby, pursing her pale, ghostly lips and shaking her pale, ghostly head, because I conducted a conversation with one person while being on the phone with another. Then again, Miss Belle never met Bingley bleeping Nickerson!
“I’m sorry,” I say. “The next time you call, I promise I will give you my undivided attention.”
Next time, I will make sure Bingley isn’t buzzing around in the background, like some pesky old gnat. Buzz, buzz, buzzing. I hear Miss Belle’s voice in my head. Your mood should not dictate your manners, Emma Lee Maxwell; best not blame your rudeness on young Mr. Nickerson.
“Are you joking?” Johnny says. “I loved our tête-à-tête. Fancy meeting me for drinks sometime?”
“I would love to meet you for drinks, Johnny Amor! Would you mind if I brought a friend?”
“The highly literate friend?”
“A girlfriend.”
“I’m easy!” Clink. Clink. “I have a massive gig in a few weeks. Loads of bands. Fancy watching me prance around a stage in a velvet suit?”
“Are you kidding? I would love to watch you perform!”
Bingley groans.
“Brilliant! I’ll text you the address. It’s a late slot, so leave the glass slippers at home and plan on staying out past midnight, Cinderella.”
“Ooo, fun.”
“I’m chuffed to meet you and your girlfriend,” he says. “If something comes up, give me a bell. Cheerio.”
“Bye.”
Text from Johnny Amor:
Saturday, June 16 @ 7. The Lucky Pig. 5 Clipstone Street, Fitzrovia. Oxford Circus is the closest Tube station.
I have barely finished slipping my phone back into my purse when Bingley leans forward and drapes his arm over the back of my seat. He pushes his sunglasses on top of his head and pierces me with his sharp, green-eyed stare.
“Who is Johnny Amor?”
“A boy.”
“A boy!” He rolls his eyes. “Where did you meet this boy?”
“I haven’t met him. I am meeting him in London next month.”
“Are you off your trolley?” Bingley nudges his brother. “Did you hear that, old bean? Emma Lee has a date to meet some wanker in London.”
“I heard,” Knightley says.
“Johnny Amor is not a wanker!”
“There’s another thing,” Bingley cries. “Stop calling him bloody Johnny Amor.”
“That’s his name.”
“Is it?” Bingley reaches into his coat and whips his mobile phone out of his pocket. “Is it really? Are you quite certain? Have you Googled him?”
“Why would I Google him?”
“He Googled you, didn’t he?” Bingley lowers his voice, his words rumbling in his chest. “I stalked you, love, stalked you harder than a lad searching for spank shots of Adriana Lima. Did you feel it, love?”
“Ew!”
“Too far, Bingley,” Knightley snaps. “Apologize to Emma Lee.”
“Apologize? Have you completely lost the plot?” Bingley exhales so hard his breath flutters his curls. “What would Mum say if she knew Emma Lee planned to meet a strange man in London? A strange man named Johnny Amor?”
“What’s wrong with his name?” I ask.
“Johnny Amor? Honey, please.” Bingley rolls his eyes. “I’ll wager that is not his real name. Johnny Amor! Johnny Amor! It sounds fictitious.”
“Says the man named after a character in a Jane Austen novel,” I say, grinning. Knightley laughs, and I suddenly remember he was also named after a character in one of Jane Austen’s novels. “No offense, Knightley.”
“None taken,” Knightley says. “Seeing as you are also named after a character from the same novel.”
“Johnny Amor sounds like a right tosser,” Bingley says.
“You don’t know anything about him.”
“What do you know about him?”
“I know he has the sweetest granddaddy in the world and I know he studied English language and literature at Oxford.”
“Studied?” Bingley asks, eyebrow raised.
“Yes, studied. What’s your point?”
“Studied, not graduated?”
“He dropped out to pursue his passion.”
“Internet stalking?” Bingley scoffs. “No, don’t tell me, he’s a gigolo. His passion is meeting innocent women and bilking them of their fortunes.”
“He is not a gigolo.”
“Are you sure? Johnny Amor sounds like the name of a gigolo.” Bingley nudges his brother. “What do you think, old bean? Is Johnny Amor a dodgy sort who will diddle Emma Lee the moment he has the chance? Is he a gigolo?”
“Ew!” I slap Bingley’s arm. “You’re nasty. Nobody is diddling Emma Lee.”
“Diddle means rob,” Knightley explains, his lips quirking.
“Oh.” My cheeks flush with heat. “Well, he’s not a dodgy diddler and he’s not a gigolo.”
At least, I don’t think Johnny Amor is a gigolo. Then again, Mr. Amor did mention something about Johnny wearing velvet suits and engaging in a concerning number of Tinder hookups.
“Aha!” Bingley points at my face. “See there?”
“What?”
“Your forehead is furrowed.”
I slap my hand over my forehead, feeling for wrinkles.
“My forehead isn’t furrowed.” I look at Knightley. “Is it?”
“It was slightly furrowed,” he says.
