Dancing With Mr. Darcy Page 3

  How cruel, how unforgivable to think in such terms!

  A marriage without affection can hardly be an agreeable enterprise. To whom should she assign this sentiment? To Miss Elinor Dashwood, perhaps, or to the acerbic Mr Bennet, or another whose words echo in her ears, waiting to be written.

  Cassandra has succeeded in begging the carriage. Their boxes are packed, her writing slope on the seat. How soon before she may record the details of this debacle before they slip from her mind? Not yet, not yet.

  As she climbs into the carriage, she is embraced unselfishly, tearfully, by each of her friends, Elizabeth, Catherine, Alethea; their kind expressions show that they bear her no ill will. Harris has wisely absented himself from this farewell.

  She does not look back as the carriage draws away from Manydown.

  My inspiration: My story, set before the Austen women moved to Chawton, would never have been written if I had not seen Chawton for myself. Trained as a ‘new critic’ focused on textual analysis, I loved Jane Austen’s work but had largely ignored her life. I was unexpectedly moved seeing where she lived and wrote. I thought the intriguing blank in her life – her possible romantic and marital interests – might be credibly portrayed by a fictional foray into her consciousness that was supported by my appreciation of her style and the knowledge of her life that I acquired only after visiting Chawton.

  JAYNE

  Kirsty Mitchell

  A large income is the best recipe for happiness I ever heard of.

  I mouth the words as I lean forward. Mansfield Park. My nipples shine pink and hard under yellow studio lights.

  ‘Lower, love.’

  Mansfield Park. Mansfield Park, the third published of Jane Austen’s novels. Or was it fourth? Shit.

  ‘A bit to the left.’

  The plastic shutter makes a loud click as it opens and shuts, and the noise rattles obnoxiously around the small studio. I try not to squint against the bright lights behind the fat photographer. The one today is particularly grotesque, with shreds of hair and a screwed-up face. I lie on a sheepskin rug and run through quotations in my head. The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven. Milton.

  The photographer steps out from behind the camera and I am struck afresh by how hideous he is.

  ‘Brilliant. Lovely. That’s great. In fact,’ he grins broadly, ‘it’s… tit-tastic.’

  Oh, fuck off. Fuck off and die, you fat old perv. I smile. Think of the house, and grin and bear it. Bare it. A few years modelling, and I’ll have enough to buy a flat. I’ll live there a few years then get tenants in. The way the market’s going, the rent should cover a mortgage on a house, maybe even a few quid in an ISA. Financial security is very underrated. Plus I’m paying for this university course, for which I can’t even bloody remember the facts. I’d like to say I didn’t finish school because of mitigating circumstances, family situations, but the truth is it was too much like hard work and I couldn’t be arsed. Now I’m paying £200 a month for my education. As Joni Mitchell said, you don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone. Or Shakespeare. Nothing can come of nothing. King Lear, Act I. Shakespeare almost made me cry before the last exam. I had a big job on the same day and I sat in the bath the night before, face mask on, mouthing the words. To be, or not to be. That is the question. Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune… a blob of strawberry and mango oatmeal scrub fell into the water.

  ‘Can you put your arms together, love? Push them up a bit?’

  I’d like to do well in the Jane Austen part of the course, because my mum’s a big fan. That’s how I got my name, actually.

  ‘Jane?’ they said when I was starting out.

  ‘With a Y.’

  ‘Jayne?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The guy frowned. ‘No, that’s no good for a page three. Plain Jane. No, we need something more exotic. What about Destiny?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Faith?’

  ‘No. What about Maya?’ I suggested.

  Maya, the Indian religious deity who represents the notion that the distinction between the self and the universe is a false one. From last year’s philosophy of religion module, part II. If I was going to be named after a philosophical concept, I’d rather it was a half-decent one.

  ‘Maya!’ He winked. ‘Sexy!’ What a cock.

  Of course Mum wasn’t happy when she found out. She sat sulking in the living room. Peach-pink couch, carpet, curtains that gave everything an odd glow. There was a clashing fake brass fireplace in the middle of the room, on which fake flames swirled. Her ornaments were in a display cabinet on the back wall: a creamy porcelain mass.

