Writing Jane Austen (21 page)

Dehydration? She drank a glass of water and found it made no difference. Sleep deprivation, a disturbance of her circadian rhythm, a kind of Jane Austen jet lag? Whatever it was, she felt oddly disconnected; she longed for her thoughts to click back into their normal mode.

She had hoped that sleep would bring an answer, would leave her ready to draft a convincing email to Livia, a letter of explanation or apology and regret to Dan Vesey. A sense of action that would drive her to book a one-way ticket to America, a crossing of the
Rubicon that divided the old world from the new, an irrevocable decision.

Maud finally bullied her to her desk. “Try ‘Night Thoughts,’” said Maud, and when the document sprang to the screen, she told Gina with some impatience there was nothing miraculous about it, it was merely that she had taken the trouble to save it while Georgina was, as she put it, snoring her head off with her chin on the keys.

“I don’t snore,” said Georgina, annoyed.

“That’s what people always say,” said Maud. “People are never asleep, and if they are they never snore. Go on, read it.”

Georgina scrolled through the lines of text. “I’ve taken leave of my senses, and whatever happened to paragraphs?”

“Nonsense?” inquired Henry, who had strolled into the room. “Or words of immortal wisdom?”

Georgina was silent as she looked at the words she’d poured out in her midnight frenzy. She would hardly allow herself to imagine inspiration had struck, that the unconscious mind from which, the experts said, all true writing sprang had solved her problems for her and come up with a wonderful story.

It had, but not in the way she hoped.

“Words of immortal wisdom is right; I seem to have typed out a chunk of
Hamlet
. I acted in it at school, and it looks like I haven’t forgotten a word of it.”

Henry let himself in through the front door. He sniffed appreciatively, something cooking. Something spicy, good; he was hungry. Maud came down the stairs, a startling sight as her hair was purple, and spiked.

“I’ve been playing with some new gel,” she said as she saw his face.

“Purple gel?”

“The colour’s spray-on.”

“Isn’t the spiky look rather passé?”

“What do you know? I like gel.” She went on, ultra-casual, “Nadia wants me to go for a sleepover next weekend, when she’s home for half-term. I’ve said yes.”

Henry slung his bag on the floor and looked up at his sister. Watchful eyes, body slightly tense. What was this? God, he wished his parents were here in London, and not thousands of miles away in the ice. How did you learn to read a girl like Maud? His mother would have known exactly what she was up to; she didn’t need to crack the code, she could read it effortlessly.

“Who is Nadia?”

“A friend from school.”

“Why is she home?”

“Exeat weekend. You remember those? A weekend away from school. Lots of girls from my class are going to be there.”

“Boys?”

“Don’t be such an antediluvian, don’t say ‘boys’ like the raptors are coming to tea. Boys don’t do sleepovers, it’s a girlie thing.”

“Enlighten me.”

Maud jumped down the last three stairs. “You take sleeping bags, listen to music, watch DVDs, talk, eat junk food, stay up most of the night, crash out in the early hours, get up late, hang about, listen to some more music. That kind of thing.”

“What do Nadia’s parents say about this? Are they there?”

“’Course they are, they just shut themselves away. It’s a big house, it isn’t a problem.”

“You didn’t mention drink. You sip Dr Peppers, do you?”

“I do, because I don’t drink, as you know, I don’t like it. They’ll have beer, cider, most likely, whatever anyone brings.”

“Substances?”

“Oh, come on, Henry, when did you get so stuffy? And I don’t do drugs, either, only I don’t suppose you believe me.”

“Would Mum let you go?”

Maud paused for a fraction of a second too long. “’Course she would. She likes me spending time with my friends.”

“The answer’s I’ll think about it. And don’t start an argument, I’m not in the mood. Tell Nadia your horrible brother may not let you come, okay?”

She regarded him for a moment with an intensity that unnerved him. Then she shrugged. “Okay.”

Their mother would definitely have said no, Henry was sure of that. How he wished Maud was safely at school, out of his jurisdiction, out of mischief. Who was this Nadia? Who were these friends—wasn’t one of Maud’s problems that she didn’t make friends easily? “The other girls find her strange,” her ex-headmistress had said. He’d worry about it later. “Where’s Gina?”

