The Jane Austen Marriage Manual (26 page)

“What am I going to do? I’m practically naked!” I bit my lip. “I was going for class, not trash!”

I wanted to blame Emma because she’d picked the gown, but in truth neither of us had noticed how transparent it was. The dressing room had been dimly lit and about two foot square.

“What am I going to do?” I said anxiously.

“Let me think,” Emma said, her finger tapping her left nostril. “The thong doesn’t help. Have you tried tights?”

“Good idea,” I said and dashed into my suitcase for the one pair of tights I had that were black and opaque. I quickly slid them on over my thong and stood in front of the mirror triumphantly. Emma frowned and shook her head. “They won’t do. Too old lady. Looks like you’re wearing support hose, especially in those open-toed shoes.”

I grimaced. She was right.

“Do you have boy briefs?” she asked.

“I just bought a package of black cotton ones from M and S today,” I said and ripped open the plastic bag. Emma waited as I removed the tights and thong and pulled them on.

“There, much better,” she announced. I looked in the mirror; it looked like I was wearing a 1950s bikini bottom underneath.

“You think?” I asked, still unsure. There was a knock at the door. It was Clive. He stuck his head in. “What’s all the fuss?”

“You can see through my dress!” I said anxiously.

“Is that all?” he said, annoyed. “Your rich bloke won’t wait forever.”

Emma waved him off. “Thankfully your nipples don’t show through your bra,” she said with relief.

“Hang on a minute,” Clive said and lowered the dimmer switch until the ceiling light glowed instead of blared and miraculously my underwear disappeared, or rather, my dress became opaque.

“See, all better,” he said, a tad patronizing. “Trust me, the lights will be dim at the gallery and no one will see your pants.”

“He’s right,” Emma confirmed. “I hadn’t thought of that; these types of events are almost always pitch black.”

I stared at my reflection. The dress did look good. Who would have guessed that so much in life depended on flattering light—the lines on my face, and now the lines on my ass.

“Thank you,” I gushed. “You saved my life.”

“Hardly.” He rolled his eyes and clambered down the stairs. I supposed my hysteria was irritating to Clive. He had lost everything while I had become uncontrollably self-absorbed. But I had lost everything,
too. And this was my one option to get it all back. I vowed that if I married Scott I would make sure that Clive and Emma were well taken care of.

Clive was right. The lighting at the Serpentine Gallery was designed to illuminate works of art, not undergarments. As I toured the exhibition on Scott’s arm and sipped champagne, I felt confident and sexy, even as hoards of younger women paraded around the room. Scott was attentive, gracious, and thoughtful as he explained the artist’s work to me, which I needed, since I didn’t know squat about art. After we completed the full circuit I was relieved to enter the main reception area where the food stations and bar were located.

It was here that the party was in full swing and I got to see Scott in action. He seemed to know everybody, or everybody knew him, and for the next hour I was caught up in a swirl of introductions and cocktail chatter. Of course, it’s these very situations where I shine brightest and determined to demonstrate the advantages a forty-year-old woman brings to the social table. I turned it on. I was charming. Sophisticated. Witty. And my charm, sophistication, and wit were increased each time he introduced me as Lady Katharine and each time I smiled graciously and told people to call me Kate. It created intimacy but people treated me with obvious deference and I liked it. They were his friends and acquaintances, mostly business and arts luminaries, and though I knew little of either, as a journalist I’m not shy, so asking them intelligent questions about what they did and what brought them to the exhibit was a snap. Scott had given me enough background on the art to wing it and with each conversation I amassed more opinion to pass off as my own for the next person and so on until I could come across as a bit of an expert. It was like conducting an interview. In fact, I could have written a review of the show if I’d needed to.

Better still, as we moved about the room and flitted from chat to chat, I sensed Scott watching and studying me as though he was
weighing the benefits of a woman like me versus a girl like Tatiana. At least I hoped so for it seemed obvious that his friends liked me and that I belonged in his social sphere. He didn’t say anything, of course, but he seemed pleased and would rub my back and I would squeeze his arm for emphasis if I felt it was appropriate. I wanted him to see us as a team. And as luck would have it, I got my chance to prove once and for all that a savvy financier like Scott needed a woman on his arm who could impress potential investors.

