Page 75 of Jane Deyre
I hear a hiss in my ear. The green snake of jealousy.
Now, almost dusk, the purple-hued dining room looks breathtaking, perfectly lit by the enormous chandelier and elegant candelabras. The table aglow with its glistening crystal, silver, china, and vases of roses. All thanks to my hard work. I look down at my dirty, jagged nails and blistered hands... painful souvenirs. Edwina and Mr. Rochester are seated at either end of the table in the damask captain chairs; Blanche and I flank Ward, facing each other. Garrett is seated next to Blanche, and opposite him is Max, who’s seated next to me. Even with several leaves removed, the table is massive.
The six-course dinner (it’s actually a seven-course classic French meal with the hors d’oeuvre in the great room counting as the first course) begins with Blanche proposing a toast over champagne to Edwina.
“ToThe Queen of Thornhill!May she reign forever!”
She congratulates Edwina on her memoir. The hardcover, eBook, and audio book, which I learn will be narrated by Edwina, all promise to become huge bestsellers. And for years to come.
“Shelf lives matter!” she bellows.
Despite how spread out we are, we clink our flutes. The crystal pings like church bells. Everyone takes a sip of the Veuve Clicquot.
Blanche then turns to Mr. Rochester, her cat-green eyes riveted on him. “And to my darling Ward. Without whom this memoir wouldn’t be possible.” She alone clinks her flute against his. He forces a smile.
Max raises his flute and bangs a knife against it. “Hear, hear!” His voice is thunderous, his action over the top. I can smell his breath. I think he’s drunk.
The multi-course meal is long and drawn out. Over soup, salad, a fish dish, and the main course (duck à l’orange), the conversation between Edwina, Max, Garrett, and Blanche is lively. Mr. Rochester contributes very little and I not a thing. The topics bounce from publishing gossip to Hollywood gossip to things like Paris’s newest museum, the latest Broadway shows, and some hot new hotel in Morocco. I don’t know anything about these things. I’ve never traveled, unless you count crossing the Mexican border when I was an infant. No one makes any effort to include me, except Garrett, who is flamboyantly gay and nothing like his judgmental boss. Feeling left out and not having much of an appetite, I pick at my meal in silence. I fight the urge to help poor overworked Grace, who’s endlessly serving dishes, refilling glasses, and removing plates. Flitting between the kitchen and dining room. Scuttering around the table on her swollen legs, anticipating everyone’s needs. Before disappearing once again into the folds of the connecting door.
Blanche dominates the conversation. Steers it. She has the tendency to pepper her sentences with superlatives, especially the word “fabulous.” Like... “Wasn’t that exhibit positively fabulous?” She also has a habit of throwing her head back and touching Mr. Rochester’s left shoulder whenever she laughs her deep, haughty laugh. Often keeping her hand on him for longer than necessary. More than several times, her long-lashed eyes linger on him as well.
In the middle of our main course, Blanche finally addresses me after gushing about an art exhibit she saw in Paris at the Palais Royale. “So, Joan...”
“Jane,” I correct, knowing damn well Ms. Superiority called me that on purpose.
She rolls her eyes. “Joan... Jane... whatever. Have you ever been to Paris?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“I didn’t think so.” She gives me a slow, knowing, patronizing smile. “I can tell by the way you hold your knife and fork.”
“Excusez-moi? Vous avez un problème avec ma façon de manger?”I’d like to stab my knife right between her eyes and show her how well I hold my utensils.
She snickers. “Impressive. You know French?”
“I studied it in high school. And got honors when I graduated.”
She snorts. “To be honest, I thought you were still in high school.”
“Jane’s twenty-one,” chimes in Edwina, who’s now on her third glass of champagne. “She does look much younger than her age... which, in my humble opinion, is an asset if you want to be an actress.”
I still haven’t told anyone at Thornhill my real age.
“You went to college?” Blanche asks me.
“No, I couldn’t afford it.” The words regrettably slip out of my mouth. Now, I’ve given the snob ammunition. Opened a Pandora’s box.
She takes a sip of her champagne. Her expression is contemplative. Make that, calculating. Is she going to put me down? Take a stab at me? Her unexpected response hurts me more than a dig.
“Did Ward tell you I went to Yale? That’s where we first met... hooked up. We’ve known each other for over fifteen years.” Another glug of her champagne. Another smug smile.“Intimately, I should add.”
A sick feeling falls over me. My suspicion was correct. They’re lovers. Contrary to the laws of attraction which say opposites attract, I believe like attracts like. Money attracts money. Beauty... beauty.
What on earth was I doing, thinking for even a second Ward Rochester felt something for me? Something other than gratitude for taking care of his daughter.
Before I can answer this question in my head, I feel something under the table. It lands on my knee, then snakes up my thigh. Flesh against flesh. My breath catches in my throat as I suppress a gasp.
It’s Max Fuller’s hand!