Jane Bites Back

by Michael Thomas Ford

  She hung up for the third time that morning. For the next ten minutes she sat staring at the phone, waiting for it to ring again. When it didn’t, she took out a pad and started making a list of everything she had to do before leaving for Chicago. In the end it contained only two items.

  Go over store business with Lucy

  Find something to wear

  “I guess there’s not so much to do after all,” she said as she looked at the list. She felt as if there should be more involved. Then she thought of something else.

  3. Tom

  Having a third thing made her feel oddly relieved, even though she knew full well that Lucy would be happy to stay with Tom and look after him. It gave her something to cross off the list and gave her a feeling of accomplishment. At the moment everything else in her life felt as if it were totally out of control. Her book was taking on a life of its own and dragging her along with it. After waiting so long to be published again, suddenly it was happening much too quickly.

  She called Lucy in and gave her a brief rundown of what was happening. As she’d expected, Lucy was only too happy to stay with Tom for the week. Going over the store business took very little time as well, and at the end of fifteen minutes Jane had just one item on her to-do list.

  “What does one wear on daytime television?” she asked Lucy.

  “Nothing white,” Lucy answered instantly.

  “White?” said Jane. “Why not white?”

  “In case you get your period,” Lucy explained. When Jane looked at her with a confused expression, Lucy added, “I’m just saying. You don’t want to be up there onstage and get a note from Sally.”

  “Where do you come up with this stuff?” Jane asked. “Aunt Flo? A note from Sally? You’re like a gynecological thesaurus.”

  “Blame my mother,” said Lucy. “She never called things by their real names. Until I was seventeen I called my vagina my weet-woo.”

  “I suppose that’s better than calling it your lady garden,” Jane mused. “Anyway apart from not wearing white, we haven’t narrowed down my fashion options.”

  “I’ll come over tonight,” said Lucy. “We’ll go through your closet and see what you have. I’m sure something will work. And if not, we can always go to the mall.”

  Jane shuddered. “The mall,” she said, pronouncing the word as if it were an incurable disease.

  “Yeah, well, you might just have to suck it up,” Lucy told her. “I’m not letting you meet Comfort and Joy looking like you usually do.”

  “Like I usually do?” Jane said. “What does that mean?”

  Lucy indicated Jane with a wave of her hand. “Like this,” she said.

  “It’s not that bad!” Jane exclaimed.

  “Sorry,” said Lucy. “It kind of is.”

  “Byron didn’t seem to think so,” Jane said, her dignity bruised. “Walter doesn’t think so.”

  “Byron would make it with anything on two legs,” Lucy reminded her. “And Walter is … Walter. Trust me on this. You need a makeover.”

  Jane looked at herself in the small mirror that hung on the wall. She did look tired, and her hair was a bit on the dull side. “I suppose I could use some freshening up,” she admitted.

  “We’ll start right after work,” said Lucy. “It’ll be fun.”

  The bell over the front door jingled, and Lucy went out to help the customer. Jane remained in the office, looking at her reflection in the mirror.

  “It’ll be fun.” She repeated Lucy’s promise, trying to sound as if she believed it.

  Chapter 21

  Charles touched her cheek. “You’re like the thrush,” he said. “It is not the loudest. It does not have the brightest plumage. But its song is the most beautiful. Beautiful enough to break your heart.”

  —Jane Austen, Constance, manuscript

  “WHAT ARE WE GOING TO DO WITH THIS?”

  Jane looked at herself in the mirror. Behind her, Lucy stood with a stunning Japanese woman dressed in a black turtleneck and stylish black pants. The woman was looking down at Jane’s hair with a bemused expression, as if it were an accident she had just come across and she was deciding whether or not the victim could be saved.

  “Don’t worry,” Lucy said to Jane, patting her on the shoulder. “Aiko can do miracles.”

  Jane smiled wanly. She was already regretting letting Lucy talk her into visiting her hairdresser. But according to Lucy, Aiko had graciously agreed to see Jane on short notice. Now Jane was ensconced in the woman’s chair, awaiting her verdict.

