Chapter Seventeen
Emma Lee Maxwell’s Status Update:
I am in love, y’all! I started reading Jane Austen’s Emma last night and now I have a major lady crush on Emma Woodhouse. Talk about #goals. She is so sweet and generous to everyone she meets. She befriends Harriet Smith, even though Harriet is fashionably challenged and dumb as a packet of Pop Rocks. I got to the part where Emma wisely advises Harriet against marrying Mr. Martin (the uneducated farmer) and suggests, instead, she consider Mr. Elton (the sociable village vicar). Clever girl, Emma! I like Mr. Elton!
I am applying my fourth shade of red lipstick and daydreaming about Knightley—Mr. George Knightley, Emma Woodhouse’s old and intimate friend—when the sound of the iron knocker pounding against the wood door echoes down the hall.
I blot my lips with a Kleenex, brush some illuminator on the apples of my cheeks, then spritz Viva La Juicy into the air and walk through the vanilla-berry scented cloud.
I open the front door and find Knightley standing on the steps—Knightley Nickerson, my new and not-quite-intimate friend. Bingley is striding up the path, dressed in charcoal utility pants rolled up at the ankles, a gray cashmere hoodie, high-top leather trainers, and a slouchy checked coat. He has a scowl on his handsome face and is patting his errant curls.
“Hello, Emma Lee.” Knightley smiles, and my tummy feels the same way it did when the squad would toss me up in the air—a momentary tensing and then a sense of weightlessness and joy. “You look awfully happy today.”
“Do I?”
“Your smile could chase the darkest clouds away.”
My teeth ache the same way they ache when I drink too many glasses of sweet tea. My smile chases away the clouds.
“That is the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me,” I say, smiling even bigger, even brighter. “Like, ever.”
Bingley climbs the steps.
“Hello, Emma Lee.”
“Hello, Bing—”
“Are you seeing what is happening up here?” He waves his hand around his head. “This humidity is wreaking havoc with my hair. My curls won’t behave. They look positively barking. Would you mind if I borrowed a spritz of that Morrocanoil Frizz Control Mist you have in your bathroom, the one I used yesterday?”
I step back into the foyer. Knightley and Bingley follow.
“I might-could let you have a spritz or two.”
“Ouch!” Bingley presses his hands to his ears. “What was that?”
“What was what?”
“The offensive sound that came out of your mouth?”
Offensive sound? Did I make an offensive sound? Confused, I look from Bingley to Knightley. Knightley rolls his eyes and shrugs.
“Look at you”—Bingley gestures toward me—“in your Burberry trench and statement red lips, working this foyer like Gigi working the runway in Milan. Love the trench, love the lips. I even love the military red Hunters, despite the brand-suffering massive prole drift ever since Kate was photographed in those French-made wellies.”
“What is prole drift?”
“Prole drift is a fabulously snooty term to describe when posh items become popular with the middle or lower classes,” Bingley says, nudging the toe of my boot with the toe of his trainers. “Hunter wellies, Molton Brown soap, embroidered slippers, signet rings. Prole drift, love. Prole drift.”
I look down at my beloved and long-coveted wellies, freshly polished and gleaming in the subdued foyer light.
“What’s wrong with my wellies?”
“Nothing,” Knightley says.
“Bingley says they’re not posh.”
“Sorry, love. Hunters are not posh,” Bingley says. “They’re just plain naff.”
“Naff?”
“Common, drab,” Knightley explains.
“Drab?” I cry, resting my hands on my hips and giving him a serious face. “Darlin’, I am a Southern woman. There’s nothing drab about me!”
“You’re missing the point,” Bingley says. “You’re a picture, darling, a veritable masterpiece, until you open your mouth. Don’t do that.”
“Bloody hell, Bingley!” Knightley growls. “You venture too far.”
“Sorry-not sorry.” Bingley grins at me. “Mum told me to treat you as a sister, Emma Lee. Do you think I, Bingley Nickerson, would let my sister say anything as uncouth as might-could?” He links his arm through mine and pulls me with him toward the bathroom. “Have you been to the Louvre?”
“No.”
