Page 47 of Jenny James Is Not a Disaster
He blows out a puff of air and nods. “We’re good,” he says finally. “And thank you. I’m not sure I’d have even talked about it. I’d have probably done the bloke thing and pretended nothing happened. This is better.”
He looks relieved, and I have the urge to reach out yet again—to touch his shoulder, to reassure him. That would, of course, be ironic in the extreme, and I resist.
“Excellent. Wow. We’re so mature, aren’t we?”
“We really are. We should probably get some kind of award. Coffee?”
“Always,” I reply and smile as Betty trots back inside at his heels.
I feel better for having discussed it, better for having set a few guidelines, but also... disappointed? I mean, what did I expect? For him to declare his undying love and say he wanted me desperately and that he couldn’t live without my touch? He is not that person—we are not those people. We are both wounded, both damaged, and it would potentially be a disaster. Besides, I’ve only known him properly for a few weeks—even if it does feel like a lot longer.
“Charlie’s up,” he says as he comes back out with the drinks. “And I warn you, he has the baseball cap.”
My son staggers down the steps, cap in one hand, can of Coke in the other, a Danish pastry stuffed in his mouth. Very efficient.
He puts the can down on the table and eats his pastry with alarming speed, then shakes the cap in front of our faces. He is wearing an Alton Towers T-shirt and his swimming trunks, and his hair is a mass of wild dark curls. These men need the attention of a barber as a matter of some urgency.
“Okay,” he says after his last swallow, “this has been grand, but I assume we’re not staying in a garden for any length of time.Next place soon. And, Mum, I posted your piece—it was really good. I especially liked the bit about the photos and why they made you so upset. It was really scary when you started chasing them all over the place, you know, but at least I kind of understand it a bit better.”
“I’m sorry, son,” I say sincerely. “I can see how frightening that must have been.”
“’S’okay. Luckily a big strong traveling man was around to rescue you, eh?”
His eyes flick from me to Luke, and I wonder if he overheard any of our conversation, or if he is simply wondering, simply curious. If he is even testing the waters on a spot of matchmaking. Charlie has never seen me with a man, never known me to be part of a relationship. I have no idea how he will really feel about it but remind myself that it’s not a pressing concern, as I remain resolutely single.
“Where are we off to?” Luke asks, changing the subject. Good man.
Charlie pulls out a scrap of paper and unravels it. He pulls a face, then looks at me and says, “Think this must be another one of yours, Mum. At least it’s not just something boring like ‘Manchester’ or whatever. Not that Manchester looks boring, but you know what I mean... Right, shall we get ourselves sorted? Start looking for a route with lots of weird stop-offs on the way?”
“That’s a great idea, Charlie,” I reply, trying not to laugh. “But it’s hard to look up the route when we don’t actually know where we’re going.”
“Oh! Yeah... forgot that bit. Well, apparently we’re going to Jane Austen—so good luck with that one. It is yours, isn’t it? Bet you only picked it ’cause of Colin Firth in his soggy pants. All the mums love that, don’t they?”
“Oh yes, they do,” I respond. Even mine.
I was young when it came out, that version ofPride and Prejudice, but I still vividly remember watching it with my mother, and her being very vocal in her appreciation of Mr. Darcy’s attributes. She was normally a very proper woman, but the power of the britches overcame her reserve.
“You go and sort yourself out,” I say. “I’ll find something that we can visit that connects to the wonderful Jane.”
“Okay,” Charlie replies, “cool. Don’t make it boring, though. Which will be hard, because Jane Austen is boring.”
“You are being really liberal with theboringword this morning, love. And Jane Austen, I assure you, is not. She was funny and insightful and clever. Only people who haven’t actually read her books say she’s boring.”
“If you say so. Laters.”
I turn to Luke and stare at him. “Are you about to say Jane Austen’s boring too? Because I will fight you.”
He holds up his hands in surrender and stands up. “No way! I can’t get enough of empire-line frocks and polite conversation with the vicar at the country dance personally... I’ll leave you to it.”
Once the philistines have departed, I start looking up locations on my phone. Top Jane Austen spots are scattered around a lot of southern England—Hampshire where she was born and lived most of her life; Reading, where she went to school; the Sussex coast; and, of course, Bath. I do a bit more scooting, looking at some of the settings for her books, and eventually find one that will be quick and easy and hopefully fun.
It takes another hour or so to all get dressed, clean up, and sort out Joy, and then we assume our positions. Luke maneuvers the van out of the garden and down the drive, pausing at theexit with the motor running. He turns around and shouts out: “Where to, Captain?”
“Box Hill in Surrey!” I say. “It’s only an hour and a half away, and it’s the place they had the picnic inEmma! There are some nice walks and a cafe and a bookshop, and it’s near a place called Dorking...”
This is normally the part where Luke looks pleased, and excited, and gives me a jaunty salute. This is the part where the fun normally starts.
Except, this time, none of that happens. There is no grin, no salute, no reaction at all other than a frown. He seems deflated, his expression neutral, his tone flat as he responds: “Yep. I know where it is.”
