Austenland Read Free Page A

stared. He had a new haircut. His white blond hair was now spiked with an incredible amount of pomade that smelled of raspberries, a do that could only be carried off with true success by a fifteen-year-old boy wielding an impressive and permanent glare. Todd was grinning. And forty-three. Jane wondered if politeness required her to offer a compliment on something glaringly obvious.
“Uh. . . you, your hair is different.”
“Hey, girls always notice the hair. Right? Isn’t that basically right?”
“I guess I just proved it,” she said sadly.
“Super. Hey, listen,” he sat on the edge of her desk, “we’ve got a last-minute addition that needs special attention. It may seem like your basic stock photo array, but don’t be fooled! This is for the all-important page sixteen layout. I’d give this one to your basic interns, but I’m choosing you because I think you’d do a super job. What d’you say?”
“Sure thing, Todd.”
“Su-per.” He gave her two thumbs-up and held them there, smiling, his eyes unblinking. After a few moments, Jane cringed. What did he want her to do? Was she supposed to high-five his thumbs? Touch thumb-pad to thumb-pad? Or did he just leave them there so long for emphasis?
The silence quivered. At last Jane opted for raising her own thumbs in a mirror of the Todd salute.
“All right, my lady Jane.” He nodded, still with the thumbs up, and kept them up as he walked away. At least he hadn’t asked her out again. Why was it that when she was aching for a man, everyone was married, but when she was giving them up, so many men were so awkwardly single?
As soon as Todd’s cologne faded down the hall, Jane Googled Pembrook Park. There were parks by that name scattered across the United States, but nothing Austen and nothing English. A couple of cryptic mentions in blogs seemed to touch Jane’s Pembrook, such as a blogger named tan’n’fun, “Back from Pembrook Park, my second year. Even better than the first, especially the ball. . . but I signed a confidentiality agreement, so that’s all I’ll say publicly.” No Wikipedia article about the elusive locale. No photos. This was the Area 51 of vacation resorts.
She banged her head lightly on the monitor.
The question Should I go ? limped after her all afternoon. Jane certainly had the vacation hours saved up. She had an impressive benefits package including three weeks off a year, and she rarely went on holiday (note: she used the British word for “vacation” in her thoughts, an early sign that she’d already decided to go).
And besides: Nonrefundable . It was a good, solid word, one you couldn’t chew, one that only dissolved after sucking slowly.
Jane argued with her thoughts and her thoughts argued back while she searched through stock photo databases for Todd’s basically super project. Search words: smiling woman . 2,317 results, way too many to scan through. Narrow search results: smiling business-woman . 214 results. Narrow search results: smiling businesswoman twenties .
And suddenly, there was Jane’s face on her own monitor, as photographed by exboyfriend #7, the delinquent artist. She’d stumbled across it before. In her line of work, it was hard not to view every stock photo in the digital empire at least twice. But this was really bad timing. Here she was, dizzy with thoughts of her own stupidity and vulnerability and all other Dr. Phil-ness, and to suddenly confront her own face years younger. . . well, ick , an unpleasant reminder that she was just as stupid and vulnerable back then. She hadn’t changed. She’d been standing knee-deep in the same romance mud for years and she didn’t even care anymore.
The photo array completed and two train rides later, Jane plopped down on Molly’s couch in Brooklyn, keeping one eye on the twins battling over blocks, the other eye ensconced in a throw pillow. She held her arm straight up and waved the brochure like a surrender flag. Molly pulled it out of her hand and