“So, you haven’t seen the Mona Lisa?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“I have”—he sniffs—“and it was one of the most anticlimactic moments of my life, a crushing disappointment. First, the canvas is only about this big”—he makes a small frame with his fingers—“and it hangs on a wall behind a wooden railing, too far for proper observation. It’s offensive, really.”
“Your point?” Knightley calls after us.
“Mona Lisa is a beauty, a work of genius. Now, imagine if by magic or miracle, she was animated and given voice—”
“Like the portraits in the Harry Potter movies, the ones hanging in the gallery at Hogwarts?”
“Exactly.” Bingley strides into the bathroom, seizes my bottle of Moroccanoil hair mist, and begins spritzing his curls. “You are standing in the Louvre, marveling at her sphinxlike beauty, when she opens her mouth and lets out a massive belch.”
Knightley groans, the sound carrying down the hallway. Bingley continues to spritz his hair with the oil until the curls are slick.
“You are the Mona Lisa, Emma Lee”—he stops spraying and points the bottle at me—“and your might-could is a massive belch.”
“I will make you a deal.” I wrest the Moroccanoil mist from Bingley’s hand and put it back on the counter, then grab my can of dry shampoo and spray his overly misted curls, fluffing them until they look normal again. “I promise not to say might-could if you promise not to say prole drift. Deal?”
Bingley looks in the mirror and grins.
“Deal!”
* * *
We are driving to Welldon Abbey when my Ed Sheeran love ballad/ringtone begins playing. Hearing the happy computerized xylophone beats makes me want to tap my feet. Then Ed makes the same throaty moan I make when I eat Cane’s chicken, mmm-mmm-mmm, and sings about putting his hands on someone’s body, and Knightley looks over at me, eyebrow raised, lips curved in a half smile, and the song suddenly sounds nasty, something a naughty girl would choose as her ringtone.
I pull my phone from my purse and push the Mute button. The car is quiet again, a loud quiet. I look at the screen. Oooo! It’s Johnny Amor calling me back! I look over at Knightley.
“Do you mind if I answer this call?”
“By all means.”
I tap the screen and press the phone to my ear.
“Hello?”
“’ello. Emma Lee?”
Johnny Amor has a gravelly, rock-star voice, as if he has spent his life gargling whiskey and singing Stones tunes. I imagine him in his pink velvet suit, sprawled out on a black-leather couch, a cigarette dangling from his bottom lip.
“Yes!” I sound girlish, giddy. “Is this Johnny Amor?”
“The one and only, love.”
“I am so glad you called!”
Did my voice just squeak? I think my voice squeaked.
“Of course I called, love,” he says in his growly, gravelly voice. “Grand has been banging on about the pretty American girl he met at the airport. He is gone mad for you, barking mad, love.”
Bingley leans forward from the backseat, resting his arm on the back of my seat and staring at me with unabashed curiosity.
“Aw!” I stare out the windshield, ignoring Bingley. “Thank you for saying that, Johnny Amor! I am gone, too. Totally gone. I was supernervous about traveling alone to a foreign country and—”
“—and Grand granded you, right?”
“Right!”
“He has adopted grandchildren from Chelsea to Changzhou.”
“Seriously?”
“There is a sous chef slaving his little fingers to the bone in the kitchens of Traders Fudu Hotel so he can earn the money to send Grand a Boxing Day gift.” He chuckles. “True story.”
“How great is that?” I laugh, because Johnny Amor and his grand Grand make me feel happier than computerized xylophone beats in a naughty Ed Sheeran song. “Goal: I want to be William Amor when I am older.”
“You want to be a tweed-wearing septuagenarian ornithologist? Groovy, love. Groovy.”
“Orin-what?” I laugh.
“Ornithologist.”
Bingley taps my shoulder. I look at him, and he mouths the word bird-watcher. I shift my phone to my other ear and glare at Bingley. He sits back.
“Oh,” I say. “You mean bird-watcher?”
Johnny Amor laughs.
“Did you just Google ornithologist?”
“No.” I laugh. “My extremely nosy, extremely literate friend is creeping on this call. He told me what it means.”
“He? This just got infinitely more interesting.” Johnny lowers his voice. “Did the pretty American take a British boy as her new lover? Grand will be devastated.”