  Aiko poked at Jane’s hair with a comb. “Limp,” she said.

  “Sorry,” Jane apologized.

  Aiko shook her head. “Horrific color,” she said.

  “I did it myself,” Jane explained.

  “I know,” said Aiko. She sighed deeply.

  “Can you help her?” Lucy asked.

  “I don’t know,” Aiko answered. “It’s bad.”

  “But you’ll try?” Lucy said hopefully.

  Aiko picked up a pair of scissors and snapped them open and closed several times while staring at Jane in the mirror. “I’ll try,” she confirmed.

  She spun the chair around so that Jane was no longer looking at herself in the mirror.

  “Aiko doesn’t like you to see what she’s doing,” Lucy explained to Jane. “It disturbs her process.”

  “As long as it’s nothing too drastic,” said Jane.

  Lucy put a finger to her lips. “Don’t say anything,” she whispered in Jane’s ear. “She’s a little temperamental. Just trust her. She’s a genius.”

  Jane watched as Aiko pulled a pair of black latex gloves over her slim hands. “Color first,” she announced.

  Jane decided that the best course of action was to close her eyes and think of England. She didn’t want to know what Aiko was doing to her head. It’s going to be fine, she repeated to herself. It’s going to be fine.

  She pretended she was having a dream in which she was moved from one chair to another. Things were applied to her head, then rinsed off. Scissors snapped around her ears. Hot air blew in her face.

  Then Aiko said, “Done.”

  The chair was spun around, and Jane saw her new self in the mirror. She gasped. “I’m beautiful,” she said breathlessly.

  “Yes,” Aiko said. For the first time since Jane had entered her salon, the woman smiled. “Beautiful.”

  Jane didn’t know if she was referring to her haircut or to Jane herself, but she didn’t care. She couldn’t believe how she looked. Her hair was now a rich golden brown. Aiko had removed a great deal of it, so that it now framed Jane’s face rather than circling it like a tired holiday wreath. It was modern, natural-looking, and perfect, Jane thought.

  “It’s a miracle.” Lucy was standing beside Jane, staring at her head.

  “I know,” Aiko said.

  Jane reached up and touched the hair where it brushed against her cheek. It felt like she was touching someone else’s face. “It’s really me,” she said.

  “Now for your makeup,” said Lucy.

  “No makeup,” Aiko said. “Just hair.”

  “No, no,” said Lucy. “We’re doing makeup at home.”

  “Good luck,” Aiko said, and walked away.

  “Thank you,” Jane called after her. She looked at Lucy. “Am I done?” she asked.

  Lucy nodded, then helped Jane out of the chair. Jane paid for her haircut at the front desk, where a thin young man dressed all in black said nothing as he handed Jane the credit card slip for her to sign.

  “They’re very quiet, aren’t they?” Jane asked as she and Lucy left the salon.

  “Aiko is all about minimalism,” said Lucy. “I think she likes you,” she added as they got into Jane’s car. “She doesn’t normally talk so much.”

  Jane drove back to her house, making a stop at a drugstore so that Lucy could pick up some cosmetics she declared they needed for the second part of Jane’s transformation. Lucy made Jane wait in the car as she s
hopped. Jane spent the time looking at herself in the rearview mirror. She still couldn’t believe she was looking at her own reflection, and had to resist the urge to turn around and search the backseat to see if some other woman was sitting there.

  When Lucy returned, she was carrying a large bag. “Is that all for me?” Jane asked. “Am I that bad?”

  “It’s just a few things,” Lucy said unconvincingly

  Her lie was revealed twenty minutes later when, in Jane’s bedroom, she upended the bag and unleashed a torrent of tubes, compacts, brushes, jars, and various other items Jane didn’t recognize.

  “I didn’t know you were a cosmetologist,” Jane joked.

  “I had to do all the makeup for the band,” said Lucy. “I picked up a few techniques.”

  Like Aiko before her, Lucy didn’t allow Jane to see herself as her face was done. However, she did explain to Jane what she was doing, as well as show her the different brushes and curlers and lip liners she used.

