Buch lesen: «Persuading Austen»

BRIGID COADY

Brigid Coady was born in the UK but raised round the world with most of her childhood spent reading. Brigid works for a communications and digital marketing agency as a producer and storyteller. Much of her writing is done at weekends in various Starbucks around the world. In the past, she has been the official Writer in Residence on the 06:37 train from London Victoria to Canterbury West. Brigid is also a voice-over artist, loves country music and has had her own radio show. Brigid’s obsession with One Direction and Kenny Chesney is perfectly healthy, no matter what anyone else says. She lives in London. Persuading Austen is her second novel.

Acknowledgments

People say that writing a book is a very solitary activity. Obviously, I’m doing it wrong. This book would not exist if I didn’t have a huge amount of support for which I am eternally grateful.

Thank you to my family; Mum, Dad, and Annalise. You are my biggest cheerleaders and the best handsellers of my work.

There would be no Persuading Austen without my lovely agent, Felicity Trew, from The Caroline Sheldon Literary Agency. Thank you for taking me on, and who would have thought that two years after that initial brainstorm that produced Annie’s story and introduced us to Austen Wentworth that they would be out in the wild.

Thanks to my editors at HQ Digital. Victoria Oundjian for taking a chance on the book and to Clio Cornish for taking over at short notice.

I’m incapable of writing without the support of Liz Fenwick, we have decided we are really one person with two writing careers. She is the voice of reason when I’m panicking. My cheerleader, friend, family, and literary other half. We must never have the same deadline again. And thanks to the whole Fenwick clan; Chris, Dom, Andrew, and Sasha for letting me be a part of the family and also lending me Liz.

Julie Cohen and Anna Louise Lucia have been my writing sisters for years. We don’t see each other enough but I can feel you behind me every time I put fingers to keyboards.

Thanks to the RNA for having my back and for being the best writing organisation in the world. Also thank you to Dr David Hessayon for his sponsorship of the Joan Hessayon Award for New Writers. I was lucky enough to win this award for my first novel, No One Wants To Be Miss Havisham the boost it has given me is incalculable.

This book would have been written faster if Keris Stainton hadn’t pushed me down the rabbit hole that is the One Direction fandom. Thanks for that and much more. The Tumblr fandom is a weird and wonderful place, populated with many talented people writing fan fiction and distracting me from my writing. I have left little nods to the fandom in the book; all included with love and respect. So thanks Keris and Katey Lovell for the group chats, writing support, concert ticket panic, and the fan fiction recommendations. I promise I will finish The Breakfast Club AU one day.

Everyone needs a support network of non-writing friends. Matt Turner – white van man extraordinaire, Bookshop Crawl Stig, book recommender, and partner in crime. Thank you for being you, and also for being the only one who bothered to come and see me in Basel.

To Tricia Gibney and Mr Pie, thank you for letting me stay and looking after me so well. No writer could ask for more; gluten-free food on tap, cat cuddles, and great conversation.

The wonderful Jill Mansell bid on and won my offer – to have a character named after her – for the Authors for Nepal auction. The Jillian Mansell depicted in this book in no way resembles Jill.

This book has its own playlist that was the soundtrack to my writing - http://spoti.fi/2sE8Gye And yes, there are rather a lot of One Direction songs on it. That is the way I roll.

All the many mistakes in this book about producing a TV show are all mine. And in the words of Dick Wolf and Law & Order:

The following story is fictional and does not depict any actual person or event.

Dedication

For my sister, Annalise.

Thank you.

Chapter One

Wikipedia – William Elliot, Actor

William Charles Elliot – born March 1, 1950. Renowned actor. Son of Sir Walter William Elliot – actor, theatre manager, director – and Elizabeth Siddons, actress. Married July 15, 1974, to Molly Stevenson, actress (died 2002). They had four children: three girls and a stillborn son. Imogen Elliot, actress (1982), Anne (1983?), a son (1984), and Marie, actress and TV presenter (1986) married to Charles Musgrove, investment banker.