A balding man with gold-rimmed glasses approached us; he was tall and very thin and had a long pointy nose. If his tux had been pink he would have easily passed for a flamingo. He explained that an old friend had recommended Scott to him but they hadn’t met until now. The mutual friend was discussed in that “how is so-and-so” way that men have, but I knew that Flamingo Man wanted to get down to business and it didn’t take long for him to ask Scott how his clients were faring in the recession. Now it was my turn to be impressed. Scott had a quiet confidence and reassuring ease with which he answered the man’s questions. Still, Flamingo Man wasn’t entirely convinced that he should trust anyone with his investments during such a bad economy. Then he added, almost as an afterthought, that he was the UK CEO for a cosmetics company, one of the biggest, and that was my signal to act.

“I used to be a beauty editor,” I spoke up suddenly. Flamingo Man turned his beady bird eyes my way. “I love your products. In fact, I was very impressed with how your company decided to increase advertising when your competitors shriveled up. Women love to buy cosmetics and it’s reassuring that even in this economic climate we can count on your makeup to keep us looking pretty, even if we don’t always feel that way.”

By then Flamingo Man was transfixed and we had a lovely chat about the ups and downs of the beauty business and how lipstick sales increased in a recession. It was clear I knew far more about his particular business than Scott did. But Scott, to his credit, wasn’t in the least threatened; in fact, he stood and listened and even put his arm around me as though bringing home the point that we were together. By the
end of our conversation Flamingo Man asked for Scott’s card and mine, too. I didn’t have any but took the risk of saying, “Scott knows how to reach me.”

“She’s a keeper,” Flamingo Man said to Scott as he shook our hands.

“I have a feeling she’s not going far,” Scott said to him. I was elated.

But the Flamingo Man had exhausted me and I was desperate for another drink. Scott stepped out for a cigar and I had a self-congratulatory moment with champagne and a platter of prawns. I was relieved that the evening had turned out so well. I had to be making progress with Scott; he’d be blind not to see how much more appropriate I was than Tatiana, and that a polished, classy woman was even sexier than a buxom, blond twenty-one-year-old. Okay, I may be kidding myself there, but I was an asset to him. The thought made me giddy.

Then out of nowhere I spied Griff across the room. I couldn’t believe it. Why was he suddenly everywhere I turned? He had said something about arts events but this was ridiculous. I gnawed on a prawn, absentmindedly double dipping the shellfish into the cocktail sauce until one of the staffers gave me a dirty look and removed the sauce altogether. I had bitten into another prawn, pinched its tail and sucked out the flesh, when Griff finally saw me. He raised his glass. I sighed and pushed my way to the bar.

“Pink champagne, please,” I ordered.

As the bartender filled a flute with rosé Veuve, Griff appeared at my side. At least he was wearing a proper tuxedo and had combed his hair.

“What brings you here?” he asked me, as though I didn’t have the right to be there.

“I could ask you the same thing,” I said. “I’m surprised they let you out of the B and B so often.”

“I’m on holiday.” He laughed. “And I like art. We’re trying to be friends, remember? Let me buy you a drink.”

“It’s an open bar.”

“Precisely.” He smiled, then looked me up and down, examining every detail, or so it seemed. “Makes you a cheap date.”

“It just so happens I’m on a date,” I corrected him. “Scott brought me.”

His expression turned serious, which unnerved me.

“So, you managed to bump off Tatiana?” he asked dryly. “That poor Slovenian girl sent back to her homeland to work in the salt mines.”

“I did no such thing,” I said defensively. “It’s not my fault Scott lost interest in her, and besides, she was too young for him.”

“And you’re not?” he asked. “He must be at least fifteen years older than you, I’d even say closer to twenty.”

“Age is only a number,” I said dismissively.

“As is the amount on his bank balance,” said Griff slyly. “But unlike age, the larger the better.”

“Don’t judge me, Griff,” I said staunchly. “I’m sorry I ever told you anything. Besides, I think we’re falling in love, so there.”

“Love, eh?” he said with a raised eyebrow. “As honorable as all that?”

“Don’t you believe in love, Griff?” I challenged with my best flirtatious smile.