“Lover?” Did my voice just squeak again? “Oh my sweet heavenly lawwwdd! Bingley Nickerson is not my lover!” I laugh, a squeaky, high-pitched laugh that makes me sound as if I just sucked helium from a balloon. “No. Bingley Nickerson is not my lover. What is the opposite of lover?”
“Hater?”
“That’s a tad too strong. Do you have a little brother, Johnny Amor?”
“Yes.”
“Is he annoying?”
“Abso-bloody-lutely.”
“There you are,” I say. “You have an annoying little brother, and I . . . well, I have a Bingley.”
“Are you hearing this, old bean?” Bingley leans forward, sticking his head between the front seats. “Should I be offended? I am feeling offended.”
I put my hand over the phone mic and tell Bingley to hush, then say a silent prayer that Johnny Amor doesn’t ask me about old bean. Old Bean? Who is Old Bean? Is he your lover? Knightley Nickerson might not be my lover, but he might-could be. Sweet lawd! I did not just say that (in my head), did I?
“I have a confession to make,” Johnny says.
“Already?” Thank you, Jesus! Johnny Amor did not ask me if I was bumping uglies with Old Bean Nickerson. “I am not sure I am ready to hear your confession, Johnny Amor. We just met.”
“Don’t worry, love,” he growls. “I only confess my dark deeds to someone who can offer absolution, like my vicar. I was just going to admit that I did a little creeping myself.”
“Creeping?”
“I internet-stalked you before calling you back. Had to make sure you weren’t a nutter.” He takes a deep breath. I hear ice clinking against glass and imagine him mixing an old-fashioned, splashing bitters over a sugar cube, squeezing an orange, pouring whiskey over the ice. “Love your Facebook profile. Supersexy pic, love.”
“Thanks,” I say. “So, you could tell I wasn’t a nutter from my profile photo?”
“Profile photo, Insta feed, and some great snappies on a sorority blog.”
“You found the Kappa Kappa Gamma blog?” I whistle. “Wow! You went deep.”
“That is the only way to go, love. The only way.” Bingley groans and leans back. A bubble of nervous laughter rises in my throat, pops out of my mouth. Is Johnny Amor flirting with me? Or is this part of his shtick, his rock-star-on-the-rise, yeah, baby, yeah shtick?
“This is so not fair! You went deep into me”—Knightley clears his throat and my cheeks flush with humiliating, mortifying, please Lawd, let-me-die-right-here, right-now heat—“Yikes! That came out wrong. I meant, you internet-stalked me and probably found a bunch of embarrassing photos from my Kappa days.”
“Like the one of you in that hilarious bunny costume at the Reading Is Fundamental fund-raiser?” Johnny Amor must be swirling his old-fashioned because I can hear the rhythmic clink-clink-clink of ice hitting glass. “Who were you supposed to be, Peter Rabbit?”
“Bridget Jones.”
“Bridget bloody Jones?” He laughs. “In a flannel onesie?”
I remember the costume. Red flannel penguin pajamas, high heels, tall satin bunny ears, and puffy white tail. Thank God Knightley didn’t fall down the internet rabbit hole when he was searching for my Clemson cheer vids and land on those tragic photos!
“We were supposed to dress as our favorite literary character.”
“And you went as Bridget Jones?”
“Bridget Jones happens to be one of my favorite literary characters.” I lift my chin and raise my attitude. “Ain’t no shame.”
“Chick lit?” Johnny Amor asks.
“Chick lit?” Bingley cries.
“What’s wrong with chick lit?” I glance at Knightley, but he is staring straight ahead, his fingers wrapped around the leather steering wheel. “Chick lit is about the four Fs: friendship, fabulous shoes, funny moments, and finding yourself.”
“I thought it was about fat girls who lose the stones, find the man, and score the rock,” Bingley says. “Who knew?”
Johnny Amor laughs.
“Honestly, Bingley Nickerson,” I sniff. “I don’t know what I find more appalling: your blatantly sizeist attitude or your ill-informed, warped view of one of the finest subgenres of literature.”
“Give it to him, love,” Johnny Amor says.
“I could even argue that Emma is a chick-lit novel.”
