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“And even further from Cape Cod,” I agree, the scotch warming my blood—or maybe that’s just his smile. “But I like it. Being away from home, in a new city like this… You get to decide who you really are. Not just who your family, or school, or everyone else assumes you are, but the person you really feel like, deep down.”
“And who are you, Jolene Jameson?” Fraser asks, his eyes fixed on mine.
“I don’t know. That’s the fun part,” I add. “I guess I’m still figuring it out.”
“There you are!” We’re interrupted by his friends, a pack of boisterous guys ready to move the party elsewhere. I bring my roommates along, and soon, we’re on an epic pub crawl of Bloomsbury, trading jokes and drinks along the historic cobbled streets, until my head is spinning—from the alcohol, and the feel of Fraser’s hand resting casually on the small of my back.
As the hours wear on, more of our classmates peel off, calling it a night or pairing off to hook up, until we find ourselves alone on an old cobblestone street near the river.
“Looks like it’s just you and me.” Fraser says, pausing in the glow of a streetlight.
The words shimmer there between us, and I swear, I’ve never wanted anything so much.
So I kiss him. Right there in the street at two a.m., leaning up on my tiptoes and bracing myself against his broad chest. His mouth is hot and sweet, and feels so right, it’s like I’ve crossed a whole ocean just to come home to him—
A knockat the door jolts me back to reality—ten years later, and a whole hell of a lot wiser.
I struggle to my feet, feeling the past slip away from me all over again. That night with Fraser is ancient history now—and so is the rest of our ill-fated love affair.
So much for coming home. I left England after that semester with Fraser’s fervent ‘I love you’ ringing in my ears, and plans for us to stay together, no matter what. He’d fly out to Cape Cod for the summer; I’d start looking for graduate programs back in London. We’d make it work; our hearts wouldn’t have it any other way.
He returned my calls for all of five days, before cutting off all communication and never speaking to me again.
Brutal, right? I couldn’t even call it a bad breakup, since technically, he didn’t even bother to break up with me. I sent epic emails into the ether, begging him to at least talk to me, until it became clear that I wouldn’t get a response. So I did what any scorned woman would do in my situation: I wept, raged, and then embarked on a hot girl summer to try and get over him, posting wild parties and beaming selfies all over my social media so that if he ever looked twice, he’d see just how un-broken my heart really was.
Who knows if it worked? The bastard didn’t even have so much as an Instagram page that I could secretly stalk.
The knock comes again. My first thought is that it’s Fraser. He’s here to apologize from the depths of his very soul. He’s here to explain. He got hit in the head and experienced memory loss! He lost his phone and access to his email address! Someone threatened his life if he continued to be in contact with me!
“JJ? Hello?” a woman’s voice calls. “It’s Anna. I’m here to take you to rehearsal. Are you ready? Or, you know, awake?”
“Yes!” I blurt, calling back through the door. “Just give me one minute!”
Time to face the awkward music. I tear through my suitcase, searching for an outfit that says: “Remember that time you made me fall in love with you and then ditched me? That’s right, pal—mistake of a lifetime.”
There’s got to be something, right?
3
JJ
Back at thecountry house location, Reeve is running a rehearsal in one of the stunning drawing rooms. I slink in and take a seat next to some of the crew, as the actors run through one of the scenes, pausing occasionally for questions and comments. It’s one of the scenes with Lizzy staying at Netherfield while her sister, Jane, is sick. Lizzy is chatting in the drawing room with Bingley and his sisters—and Darcy. I’ve already been through the scene a dozen times with Reeve while he was writing it, and so it’s a relief to put all thoughts of Fraser and my romantic entanglements aside, and to focus on the drama in front of me.
“Won’t you join me for a turn around the room…?”
I marvel as the cast—despite their modern hair and yoga pants—transforms into their characters: Regal and witty, and full of subtext as they move through the scene, pacing out their positions in the room.
“Excuse me,” the Lizzy actress says, flagging me down after they finish a run-through. Her name is Sophia Briscoe, and she’s one of the hottest British actresses around right now, all cheekbones and effortless elegance, even in a baggy sweater and ugly-fashionable jeans. “JJ, right?”
Reeve introduced me at the top of rehearsals, but I’m still surprised to be addressed. “Yes! Hello! That’s me.”
“I’m wondering about my body language in this scene,” she says, brandishing the script pages. “I know I’m bantering back and forth with Darcy, but would I be holding eye contact while we spar? Looking directly at him? In this period, wasn’t it rather scandalous?”
“That’s such a good question,” I enthuse, sitting up eagerly. “The standards for greetings and politeness really differed by class. In a scene like this, Lizzy is actually breaking the rules by being so direct with Darcy, she should really be much more submissive, since he’s above her in society. She would be expected to be seen but not heard.”
“So it’s part of her character to be breaking the rules like this…” Sophia nods.
“Not breaking, so much as pushing the limits on polite behavior,” I explain. “That’s part of her wit, she’s baiting Darcy in this scene, but doing it very properly, so nobody can take offense. She’s technically talking to Caroline, not directing much at him.”