Annie heard the thump as she walked down the stairs. She stared down at the handmade leather brogue that had sailed from the living room and bounced on the black and white tiled hallway. She halted briefly, her foot hovering as she wondered whether she should take the next step or turn round and hide in her room. No, she needed to get out of the house …

Could she make it down to the kitchen without anyone seeing her?

She put her foot down carefully, hoping that it wouldn’t make any sound.

‘Annie.’

Crap.

Her name echoed up out of the living room, round the hall, and up the stairs. Her father’s voice could reach to the back of a large theatre; it had no problems with their house.

‘Annie. What was the point in having you as a Wikipedia editor if you don’t keep my page up to date?’ The words bounced and caused the chandelier to tinkle. At least his shoe hadn’t taken any more crystals off it.

She walked down the rest of the stairs, a solid lump forming in her gut. She would like one day without drama. She rubbed her temple and wondered what it would have been like if she had grown up in a family where dramatics weren’t the family business.

‘But, Dad …’ she said as she scooped up the shoe and cradled it in her hands. She quickly checked it wasn’t scuffed. William Elliot didn’t wear scratched shoes and the family finances couldn’t stretch to another pair of handmade shoes.

‘Don’t “but Dad” me. You know I wanted that link to the Guardian review added to it; it came out yesterday. It should be there.’

Annie stood in the doorway of the living room, watching as her father pulled at his bottom lip and frowned at the laptop screen in front of him.

If only someone hadn’t introduced him to Wikipedia. She would like to give that stage manager who showed him Alan Rickman’s page a piece of her mind.

‘I’ll do it when I get to the office,’ she said quietly. There was no point in raising her voice or saying no. It was a waste of time and energy because they all knew she’d do it anyway.

‘Well you’d better. It isn’t as though you were doing anything last night.’ He flicked his fingers at her in dismissal. Annie realized he hadn’t looked up from the screen once during the whole exchange.

And whose fault was that? she thought. The tickets she had to see Rag ’n’ Bone Man unused because Dad had wanted her to pick him up from the theatre. She’d waited in all night for his call, before he came home in an expensive cab.

She should’ve said something. If it had been work, she’d have ripped someone a new one. Annie sighed.

Annie stroked the burnished brown leather upper; it was warm from his body heat. It was the closest she’d been to him in awhile. Carefully she put the shoe down close to his chair so he’d see it but wouldn’t trip over it.

She turned and walked across the hall towards the stairs down to the kitchen, the lump in her stomach dissolving slightly. It could’ve been worse. Her finger brushed the small hole in the plaster in the wall; that had been his phone. And after that she knew no matter how broke the family were she always had to make sure he flew first class. She was thirty-two, lived at home, and was a complete pushover.

But as Annie entered the kitchen she took a deep breath and felt herself expand and unfurl. This was her place, every battered and old-fashioned part of it. The crazy Seventies-style cupboards with mustard-coloured doors that hung slightly off their hinges and the scratched and burnt wooden worktops. Her dad and oldest sister Immy never came down here if they could help it.

There had been a brief period when Immy had invaded, thinking her smoothies would gain an extra something if she prepared them herself. Immy took up more space than her spare frame should; her presence had squashed Annie into the corners of the room. Annie had felt like an interloper in her safe space. Luckily Immy had realized she could get the smoothies delivered from the same organic supplier that the Duchess of Cambridge swore by, and Annie had breathed a sigh of relief, moving the blender to the back of a cupboard.

An expensive gadget to be gathering dust but it was worth it for the freedom.

Annie closed the door to the kitchen, sealing herself inside, and turned on the small TV she had in the corner of the counter.

‘I don’t know why women make such a fuss about not having time to take care of themselves. For your marriage to survive you need to keep up certain standards. I mean … here I am with a career, two kids, and a very happy husband.’ Annie grimaced as she turned down the blast of her baby sister’s voice coming out over the speakers.

