Brigid Coady - Persuading Austen

Annie screwed her eyes closed. She wondered if she could get away with sticking her fingers in her ears and singing la la la la.

‘Don’t close your eyes on me,’ Cassie said.

‘I thought we weren’t talking work?’ Annie opened her eyes and reached for her glass.

Cassie glared at her.

Decisions about the party weren’t the only thing she’d been avoiding. It was what she had been doing about the house-renting business too. She could have it on the market tomorrow and tenants by the end of the week. Financial issues gone. Freedom guaranteed.

The problem there, she thought, was telling Dad and Immy.

Why was life so complicated? Why couldn’t she make it all behave like numbers on a work spreadsheet? She took a sip of wine and looked round the pub. Where the hell were Julie and Anna? Surely they should be here by now?

Cassie kicked her under the table.

Annie rolled her eyes. Of course, she hadn’t replied to the invite because then she would actively be putting herself in front of Austen Wentworth.

And eight years ago, Annie had sworn she would never do that again.

Mind you, all she was doing was putting off the inevitable; she was going to have to see him throughout the whole production.

But maybe it would be okay. A treacherous tendril of a thought escaped out of the box she had hidden all her Austen-related feelings in. Maybe he would take one look at her and eight years would fall away. He’d look at her again with his famous green eyes, ones she knew turned from emerald to grey to brown depending on the light, and his mouth would twitch up at the edges. As if he was trying not to laugh.

‘Anne-ticipation, Anne-tediluvian, Annie-matronic.’ He’d have his arms round her waist and he’d swing her from side to side, coming up with more and more inventive additions to her name.

Austen had always said that she needed a bigger name than Anne or even Annie. That only one or two syllables didn’t seem enough to him. He’d started going through the dictionary adding endings to her name. She’d never felt as if she took up space until Austen. He saw her and in his seeing her she grew bigger in the world.

With him she expanded. She felt as if she didn’t have marshmallow for a spine but that she could conquer the world. That she mattered.

Until she didn’t.

She put her glass down and clamped her hands over her ears. Anything to try and stop the chorus of names that he had called her, the way they had of tying her heart in knots again.

This is why she couldn’t go to the party.

What if he just called her Annie?

‘Annie, putting your hands over your ears to block me out isn’t going to help.’ Annie opened her eyes to find Cassie frowning at her.

‘If you’re going to do it then at least use sound-cancelling headphones and we can both keep our illusions. Also we are in a pub…’

‘Sorry,’ Annie said.

How could she explain it to Cassie? She had never told her about Austen. But maybe she could? Not all of it, of course. She didn’t need to see the disbelieving look from Cassie. She liked Cassie.

‘Look. I …’ Just say it, Annie, she thought. Rip off that scab. ‘I kind of knew Austen Wentworth back in the day and, well, we didn’t part on the best terms.’ She rushed it out.

Best of terms? That was putting it politely. Although there had been no screaming – only excruciating silences punctuated by pleading and a slamming door and her heart walking away on the coat tails of another.

‘You never said, you sly dog.’ Cassie smiled. ‘Look, you don’t have to tell me but we’ve all made arses of ourselves over pretty boy actors. A bit of drink and a declaration of love can happen to anyone. You have to get over it. Ten to one, he won’t remember. And if he does I’m sure he’ll be flattered.’

And there it was in a nutshell, Annie thought. No one would ever believe that it was Austen who had said ‘I love you’ first.

‘Yeah,’ Annie sighed, her whole body slumping in the chair like a deflated balloon. ‘Just a little leftover psyche scarring,’ she lied so she could forego the disbelieving look.

‘Well get over it. You are going to the party,’ Cassie said. ‘This is the chance for you to be Anne Elliot, producer. Isn’t this what you wanted? A place in the business for you. Where you get introduced as yourself and not William Elliot’s daughter or Imogen or Marie’s sister? And wear something nice – not the usual “blend into the background” stuff you wear around the family. I’ve seen you dressed up for nights out. You scrub up well, when you want.

‘You need to do this for yourself as much as for the agency. You know that don’t you?’

Cassie looked at her with concern, her curls rioting over her head like a halo.

Of course she knew that. In theory Annie knew exactly what she had to do. And if Cassie could guarantee neither her family nor Austen would be there then she could be the biggest social schmoozer in the history of schmoozing.

‘And you replace that embarrassing memory of Austen with a completely professional one.’ Cassie winked as she waved Julie and Anna over from where they were hovering by the door waiting.

Professional? Ha, Annie thought.

‘Hey,’ Annie said and handed out hugs and kisses.

‘You’ll never guess what we’re working on,’ Cassie said to their newly arrived friends. ‘ Pride and Prejudice .’

‘Austen Wentworth? You lucky bitches,’ Julie screamed.

Lucky? Ha, Annie thought again.

How had she let her personal life start to bleed into her professional one this badly?

***

‘No. No. Definitely not. What was I thinking?’ Annie whispered to herself as she went through her wardrobe, clicking the hangers back one by one. Everything formal and work-related was black or a dark grey because it was practical. And it helped her hide in plain sight.

Annie wasn’t sure what Cassie meant when she said she scrubbed up well. She couldn’t remember the last time she had dressed up. Most of her outings were to the pub or gigs. Jeans and band T-shirts worked fine there.

She pulled out a black dress that had been squished near one side of the wardrobe, only one shoulder still on the hanger. She looked at it, frowning. It was scooped low at the back and looked as if it would cling to her curves. She didn’t remember this dress. When had she worn it? Annie never wore anything that showed off her shoulder blades now. The ink was hers alone, even if it was for someone else.

A memory of wearing a pair of high heels and clutching a solid, muscled arm clad in scratchy wool flowed over her.

Oh. Then. When things had been different. Before the tattoo.

She’d bought it because for once she’d wanted to be seen, because her date had called her ‘Annie-matronix’ when he’d seen her come down in it. He’d spun her under his arm and had hugged her from behind as they stood in front of the mirror, his chin resting on her shoulder.

The mark on her shoulder burned, yearning to be complete.

Annie hugged the dress to her chest.

It was also for a person who was at least two sizes smaller than she was now and didn’t have a piece of body art she’d regretted as soon as she’d got it.

Why did she still have the dress in the wardrobe? She was never going to wear it again. But she couldn’t quite stop hugging it. She brought it to her face and sniffed. She didn’t know what she was trying to smell. She didn’t remember what Austen smelled like. Maybe she was trying to capture the past.

No. There was no going back. Annie hesitated to put it back in the wardrobe.

She looked at the overstuffed cupboard. She couldn’t take it all with her when they rented out the house.