“I definitely saw furrowing”—Bingley leans forward until he is practically sitting on the armrest—“which means you have misgivings about Johnny Amor, international man of mystery and gigolo extraordinaire.”
“I am not about that life.”
“What life?”
“That life of doubting people and being skeptical of everyone I meet,” I say. “I trust people until they give me a reason to distrust them.” I look at Knightley, frowning. “Distrust or mistrust?”
“They are roughly the same,” Knightley answers. The sunlight is slanting through the driver’s window, illuminating his handsome face. “Though, when you distrust someone it is usually based in a negative experience. Mistrusting someone means you have a general feeling of unease, even if it is not based in a negative experience.”
“Thank you.”
“Yes,” Bingley says. “I am sure Emma Lee is grateful for the grammar lesson, Professor Nickerson, but I am more concerned about her safety. She is about to go on the pull with a gigolo.”
“On the p
ull?” I ask.
“Slang for hookup,” Bingley explains.
“I am not hooking up with Johnny Amor.”
“You’re not?”
Knightley exhales. Loudly. Is it my imagination or does he look relieved, has his posture relaxed a little?
“I am meeting Johnny Am”—I stop myself before saying Johnny’s last name—“to see if he would be a good match for Deidre.”
“Deidre? Waites?” Bingley laughs. “What makes you think a flamboyant lounge singer would be a good match for a shy village sweetshop owner?”
“Johnny’s granddaddy said one of the reasons Johnny dropped out of Oxford was to help his best friend start an indie book publishing company. Deidre left Oxford to take care of her mother and tend to the family sweetshop.” Knightley looks at me and smiles, and my heart feels weightless again. “That tells me they are both compassionate and self-sacrificing. It doesn’t matter if Johnny lives in London and dresses in velvet suits—”
“Hang on!” Bingley hoots with laughter. “You didn’t say anything about velvet suits. I think we have the answer to our most provocative question. Johnny Amor is certainly a gigolo.”
“—just as it does not matter if Deidre lives in a village and wears quirky hipster clothes,” I say, continuing as if Bingley had not interrupted me. “Those things don’t matter. What matters is character. Fashion is transient, Bingley; an ugly soul is forever.”
“Hear, hear,” Knightley says, turning the car off the road and onto the long drive leading to Welldon Abbey. “Jane Austen couldn’t have said it better herself. Though, surely she would have mentioned something about ribbons.”
I grin, pleased as pineapple punch by Knightley’s compliment, and rest my head against the plush leather headrest, staring out the window at the rolling hills dotted with wooly sheep. The Johnny Amor–Deidre Waites match is going to be a tremendous success. I can feel it, deep down in my bones, the same way I felt Lexi and Cash would make a great match, the same way I felt Zac Efron would be the breakout star of High School Musical. Lexi and Cash are engaged to be married and Zac is the only member of the HSM cast to make a name for himself in Hollywood, a real name. What has Ashley Tisdale been in since HSM, Scary Movie XVII? I am not hating on Ashley. I swear I’m not. Snaps to her for sticking in there and acting her little heart out in a string of B movies, voice-over gigs, and Disney shows, but she is no Zac Efron.
“Emma Lee?” Knightley’s deep voice startles me.
“Yes.”
“Bingley is concerned about you, even if he has expressed his concern in a childish and offensive manner,” Knightley says, staring at me with an intensity that takes my breath away. “We are both concerned about you traveling to London to meet a stranger. It is a big city and we would feel personally responsible if something bad happened to you.”
“You would?”
I look at Knightley, see the concern reflected in his brown-green eyes, and my tummy tenses again.
“Yes,” he says. “I would.”
“Where are you meeting Johnny Velvet Amor?” Bingley asks.
“A place called The Lucky Pig.”
“In Fitzrovia? I will go with you,” Bingley says.
“That’s not necessary.”
“It is,” Bingley says, leaning forward again.
“Seriously?”
“I believe it is my solemn duty as your foster brother to keep you from making atrocious errors in your speech and to safeguard you from velvet-wearing gigolos. You wouldn’t deny me the right to complete my duties, would you?”
“Bingley,” Knightley growls. “What gives?”
“What?”
“Why the sudden interest in chaperoning Emma Lee?”
“What?” Bingley cries. “What are you implying? That I have an ulterior motive?”
“Don’t you always have an ulterior motive for the things you do?”
“Ouch.” Bingley presses a hand to his heart. “That hurt, old bean.”
“You will survive,” Knightley says.
“I have an idea,” Bingley says. “Why don’t you go with Emma Lee to meet Johnny the Velvet Gigolo, Knightley?”
Knightley remains silent, gaze fixed on the drive, a muscle working in his jaw.
“Ha!” Bingley laughs. “What am I saying? Knightley Nickerson, publisher and CEO of Nickerson Publishing, would not be seen in Fitzrovia.”
“What’s wrong with Fitzrovia?” I look over at Bingley. “Is it the dodgy part of London?”