“She went out for a walk. A while ago.” Maud had her foot on the
first step to go back upstairs, but she hesitated and came back into the hall. After a long pause she said, “You know how scared she is of that Livia woman? How she runs for cover at the mere thought of her?”

“Yes. And your point is?”

“I thought it was just fear of anyone in authority, but hey, she can deal with authority when she wants to. I didn’t tell you about my music case, did I?”

“You threw a scene when you discovered you’d left it at school.”

“Yeah, whatever. Anyhow, I rang up the music department, and that freaky secretary with a voice like a foghorn said I couldn’t have it. She put me through to the main office, and they said nothing would be sent back until you’d settled any outstanding dues.”

Henry ran his hand through his hair. “What?”

“I don’t mind too much about my trunk, I’ve got lots of clothes here, they don’t let me wear what I really like at school, so I don’t take my favourite stuff. But I do mind about my music. I need it.”

Henry looked at her intently. “Not so enraged about it anymore? Want me to give you some money to go out and buy some?”

“No need. Because I got a bit upset, on the phone, and Gina overheard me, and when I told her what was up, she took over. Blimey, I’ve never heard anything like it! She had them sorted out in about thirty seconds, asked to speak to someone more senior, and, believe it or not, they put her through to Mrs. Burgh.”

“The head? Good God, that woman terrifies me.”

“Not Gina. She didn’t let Mrs. B. get a word in edgewise, just filled her in on unlawful retention of property, and guess what? They’re sending my music back pronto!”

“Good for Gina,” Henry said, momentarily stunned.

“So you see, she may be a scaredy-cat when it comes to literary life, but I’d pick her for my team in a crisis.”

“Where did you say she is now?”

Maud shrugged. “Out is all I know. She’s been drawing mind maps all morning, looks like a frenzied spider’s been in the paint pot and whizzed all over the pages. You could put it up for the Turner art prize, I reckon. Said she was going cross-eyed and needed some fresh air. Odd, though, she said she’d only be gone an hour, and that was at two. I expect she’s walking the plot, isn’t that what writers do? Or maybe she’s gone shopping.”

“Has she got her phone with her? Give her a call.”

“She took the SIM out, so that Livia and Dan and that Yolanda couldn’t reach her. And I don’t think she’s checking her emails.”

Henry picked up his bag again. “When’s dinner?”

“Half an hour. Some kind of Mughal dish, Anna found a new recipe.”

“Tomorrow I’m going to get Gina a new SIM card, and then she can choose who has the number, and it needn’t include her literary tormentors.”

“Dementors, don’t you think?”

“What’s a dementor?”

“Sucks the joy out of you. Harry Potter.”

“Damn Harry Potter. Well, if Gina isn’t back in half an hour, I’ll eat her share. She didn’t say where she was going?”

“Out for fresh air, although that isn’t so easy. I expect she went to the park.”

Henry considered. It was one of the delights of living where he did that Regent’s Park was within easy walking distance. Fifteen minutes max, then. “She can’t be in the park now, it’s dark.”

“So it is. Perhaps she’s been kidnapped.”

Georgina hadn’t made it to Regent’s Park. In fact, she hadn’t got anywhere near the park. She’d come out of the house and walked a few paces along the street, when a car drew into the curb beside her. A black car, big and glossy, with tinted windows. Gina, who wasn’t interested in cars, had no idea what kind it was, but even to her ignorant eyes, it looked expensive. She would have walked on, but the driver rolled the window down and said he’d seen her come out of number seventeen, and was she by any chance Ms. Jackson.

Who was he? How did he know her name? What did he want?

The driver opened the door and stepped out on to the pavement. Georgina took a step or two back, although he didn’t look in the least bit threatening, a young man with a pleasant open face, dressed in a blue button-down shirt and a dark jacket.

“I’ve come to pick up Georgina Jackson.”

“There’s some mistake,” said Georgina. “That’s me, and I didn’t ask for any car.”

Before she could take another breath, the driver was out of the car, the rear door was open, and with a swift, expert hand at her elbow, she found herself sitting in the back of the car. Two seconds later, and her kidnapper was behind the wheel again and the car was speeding away from the curb. It had all happened so quickly that she had no time to protest, but now she found her voice. “Stop this instant!” she shouted at the driver.

