Jane Goes Batty

Jane, confused, didn’t understand what Shirley was saying. Then it hit her. “You mean my movie?” she said. “Constance?”

“That’s right,” said Shirley. A worried look crossed her face, and her eyes darted to Jessica and then quickly back to Jane. “Didn’t anyone tell you?”

Jane shook her head and looked meaningfully at Jessica, who was examining the menu in her hand. “No,” Jane said. “No one did.”

“I’m sorry,” said Shirley. “I thought you knew. Jessica said you were too busy working on the new novel to do it, so she recommended me.”

Jessica set the menu down. “I worked with Shirley on the first Vivienne Minx novel,” she said quickly, as if that explained everything.

“Of course, I’m still not Posey Frost,” Shirley said. “We’re telling the director that I’m Posey’s assistant, and that Posey can’t come out of the hotel because she’s afraid of paparazzi finding her.”

“Hollywood people will believe anything as long as you throw paparazzi into the story,” Jessica remarked. “They’re terrified of them.”

“And you say they want to sex up the script,” said Jane, ignoring the editor and addressing Shirley.

“That’s what I understand,” Shirley replied. “I’m meeting with the director this afternoon to discuss it. It all happened very quickly.”

“It must have,” said Jane. She looked at Jessica and narrowed her eyes. “As I said, this is the first I’ve heard about it.”

“It was all very sudden,” Jessica said. “Kelly called me yesterday afternoon to see if I thought you had time to do both the script and the new novel, and I said I didn’t think we should—”

“Kelly?” Jane interrupted. “Kelly Littlejohn?”

“Well, yes,” said Jessica. “Is there another one?”

“I’m just surprised he didn’t call me,” Jane said.

Jessica waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, I told him not to bother you. As I was saying, I didn’t want to overburden you. I know you’ve been having trouble with the novel.”

“I’m not having trouble!” Jane exclaimed. “It’s just that there’s a lot going on at the moment and—”

This time Jessica interrupted. “See? That’s exactly what I’m saying. You have a lot going on.” Her tone made her sound as if she were talking to a small child.

Shirley, who had been listening to the exchange and systematically reducing her roll to tiny balls of dough that she pinched between her thumb and forefinger, suddenly stood up. “Will you excuse me?” she said, taking up her purse. “I need to go to the ladies’ room.”

As soon as Shirley was out of earshot Jessica said, “Now look what you’ve done. You’ve upset her.”

“Have I?” Jane countered. “Well, perhaps we should see what Kelly has to say about his.” She fished in her purse for her cellphone and started to dial Kelly’s number.

“I wouldn’t do that,” said Jessica.

Jane paused mid-dial. “And why not?”

Jessica cleared her throat. “I gave Kelly a choice,” she said. “You can either deliver the manuscript within thirty days or you can pay back your advance and take the project elsewhere.”

“Thirty days!” said Jane. “No one can write a novel in thirty days!”

“Tell that to Anthony Trollope,” Jessica said. “Anyway, it states quite clearly in your contract that if you fail to deliver on time—which you have—we can request that you submit the manuscript in thirty days, and if you fail to do that, it can result in cancellation of the contract and recovery of all monies paid out against it.”

“I know what it says,” said Jane, although this was only partly true. Kelly had mentioned something of the sort when she’d missed several deadline extensions, but he’d assured her that publishers never acted on the clause. Especially not when an author’s book had done as well as Jane’s had. She hesitated a moment, then clicked her phone shut and held it tightly in her hand, which was very sweaty.

“So you see, we’re only doing what’s best for you,” Jessica said. “Now let’s have lunch, and afterward you and I can discuss the novel.” She paused for a long moment. “Of course, if you prefer to work on the film, I imagine Shirley might be persuaded to assist with the novel.”

“Excuse me?” said Jane.

“Of course, it would still be your name on the book,” Jessica said. “And she wouldn’t be writing the whole book. She could just, you know, outline it and get it started for you.”

Jane was stunned. She sat staring at Jessica, unable to move her mouth. When she finally regained her senses she said, “You don’t think I can write it, do you?”

Jessica took a drink of water. “To be perfectly frank, no.”

“And why not?” Jane asked.

Jessica glanced around, as if checking to make sure Shirley wasn’t on her way back to the table. “Look, I don’t want to embarrass you if I don’t have to, but we both know you didn’t write Constance.”

“What are you talking about?” said Jane. “Of course I wrote it.”

“Violet Grey has evidence to the contrary,” Jessica said.

Jane gave a start, as if she’d been slapped. “Violet Grey!” she said. “She has no evidence of any kind!”

Jessica smiled thinly. “She said you’d say that.”

“Let me guess,” Jane said. “She told you that I found a long-lost Charlotte Brontë novel and passed it off as my own.” She shuddered at hearing herself say Charlotte’s name.

“Hardly,” Jessica told her. “It’s not good enough to be a Brontë novel, even a minor one. It’s not even good enough to be an Austen novel. Why do you think I rejected it when you sent it to me?”

“You’re a Brontëite,” said Jane. “I should have known.”

“Violet didn’t say whose manuscript you stole, just that you found one and passed it off as your own. But she says the evidence is there, and I trust her.”

Jane sniffed. “How can you trust that vile little liar?”

Jessica frowned. “Because that vile little liar happens to be my sorority sister.”

Jane was about to ask Jessica if “sorority sister” was a euphemism for something more sinister, but Shirley’s reappearance stopped her.

“What have I missed?” Shirley said as she pulled her chair out and sat down.

“Just girl talk,” Jessica chirped. “Jane was saying how grateful she is that you’re able to help us out. Right, Jane?”

Jane forced herself to smile. “Right,” she said. “So very grateful.”

“Then you don’t mind?” asked Shirley. “I was a little worried when you said no one had spoken to you about it.”

Jane laughed lightly as she imagined sinking her fangs into Jessica Abernathy’s throat. “Not at all,” she said. “It was just a little miscommunication.”

Shirley smiled. “That’s a relief,” she said as she picked up a menu. “So, what’s everyone having for lunch?”

“The Cobb salad looks wonderful,” Jessica said, acting as if she hadn’t moments ago told Jane that she was a plagiarist, a liar, and a lousy writer. “What about you, Jane?”

Jane was thinking dark thoughts about having Jessica for lunch when the waiter appeared.

“Oh, there you are,” Jessica said. “I’ll have the—”

“I’m sorry,” the waiter said. “I’ll take your order in just a moment. Is one of you Jane Fairfax?”

“I am,” said Jane.

“There’s a call for you at the host stand,” the waiter informed her. “You can follow me.”

Jane excused herself and trailed behind the young man. When they were out of sight of the table the waiter stopped. “There is no call,” he said in a low voice. “But there’s a gentleman outside who says it’s very important that he speak with you.”

Jane peered toward the front of the restaurant. All of a sudden Byron’s face appeared. Seeing Jane, he motioned for her to come quickly.

“Thank you,” Jane told the waiter. “Will you tell my friends that I had to leave to attend to an emergency at