Persuading Austen

‘Hush, Henry, what would Robbie say if he could hear you?’ Louisa joked as she tried to grab the magazine from Henrietta.

‘We knew him didn’t we, Annie,’ Marie said as she watched the Musgrove girls with a distasteful twist to her lips.

Crap.

How did Marie know? Hadn’t she been away at university at the time, disappointing Dad having not got into drama school? Although she’d made up for it by quickly scaling the TV presenter ladder. But surely, she couldn’t remember some bit-part actor from eight years ago? Marie never noticed anything unless it directly affected her.

Annie made a choking sound as she stared at Marie; she hoped everyone would take it as agreement.

‘Yes, he was in a play with Daddy in Stratford – I forget which one. Anyway I was still a student at the time but I remember him from going to visit. He was a bit geeky at the time but still sexy,’ Marie said. ‘Of course, he fancied me but I was too young and he wasn’t willing to wait.’

Annie could feel her tongue drying out, which was when she realized she had been standing there with her mouth open. Fancied Marie? Why was she even surprised? Marie never saw anything except in how it related to herself, which did explain why she remembered Austen.

‘You remember him, Annie? I think you had a crush on him; you followed him round like a puppy. Dad said it was cute if a bit annoying. Supposedly Austen hadn’t wanted to hurt your feelings by telling you to get lost.’

Everyone turned to look at her.

She could tell them. Tell them that the man thousands of women wanted to sleep with had wanted to marry her.

How he’d quoted Shakespeare and Donne to her when they’d been wrapped round each other in that cramped single bed in his lodgings.

How she knew that now he waxed his chest, which she could see was glistening, peeking out of the V-neck shirt in the photo that Henrietta and Louisa were drooling over. She knew because she’d liked to stroke the little tuft of hair that used to curl out of his T-shirts. Had wrapped it round her finger as they’d cuddled watching TV.

‘Yeah, well.’

Her face burned with humiliation as the words stuck in her throat. What was the point? Her place in the family was not the femme fatale; she wasn’t the one men fell for. Her part was as the steady and boring one. The maiden aunt.

She squirmed. She hated to be pitied.

‘It was a long time ago. And things have changed. Isn’t that the car?’ she said. Annie heard the rev of an engine and thanked whatever deity had sent it. She needed a break.

‘Charlie,’ Marie’s voice screamed up the stairs.

There was a flurry of goodbyes.

And then they were gone. How could the adults be more draining than the kids?

Annie glanced over at the boys but a pair of two-dimensional moss-green-coloured eyes caught her gaze; the last time she had seen them in real life they had glared at her.

Damn him. She’d made her choice and still it felt he was giving her grief about it.

***

‘Cupcakes, beyotch, whether you like it or not.’

Annie jumped as the shout came from Cassie across the tiny hall that separated their offices, almost accidentally entering Idris Elba’s pay at three times his fee.

‘Never. I’ll compromise on Portuguese custard tarts and macarons but never cupcakes,’ she called back as she amended the cost, smiling at the ease with which she could fix work problems.

It had been two weeks since the Austen bombshell and Annie had only now stopped looking over her shoulder when she was out.

Which was stupid. London was a big place.

And, she needed to concentrate. This was her job. This is what she was good at – what she loved. The only part of her life that worked and the place she’d thrown the leftover parts of her heart into.

Cupcakes. Annie could feel the grimace on her face. Horrible overly sweet cloying invaders.

But if Cassie said cupcakes it meant there was obviously more news. Good news. If their little company got any more successful she and Cassie would be obese. Or maybe they’d have to hire someone else to spread the calories.

‘So, what will it be?’ Annie called out. There was a considered silence from the other office. She waited, her hands poised over the laptop keys.

‘If you buy the champagne then okay.’

Champagne? The news must be good. And Cassie would be dying to tell it, which is why she gave in so easily.

‘On it.’

Annie grabbed her purse and coat. She rushed out of the little basement office before Cassie could change her mind. Taking the steps two at a time, she burst onto the residential street of terrace houses. Diving down the street by the local pub, where Cass and she had spent way too much time celebrating and commiserating, Annie came on to Notting Hill Gate. Dodging tourists, she pushed open the door to her favourite patisserie.

The puff of hot air laced with cinnamon and sugar warmed Annie’s face, chilly from the outside. She took a huge breath in almost tasting the buttery pastry on her tongue.

The shop had a few tables at the back but mostly it was a long counter with a glass display case full of the most indulgent cakes and pastries. They were piled high, some oozing cream, others glistening with egg wash, and most drenched in fine powdered sugar. And to Annie’s happiness not a cupcake in sight.

‘Hey, Maggie, can I have two custard tarts and a small mix of macarons,’ she said to the middle-aged woman in an apron behind the display case.

‘So is it good news or bad news?’ Maggie was used to Cassie and her buying patterns by now.

‘Cass said to get the bubbles in so I’m thinking extremely good news,’ Annie said and couldn’t help rubbing her hands together as she waited for Maggie to fill her order.

She felt buoyant, as if she had already drunk the bubbles. There was something about work that freed her. Cut her ties to her family even for a small amount of time. At work she was Annie Elliot, production accountant extraordinaire. She liked that Annie Elliot so much better than Annie Elliot, resident doormat. And when it became Annie Elliot, producer … She smiled harder.

‘There you go,’ Maggie said closing the lid of the white cardboard box, hiding the brightly coloured macrons and glistening tarts. ‘That will be twelve pounds sixty, please.’

Annie tapped her card on the card reader, grabbed the cardboard box and her receipt. She rushed to the door.

‘Bye, Maggie,’ she called back.

Hopefully the off-licence would have some chilled champagne, she thought. Who was she kidding? This was Notting Hill. Of course it would and it was only a week since Valentine’s so they might have some on offer. She grabbed the door handle, hoping that the Pol Roger was on sale and whether the news was good enough to justify it.

‘Bugger.’

The door handle was pulled from her and she fell forward, almost dropping the cake box.

‘Sorry,’ a husky voice said and a firm male hand grabbed her bicep to steady her. ‘I wasn’t paying attention,’ he continued. Annie looked up into a pair of pale blue eyes.

The bloke had fox-like features and a slow sideways smile. He waved his phone at her and looked sheepish.

Annie felt a jolt of recognition, as if he was someone she should know. As if his name was on the tip of her tongue.