"How do you know all this?" I asked.
"I read the newspaper." Omar smiled.
"It's hopeless." I slouched in my chair. "Do they counsel rejected cast members in the church?" I asked, thinking of the guy meditating in the dark.
Sixby, my Hamlet, walking by at that precise moment, interrupted. "He looks busy," Sixby said of Omar. "I'll counsel you. Just come to my office. In the pub. Second booth on the right. Plenty of ale for what ails you." And then he was gone. And then someone grabbed Omar. Everyone was so busy.
Vera approached, scowling and pulling on her black shawl. I stood to meet her, hoping she'd made progress on my case. "I'm so aggravated," she said, coming very close and whispering, "Did you argue with Magda?"
"What?" I asked. "I've never spoken to Magda." And then I remembered. "I said that I love Fanny Price in her presence. Would she hold that against me?"
Vera's hands flew up. "Who knows? Elizabeth Banks decided to show up. You're in Magda's bad book. Archie caved."
I couldn't let it be over before it even started. "I want a part," I said firmly.
"I'm working on it," Vera said, irritated.
I crossed my arms, staring at Vera, wondering what to believe. Was Vera a good witch or a bad witch? And then I remembered Randolph's comment. "Vera," I said, "did you talk to Randolph Lockwood about firing the actors and letting tourists enact the novel?"
"Yes." Vera brightened. "I gave you all the credit, if that's what you're curious about."
"What did he say?"
"He's interested," Vera said. Her eyes raced back and forth. "Randolph wants everything in writing." She touched my arm. "Can you write a business plan?"
"What?" I dimly recalled a business plan for a made-up company I'd written as a requirement for a class in college. How did I do that? Something about strategy and goals.
"That's what you'll do here. Help me," Vera said.
I would not live in a novel but instead be swept into the current of history, another casualty of Vera's Pygmalion operation, business plan version. Magda swooped in, her black robe billowing as in Miss Clavel, Something is not right, her arm locked with a disinterested Miss Banks. "Here's the Lily," Magda cooed. The Lily. Magda said to Vera, "Your friend charmed everyone at the pub." She placed her long, muscular hand on my arm and I knew she would never lift a finger for me, evident from the way she mocked my name. I studied Magda up close, her perfectly shaped eyebrows above her fine nose, her hair hidden beneath the sea of black fabric, her voice oddly sandy—like a smoker. "This is Elizabeth Banks," Magda said, gesturing to the implausible goth groupie on her arm. "You two are roommates. For now."
I extended my hand and in the instant of introduction saw that the necklace Elizabeth Banks wore was mine—the cross from my mother. I started to speak but I felt someone pull on my arm and turned as Nikki the actress said, "See you at rehearsal." When I turned back my roommate was gone.
My Jane Austen had seen everything.
In my room, I was surprised to find Gary seated at my table and my roommate—who bore no resemblance whatsoever to a Jane Austen character, secondary or otherwise—lying on a batik spread, a cell phone attached to her ear. I looked, but did not see my necklace on her neck. Her shaggy black hair, too blue-black for nature, covered her eyes and contrasted her light bulb-white skin. She raised a hand that looked like a greeting until I realized she was begging off to finish her phone conversation. I tried to look busy while monitoring her speech for signs of professional training, waiting for her to get off the phone so I could ask about my necklace. How could she care about Jane Austen? Gary stared at her, but did he understand what she said?
Suitcases waited, piled on the floor, enough for a Princess of Monaco, some still loitering in the hall. On the table, a pack of Gauloises sat unopened. Oh God, a smoker. The books I'd left on the table had vanished, replaced by her stuff: a small television and a boom box. She dug her fingers under the thick pile of black bangs, her eyes focused in a cell phone stare beyond me. A matching batik bedspread lay folded on my bed, her large flat box hid under my bed, a crate of toiletries dominated my shelf, and an abundance of black clothing hung in my closet. A recent memory of my father's girlfriend surfaced, the one where she discarded all my mom's old refrigerator magnets: the pizza ad, the library hours, even the broken angel magnet that protected us from pigging out since I was nine. When I complained to my father, my heart pounding and my breath too ragged to power my voice, saying his girlfriend had no business throwing our magnets away, he'd said, simply, "Your grief is upsetting Sue."
"Cellmate darling," my roommate put her phone down and crooned in a husky voice, the accent completely American. Just then, I discovered my books sitting in the windowsill; displaced, not destroyed.
"I'm Lily Berry." I extended my hand, feeling the roly-poly syllables of my name, almost certain my mother named me after the tragic Lily Bart. My sister says nonsense. Perhaps now would be a good time to switch to Lillian.
"I'm Bets," she said, adding, "Short for Betsy, which is short for Elizabeth."
"Can I see your necklace?" I asked.
She looked surprised, and then perhaps embarrassed. She pulled my cross out of her shirt.
"That's mine, right?" I asked, recognizing the custom design as well as the chain.
"I got it out of that drawer." Bets pointed and shared an endearing smile, perhaps the key to her life's progress thus far. "Don't be mad at me," she said.
"I'm not mad," I said, "but that necklace is very important to me and I need it back."
She didn't move.
"Now," I said, my voice calm. "I need it now."
"I'm so glad you're here, my fellow American," she said, reaching behind her neck to unfasten the clasp. "My mother's a Brit but my father's from New Jersey. Where are you from? Oops." She looked on the floor and then at me. "It just slipped off."
I fell to my knees and searched. She reached under her bed, exposing a spiked leather band around her wrist, the rest of her attire too short, mismatched, and torn. She must be really rich. Her shoes, electric blue stiletto pumps, bared white toe cleavage. "I found it."
"Oh good." I sighed. She handed me the cross and then the chain.
"Do you know Gary?" she asked, gesturing to the silent driver watching from his seat at the table. The familiar white bakery bag lay on Bets's bed next to an open package of potato crisps.
"Yes," I said, standing, working to put the necklace together. "The link is gone," I said, tripping over one of her bags.
"Oh, I'm so sorry for being such a hog with my things." She waved a lazy hand in the air and offered the charming smile again. "Do you want me to move my stuff?" Her eyes glanced at the box stored under my bed.
"It's okay," I said, automatically retreating, vowing to accept her second offer, although the second offer never came. I would draw the line at smoking, though. "I really need to find the link." I returned to my knees and resumed searching.
"I'm so sorry," Bets said, standing over me. "Please let me get it fixed for you. I know a really good repair shop in London."
"That's not necessary," I said. "I can fix it if I can find the link." Bets seemed truly sorry and I didn't want to hurt her feelings. "Congratulations on your part, you must be very excited about the summer," I said, sweeping the floor with my hand.
"Oh, terribly," she said, lifting one of her suitcases.
I waited. I still needed help finding the link and she'd moved on to something else.