“Emma?” Bingley laughs. “Chick lit?”
“At the risk of sounding absurdly reductive,” Knightley says, keeping his gaze fixed on the road, “Emma is a witty tale featuring a female protagonist and themes of friendship, romance, self-discovery, and, ultimately, personal growth. If it were published today it would be categorized as chick lit, or farm lit, because the story takes place in a rural setting.”
“If Jane Austen were alive today, she would be writing about Manolos and martinis instead of kid slippers and Madeira,” I say, resisting the urge to stick out my tongue at Bingley. “Say what you will about the vacuousness of Bridget Jones, but Emma Woodhouse spends an inordinate amount of time talking about ribbons. Hair ribbons. Basket ribbons. Ribbons for her gown. Ribbons for her bonnets. How many ribbons does one girl need?”
Knightley chuckles.
“Listen, love,” Johnny Amor says. “As much as I am enjoying this convo, I must ring off.”
I feel a flush of shame and I know, deep down in my bones know, Miss Belle’s ghost is hovering nearby, pursing her pale, ghostly lips and shaking her pale, ghostly head, because I conducted a conversation with one person while being on the phone with another. Then again, Miss Belle never met Bingley bleeping Nickerson!
“I’m sorry,” I say. “The next time you call, I promise I will give you my undivided attention.”
Next time, I will make sure Bingley isn’t buzzing around in the background, like some pesky old gnat. Buzz, buzz, buzzing. I hear Miss Belle’s voice in my head. Your mood should not dictate your manners, Emma Lee Maxwell; best not blame your rudeness on young Mr. Nickerson.
“Are you joking?” Johnny says. “I loved our tête-à-tête. Fancy meeting me for drinks sometime?”
“I would love to meet you for drinks, Johnny Amor! Would you mind if I brought a friend?”
“The highly literate friend?”
“A girlfriend.”
“I’m easy!” Clink. Clink. “I have a massive gig in a few weeks. Loads of bands. Fancy watching me prance around a stage in a velvet suit?”
“Are you kidding? I would love to watch you perform!”
Bingley groans.
“Brilliant! I’ll text you the address. It’s a late slot, so leave the glass slippers at home and plan on staying out past midnight, Cinderella.”
“Ooo, fun.”
“I’m chuffed to meet you and your girlfriend,” he says. “If something comes up, give me a bell. Cheerio.”
“Bye.”
Text from Johnny Amor:
Saturday, June 16 @ 7. The Lucky Pig. 5 Clipstone Street, Fitzrovia. Oxford Circus is the closest Tube station.
I have barely finished slipping my phone back into my purse when Bingley leans forward and drapes his arm over the back of my seat. He pushes his sunglasses on top of his head and pierces me with his sharp, green-eyed stare.
“Who is Johnny Amor?”
“A boy.”
“A boy!” He rolls his eyes. “Where did you meet this boy?”
“I haven’t met him. I am meeting him in London next month.”
“Are you off your trolley?” Bingley nudges his brother. “Did you hear that, old bean? Emma Lee has a date to meet some wanker in London.”
“I heard,” Knightley says.
“Johnny Amor is not a wanker!”
“There’s another thing,” Bingley cries. “Stop calling him bloody Johnny Amor.”
“That’s his name.”
“Is it?” Bingley reaches into his coat and whips his mobile phone out of his pocket. “Is it really? Are you quite certain? Have you Googled him?”
“Why would I Google him?”
“He Googled you, didn’t he?” Bingley lowers his voice, his words rumbling in his chest. “I stalked you, love, stalked you harder than a lad searching for spank shots of Adriana Lima. Did you feel it, love?”
“Ew!”
“Too far, Bingley,” Knightley snaps. “Apologize to Emma Lee.”
“Apologize? Have you completely lost the plot?” Bingley exhales so hard his breath flutters his curls. “What would Mum say if she knew Emma Lee planned to meet a strange man in London? A strange man named Johnny Amor?”
“What’s wrong with his name?” I ask.
“Johnny Amor? Honey, please.” Bingley rolls his eyes. “I’ll wager that is not his real name. Johnny Amor! Johnny Amor! It sounds fictitious.”