  ‘Calm down, Mum,’ I said.

  ‘Calm down?’ A pink-fringed slipper hit the floor. ‘Calm down? Do you think this is what I hoped for when I had you? That I looked down at my baby girl and thought, one day she’ll get her breasts out for the Sun?’

  ‘The Daily Star,’ I corrected.

  ‘The Daily Star then. Am I supposed to be proud of that? Bloo-dy hell.’

  I looked past her frizzy head to the bookcase. All the Austen books sat there in alphabetical order. The spines were cracked and ratty. On the shelf below were the DVDs and videos, and on the wall behind was a poster of the cast of Pride and Prejudice that came free with one of the DVDs. She’d once got an Elizabeth Gaskell book out the library, in a plastic cover with crumbs trapped underneath, but she hadn’t liked it. ‘She’s just not our Jane, Jayne!’ she’d cried.

  ‘I’m disgusted by you,’ she said.

  ‘Och, Mum,’ I breathed.

  With my first pay cheque, I bought her the complete BBC Jane Austen adaptation box set.

  It’s an easy job, by and large. Pouting and posing until my back aches and my skin starts to perspire under the lights and the powdery make-up. It’s all smoke and mirrors.

  ‘What do you do?’ someone asked me at the uni.

  ‘English Literature,’ I replied.

  ‘No.’ He laughed. ‘I mean your day job.’

  ‘Ah,’ I said. Get my tits out. ‘A nurse,’ I told him. I frequently am. That or in corsets. I hate the corsets. There are cold metal rods inside that press against my skin and make me ache for hours afterwards. What is it with men and bloody corsets?

  I’m quite polite, as far as this industry goes. I only do the tabloids and the soft magazines. I wouldn’t do any of the other magazines or any of those late night channels on freeview, the ones where girls wriggle around in cheap plastic costumes and make out like they can’t wait to receive illiterate texts from wankers, when any fool can see they’d rather be at home in front of Eastenders with a digestive biscuit. It’s still not the kind of thing to discuss at a dinner party though. I once went out with a boy who lived in one of the big houses in town, and his parents invited me round for dinner. Mum was beside herself. ‘Take them a bottle of wine,’ she told me. ‘And don’t get a cheap one. You don’t want them thinking you’ve got no class.’

  We all sat politely around the dinner table, arms straight. His mum brought out the best glasses, which sparkled against the candles. I was wearing a nice blue dress with a ribbed waist from Karen Millen.

  ‘And what do you do for a living, Jayne?’ they asked.

  ‘I work in a photography studio.’

  ‘Oh, very good. Is it some sort of admin job?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘More hands on, then?’

  ‘Kind of.’

  But then his dad saw me dressed up as a cowgirl in the Sun, and so that was the end of that.

  I do get bored though. I suppose anyone does, in any job. Myself, I am so bored of tits. They’re all over the walls of the studio, big ones, wee ones. Mainly big ones. They’re just tits. There are days when I feel dismayed by the repetitiveness of it all, the stupidity. The stupid costumes, the ridiculous scenarios. Men are so easy to snare. One of the magazines I appear in sells for seven quid in the
newsagents. Seven quid! Some Cupid kills with arrows, some with traps. Much Ado about Nothing, you know. Or was it As You Like It? Fucking hell.

  Lunchtime. We film in a block of rented offices, a concrete, square place with a rubbish café. I go to the café, order a baked potato in a plastic box. I’ve brought Pride and Prejudice with me, the copy I use for studying: highlighted fluorescent yellow all over, the spine battered and creased.

  ‘Hiya.’

  I look up and to my irritation see the photographer’s assistant sitting down opposite me at the table. We’ve had a few of his sort, and they’re all the same. Slouchy hats, sculptured facial hair, just out of university, think they’re going to end up in far-flung corners of the world shooting pictures of Aids orphans and politicians and unfortunate victims of unfortunate disasters, but instead end up in the back street of a bad area of Glasgow, shooting breasts.

  ‘Hello,’ I say darkly.

  He taps my book with a long finger. ‘Wouldn’t have thought girls like you would—’

  ‘What?’

