Just Jayne Read online

  Just Jayne

  Ripley Proserpina

  Copyright © 2019 by Ripley Proserpina

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Content Edits by Heather Long

  Copy Edits by Jennifer Jones at Bookends Editing

  Cover Art by Lucy Smoke

  Created with Vellum

  For my mother who not only bought me books, but made me take piano lessons.

  You gave me music and words. I love you.

  Contents

  Foreword

  1. Jayne

  2. Diego

  3. Tennyson

  4. Jayne

  5. Jayne

  6. Lee

  7. Jayne

  8. Klaus

  9. Jayne

  10. Jayne

  11. Jayne

  12. Klaus

  13. Jayne

  14. Jayne

  15. Lee

  16. Jayne

  17. Jayne

  18. Diego

  19. Jayne

  20. Jayne

  21. Jayne

  22. Jayne

  23. Jayne

  24. Tennyson

  25. Jayne

  26. Jayne

  27. Tennyson

  28. Jayne

  29. Diego

  30. Jayne

  31. Diego

  32. Jayne

  33. Jayne

  34. Lee

  35. Jayne

  36. Jayne

  37. Jayne

  38. Lee

  39. Jayne

  40. Jayne

  41. Diego

  42. Jayne

  43. Tennyson

  44. Jayne

  45. Jayne

  46. Jayne

  47. Jayne

  48. Jayne

  49. Jayne

  50. Diego

  51. Jayne

  52. Lee

  53. Jayne

  54. Klaus

  55. Jayne

  56. Tennyson

  57. Jayne

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Ripley Proserpina

  Foreword

  “Do you think, because I am poor, obscure, plain and little, I am soulless and heartless? You think wrong! - I have as much soul as you, - and full as much heart! And if God had gifted me with some beauty and much wealth, I should have made it as hard for you to leave me, as it is now for me to leave you!”

  - Charlotte Brontë.

  1

  Jayne

  “How do you feel about celebrities?”

  I laced my hands together and shifted in the uncomfortably deep leather chair. This question said more about the person interviewing me, really, than it did my beliefs. It was a question meant to shock and bait, and it made me seriously reconsider the application I’d put in for this position.

  “On my resume you’ll see that I’ve been a studio teacher and have tutored a number of students on set. I can refer you to the agency which hired me, but I’m sorry, I can’t provide names of students.”

  The woman’s gaze traveled from my face to my plain tweed jacket and sensible heels. I dressed professionally, not interestingly. This interview was for a teaching position after all, not model.

  She smiled tightly. Her blonde hair was set in perfect waves and contrasted beautifully with her pale blue dress. “This family is looking for a person who can be a live-in tutor. An old-fashioned governess-type.” She lifted her perfect eyebrows. “Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” I replied. “They want a tutor who can be discreet and trustworthy.”

  “Exactly,” she said. “I’ve already called your references, and the agency you’re referring to…“ She looked at her file and then back to me. “They assure me that you’re not looking to make a quick buck with a tell-all, but you still haven’t answered my question. Miss Burns…” She sighed and shut the file folder. “Miss Burns, you wouldn’t have made it this far if I hadn’t done my homework, but in these circumstances, you see, you’d be embedded in the life of this client. You’d be traveling with them when they worked. Living with them while they vacationed, or when they stayed at home. And they can’t be worrying—”

  “No family should have to be on their best behavior all the time,” I said steadily. I met her cool blue eyes and held her gaze. “No one is perfect, and it’s not my job to pass judgment. I am an educator, and my focus and attention will be on my student. Not on their parents, or siblings, or…” I glanced around the office. “Third cousin, twice removed. I don’t think anything about celebrities, because I don’t care about them. Unless they’re my pupils.” That was the caveat. “Then I only care inasmuch as it relates to my lesson planning.”

  She sat back in her chair and narrowed her eyes. “You’re how old?”

  “I’m twenty-seven.”

  “You seem older.” It was my turn to smile tightly, now. I knew I seemed older. I looked older. Plain Jayne. Lame Jayne. Tame Jayne. I was the epitome of boring and forgettable, but I was a good teacher—a great one, in fact—and I loved what I did.

  “I know,” I replied and waited.

  “You really don’t care,” she said, leaning forward. “Do you? Brad Pitt could walk by, and if you were teaching algebra, you wouldn’t glance up.”

  “No,” I answered, and then thought about it. “But if you’re expecting me to tutor six children, then I’ll be negotiating my salary.”

  She stood from her desk and held out her hand. “Just one student, Jayne. However, there is one more step in the interview process. An onsite interview. In London. I hope you have a passport. How quickly can you be ready?”

  I thought about the daily rate motel room where I was staying. All of my possessions could be packed in ten minutes. “I do have a passport, and I could leave today,” I answered, and she smiled.

  “Excellent. Well, Jayne Burns. Pack your bag, you’re going to London.”