“Says the man named after a character in a Jane Austen novel,” I say, grinning. Knightley laughs, and I suddenly remember he was also named after a character in one of Jane Austen’s novels. “No offense, Knightley.”
“None taken,” Knightley says. “Seeing as you are also named after a character from the same novel.”
“Johnny Amor sounds like a right tosser,” Bingley says.
“You don’t know anything about him.”
“What do you know about him?”
“I know he has the sweetest granddaddy in the world and I know he studied English language and literature at Oxford.”
“Studied?” Bingley asks, eyebrow raised.
“Yes, studied. What’s your point?”
“Studied, not graduated?”
“He dropped out to pursue his passion.”
“Internet stalking?” Bingley scoffs. “No, don’t tell me, he’s a gigolo. His passion is meeting innocent women and bilking them of their fortunes.”
“He is not a gigolo.”
“Are you sure? Johnny Amor sounds like the name of a gigolo.” Bingley nudges his brother. “What do you think, old bean? Is Johnny Amor a dodgy sort who will diddle Emma Lee the moment he has the chance? Is he a gigolo?”
“Ew!” I slap Bingley’s arm. “You’re nasty. Nobody is diddling Emma Lee.”
“Diddle means rob,” Knightley explains, his lips quirking.
“Oh.” My cheeks flush with heat. “Well, he’s not a dodgy diddler and he’s not a gigolo.”
At least, I don’t think Johnny Amor is a gigolo. Then again, Mr. Amor did mention something about Johnny wearing velvet suits and engaging in a concerning number of Tinder hookups.
“Aha!” Bingley points at my face. “See there?”
“What?”
“Your forehead is furrowed.”
I slap my hand over my forehead, feeling for wrinkles.
“My forehead isn’t furrowed.” I look at Knightley. “Is it?”
“It was slightly furrowed,” he says.
“I definitely saw furrowing”—Bingley leans forward until he is practically sitting on the armrest—“which means you have misgivings about Johnny Amor, international man of mystery and gigolo extraordinaire.”
“I am not about that life.”
“What life?”
“That life of doubting people and being skeptical of everyone I meet,” I say. “I trust people until they give me a reason to distrust them.” I look at Knightley, frowning. “Distrust or mistrust?”
“They are roughly the same,” Knightley answers. The sunlight is slanting through the driver’s window, illuminating his handsome face. “Though, when you distrust someone it is usually based in a negative experience. Mistrusting someone means you have a general feeling of unease, even if it is not based in a negative experience.”
“Thank you.”
“Yes,” Bingley says. “I am sure Emma Lee is grateful for the grammar lesson, Professor Nickerson, but I am more concerned about her safety. She is about to go on the pull with a gigolo.”
“On the pull?” I ask.
“Slang for hookup,” Bingley explains.
“I am not hooking up with Johnny Amor.”
“You’re not?”
Knightley exhales. Loudly. Is it my imagination or does he look relieved, has his posture relaxed a little?
“I am meeting Johnny Am”—I stop myself before saying Johnny’s last name—“to see if he would be a good match for Deidre.”
“Deidre? Waites?” Bingley laughs. “What makes you think a flamboyant lounge singer would be a good match for a shy village sweetshop owner?”
“Johnny’s granddaddy said one of the reasons Johnny dropped out of Oxford was to help his best friend start an indie book publishing company. Deidre left Oxford to take care of her mother and tend to the family sweetshop.” Knightley looks at me and smiles, and my heart feels weightless again. “That tells me they are both compassionate and self-sacrificing. It doesn’t matter if Johnny lives in London and dresses in velvet suits—”
“Hang on!” Bingley hoots with laughter. “You didn’t say anything about velvet suits. I think we have the answer to our most provocative question. Johnny Amor is certainly a gigolo.”
“—just as it does not matter if Deidre lives in a village and wears quirky hipster clothes,” I say, continuing as if Bingley had not interrupted me. “Those things don’t matter. What matters is character. Fashion is transient, Bingley; an ugly soul is forever.”
“Hear, hear,” Knightley says, turning the car off the road and onto the long drive leading to Welldon Abbey. “Jane Austen couldn’t have said it better herself. Though, surely she would have mentioned something about ribbons.”
