Jane Bites Back

I should say to meet him,” she concluded, indicating Byron with her hand. “May I present Mr. Tavish Osborn, the man behind Penelope Wentz!”

Gasps were heard all over the room, and several cameras went off, their flashes momentarily blinding Jane as she was caught in their glare. She tried to lean away from Byron.

A woman in the front row stood up. Dressed entirely in pink, she was clutching a copy of one of Penelope Wentz’s books. She held it to her chest as she looked at Byron accusingly. “I don’t believe it,” she said. “No man could understand what it’s like to be a …” She paused for a moment. “Woman of a certain age,” she concluded.

“That’s an excellent point,” said Rebecca quickly. “After all, the theme of our panel is what women want from romance fiction. Perhaps you could answer this reader’s question with that in mind,” she suggested, looking over at Byron.

“I’m more than happy to, Rebecca,” Byron said. He fixed his gaze on the woman who had spoken. Jane watched as she took a step back and sat down as if she’d been pushed. She knew Byron was casting a glamor on the audience. As if he needs to, she thought. Half the people in here are already in love with him.

“I know it will come as a shock to many of you that I’m a man,” said Byron. “After all, you’re wondering, how can I know what it’s like to be a woman? Well, I’ll tell you my secret.” He leaned forward, as if inviting them to come closer. And indeed many in the audience did lean toward the table. “I absolutely love women,” Byron said. “I love everything about you, and most of all I love listening to you.” He leaned back. “And that’s my secret,” he said. “I listen. When you read my books, it isn’t me telling the story, it’s you.” He pointed to the woman who had questioned him, who blushed deeply. “And you,” he continued, indicating another woman. “And you.” He pointed somewhere in the middle of the audience.

They all think he’s talking just to them, Jane thought. He’s glamored each and every one of them.

“That’s cheating,” she hissed softly, knowing that Byron could hear her.

“When I write, I’m giving voice to what you feel,” Byron continued, ignoring her. His voice was practically a purr.

The room erupted in applause. Half of the audience rose to their feet, their hands slapping together like the flippers of trained seals. Watching them, Jane wanted to tell them all to sit down and shut up. Byron looked over at her and gave a cocky grin. You horrid, horrid man, Jane thought at him.

“What an eloquent answer.” Rebecca had resumed control over the panel. Jane, looking at her, saw that she was wiping her eyes. Was she actually weeping? She was. Jane felt sick. Byron had them all in the palm of his hand.

“And just what is it women want?” Jane heard herself ask.

All eyes turned to her, including Byron’s. Jane felt herself flush, but she knew she had to continue. She took a breath and faced Byron. “I would like to hear what Penelope believes women want,” she said.

“I don’t think we—” Rebecca began.

“But I do,” Jane interrupted. “After all, Mr. Osborn has sold a great number of books based on his deep understanding of what women want. I’m wondering if he might care to share that secret with us—his readers,” she added.

Byron’s mouth twitched at the corners, and Jane knew she had landed a blow. But he quickly composed himself. “I’d be happy to,” he said.

“Without glamoring them,” Jane whispered as she pretended to take a drink of water from the glass set before her on the table.

Byron ignored her. “What women want,” he began. There was a long pause, which grew longer as Byron seemed to think. Jane sensed the audience growing restless. Someone coughed.

“What women want is to be accepted for who they are,” Byron said finally. “Not what the media tells them they should be, but who they really are.”

As the audience clapped, Byron turned to Jane with a triumphant look in his eyes.

“I see,” Jane said loudly. “Yet your books don’t really depict women as they are, do they?”

“Why don’t we move on,” said Rebecca, glaring openly at Jane.

“In a moment,” Jane said. “Mr. Osborn,” she addressed Byron. “Do you really mean for us to believe that you aren’t just as guilty of presenting women with an idealized version of themselves?” Having never read a Penelope Wentz novel, she hoped she was correct in her assessment of Byron’s prose.

“I think we can all agree that fiction, particularly romantic fiction, works best when it contains some elements of fantasy,” Byron said smoothly. “After all, a world of laundry, carpools, and helping with homework is hardly the setting for romance, do you think?”

“I absolutely do,” said Jane. “In fact, some of the most romantic novels in the world feature perfectly ordinary women. Take Sense and—”

“I think we should move on,” Rebecca interrupted loudly. “Mr. Osborn, perhaps you could tell us more about how you came to write as Penelope Wentz. I’m sure it’s a fascinating story.”

Jane sat back in her chair. She knew she’d been bested. Byron’s glamor was too strong, and she was out of practice. He had upstaged her, taking away what should have been a triumphant moment for her and her book.

For the next hour, Byron fielded questions from the audience. Jane and Chiara were barely noticed. Every so often one of them would start to answer a question, only to be cut off by someone who preferred to hear Byron’s thoughts on the topic at hand. While Jane was annoyed by the proceedings, Chiara seemed not to mind being eclipsed by Byron. Finally Jane tuned everything out and just sat there pretending to pay attention.

Only when she heard another wave of applause did she listen to what was going on. It seemed the panel was over.

“And now Mr. Osborn will sign copies of his books,” Rebecca announced. “Oh, and so will the other authors,” she added hastily. “Please form an orderly line.”

It seemed to Jane that nearly every person in the room rushed toward the platform simultaneously. For a moment she feared she would be trampled, but they came to a halt a few feet away and somehow managed to organize themselves into a queue stretching off to Jane’s right. The first person, a girl of maybe twenty, stepped onto the platform and approached her. Jane smiled, anticipating the first signing of her novel. However, the woman didn’t even glance at Jane as she went right to Byron.

“Could you sign it to Brandi?” the girl asked.

“That’s Brandi with an i, correct?” said Byron.

The girl beamed. “How did you know?”

Byron answered as he wrote in her book. “A girl as unique as you are is certain to have a unique name,” he said.

Brandi giggled and bit her lip.

“Thank you so much for coming today,” said Byron, eliciting another titter. “I hope you enjoy the book.”

“I will,” Brandi said as she was encouraged by Rebecca to move along. Jane noted with some small satisfaction that the girl walked by Chiara without so much as a turn of her head.

By then another reader had bypassed Jane and was talking to Byron. As he had with Brandi, he charmed her to the point that all she could do was giggle.

“Who do you think you are?” Jane asked in the interval between one woman leaving and another arriving. “The Beatles?”

With agonizing slowness the line grew shorter. Not a single person asked Jane or Chiara for an autograph. When the last person had received a signature from Byron and walked away glowing, Jane stood up.

“That was fun,” she said. “Now I’m afraid I have to be getting along. It was lovely to meet all of you.”

She gathered up her things and started to leave, not caring whether or not she insulted Chiara or Rebecca. Her entire trip had, as far as she was concerned, been a waste of time. Not quite, she reminded herself. You did kill Charlotte Brontë. That’s something, at least.

“Jane, wait.”

She heard Byron’s voice behind her but kept walking. A moment later he grabbed her arm. “Wait,” he said.