“What else is there to believe in?” he said seriously.

His answer surprised me. I was so accustomed to his sardonic tone. “Then we’re both hopeless romantics. Who would have guessed?” I said and touched his arm. Once again, the sensation it aroused was startling. He looked down at my hand on his sleeve, but I couldn’t read his expression at all. Our eyes locked and we remained that way for several seconds.

“That’s quite the dress,” he said, changing the subject and slowly looked me up and down.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I said, breaking out of my haze. I realized I was standing beneath one of the few spotlights in the room and stepped away, but he followed.

“It’s rather insubstantial,” he retorted.

“You don’t like it?” I said, worried that people could see through it after all.

“I didn’t say I didn’t like it,” he replied. “On the contrary, it’s very eye-catching.”

The moment we’d shared evaporated and feeling suddenly insecure I snapped at him. “I hate to tell you this, Griff, but for a gay man your taste is all in your mouth.”

I expected a bitchy comeback; instead, he stood stalk straight and gasped. “A
what
?” he said, clearly astonished.

I felt horrible for outing him like this and quickly scanned the room. No one could have heard me. I lowered my voice. “I’m sorry, I said I would keep your secret and I will. You’re just so infuriating.”

“I’m not gay!” he blurted a little too loudly. “I’m English!”

“It’s okay, Griff, I don’t care,” I insisted, trying to soothe him. He really was a closet case. “You don’t have to deny it.”

“Where on earth did you get that idea?” he practically shouted.

“I heard you tell Scott,” I explained impatiently. “You told him to keep it a secret … he said he wouldn’t out you.”

“That’s not what I told him,” he stammered.

“Yes it is,” I insisted again.

“You heard me say I was gay?”

“Well, not exactly,” I admitted. “But what else would be such a big deal? Not that being gay is a big deal, but you know what I mean.”

“Well, you assumed wrong,” he snapped.

“So, you’re not gay?” I asked, still not sure I could believe him. “Then …?”

“Then what?” he asked and glared at me.

“Then when you wanted to have dinner with me …?”

“Go on.”

“It was a date?”

He exhaled in frustration. “Yes, it was a bloody date. Or it would have been.”

“You really wanted to go out with me?” It was my turn to stammer.

“Yes. Despite you insulting my taste, impersonating an aristocrat, and chasing after Scott and Vlad and whoever else I may have missed …”

I flinched a little.

“And yet,” he continued without cracking even the slightest smile. “There’s something about you, Kate. Something I feel like I want to know.”

I was dumbfounded. “I don’t know what to say,” I sputtered, not able to meet his gaze. My reaction, or lack of one, seemed to irritate him.

“I have to get a drink,” he announced and stormed off.

Before I could go after him Scott had returned. “Is that Griff you chased away?”

“Yes,” I answered, feeling horrible for what I’d done. “I mean no, I didn’t chase him away. I offended him without really meaning to.”

“He’s the sensitive, poetic type,” Scott said with smile.

“What secret did he tell you to keep?” I asked bluntly. “In Switzerland I overheard you both talking and he asked you not to tell anyone.”

Scott pondered this for a moment as though he couldn’t recall any such conversation. “Oh that,” he said and I perked up. “I can’t tell you, Kate. He asked me not to and a man doesn’t tell another man’s secrets. That’s for women to do.”

I felt my shoulders slump.

For the rest of the night I kept an eye out for Griff to apologize. But I also wanted to continue our talk. He had to know that despite being attracted to him, I could never be with him. I had to keep my sights set on one man. Scott. And by midnight he had determined our night was over; I was exhausted and relieved to go. Maybe Emma was right, being a lady in London was more than I could handle. Then it got worse.

As we left the gallery we were greeted by a slew of press photographers who happily snapped away as if we were celebrities. I stood arm in arm with Scott, trying to shield my eyes from the flashbulbs.

“That’s enough,” Scott announced and taking my arm, walked through the horde toward his idling limo. I heard one of the shooters call out, “Excuse me, miss, can I get your name? I’m from the
Daily Mail
.”

“Don’t you know, man? That’s Lady Kate.”

I strained against the flashes and saw Flamingo Man, the cosmetics executive, wink at me approvingly.