I grin, pleased as pineapple punch by Knightley’s compliment, and rest my head against the plush leather headrest, staring out the window at the rolling hills dotted with wooly sheep. The Johnny Amor–Deidre Waites match is going to be a tremendous success. I can feel it, deep down in my bones, the same way I felt Lexi and Cash would make a great match, the same way I felt Zac Efron would be the breakout star of High School Musical. Lexi and Cash are engaged to be married and Zac is the only member of the HSM cast to make a name for himself in Hollywood, a real name. What has Ashley Tisdale been in since HSM, Scary Movie XVII? I am not hating on Ashley. I swear I’m not. Snaps to her for sticking in there and acting her little heart out in a string of B movies, voice-over gigs, and Disney shows, but she is no Zac Efron.
“Emma Lee?” Knightley’s deep voice startles me.
“Yes.”
“Bingley is concerned about you, even if he has expressed his concern in a childish and offensive manner,” Knightley says, staring at me with an intensity that takes my breath away. “We are both concerned about you traveling to London to meet a stranger. It is a big city and we would feel personally responsible if something bad happened to you.”
“You would?”
I look at Knightley, see the concern reflected in his brown-green eyes, and my tummy tenses again.
“Yes,” he says. “I would.”
“Where are you meeting Johnny Velvet Amor?” Bingley asks.
“A place called The Lucky Pig.”
“In Fitzrovia? I will go with you,” Bingley says.
“That’s not necessary.”
“It is,” Bingley says, leaning forward again.
“Seriously?”
“I believe it is my solemn duty as your foster brother to keep you from making atrocious errors in your speech and to safeguard you from velvet-wearing gigolos. You wouldn’t deny me the right to complete my duties, would you?”
“Bingley,” Knightley growls. “What gives?”
“What?”
“Why the sudden interest in chaperoning Emma Lee?”
“What?” Bingley cries. “What are you implying? That I have an ulterior motive?”
“Don’t you always have an ulterior motive for the things you do?”
“Ouch.” Bingley presses a hand to his heart. “That hurt, old bean.”
“You will survive,” Knightley says.
“I have an idea,” Bingley says. “Why don’t you go with Emma Lee to meet Johnny the Velvet Gigolo, Knightley?”
Knightley remains silent, gaze fixed on the drive, a muscle working in his jaw.
“Ha!” Bingley laughs. “What am I saying? Knightley Nickerson, publisher and CEO of Nickerson Publishing, would not be seen in Fitzrovia.”
“What’s wrong with Fitzrovia?” I look over at Bingley. “Is it the dodgy part of London?”
“Dodgy?” Bingley chuckles. “I wouldn’t call Fitzrovia dodgy. A lot of celebs live there, even though it ranks as one of the worst places to live in the country because of crap housing, air quality, and traffic. It attracts a bohemian crowd—the boujie bohemians, the sort that order pomegranate martinis and spend their Friday nights touring art galleries. Loads of camp pubs, lively bistros, and indie publishing companies have moved into the area. The Lucky Pig is popular with the posh set because it is bloody brutal to make it past the door attendant and has this speakeasy vibe—dark corners and overpriced gin cocktails.”
“Gee, Bingley. It almost sounds as if you want to go to The Lucky Pig.”
“Are you serious? I would love to go with you to meet Johnny Amor!” Bingley says, grinning. “Thanks for asking.”
I laugh.
“Did I just ask you?”
“Yes, you did!”
“What about you, Knightley?”
“What about me?”
“Fancy spending a night drinking overpriced gin cocktails in a dimly lit speakeasy?”
Knightley pauses so long I am afraid he is going to say no. He pulls to a stop outside a long, honey-hued brick building with arched doorways that remind me of the doorways on the carriage house at Black Ash. He kills the engine and looks at me.
“With you?”
“Yes.”
“I would love to go with you, Emma Lee.”
“You would?” I clap my hands. “Yay! This is going to be so much fun.”
“Are you serious?” Bingley says, narrowing his gaze at his brother. “Knightley Nickerson swilling giggle water in a pub in Fitz, rubbing elbows with boujies. This is going to be fun.”