  I stood outside Heathrow Airport and stared at the bleak clouds and unending line of traffic. Overhead, the engines of departing planes shrieked as they thrust thousands of pounds of metal into the sky. I resisted the urge to cover my ears the way I had when I was a little girl and became easily overwhelmed.

  The agency told me they’d have a car waiting, but when I’d emerged from customs into the arrivals gate, no one was there.

  So now, here I stood. Exhausted. Anxious.

  And righteously indignant. It was the last emotion I held onto the tightest. I’d done my part, flying across the world for a job interview. The least the agency could have done was make sure I had a ride.

  I sighed and pulled my cell phone from my pocket. Lowood International Care Agency. I connected the number and held the phone to my ear.

  “Lowood International Care Agency.” The rest of the woman’s words were cut off when a plane shrieked overhead.

  “Yes.” I stuck a finger in my ear and propped the phone against my shoulder as I tugged my luggage back inside the airport. “Hello. This is Jayne Burns.”

  “Miss Burns.” The receptionist sighed. “Miss Burns, your driver is searching for you. Where are you?”

  My stomach clenched, and I gritted my teeth. “I’m at International Arrivals.” I forced myself to answer politely. “No one was—”

  Someone tapped me on the shoulder and I turned. A man in suit stepped back and flashed a sign at me. Jayne Burns. “Never mind. He’s found me.”

  “I believe your instructions were to wait at the arrivals gate.” The older man spoke so quickly, I could barely understand him. However, hi
s sneer was universally understood.

  “I apologize.”

  He made a noise and reached for my bag. If he hadn’t surprised me, or been so rude, I’d have warned him that there was a certain trick to it. That if he twisted his wrist just so, then the thing would stay together, but one wrong wrench, and—

  The driver grunted and blushed when the handle detached from the body. “I’m so sorry,” he said. Pushing down on the plastic, he attempted to insert the telescoping handle back.

  “Let me,” I said, taking it from him and easily sliding the handle into place. “It’s old.” I could have let him suffer in his embarrassment, but there was no reason. He’d probably been hauled over the coals for not meeting me, and if he was rude, well, I didn’t have to be rude, too.

  I followed him outside, across the lines of traffic, to a small black car. He opened the trunk and eyed my suitcase a little nervously.

  “I’ll get it,” I said, and put it inside.

  “I apologize, ma’am,” he said. “I—”

  “It’s all right,” I assured him. “Like I said, the bag is old.”

  He stared at me, and shook his head. “No. It’s…” Trailing off, he shut the trunk. Whatever he was going to say, he didn’t, and instead opened the car door, waiting for me to get in. “It’s about an hour into London, depending on traffic, Miss Burns.”

  “All right.” I got into the car and leaned back into the seat. It smelled like cigarette smoke and exhaust, but it was soft, and after the seven-hour flight, it was all I needed to fall asleep.

  “Miss Burns.”

  I opened my eyes, blinking rapidly.

  “We’re here Miss Burns.”

  The last thing I remembered was staring at the airport doors as we’d pulled away from the terminal. I glanced down at myself, taking in my wool coat and black slacks. I’d used the restroom when I got off the plane, but barely glanced in a mirror since boarding in New York. Biting back the urge to ask my driver how I looked, I smoothed my hair behind my ears and unbuckled my belt. “Thank you. Will you open the trunk so I can get my bag?”

  “The trunk?” he asked. “You mean the boot? No ma’am. It’s not necessary. I’ll deliver it to your hotel. You don’t need to drag it in with you.”

  “Oh.” Before I could say anything else, he got out of the car and opened my door. “Third floor.” He tipped his head toward a brown stone office building. “They’re expecting you.”

  “Thank you,” I replied, and reached into my pocket for cash. He accepted my tip and was gone before I’d fastened the belt around my coat. If nothing else came from this, I got a trip to England. And I planned on taking full advantage of whatever was within walking distance of my hotel.

  As I approached the building, a man walked out. His hair was long with a slight wave, and as he stepped outside, the wind blew it back from his face. For one second, I caught a glimpse of dark brown eyes, but then he slipped on a pair of huge dark sunglasses. Automatically, I glanced up at the sky. Nope, it was still cloudy.

  I thought for a moment he’d noticed me, and we’d do that awkward thing two strangers do when they pass each other, but he turned his head and began to stride down the street. As he did, I noticed a leather wallet on the ground. It had to be his. “Sir?” I called out. He didn’t stop, so I bent to get his wallet. “Sir, your wallet!” That made him pause.

  Slowly, he turned back. He wore a denim jacket, unbuttoned but with a scarf around his neck. Tucking his chin against his chest, he took a quick breath and let it out. He paused, and I wondered if he was going to spin around and continue on without his wallet. I held it out to him, like I was trying to tempt a dog to come inside. “Is this yours?”

  He pushed his shoulders back, like he was gathering his strength and started toward me. When he reached out, I dropped it into his open palm. Task accomplished, I walked toward the building. Just as I pulled the door open, I heard him. “Gracias.”

