Page 110 of Jane Deyre

Mr. Rochester turns around, slowly like in a slo-mo movie, and makes eye contact with me. His eyelids flutter, his mouth drops open. I think he’s shocked to see how thin I’ve become. His voice almost a whisper, he utters one word;

“Jane.”

I twitch a small, sad smile. One that has nothing to do with beauty and everything to do with loss. After tomorrow, I will never see him or Adele again. I hold back the tears that are threatening to fall.

Blanche, whose assistant, Garrett, is already at the museum setting up the book-signing table, gives me a glacial look. It’s the most attention she’s shown me since her arrival. As if to drive a nail into my coffin, she threads her arm through Mr. Rochester’s.

God, give me strength.

Ms. Fairfax, clad in a gray shantung silk suit with an ankle-length skirt that mirrors the one she wears day in, day out, shoots me a scathing look. “You’re late. The limo has been waiting outside for fifteen minutes. We were supposed to be there already.”

Following her brisk lead, we file outside and into the car. I sit as far away from Mr. Rochester as I can, looking out the tinted window, avoiding eye contact. Nausea swirls in my chest as my stomach twists painfully.

As we pull out of the driveway, a flash of lightning streaks the darkening sky, and a clap of thunder bellows in my ears.

I clutch my stomach. And hope I won’t retch.

It’s all too much for me. The flashing cameras, the buzzing crowd, the dazzling jewels. As guests clamor to have their picture taken with Edwina, her first time in public in almost two decades, I escape the madness by hiding behind one of the mannequins swathed in one of her soon-to-be-auctioned gowns. Many women have come wearing red gowns, similar to the one I’m wearing, in honor of the legendary actress. At least I don’t stand out. I’m more like a wallflower. A wilting rose. Under different circumstances, I would be in awe to see so many familiar big-name celebrities—everyone who’s anyone in Hollywood is here—but because of the way I feel, both physically and emotionally, I couldn’t care less. The only person I keep a watchful eye on is Mr. Rochester, who hasn’t left Blanche’s side. Her arm hooked through his and flashing her megawatt Hollywood-white smile, they hob-nob with the attendees and take obligatory photos with Edwina in front of the step and repeat.

“Hi, babe. There’s nothing like a woman in red.” The familiar slurred voice startles me. Makes me queasier than I already am.

It’s Max Fuller. Edwina’s despicable, longtime agent, who hit on me at her dinner party. He looks different from the last time I saw him. His complexion is sallow, he’s bloated, and for sure he’s sporting a toupee. A copy ofThe Queen of Thornhillhangs from his hand.

“Nice turnout,” he says, leering at me.

“Yes.”

“Where’ya sitting?”

I glance down at the ticket I’m holding in my hand. “Row 1, Seat 25.”

His eyes light up. “You’re right next to me, babe. See ya in the theater.”

He gives me a lascivious wink and heads toward the doors to the theater, where the main event is about to take place. Where Edwina will give a speech, treat attendees to a twenty-minute retrospective of her illustrious life, and then to a new digitally restored version of her Academy Award–winning film,Miracle in the Rain.

It’s going to be a long, long night. At the thought of sitting next to Max Fuller with his grubby hands, a knife-like pang stabs my stomach.

I’m on the opposite side of the theater from Mr. Rochester, who’s seated at the other end of the first row, sandwiched between Edwina and Blanche. The latter is holding his hand while chatting away with a very dapper Warren Beatty and his stunning wife, Annette Benning, who sit to her left. A fresh wave of sadness—and nausea—crashes through me like a tsunami. From their actions tonight—their chumminess and body language—there’s no doubt in my mind that Mr. Rochester has gone back to Blanche. His fallback girl. The goddess he belongs with.

With a watchful Ms. Fairfax standing in the back, her arms locked across her chest, the theater fills up, with Detective Billings and his wife behind me, and Max in the vacant seat next to mine. His cloying aftershave invades my nostrils, making me feel sicker than I already am. My attention is diverted by an announcement.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please give a warm welcome to W.W. Rochester, the critically acclaimed author of many bestselling biographies, and now the co-author of the soon-to-be bestselling memoir,The Queen of Thornhill.”

Mr. Rochester jumps out of his seat and runs up the steps to the stage as the cover of the book is projected on the screen behind him. Applause fills the theater, and standing behind a miked podium, Ward smiles nervously. He takes in the crowd and then makes eye contact with me. I feel myself flush with heat. I think I have a fever.

With downward thrusts of his beautiful hands, he quiets the crowd, and after thanking everyone for being here, he begins to talk about the book. How it was a labor of love and for a great cause. Hinting that the tell-all will be full of secrets and what legends are made of. He keeps his speech short, reminding the audience that they can purchase signed copies at the champagne reception following the screening ofMiracle in the Rain,with all proceeds going to Gone Baby.

“Now without further ado, please welcomeThe Queen of Thornhill...my godmother, the one and only Edwina Rochester...”

Applause and cheers abound as Edwina rises from her seat, and with the help of two ushers, slowly mounts the steps to the stage. A standing ovation follows as she joins Ward. They hug before he adjusts the mic to accommodate her petite form and returns to his seat.

A beaming Edwina tries desperately to quiet down the boisterous crowd. Finally, she manages, and leaning into the mic, she says, “Phew! I made it!”

The audience erupts into raucous laughter, and Edwina has to wait again until it settles down.

Over the next twenty or so minutes, Edwina talks about her life and the book, and though there’s a tremor in her throaty voice, it fills the theater like a kettledrum. Her presence is commanding. As she reflects, images from various times in her life pop onto the screen, some of which are included in her memoir. She spends a great deal of time talking about Ward’s mother, Georgia, revealing to the audience that she was the love of her life, and then delves into the kidnapping of her beloved infant daughter, Charlotte, and the impact it had on her life.

“There is only one reason why I stopped acting.Notthis one...” She boldly does it... pulls off her turban and reveals her baldness. The stunned audience gasps.