Jump to new as of June 21, 2000
Jump to new as of June 24, 2000
Posted on Friday, 31 December 1999
We place our happiness in other people's hands.
Whether or not they choose to keep us happy is an entirely different story.
"How could you do this to me?" she pouted, standing up.
"I'm sorry. I just can't."
She looked at him, disdain in her eye. "And why not?"
"I just don't want to."
"Don't be ridiculous," she examines her perfectly manicured fingernails. "Every fool in the world wants to marry me. Don't tell me you're trying to be unconventional!"
With that, he stood up. "I'm sorry Emma. I just can't."
And with that, Emma Woodhouse, handsome, rich, and very intelligent, was in the singles market. Unattached.
"How horrid!"
She examined her sentiments. No, it wasn't her heart. No, it wasn't her head. It was just a paper cut that she had forgotten in today's preparations.
Today, Frank Churchill was supposed to propose to her. She had been waiting for it all her life, or at least these past 3 months. After all, he'd been dating her now for 8 months. Something was bound to happen, right? Upset, she stomped her way through the house to find her maid. "I've got a cut!"
"Could you please?"
"No I refuse to cater to her silly games!" George Knightley frowned at his brother. "Serves her right. Love is not something you schedule. She didn't honestly think this Frank fellow was going to propose, did she?"
His brother simply looked at him. "George, you're the only voice of reason in this family. The servants say that she'll not receive anyone!"
"Then good!" he stood up. "It's time that house of hers learned the meaning of silence and peace!" He stormed out of his brother's home, pulling on his winter coat.
Signaling a cab, he muttered. "Spoiled little brat!"
"Where to?" the cabbie asked him.
"1 Hartfield Place," he ground out of his teeth, turning to look out the window.
"So he came to his senses at last, did he?"
She sat in the seat, uncomfortably. When she saw the cab pull up, she was almost positive that Frank had come back at last, having thought it through and of course concluding that he couldn't possibly live without her. But when she saw George Knightley, she knew she had to make herself unbelievably glamorous for him and that stupid accent. What was it with the British anyhow? She resolved to move out of the townhouse promptly, and move back to America, where she could be around some more sensible people.
Oh why did Isabella have to marry? The poppy-crock brother-in-law of hers was driving her younger sister mad! And then she would not have even ended up in England for the wedding, and would not have even heard of Frank Churchill!
He looked at her concerned brow. For a minute, he thought she actually looked hurt. But the expression on her face shifted again, and all was right again. "Nice to know he hasn't injured you," he mused.
She settled back in her Queen Anne chair with a glass of Sherry. "It'll take more than a man to take Emma Woodhouse down."
"So what are you going to do now?" The handsome British newsman was never so obvious as he was now, she mused, as he settled back in his chair, looking at her. There was almost a challenge in it.
A brow crooked. Oh she did hate it when he looked distinguished. "I don't know," she simply stated.
"Use that brain of yours. I'm sure it's good for something."
"I assure you," she said, defensively, "when I stoop to that level, I'll let you cover the story."
"Come Emma," he leaned forward, intimately. "You're intelligent. Use that little noggin of yours."
Emma pouted. "I don't see why I need to. Life is fine as it is. I'll find..."
"You'll find another dead end," he completed.
"I contest that!" she exclaimed.
"I'm sure he was a great amusement these past months, but Emma, Frank Churchill? You can do better."
"I believe I can. I hear that Charles Bingley is amounting a little fortune."
"Emma..."
Emma pulled the lapels of her terrycloth robe tightly, as if she wanted her hands to strangle him. "What?" she asked, exasperated.
"If you'd only forget yourself, you may see the world, and what you have to offer it. Maybe you'd see what it has to offer you!" he said.
"Disgustingly idealistic!" she quipped.
"Yes that's right. You can't even see beyond yourself, and exist without a relationship in your life."
"Oh I can so, it's just that life is so much more fun..."
"Don't give me that," he scoffed.
"Oh I do hate it when you pout," she mocked him.
"I bet you can't last a year without getting involved with someone or other..."
"How much are you willing to wager?" she asked. Oh she did love games.
"I don't know. What do you want?" he matched, triumphant smile on his face.
"I don't know. I already have money..." she mused.
"Oh, think hard, princess. What in the world could you possibly want from a poor British newsman like me?"
"Katorque!" she exclaimed, delightedly.
"You're not going to get my cat. I love my cat."
