There was Customer Service, a chirpy brunette with a permanent smile behind the desk. And there was someone waiting there, someone dressed in jeans and a sweater, devilishly normal in the twenty-first-century crowd. He saw her, and he straightened, his eyes hopeful. Apparently, Mrs. Wattlesbrook’s barrister hadn’t been in his office to assure her that being a magazine writer doesn’t nullify a confidentiality agreement.
“Jane.”
“Martin. You whistled?” She laid the rancor on thick. No need to tap dance around.
“Jane, I’m sorry. I was going to tell you today. Or tonight. The point is, I was going to tell you, and then we could still see if you and I—”
“You’re an actor,” Jane said as though “actor” and “bastard” were synonymous.
“Yes, but, but....“ He looked around as though for cue cards.
“But you’re desperately in love with me,” she prompted him. “I’m unbelievably beautiful, and I make you feel like yourself. Oh, and I remind you of your sister.”
The chirpy brunette behind the counter furiously refused to look up from her monitor.
“Jane, please.”
‘And the suddenly passionate feelings that sent you running after me at the airport have nothing to do with Mrs. Wattlesbrook’s fear that I’ll write a negative review of Pembrook Park.”
“No! Listen, I know I was a cad, and I lied and was misleading, and I’ve never actually been an NBA fan—go United—but romances have bloomed on stonier ground.” “Romances… stonier ground. . . Did Mrs. Wattlesbrook write that line?”
Martin exhaled in exasperation.
Thinking of Molly’s dead end on the background check, she asked, “Your name’s not really Martin Jasper, is it?”
“Well,” he looked at the brunette as though for help. “Well, it is Martin.”
The brunette smiled encouragement.
Then, impossibly, another figure ran toward her. The side-burns and stiff-collared jacket looked ridiculous out of the context of Pembrook Park, though he’d stuck on a baseball cap and trench coat, trying to blend. His face was flushed from running, and when he saw Jane, he sighed with relief.
Jane dropped her jaw. Literally. She had never, even in her most ridiculous daydreaming, imagined that Mr. Nobley would come after her. She took a step back, hit something slick with her boot heel, and tottered almost to the ground. Mr. Nobley caught her and set her back up on her feet.
Is this why women wear heels? thought Jane. We hobble ourselves so we can still be rescued by men?
She annoyed herself by having enjoyed it. Briefly.
“You haven’t left yet,” Nobley said. He seemed reluctant to let go of her, but he did and took a few steps back. “I’ve been panicked that . . .” He saw Martin. “What are you doing here?”
The brunette was watching with hungry intensity, though she kept tapping at a keyboard as though actually very busy at work.
“Jane and I got close these past weeks and—” Martin began.
“Got close. That’s a load of duff. It’s one thing when you’re toying with the dowagers who guess what you are, but Jane should be off limits.” He took her arm. “You can’t believe a word he says. I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you earlier, but you must know now that he’s an actor.
“I know,” Jane said.
Nobley blinked. “Oh.”
“So, what are you doing here?” She couldn’t help it if her tone sounded a little tired. This was becoming farcical.
“I came to tell you that I—” he rushed to speak, then composed himself, looked around, and stepped closer to her so he did not need to raise his voice to be heard. The brunette leaned forward just a tad.
“I apologize for having to tell you here, in this busy, dirty... this is not the scene I would set, but you must know that I . . .” He took off his cap and rubbed his hair ragged. “I’ve been working at Pembrook Park for nearly four years. All the women I see, week after week, they’re the same. Nearly from the first, that morning when we were alone in the park, I guessed that you might be different. You were sincere.”
He reached for her hand. He seemed to gain confidence, his lips started to smile, and he looked at her as though he never wished to look away.
Zing, she thought, out of habit mostly, because she wasn’t buying any of it.
Martin groaned at the silliness. Nobley immediately stuck his cap back on and stepped back, and he seemed unsure if he’d been too forward, if he should still play by the rules.
“I know you have no reason to believe me, but I wish you would. Last night in the library, I wanted to tell you how I felt. I should have. But I wasn’t sure how you...I let myself speak the same tired sort of proposal I used on everyone. You were right to reject me. It was a proper slap in the face. No one had ever said no before. You made me sit up and think. Well, I didn’t want to think much, at first. But after you left this morning, I asked myself, are you going to let her go just because you met her while acting a part?” Nobley paused as if waiting for the answer.
“Oh, come on, Jane,” Martin said. “You’re not going to buy this from him.”
“Don’t talk to me like we’re friends,” Jane said. “You . . . you were paid to kiss me! And it was a game, a joke on me, you disgusting lurch. You’ve got no right to call me Jane. I’m Miss Erstwhile to you.”
“Don’t give me that,” Martin said. His patience was fraying. ‘All of Pembrook Park is one big drama, you’d have to be dense not to see that. You were acting too, just like the rest of us, having a fling on holiday, weren’t you? And it’s not as though kissing you was odious.”
“Odious?”
“I’m saying it wasn’t.” Martin paused and appeared to be putting back on his romancing-the-woman persona. “I enjoyed it, all of it. Well, except for the root beer. And if you’re going to write that article, you should know that I believe what we had was real.”
The brunette sighed. Jane just rolled her eyes.
“We had something real,” Nobley said, starting to sound a little desperate. “You must have felt it, seeping through the costumes and pretenses.”
The brunette nodded.
“Seeping through the pretenses? Listen to him, he’s still acting.” Martin turned to the brunette in search of an ally.