‘And a nanny, and a housekeeper and me,’ Annie muttered as she opened the fridge. If she had the show, Easy Ladies, on in the background she wouldn’t be completely lying when Marie called to ask, or rather demand, whether she’d watched it. Technically it was Annie’s day off but the prospect of spending more time at home had her, by mid-morning, desperate to escape to the office. And it also meant she didn’t have to give Marie blow-by-blow feedback on her performance.

Ah, there was the hummus.

She grabbed the tub. Her fingers grazed the pack of carrot batons. She could use them. She should use them. She looked up and caught Marie’s bleached white smile in the screen.

No.

She shut the fridge door with her hip and reached for the bag of salt and vinegar crisps from the cupboard beside it.

Annie felt in need of reinforcement, and there was something solid and safe about the tart tang of salt and vinegar crisps coated in the smooth creamy hummus. Ripping off the lid from the tub and breaking open the bag, she took a crisp and dipped it in.

Yes, there.

The taste exploded on her tongue, released saliva and with it a feeling of warmth. A hug. She remembered the way her mother and she had hidden down here, dipping crisps and giggling over the silliness of Immy and Daddy and Marie. How her mum had held her and told her that Daddy didn’t mean it when he called her ‘Podge’ or poked her in the tummy telling her to suck it in. And he was just busy with work when he forgot to call her on her birthday.

Why was she hiding down here, yet again?

She was a successful production accountant in her own right. Hired to wrestle spreadsheets into submission and ensure the cast and crew of TV shows and movies got paid. She was bloody good at it even if she’d fallen into it hoping that by being in the same industry as her family that might make them closer. What did it matter if she didn’t have some sort of vocation for it? It had led her to her dream job, producer, and she was so close to it happening. Not everyone was born knowing what they wanted to be when they grew up. Sometimes you found it by falling over it.

Hell, Annie could stand up to belligerent directors and producers and win. But what was it about her family that made her squish down into a completely spineless marshmallow? They made her feel as if she was ten again. Or maybe six.

‘Annie! Annie! Where the bloody hell are you?’ The voice came echoing down the stairs followed by the clatter of stilettoes on wooden stairs.

Crap. Immy was having one of her ‘moments’. In anyone else they’d be called a temper tantrum.

Annie dug another crisp into the tub of hummus, trying to hold on to the comfort, but it had disappeared.

The door banged open taking another chunk out of the plaster on the wall.

Damn. Annie tried to swallow the crisp quickly and ended up choking.

Gasping for breath as she coughed, she saw her sister staring at her in disgust through the tears in her eyes.

Not even an offer of the Heimlich manoeuvre, she thought as her vision started to blacken around the edges.

‘Really, Annie, there is no need to be so dramatic,’ Immy said.

Annie managed to dislodge the crumb and staggered to the sink. She stuck her head straight under the tap. The water flowed over her face and her neck but enough got down her throat to soothe the rawness.

‘When you have quite finished …’ Immy even stomped her foot. Annie noticed that she had new shoes again. That was probably next month’s electricity bill, the spiked heels making more marks on the wood floors.

‘What is it?’ she croaked.

‘Why didn’t you tell me that Sam Mendes was casting for his new imagining of Romeo and Juliet? You know I’d make a perfect Juliet. When I played her at the National the papers said my performance was sublime.’

‘Immy, that was over ten years ago. You do remember that Juliet is supposed to be a teenager? Anyway Sam was looking for an unknown actress.’ Annie left off the age range bit. At thirty-three, Imogen was ten years over the upper range.

‘Don’t you think I can act like a teenager?’ Immy demanded.

Annie would have sniggered if her throat weren’t so scratched. She did in her head; she had enough self-preservation not to point out that her sister always acted like a teenager.