  I glanced back over my shoulder and smiled. “De nada.” He stared after me but a second later whirled around and took off. His behavior was a little weird, but it wasn’t like I was the friendliest of people, so I brushed it aside.

  My hair had slipped free of the low ponytail so I gathered it while I jogged up the three flights of stairs. It didn’t take me long to find the office, but before I went inside, I swept my thumbs under my eyes and ran my tongue over my teeth.

  I wasn’t a pretty girl, but I put myself together as best as I could. With one last deep breath, I straightened my shoulders and went inside.

  And stopped short.

  This… wasn’t what I was expecting.

  A man stood when I opened the door. He wore ripped jeans and a t-shirt that had seen better days. “Miss Burns?” he asked. His accent was British, straight out of any of the period movies I’d watched on TV, and totally at odds with his clothing. And earrings.

  And lip-ring.

  “Yes,” I said and held out my hand. “I’m Jayne Burns.”

  “Have a seat.” He gestured to the sofa. “Can I get you anything? Coffee, tea? Me?”

  “Sorry?”

  He opened his eyes wide. If he had been one of my students, I’d have said he was up to something, but this man was here to interview me. “Coffee or tea?”

  “No, thank you,” I replied and unbuttoned my coat as I sat. I didn’t think about taking it off until I sat back on the sofa, and then it seemed weird to struggle out of it while seated. It also seemed stupid to stand back up and take it off, when he’d just sat as well. So I did what I always did when I felt awkward, I forced myself to meet the man’s gaze, and I held it.

  “Miss Burns, I’m Alfred Tennyson. It’s nice to meet you.”

  Alfred Tennyson. I kept my face bland, but my suspicion grew with each passing second. “Nice to meet you, as well,” I replied. Big fat liar. If his name was Alfred Tennyson, then I was Britney Spears.

  “This won’t take long,” he said. “I just have a few questions.” He reached behind him and pulled a piece of yellow lined paper from his back pocket. Unfolding it, he stared at me and said, “I am tired/I am weary/I could sleep for a thousand years/A thousand dreams that would awake me/Different colors made of tears.”

  The paper remained on his lap, but he didn’t glance at it, and he didn’t glance away from me.

  “Venus in Furs by Velvet Underground,” I said. “Do you want me to interpret?”

  Alfred smiled. “No. It just popped into my head and I had to say it. Does that ever happen to you? Something pops into your head and you have to get it out?” He leaned back and studied me the same way the woman in my first interview had. “You don’t seem the spontaneous type.” In one quick move, he grabbed his phone from a nearby table and typed something before flinging it away. His chair groaned as he shifted and leaned forward. His blue eyes were so bright, almost like he had a fever—or he was on something. His long fingers tapped against the paper and he cocked his head to the side. As he watched me, he was quiet and thoughtful, but then he played with the little ring in his lip, and I got the sense that maybe he was waiting for something.

  “Yeah,” he said suddenly. “You’re not spontaneous. Definitely buttoned up. You’ve got a whole…” He waved his hand toward me. “Maiden aunt thing going on, but yeah. Interpret Venus in Furs for me.”

  This was a test. Like seeing if I’d fly to London for a second interview. And I had… personal experience… with the über-wealthy. How do you feel about celebrities?

  Fine.

  I could go along with whatever this was.

  “It’s based off of Leopold von Sacher-Masoch’s book of the same name—it’s not a book I have ever written into any curriculum. Have you read it?” I asked.

  “A story about a man who wants to submit to and be dominated by women?” Alfred asked. “Fuck, yes. Twice.” He shifted. “I didn’t understand it either time.”

  I smiled, and waited. Because this was certain to get worse before it got better.

&nbs
p; “Have you read it?” he asked.

  “No,” I answered, honestly. And that seemed to surprise him. I wondered why. He’d already pegged me as a boring, old maid. Of course I wouldn’t have read a book about sado-masochism, bondage, and dominance. “But I love Lou Reed, so I know the Velvet Underground.”

  Behind him a door opened and a woman walked out. This was the sort of person I’d expected to interview me. Someone slightly older than myself, dressed like she’d come to work and not just run out of clean clothes to wear. She handed a file to Alfred, and then she left.

  “Next question.” He opened the file and held up two pictures. “Who are these men?”

  “Winston Churchill and Eminem.”

  “And these?” He held up another two pictures.

  “Justin Timberlake and David Beckham.”

  “So you don’t live under a rock, Miss Burns,” he said.

  I swallowed hard and clenched my teeth. “No, Mr. Tennyson, I don’t.”

  “Then how have you not recognized who I am?” He flung the pictures away and stared at me, waiting.

  I stared back, and as recognition dawned, I realized I was the stupidest person who’d ever lived. My face heated, and as much as I wanted to drop my gaze and hide my embarrassment, I didn’t. All I could do was hope my voice didn’t shake when I answered. “You’re Tennyson Blake,” I said. “Lead guitarist for Rochester’s Pathos.” I’d waxed poetic about Velvet Underground while sitting across from one of the most celebrated musicians and lyricists of all time. Stupid.