Jane Goes Batty

door opening and closing seemingly by itself.

Slowly she approached Beverly and her group, all the while trying to keep her thoughts calm. Several of the women were circled around Byron, but still Jane’s path to the front door was blocked. She would have to go around to the back and get in through the kitchen.

You don’t have the key to that door, she reminded herself. You never go in that way. Still, she had no choice. Her lawn and stoop were littered with gawkers.

“No,” she heard Byron say. “I haven’t seen Miss Fairfax. Perhaps you should try knocking again.”

Shut up, Jane thought, knowing full well that Byron could tell she was nearby. Something in her vision changed for a second. She looked down and saw that she was becoming visible. She was very faint, but nonetheless there. Panic gripped her, and she grew more solid. She had to get into the house.

She ran, slipping past a woman who was examining her rosebushes. The woman looked up, a puzzled expression on her face. Jane ignored her, reaching the corner just as she winked back into sight.

She tried the door and found it locked, as she’d known it would be. The only way in was through the kitchen window. She went to it and pushed up on the frame, praying that she hadn’t locked it. It slid up with only slight hesitation.

Gripping the sill, she jumped as hard as she could. Her head passed through the window, and for a moment she felt the relief of having succeeded. This, however, was a momentary joy, as she now found herself stuck. Below her Tom stared up at her with a mixture of bemusement and disgust.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Jane told him. “I will not be ridiculed by a cat.”

She was hanging over the windowsill, her front half in the kitchen and her back half kicking uselessly at the air. Finally, with enormous effort, she managed to propel herself forward and onto the linoleum, almost landing on Tom. The black-and-white cat stepped neatly to one side, avoiding her. Moments later Jasper, the springer spaniel Jane had adopted after he’d helped her escape from Charlotte Brontë’s house, trotted in. Looking at her, he gave a soft woof.

“What a wonderful guard dog you are,” Jane told him as she got up and dusted herself off. She turned and shut the window.

And now you’re a prisoner in your own house, she told herself. If you’d just step out and say hello, they’d go away.

But she knew they wouldn’t. A simple greeting would turn into requests for autographs and pictures. Then someone would ask—ever so sweetly—if they could have just a peek at the room in which she wrote her books. And of course she couldn’t say no without seeming churlish, and then it would descend into madness. She imagined hysterical women rifling through her drawers and peering into her bathroom cabinet, and it made her head ache.

The phone rang, startling her. Noting the number on the caller ID display, she picked up.

“Well, you’re not going to believe this,” a voice said.

Jane was slowly getting used to Satvari Thangavadivelu’s manner of launching into a conversation with no preliminaries. At the insistence of her editor, Kelly Littlejohn, Jane had signed with the Waters-Harding Agency to represent her in her business dealings. Satvari was the head of the firm’s film department and had shepherded Constance through the Hollywood minefield.

“What won’t I believe?” Jane asked.

“They want to film there,” Satvari said.

“There where?”

“There there,” said Satvari. “Brakeston. They want to film Constance in Brakeston. Well, the exterior shots, anyway. Apparently they’ve decided it will be more authentic than shooting on a soundstage.”

“They’re bringing everything here?” Jane said, not quite understanding. “The cameras and … and lights and … actors?”

“All of it. And they’ll be there in a week.”

“A week?” Jane exclaimed. “How am I supposed to get ready in a week?”

“Relax,” said Satvari. “You don’t have to have anything to do with it, remember?”

Jane breathed more easily. “That’s right,” she said. “I forgot.”

“Unless,” Satvari said.

Jane heard an unsettling tone in the agent’s voice. “Unless what?”

“Unless you want to be involved,” said Satvari. “It seems they’d like you to maybe help out a little bit with the script.”

“You told me that was a bad idea,” Jane reminded her. “You told me not to even see the film.”

“I told you not to try to write the script,” said Satvari. “But this isn’t writing it. It’s more like rewriting it. Just a little. You know, some dialogue here and there.”

Jane sighed. “Can I think about it?” she asked.

“Of course,” Satvari answered. “But don’t think too long. If you say no, they’re going to ask Penelope Wentz to do it.”

“Penelope!” Jane exclaimed.

“Sorry, Tavish Osborn,” said Satvari. “And yes, they’re going to ask her. I mean him. She’s a him, right? I can’t keep it all straight.”

“I’ll do it,” Jane said.

“Really?” asked Satvari. “You’re sure?”

“Absolutely sure,” Jane assured her.

“Great,” said Satvari. “I’ll work out the details and call you tomorrow.” She hung up without a goodbye.

“Penelope Wentz,” Jane remarked to Tom, who was sitting in a spot of sun, washing his face. “Honestly. As if Byron could ever do justice to my novel.”

“What about me?” Byron materialized in the room, startling Jane.

“Nothing,” said Jane. “It’s not important.”

The doorbell rang, and for a moment Jane almost picked up the phone, thinking someone was calling. Realizing what it was, she was overcome by a desire to go hide in the closet. She had visions of Beverly Shrop standing on her front steps, grinning like the Cheshire cat while her minions crowded behind her.

“I heard you say my name,” said Byron. “You might as well tell me.”

Again the air was filled with an electric trill. Jane, still ignoring Byron, was beginning to retreat to the bedroom when she saw that the little light on her phone was blinking. Now someone is calling, she realized.

Grateful for the distraction, she picked up without looking at the caller ID. “Hello?”

“It’s me.” Walter’s voice had a strange tone to it.

“Are you all right?” Jane asked. “You sound peculiar.”

“I’m hiding behind a hedge,” said Walter. “There’s a gaggle of Shropheads outside your house.”

“I was hoping they’d be gone by now,” Jane said. “Best to keep yourself hidden. Beverly knows who you are. If she sees you, you’re done for.”

“Is that Walter?” Byron called out. “Tell him I say hello.”

“Is that Brian?” asked Walter. “What’s he doing there?”

Jane heard a slight edge in Walter’s voice. Although he and Byron were cordial to each other, Jane knew Walter was still a little suspicious of the man he knew Jane had once been involved with.

“He just stopped over to borrow a book,” Jane said.

“Oh,” said Walter. “Well, I wanted to do this in person, but I guess this will have to do,” he continued.

“Do what in person?”

“I have something to tell you,” said Walter. He took a deep breath. “My mother is coming.”

“Your mother?” Jane said, feeling immensely better. “Is that all?”

“You don’t understand,” said Walter.

Jane interrupted him. “Walter, from everything you’ve told me, your mother sounds like a lovely woman. She even sent me that thank-you note after she read my book.”

“Yes,” Walter said. “I know. But there’s something I sort of haven’t told you about her. About me too, I suppose.”