  He looks at me.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘What? A girl like me wouldn’t be reading an actual book? What am I meant to be reading in my lunch hour, bra catalogues?’ A couple of the office workers turn around.

  He leaves. I shake the book open. Do you know, I bought a copy of Cosmopolitan a couple of weeks ago and they had one of those stupid foil-covered male nude pull-outs. And all the men they’d asked to be in it were doctors and lawyers and aeronautical engineers. You don’t get that in any of the bloody magazines I appear in.

  Sometimes they ask the girls for a comment. They always want some vacuous, dim-witted remark about some topical issue.

  ‘So what do you think about immigrants, Maya?’ the photographer asked. The eye of the camera clicked loudly, open and shut, open and shut.

  ‘In the context of immigration or emigration?’

  He looked bemused. ‘Both.’

  ‘Right. Well firstly, I think the media has vastly misrepresented the number of immigrants coming into the country, and I think the reporting has been biased. I recently bought a newspaper and there was an article about the falling birth rate in Britain and how this was going to bring everything to its knees in the future; the NHS, state pensions and so on. But on the other page there was an article about how there were too many immigrants flooding into the country. Now, to me, there’s a contradiction there that smacks of racism. What they’re saying is that there aren’t enough white babies being born. If there’s a demographic argument that birth rates are falling too fast, then why the hell shouldn’t we be welcoming immigrants, especially those with young families? And there’s a possible genetic benefit for the health of the native population as well, particularly in a place like Glasgow where a high proportion of native Glaswegians have an ingrained genetic predisposition towards diseases linked to the immune system, like heart disease. So if the two populations interbred and mingled, this could be genetically beneficial. Although naturally whether this integration did occur would be dependent on social and cultural factors. So, in short, I’m in favour of it. And I think the media has fanned the issue because it sells papers,’ I finished.

  He stared at me. My breasts jiggled. ‘Right,’ he said.

  He looked disconcerted. A man like me is allowed to be intelligent, a woman is not. A woman especially, if she have the misfortune of knowing anything, should conceal it as well as she can. Northanger Abbey. I experienced a slight thrill at having remembered it all the way through.

  Back upstairs, clothes off again. The photographer leers at me, the fat bastard. I reckon I’ve only got a few years left in this. The market’s too competitive now. Magazines, websites, television channels—

  ‘Only so many punters in this game, only so many wallets,’ the photographer said, in a tone as close as the big ape got to philosophical.

  ‘There certainly are not so many men of large fortune in the world as there are pretty women to deserve them,’ I said.

  He looked perplexed.

  ‘Mansfield Park,’ I told him. ‘Jane Austen.’

  The exam tomorrow. A drafty dusty hall, biros on the desk. I’ll do the rest of the modules, finish the course; pay the fees. Buy the flat, have financial security, spend the rest of my life doing what I want to do. I’ll be too old for it soon anyway, the age of some of the girls coming through. A career where a woman is worthless by the age of twenty-five. It’s a disgrace.

  I stretch an arm behind me, arch my back.

  ‘That’s beautiful,’ the photographer says. He sniggers behind snaggled, cracked teeth. ‘It’s tit-riffic.’

  Oh. Yuk. Lord, what fools these mortals be!

  My inspiration: Despite the fact that many of Jane Austen’s novels are considered love stories, I think there’s a hard, pragmatic edge in how her characters speak about class and money that is often overlooked. W. H. Auden said that it made him ‘uncomfortable’ to see her ‘describe the amorous effects of ‘“brass” / Reveal so frankly and with such sobriety/ The economic basis of society’. Given this, I wanted to create a character who had this same pragmatic edge about money, in a very modern day context.

  THE DELAFORD LADIES’ DETECTIVE AGENCY

  Elizabeth Hopkinson

  This was going to be a most interesting case, thought Mrs Reverend Ferrars, as her sister, Mrs Colonel Brandon, poured tea for the lady sitting nervously in the small parlour of Delaford Parsonage. So far her talents as a detective had mainly been used to ascertain the true characters of potential suitors or to assure nervous mammas that their daughters were truly engaged (although there had been that unforgettable incident with Mrs Ellis’s chickens). She was looking forward to something a little more challenging.

