“
I hope I have not upset you,” Mrs. Wattlesbrook said with an innocent smile. “I pride myself on matching each client with her perfect gentleman. But one cannot anticipate a woman’s every fancy, and so our talent pool runs deep. You understand?”
“Very deep indeed.” Jane felt like a woman drowning, and she grasped for anything. And as it turned out, bald-faced lies are, temporarily anyway, impressively buoyant, so she said, “It will make the ending to my article all the more interesting.”
“Your…your article?” Mrs. Wattlesbrook peered over her spectacles as if at a bug she would like to squash.
“Mm-hm,” said Jane, lying extravagantly, outrageously, but also, she hoped, gracefully. “Surely you know I work for a magazine? The editor thought the story of my experience at Pembrook Park would be the perfect way to launch my move from graphic design to staff writer.”
She had no intention of becoming a staff writer, and in fact the artist bug was raging through her blood now more than ever, but she just had to give Mrs. Wattlesbrook a good jab before departure. She was smarting enough to crave the reprieve that comes from fighting back.
Mrs. Wattlesbrook twitched. That was satisfying.
“And I’m sure you realize that since I’m a member of the press,” Jane said, “the confidentiality agreement you made me sign doesn’t apply.”
Mrs. Wattlesbrook’s right eyebrow spasmed. Jane guessed that behind it ran her barrister’s phone number, which she would dial ASAP. Jane, of course, had been lying again. And wasn’t it fun!
Mrs. Wattlesbrook appeared to be trying to moisten her mouth and failing. “I did not know…I would have…”
“But you didn’t. The cell phone scandal, the dirty trick with Martin…You assumed that I was no one of influence. I guess I’m not. But my magazine has a circulation of over six hundred thousand. I wonder how many of those readers are in your preferred tax bracket? And I’m afraid my article won’t be glowing.”
Jane curtsied in her jeans and turned to leave.
“Oh, and, Mrs. Wattlesbrook?”
“Yes, Jane, my dear?” the proprietress responded with a shaky, fawning voice.
“What is Mr. Nobley’s first name?”
Mrs. Wattlesbrook stared at her, blinkless. “It’s J…Jonathon.”
Jane wagged her finger. “Nice try.
”
”