The car had paused at traffic lights, and Georgina, heedless of any traffic that might be coming, wrenched at the door. It remained firmly closed.

“It’s locked,” said the driver. “It’s a safety precaution.”

“Whose safety?”

“The safety of any passenger. It wouldn’t be safe to jump out of a car while it was moving, or even while the engine was idling.”

“In which case, please turn off the engine and let me get out. I don’t know who you are, but I do know that I don’t want to be in this car going wherever it is that you are taking me.”

“You said you were Georgina Jackson.”

“Who sent you?”

He didn’t need to answer the question. Her nose had picked up a whiff of the fragrant cologne that Dan Vesey always wore. “This is Dan Vesey’s car, isn’t it?”

“That’s right.”

“You work for him. As a driver?”

“I’m his assistant. He usually drives himself, but sometimes he asks me to pick people up. Like you, for your meeting.”

“Well, it’s very courteous of Mr. Vesey to send a car to collect me, however, I don’t have a meeting with Mr. Vesey or anyone else, so if you don’t want me to call the police on my mobile phone this instant, you’d better stop and let me out.”

“You don’t have your mobile phone with you, Ms. Jackson.”

That was perfectly true, but how the hell did he know that? He answered her unspoken question. “There are ways of tracing the location of a mobile phone. Yours is at present at number seventeen. You aren’t. Ergo, you don’t have your phone with you.”

Georgina looked at the dashboard—more like something you’d find in the cockpit of a plane than in a car. “You’ve kidnapped me. You have coerced me into this car. That has to be illegal. Doesn’t that worry you?”

“Coercion? There was no coercion. A publisher sent his own car to pick up an author to come to a meeting.”

“That’s not my story.”

“It’s the story anyone will believe.” The younger man took a neat left and did some zigzagging through residential streets. Did he have a name? Everyone had a name, but she didn’t think she wanted to know his. She didn’t really want to get on friendly terms with him.

“My name is Robert,” he said in a kindly way. “I read your book.”

Not, “I read your book and loved it.” Or, “I really liked your book.” No, just the ominous “I read your book.”

She stopped thinking about Robert, and wondered how best to make a dash for it once they arrived outside the premises of Cadell & Davies. And then she stopped thinking about Robert, and the car, and the kidnap, and began to wonder why Dan Vesey had gone to these extraordinary lengths. How stupid to think that by not answering her phone, flagging all emails from Dan, Livia, or Yolanda as junk, that she was somehow out of reach; how absurd to think that the Vesey-Harkness brigade would leave her alone.

The car glided to a halt. This was her chance. Robert could hardly chase her down the street, particularly not if she yelled that she was being assaulted. Would they think that she wasn’t prepared to make a scene? Oh, but she was, the thought of staring passers-by, or even an inquisitive policeman, was as nothing compared to facing Dan Vesey.

She heard a click as the door unlocked, but Robert stayed in the car. Another Robert, his clone, with darker hair, wider smile, but almost exactly the same shirt and jacket, was standing by the door. As she tumbled out of the car, he had her by the elbow and up the steps and inside the premises of Cadell & Davies before she could call out, let alone run for it.

She was hurried along like a piece of airport luggage on the
conveyor belt, and before she could get her breath back, there she was in Dan Vesey’s handsome office. And, in a realization of her worst fears, Dan Vesey was not alone. Seated at the table with him was, inevitably, Livia Harkness.

Not Yolanda, however; she must be grateful for that small mercy, although was she even now making her way through the thick of the London traffic?

Dan Vesey’s greeting was all heartiness and insincerity. He thanked her for sparing the time to join them, observing, “We know just how busy your schedule is right now. However, a progress meeting at this point seemed kind of essential.”

Dan Vesey pulled out a chair for her, which meant that she was sitting directly opposite Livia, who was looking at her rather as a heron might survey a fish flapping in the water beneath its curved beak.

“Your behaviour has been extremely tiresome,” she said without any preamble. “I’m used to authors who like to retreat while they are writing, but in this case, it is unhelpful and unnecessary.” She was tapping on the table top with her cigarette holder. Was she the only woman in London who had a cigarette holder? One at least six inches long? And tortoiseshell, probably illegal. And, while she was thinking illegal, wasn’t it illegal to smoke in an office? Any office?