  Of course, it had come as a surprise to her to find she was a detective at all. When she had first arrived in Delaford, she had naturally expected simply to support dear Edward, take baskets to the cottages and raise a handful of plump, well-behaved children. Sadly, the latter had not been forthcoming, and while Mrs Ferrars might envy her sister the third swelling beneath her day gown, she knew better than to brood on what might have been. Occupation was a great comforter, and Mrs Ferrars had found one well suited to her temperament. People had always confided in her (in the cases of Lucy Steele and Mr Willoughby, not always with her willing agreement) and she found she had the kind of sharp mind that relished a puzzle.

  ‘Pray, make yourself at ease, Mrs Worthing,’ she said, with the reassuring smile she generally used on such occasions. ‘Mysteries, I find, are rather like knots in one’s embroidery thread. They may look impossible, but they always unravel in the end.’

  It was important to say something like that, Mrs Ferrars found. Mystery, on the whole, was something she profoundly disliked. It had uncomfortable associations with Gothic ruins and over-emotional young ladies in white gowns. Being able to rid it from the neighbourhood was something that had encouraged her to keep going after the success of her initial case with Miss Morton’s coded Valentine. Detecting was a service to society, and therefore an occupation very worthy of a parson’s wife.

  ‘Oh, do not mention embroidery thread,’ sniffed Mrs Worthing, dabbing at her eyes with a lace handkerchief. Mrs Ferrars began to suspect her of sensibility or – worse still – sentimentality. ‘Not when a ghostly presence comes each night to my work basket and works on my embroidery – my very own embroidery – while Delaford Park lies in slumber.’

  Mrs Ferrars stiffened slightly. ‘Lies in slumber,’ had sealed her opinion of Mrs Worthing.

  ‘Only think of it, Elinor,’ said Mrs Brandon, helping herself to a Banbury cake behind their guest’s back. ‘All this time I have been living in a haunted mansion. I’m sure I shall never sleep again at the thought of something so horrid. And to think that Colonel Brandon never told me.’

  Mrs Ferrars secretly suspected there was nothing her sister would like more than to live in a haunted mansion, but now was not the time to mention
it.

  ‘Oh come, Marianne,’ she said. ‘Colonel Brandon has enough ghosts in his past without bringing them into his house. Have you questioned the other house guests? The servants?’

  ‘Of course,’ Mrs Brandon eyed the last remaining cake with longing. ‘And they all say the same thing. No one has seen or heard anything. Only the Misses Hart do say they can feel a ghastly chill around the basket.’

  Mrs Ferrars sniffed. She could imagine well enough how effective Marianne’s questions had been. She looked back to Mrs Worthing with a twinkle in her eye.

  ‘You know, you could always take your work basket to bed with you.’

  ‘And never discover what ails the poor, tortured soul? Oh, Mrs Ferrars, do not suggest such a thing.’

  As Mrs Worthing applied the handkerchief yet again, Mrs Ferrars thought of several things she could suggest – a more instructive diet of reading for one thing – but she resisted. It was certainly time for the light of reason to be shed on Delaford Park.

  ‘Mrs Worthing, leave the matter to me,’ she said.

  The house guests at Delaford Park, although unknown to Mrs Ferrars, were not unlike the guests at any country house, and private conversation with each about the embroidery yielded only fantastical supposition on the part of the ladies (Mrs Worthing and her two rather empty-headed sisters, the Misses Hart) or total lack of interest on the part of the gentlemen. These comprised Colonel Brandon, Mr Worthing (who appeared to take no interest in anything beyond coarse fishing and eating) and an army friend of the Colonel’s named Major Black, a pale, quiet man not unlike the Colonel himself. No one was prepared to offer anything useful. They had seen nothing, nor did they have any suggestions as to why Mrs Worthing’s embroidery seemed to have decided to finish itself.

  Mrs Ferrars hoped to have better success with Miss Amelia Black, the Major’s sister. There was something in her eye which suggested rather more of quickness than the other ladies, and Mrs Ferrars was glad to approach her in the privacy of the walled garden.