Persuading Austen. Brigid Coady
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with a glass display case full of the most indulgent cakes and pastries. They were piled high, some oozing cream, others glistening with egg wash, and most drenched in fine powdered sugar. And to Annie’s happiness not a cupcake in sight.
‘Hey, Maggie, can I have two custard tarts and a small mix of macarons,’ she said to the middle-aged woman in an apron behind the display case.
‘So is it good news or bad news?’ Maggie was used to Cassie and her buying patterns by now.
‘Cass said to get the bubbles in so I’m thinking extremely good news,’ Annie said and couldn’t help rubbing her hands together as she waited for Maggie to fill her order.
She felt buoyant, as if she had already drunk the bubbles. There was something about work that freed her. Cut her ties to her family even for a small amount of time. At work she was Annie Elliot, production accountant extraordinaire. She liked that Annie Elliot so much better than Annie Elliot, resident doormat. And when it became Annie Elliot, producer … She smiled harder.
‘There you go,’ Maggie said closing the lid of the white cardboard box, hiding the brightly coloured macrons and glistening tarts. ‘That will be twelve pounds sixty, please.’
Annie tapped her card on the card reader, grabbed the cardboard box and her receipt. She rushed to the door.
‘Bye, Maggie,’ she called back.
Hopefully the off-licence would have some chilled champagne, she thought. Who was she kidding? This was Notting Hill. Of course it would and it was only a week since Valentine’s so they might have some on offer. She grabbed the door handle, hoping that the Pol Roger was on sale and whether the news was good enough to justify it.
‘Bugger.’
The door handle was pulled from her and she fell forward, almost dropping the cake box.
‘Sorry,’ a husky voice said and a firm male hand grabbed her bicep to steady her. ‘I wasn’t paying attention,’ he continued. Annie looked up into a pair of pale blue eyes.
The bloke had fox-like features and a slow sideways smile. He waved his phone at her and looked sheepish.
Annie felt a jolt of recognition, as if he was someone she should know. As if his name was on the tip of her tongue.
‘I hope I didn’t squash your cakes,’ he said. His voice held a resonance she recognized as trained.
Ah, an actor, she thought. That was it then. She’d probably seen him in something on the television. God, she hoped it hadn’t been in a production and she’d forgotten him? That wasn’t good for business.
Better smile, she thought as she grinned, channelling in-charge production accountant extraordinaire Annie. It wouldn’t do to piss off someone who she might work with in the future.
He blinked and opened his mouth, as if about to say something.
But for Annie there were more important things to be doing than talking to a cute bloke, like buying champagne.
‘No worries,’ she said, sliding past him.
She rushed off but couldn’t help glancing back to see the bloke still holding the door to Maggie’s open and watching her with an appreciative but calculating stare. She shook it off.
***
‘Champagne. Check. Custard tarts. Check. Frivolous French macarons, even the green pistachio ones. Check.’ Annie counted off the supplies onto Cassie’s desk. A pair of mismatched champagne flutes waited for the frothy contents.
Annie went to open the foil on the top of the bottle.
‘Hold on. I think we’re missing something?’ Cassie said.
Annie checked again. They had everything they needed. ‘What?’
Cassie winked and flourished a piece of paper in front of Annie.
It was the print-out of some emails.
Annie read it.
Then she read it again. Her hand trembled and the paper shook.
‘But …’ Cassie quickly rescued the champagne bottle that was in danger of dropping to the floor from Annie’s suddenly slackened fingers.
Annie knew that the black type were words. And she could read them all individually. In fact she could’ve read it out loud. What she was struggling with was actually comprehending what the email meant.
‘How come Eric Cowell wants me to be a producer as well as the production accountant?’ It was better to ask questions. Yes, questions and then maybe the reality would sink in.
‘I might have mentioned that Northanger was looking at expanding their expertise into producing.’
That wasn’t a complete lie. Cassie knew how much she wanted to take control and move into producing. All those long lunches and wine-soaked evenings when Annie had waxed lyrical about her ambitions.
But that had been about testing the waters with a small production, something under the radar. Not this. This was as if someone had taken her pipe-dream and put it on a course of steroids.
Could she do it?
‘And what is this?’ Annie’s trembling finger pointed at the paper. ‘The bit about Les Dalrymple offering Dad and Immy roles? They haven’t even read for him yet.’
This was unprecedented. She would have known if they’d had auditions. There was no way they would have kept it quiet.
‘He might have come across those audition videos you made them do for that Downton Abbey spin-off that never went anywhere …’ Cassie tried to look innocent.
‘How would he come across them …?’
Annie knew the videos had been sitting on the work server because she’d edited them during her downtime. But then they hadn’t been seen by the world ever since Dad had decided that Julian Fellowes was, as he said, ‘a horrible little tick’. This, of course, only after Julian hadn’t shown him quite the deference William Elliot expected was due of him at an awards ceremony.
‘They fell on an email?’ Cassie said trying to look innocent as she took off the wire and popped the cork. ‘And if we can keep your dad and sister sweet until the production is too far gone for them to be fired then we are good to go.’
The custard tart in Annie’s mouth suddenly tasted like ashes.
Her dream job that at any point could turn into the night terrors. Because having Dad, Immy, and Austen in the production was one huge perfect storm brewing. How the hell was she going to come out of it without drowning?
‘Darling, I knew you wouldn’t forget your family.’ Immy engulfed her in a hug that smelled of exotic flowers that only bloomed at night. Annie knew how much the personalized scent cost down to the nearest ounce. It would’ve been cheaper to import the flowers in on a weekly basis. But it would be pointless asking Immy to change perfumes.
‘And why would Annie forget us?’ Dad said, as he adjusted his tie in the mirror over the mantelpiece.
Honestly, she thought, she wished she could forget. Life would be so much easier.
And more financially stable.
Annie watched as Dad and Imogen got ready to go out to celebrate their new roles.
They had invited Annie.
Eventually.
Even if she hadn’t known she was an afterthought, she did after Immy said, ‘I’m sure Carlo will be able to squeeze an extra chair at the table, but then we might not get the good spot …’ Immy’s forehead creased as much as it was able to.
Throw me a bone why don’t you, Annie