  “Apply the darkest shadow to the inside corner of your eye,” she said. This was followed by “Use liner to give your lips shape,” “Hold the eyelash curler in place for at least ten seconds,” and “Put the blush on the apples of your cheeks.” “Are you getting all this?” she asked in between pronouncements.

  “I think so,” Jane said anxiously.

  “I’ll write it down,” Lucy said, shaking her head.

  “It’s all so complicated,” said Jane. “In my day we just bit our lips to bring a little color to them.”

  “Don’t use the ‘I was born before Maybelline was invented’ excuse,”

  Lucy said. “You’ve had a thousand years to learn how to wear makeup.”

  “Don’t exaggerate,” said Jane. “I just never saw much use in it.”

  “Well, you should have,” Lucy said. “You look amazing.” She picked up a hand mirror and held it in front of Jane’s face. “See?”

  Jane had been stunned by her new hair; now she was equally amazed at the transformation her face had undergone. It was still her, just a new and improved her. Best of all, she wasn’t all tarted up like some courtesan.

  “I was afraid I was going to look like Marie Antoinette,” she told Lucy.

  “The bird-shit-facial look went out a few years ago,” Lucy teased.

  Jane touched her face. “I had no idea I could look like this,” she said. Then, to her immense surprise, she began to cry. “I had no idea,” she said again.

  Lucy put her arms around Jane. “You’ve been a lady for two hundred years,” she said softly. “But somewhere along the line, you forgot how to be a woman.”

  Jane laughed as Lucy tried to keep a straight face. “That line is worthy of Bulwer-Lytton,” said Jane. “But I appreciate the sentiment. Thank you.” She dried her eyes with a tissue Lucy produced from a pocket. “I’m never going to be able to do this on my own, you know.”

  “It’s really not that difficult,” Lucy said. “Now, let’s see what you have in that closet.”

  “Wait a minute,” Jane said. “Just sit with me for a little bit.”

  Lucy sat back down on the bed. “Is something wrong?” she asked.

  “Not wrong,” said Jane. “Just a little overwhelming. It really has been a long time. For everything. But now I’m a writer again. It’s all happening so quickly.”

  “You didn’t think it would, did you,” said Lucy.

  Jane shook her head. “No,” she admitted. “I sort of … well, I gave up hoping.”

  Lucy hesitated a moment. “Have you really not … been … with anyone since Byron?”

  “Oh, I have,” said Jane. “I mean, I’m no Marie Duplessis, but I’ve had a number of affairs of the heart.”

  “Affairs of the heart,” Lucy repeated. “In other words, you haven’t had sex.”

  “Don’t be vulgar,” Jane said primly.

  “Not even with other vampires?” asked Lucy.

  “Especially not with them,” Jane said.

  “You never talk about any of that,” Lucy said. “Why not? Don’t you have any vampire friends?”

  Jane gave a little laugh. “You make it sound like a garden club,” she said. She thought for a moment, trying to decide how much she wanted to say. It was not a topic she was particularly comfortable speaking about. “I did associate with others,” she said. “For the first fifty or sixty years, I found it pleasant to be with them.”

  “Were there a lot of you?” Lucy asked. “Are there a lot of you?”

  “Not so many,” said Jane. “But at that time we banded together more than we do now. I did have friends,” she continued. “Some of them you’ve even heard of. And no, I’m not going to tell you who they are,” she added before Lucy could ask. “One of the rules is that we don’t expose one another unless it’s absolutely necessary. Anyway, when you first turn, you want to be with those like yourself. It’s comforting. But over time, I found that beyond what we are, we had little in common. I spent less and less time with the others. For the last hundred years, I’ve had virtually no contact with that world.”

  “Until now,” said Lucy. “Until Byron showed up.”

  “Until Byron,” Jane agreed. “But I’m not doing this for him,” she added. “I’m doing it for me.”

  “And maybe a little bit for Walter?” Lucy teased.

  “Don’t ruin a lovely moment,” said Jane. She took Lucy’s hand. “You really are very special to me,” she told her. “I hope you know that.”