“Dodgy?” Bingley chuckles. “I wouldn’t call Fitzrovia dodgy. A lot of celebs live there, even though it ranks as one of the worst places to live in the country because of crap housing, air quality, and traffic. It attracts a bohemian crowd—the boujie bohemians, the sort that order pomegranate martinis and spend their Friday nights touring art galleries. Loads of camp pubs, lively bistros, and indie publishing companies have moved into the area. The Lucky Pig is popular with the posh set because it is bloody brutal to make it past the door attendant and has this speakeasy vibe—dark corners and overpriced gin cocktails.”
“Gee, Bingley. It almost sounds as if you want to go to The Lucky Pig.”
“Are you serious? I would love to go with you to meet Johnny Amor!” Bingley says, grinning. “Thanks for asking.”
I laugh.
“Did I just ask you?”
“Yes, you did!”
“What about you, Knightley?”
“What about me?”
“Fancy spending a night drinking overpriced gin cocktails in a dimly lit speakeasy?”
Knightley pauses so long I am afraid he is going to say no. He pulls to a stop outside a long, honey-hued brick building with arched doorways that remind me of the doorways on the carriage house at Black Ash. He kills the engine and looks at me.
“With you?”
“Yes.”
“I would love to go with you, Emma Lee.”
“You would?” I clap my hands. “Yay! This is going to be so much fun.”
“Are you serious?” Bingley says, narrowing his gaze at his brother. “Knightley Nickerson swilling giggle water in a pub in Fitz, rubbing elbows with boujies. This is going to be fun.”
Chapter Eighteen
Emma Lee Maxwell’s Facebook Update:
My daddy used to say, If you want to know why the South has a reputation for hospitality, just look at our architecture. We build our homes with deep front porches, wide verandas, and multiple French doors, welcoming features that beckon passersby to stop and say, Hey. Approach life in a similar way: remain open to new experiences, be welcoming of strangers, and grateful for those who sit and stay awhile.
Miss Isabella strides over to the car and grabs my hands, kissing my cheeks and laughing. She has a lovely laugh and smells like sunshine and lilacs and the hint of expensive French perfume. She smells like happiness, if you could distill and bottle happiness. An image flickers in my brain of the silver-framed photograph Manderley always kept beside her bed, a hazy shot of our momma reaching out a window to snatch a pale purple blossom off a wisteria branch. Silly, unexpected tears fill my eyes.
Miss Isabella steps back but keeps hold of my hand. She notices the tears in my eyes and frowns.
“What happened?” She spins around, facing her sons. “Bingley? Emma Lee looks as if she is about to burst into tears. What did you say? Were you thoughtless?” She turns back to me. “Was Bingley thoughtless? Did he say something unkind? Was it about your matchmaking scheme?”
“Why do you assume I said something unkind?” Bingley looks aghast. “Knightley was also in the car.”
“Knightley is never unkind,” she says. “It is not in his constitution.”
“Bingley demonstrated his usual level of unpleasantness. Nothing unusual or extraordinary, I assure you.” Knightley slaps his brother on the back before walking around the car. He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a cotton handkerchief. “Besides, I would not allow Bingley to be unkind to Emma Lee, not ever.”
“Whatever.” Bingley snorts, striding toward the main house.
“Are you all right, Emma Lee?” Knightley asks, handing me his handkerchief. “Was it something I said?”
Miss Isabella looks from me to her son. Her brow knits together, as if she is trying to work a difficult puzzle; then a smile spreads across her lovely face.
I take the handkerchief and dab under my eyes. Please Lawd Jesus, please let my Too Faced Better Than Sex mascara be waterproof. What good are intense, thick, dramatic lashes if they melt with the first tear? I stop dabbing my eyes and look in horror at the faint, watery black mark my tears have made on Knightley’s crisp, white monogrammed handkerchief. Monogrammed! Oh Lawd Jesus!
“You didn’t make me cry, Knightley.”
I try to give him a big, bright, reassuring smile but am acutely aware of my nose. I am afraid it is going to drip right here, right now, with Knightley Nickerson and his glam momma staring at me. I swear, y’all, if that happens, I’ll forget all about becoming Britain’s next millionaire (and middle-income) matchmaker. I’ll be on the next plane back to Charleston. I’ll get a job at Raising Cane’s Chicken working the fryolater and spend the rest of my God-given days wondering what could have been if I hadn’t snotted on Knightley Nickerson’s expensive shoes.
“I knew it!” Miss Isabella says. “Bingley made you cry.”
“It wasn’t Bingley.” I pretend to dab my cheeks and discreetly press the handkerchief against my nose. “I swear it wasn’t Bingley. It is silly, really. When you hugged me, Miss Isabella, you smelled so good, like the gardens at Black Ash, all floral and sunny, and it reminded me of my momma. Well, not really my momma, but a picture of her, reaching out the window to snatch a flower.”
“I know the picture you are talking about, my dear,” Miss Isabella says, squeezing my hand. “It was taken just before you were born. I have a copy. It arrived with the last letter your mother sent to me, just before she passed away.”
Knightley clears his throat. He is such a curious man. Kind and thoughtful, but noticeably uncomfortable with displays of emotion.
Badly Done, Emma Lee Page 16
