Page 46 of A Certain Appeal
Sitting, I flip to the Pemberley sketches. A pang of guilt lances through me. It was supposed to go to Wickham.
I should have pressed for more details, asked him what his ideas for the space had been, what vision he’d possessed that convinced the senior Darcy to pass it to him. Does that even matter? In the end, Darcy’s father promised it to Wickham. Darcy disrespected that.
I know that kind of betrayal. I think back to when Wickham said he could relate to my experience at the design firm in LA:“Something that should have been mine was ripped away.”
And it’s Darcy’s fault.
CHAPTER
13
JANE:Can you do me a HUGE favor PLEASEOHPLEASEOHPLEASE?
ME:Don’t be desperate.
JANE:Shush. Can you cover for the Jazz Night hostess? I told Andrea I’d do it but Charles got Kinky Boots tickets.
ME:You’ve seen Kinky Boots four times.
JANE:Not from the front row!
ME:Ugh.
JANE:Please? He goes back to LA tomorrow and it’s our last chance to hang out for a few weeks.
ME:FINE. But YOU have to bring me something to wear.
“Jane, you poo.” I shiver, courtesy of the umpteenth draft I’ve caught this evening. The overzealous AC gusts by the hostess podium whenever someone opens or closes the front door. The dress Jane selected for me, the one from the Work It event, has my back exposed to the frigid current.
Icy blasts aside, I don’t mind filling in. It’s a hundred bucks cash for a few hours of work, and the entertainment is unbeatable. It’s a blend of jazz, R & B, and a truly random assortment of contemporary hits. The modern songs are all performed with a soul-inspired twist, and I love hearing what each singer does with the material.
The show is in its last hour, and diners dance in the cramped space in front of the stage. It’s the same band as the weekend shows, and Arthur shifts from one song to the next, seamlessly transitioning the end of Sam Cooke’s “Cupid” into “I Put a Spell on You.”
Ming is up.
I stray to the bar to watch her take the stage in a deep-blue evening gown. Like many performers, she can take on different roles at the club’s shows: burlesque, host, or singer. She’s no Jane, but the way she purrs, “Because you’re mine,” transforms the lyrics into the most alluring threat.
Andrea is at the opposite end of the bar chatting with Michael. I still haven’t asked her about the renovations. Jane nags me whenever he’s home, though there’s been less opportunity with his spending most evenings with Charles. Now I wonder if asking me to fill in for the hostess wasn’t some ruse on his part.Double poo.
She catches my eye and raises a brow. I make a pitiful show of skulking back toward the hostess station, but Andrea shakes her headand pats the empty seat beside her. “Dinner service is over. Anyone else coming in can find the bar on their own. Care for a drink?”
“I’ll take you up on that, thank you.” I hop onto the offered stool.
Michael drapes himself over the bar, propping his chin in his hand. “What’ll it be, kitty cat?”
“Itisa weeknight. If I say ‘velvet hammer,’ does it give you any ideas?”
His eyes twinkle at the challenge. “Sweetie, I have a light rum that will do you right. Just a gentle tap on the noggin.” He emphasizes “tap” with a mimed rap of his knuckles.
“I think you know I was offering you prosecco,” Andrea mutters, but her mouth quirks as Michael gets to work.
“Better to ask forgiveness than permission?”
She cackles and takes a long drink off her martini. “You’re a clever little thing, Kitten.” She notes the back of my dress. “And gutsy. Good heavens, weren’t you freezing at the podium? Standing there, you catch everything the AC can throw at you.”
“You’re telling me. And Jane brought the dress. His penance for roping me into covering for him.”
“Ah, Michael said he was by earlier. That reminds me. Michael,” she says as the bartender delivers my drink. “Fetch a Benjamin for Kitten, would you?”