  “I do,” Lucy said. “And you’re special to me.” She stood up, pulling Jane with her. “Which is why I’m going to make sure you don’t wear anything tragic on national television.”

  Chapter 22

  She looked out into the garden. There, by the rose bushes, stood the figure of a man. He looked up at the window, unmoving. Was it Charles? She tried to make out his features, but the rain obscured them. She ran down the stairs and through the kitchen door. Her feet slipped on the wet grass as she made her way to the back of the house. But when she reached the garden, the man was gone. A single red rose lay in the place where he had stood.

  —Jane Austen, Constance, manuscript

  JANE WATCHED THE BAGS GOING AROUND ON THE CONVEYOR BELT. One by one they were picked up by waiting passengers and wheeled away. They had stopped coming out from the depths of the airport’s underbelly some time ago, and now only three forlorn bags and one box marked FROZEN FISH remained. They slowly circled the baggage claim until with a chunk-chunk-chunk the machinery ground to a halt.

  “Looks like we’ve been stranded on the Island of Lost Luggage,” said a man standing next to Jane. “Might as well get in line.”

  He turned and walked away. Jane followed his path and saw that he was heading for a line of about twenty people. They were queued up outside the airline’s baggage claim office, and all of them wore a look of resigned frustration on their faces. Scanning the remaining bags once again in the hope that she’d somehow overlooked her suitcase, Jane gave up and joined them.

  Half an hour later she stood in front of a grim-faced woman who didn’t look at her as she said, “Claim ticket.”

  Jane handed over the sticker that was stapled to her ticket folder. “Do you know when I can expect my bag?” she asked.

  The woman’s grunt held more than a hint of mean-spirited glee, Jane thought. She wondered what kind of person could do such a job day in and day out, dealing with miserable travelers and wayward luggage for hours at a time. Sadist, she thought as the woman typed something on a keyboard with undisguised hostility.

  “There’s no record of it,” the woman said. “Sorry.”

  “No record?” said Jane. “I don’t understand. I have a claim ticket.” She nodded at the ticket, which was still in the woman’s hand.

  “There’s no record of it,” the woman repeated.

  Jane gave the woman her sweetest smile. “Surely there must be some record,” she said.

  The woman sighed deeply. “It could be anywhere,” she said in
a weary voice. “Albuquerque, New Delhi, Paris. Take your pick. If it’s not in the system, it officially doesn’t exist.”

  “But surely—” Jane began.

  “Fill this out and send it in,” the woman interrupted, sliding a form toward Jane. “We’ll reimburse you up to a hundred and fifty dollars.” She looked past Jane. “Next,” she said.

  Jane started to argue but, sensing the growing irritation of the people behind her, decided there was no point. The woman was clearly not going to be of any further use. Besides, Jane was already going to be late getting to the hotel. It was half past nine, and her interview with the Entertainment Weekly reporter was at eleven. Feeling more than a little put out, she headed out the door to the taxi stand.

  The trip from O’Hare to the hotel took much longer than Jane expected, and when she finally reached her room after ten minutes at the registration desk it was a quarter to eleven. She barely had time to use the toilet and wash her face before there was a knock on the door.

  She opened it to find a woman who seemed impossibly young to be a journalist. Thin as a willow, she was dressed impeccably and her makeup was flawless. Her auburn hair fell about her shoulders in waves and perfectly complemented her green eyes. Jane hated her immediately.

  “Hi,” the woman said cheerfully. “I’m Farrah Rubenstein.”

  “Farrah,” Jane repeated.

  Farrah laughed. “I know, right? My mother was a huge Charlie’s Angels fan. My sisters are Kate and Jaclyn. It’s all too retro.” She entered the room without further invitation. “What a great room!” she enthused. “It’s so red!”

  “Yes,” Jane said. The young woman’s manner had caught her off guard. She’d been expecting someone older, someone more reserved. I probably should have looked at the magazine, she thought. She’d bought a copy to read on the plane, but had fallen asleep shortly after takeoff and woken up just before landing in Chicago.

  “I was so excited when I got this assignment,” Farrah said as she removed her jacket and sat down on one of the chairs in the suite’s living room area. “I love books.”