‘Look, Immy,’ she said forcing her voice into the cajoling tone that she hoped would work. This was the problem with working in the same industry. Immy and her dad expected her to be their eyes and ears. And Cassie, her boss, was working with Sam. ‘I hear he was thinking of going all low class on the casting. Soap actors.’ She nodded and rolled her eyes to pretend to Immy that this was a fate worse than death. Which in the Elliot family it was.

‘I even heard that Will Elliot was being considered as Romeo. I mean if Sam is thinking of casting him … Well it isn’t really something you want to be involved in. Can you imagine?’

Annie didn’t have any particular issue with their cousin, Will, who had made a name for himself on EastEnders. And of course, there were those unfortunate stories in the tabloids about that affair he’d had with a married co-star.

In fact, she’d only met him once when they were kids, which she didn’t remember, but the mere mention of his name made her dad start foaming at the mouth. She was sure it was the EastEnders connection that annoyed him more than the affair – the Elliot name connected to such mundane TV. In the Elliot world, soap actors might as well be reality TV stars. Annie had always felt an affinity to Will. As soon as it became clear to Dad that she had no interest in acting she had ceased to be of interest.

‘Well, hmm.’ Imogen’s face screwed up as much as it was able against the chemicals that she injected into it every six months.

‘I’ll let you off this time, but really, Annie, you know it should always be family first.’ And on that line she swept out of the kitchen.

Annie leant back against the sink and wiped her mouth.

Family first? Ha. But on that list she knew she came last.

Sighing she folded over the top of the crisp packet and secured it with a clip. The TV flung bright images of Marie, who was smirking at her. She needed to grow a backbone where her family was concerned.

‘They need to be grounded; they need to feel taken care of. That is our job.’ She could hear her mother’s voice as if she were standing right next to her. There had been a low huskiness to it. It was the voice that had kept them all fed and clothed through the years. She had been the narrator of a thousand TV commercials and the true caretaker of their family. Her beautiful talented mother who took jobs because the family needed the money while her husband wouldn’t deign to sully his reputation. And he’d let her. And now it was Annie’s turn.

Annie who tried to fill the gaping hole left but didn’t quite manage: sister, daughter, and caretaker. Her mum’s stand-in, but she didn’t fill the gap quite well enough no matter how she squished or pulled herself.

Annie wasn’t sure she wanted to do it any more but what was she without it? Maybe eight years ago there had been an alternative but now … She shook her head. Annie wouldn’t think about it. She’d lost her chance and now she had to get on with the choices she’d made. Maybe she could at least start looking at moving out. If she could put some distance between them maybe things would get better.

Suddenly the taste in her mouth was too cloying, less like a hug and more like a vice.

She put the lid back on the hummus tub, only just remembering to put the tub in the fridge and the crisps in the cupboard as opposed to the other way round. She turned off the TV and felt guilty for the sense of relief from wiping Marie’s face out with the press of a button.

Annie wondered if she could get a remote that did that in real life.

That was harsh. She felt a shiver of guilt at the thought but then a bigger swoop hit her stomach when she had to admit it was true.

Slamming the front door of the house a few minutes later, she clattered down the steps, noticing the replacement tiles she’d ordered when she’d realized some cracks were showing. She looked back. The house was shone and the brass was sparkling on the door. It was always camera ready in case Immy was papped leaving it.

The house overlooked a part of Clapham Common that, when her parents had bought it, had been down at heel. A house with four floors and a back garden had been a steal. Clapham had pulled itself up by its bootstraps in the past thirty years. Now their house, which had always looked a bit too polished and slick for its neighbours, almost fitted in.

But Annie knew that the other houses had interior-designed kitchens, fittings that would cost her a year’s salary. Whilst their house was a façade, with everything inside stagnated and crumbling. She was glad Mum couldn’t see it.

‘Sorry,’ she whispered as she pulled her jacket round her, trying for protection from the chill February wind, and rushed up the street to Clapham Common station. But she wasn’t sure who she was apologizing to or what for.