"Oh come, she really does love me more. And besides, if you're so confident you'll win, what does it matter that you're betting your cat?"
She was challenging him. How confident was he in her male-dependency? Very. "Fine, but we haven't discussed what I'll get. I want your Renoir."
"No!" she exclaimed, getting up, standing in front of the portrait protectively.
"If you're so confident you'll win, what does it matter that you're betting a painting?"
"It's not just a painting, it's Renior!"
"Oh come, Princess. You're not afraid of losing, are you?"
Oh she did hate it when he dared her. Something about him always irked her. She always wanted to prove him wrong. She pouted.
"Aww...you upset?" he mocked.
That was the last straw! She held out her hand. "You're on."
"I shall enjoy this," he took her hand, and kissed it.
Part 2 Posted on Sunday, 2 January 2000
January 13 - Day 1 of the Great Experiment
10:27 pm
Have decided to move out of townhouse. Plan to move into posh little cottage. Living in isolation will be fun. May throw some happy parties while there.
As if I couldn't handle being my own person. As if I didn't know who I was!
I'll have you know, George Knightley, that I know who I man! I know what the world has to "offer", as you put it!
He's a highly disturbing young man. Not even young. What is he...5 years older? I swear. Every time I turn on the tele he looks older and older.
Imagine. He thinking he knew me better! Ridiculous!
January 21 - Day 19
11:34 pm
Finding that free time is boring me. May try something drastic. I hear they say anyone can be a writer.
January 23 - Day 21
1:20 am
Writer idea failed. Must find something else. Thinking of going back to New York. New York's so wonderful. Always full of distractions. Ballet, the Met, Broadway. And if all else fails I could try watching sports. I hear the Yankees are pretty good.
Note to self: When is the baseball season?
February 3 - Day Who cares? It'll never end...
12:34 am
Settled back in the good ol' US. I do love that Brooklyn accent. Going tonite with Harriet to see the New York Philharmonic. Good place to be.
February 12
2:30 pm
He's followed me here! Oh, he claims that he's got an offer. NBC. Nightly news. Or should I say Knightley Knows? Whatever. He doesn't know how this will not affect me. As If a ran away to America, to cheat! I'll show him, self-righteous prig!
Life in NY dulls. Must find something else to do. But I still refuse to...
To what?
The problem is, I already have money. I don't have to work. Why should I work? So what do I do?
Part of his plan. To make me have time to think. As if I'll realize my life is empty. No sir! I'm just fine.
He's so mean.
February 14
2:00 pm
Another day, another department store.
I'm running out of alternatives. I've cleaned out the stores on 5th Avenue of all I could possibly want, and I've even returned things! The one thing I used to do as therapy no longer soothes: I can't shop; have no where to wear my fashionable ensembles, and certainly have no one to impress. There's simply nothing and no one to shop for. I refuse to attend soirees; going without a date is just...not right for me, or my image. The society columns must think me a dreadful bore now; I hardly ever see myself in the papers, and it depresses me.
8:00 pm
I wonder if even dates are allowed. He never said anything about just dates. It's Valentine's Day! I always date on Valentine's Day! But come, George, he may take pity on me tonite. I'm sure he'd understand. And I'd tell him it wouldn't' be a serious date. Just with a friend, that I'm guaranteed to stay friends with. Yes, I'll call him to check.
8:06 pm
Answering machine. I hate leaving massages. I'll just call again in half an hour.
8:15 pm
Late enough. I'll try again.
8:20 pm
Still not there.
8:25 pm
Where could he be? What can a newscaster do?
8:30 pm
A boring one at that. Don't tell me he's actually got a date.
8:35 pm
Of course. So he can date, but I can't. How fair is that? Maybe I should leave a message. No! I refuse to leave a message. He'll be around later.
Some time around 9:00 our heroine was depressed and moping on her couch. It was so unfair of George to do this to her! Valentine's day, too! How cruel.
The phone rang.
Her heart stumbled over itself as she pressed the "talk" button.
"Hello?" she managed as lazy as possible.
"Miss Woodhouse?"
Oh. Just the doorman. "Yes what is it?"
"There's a delivery boy here for you."
"Oh?" she asked, sitting up. What could possibly be the delivery? Accustomed to bouquets of beautiful blossoms and nonsensical outrageously priced jewelry, she yearned for the present to be of the order of that.
The door knock. She perked up. She runs with almost childlike intensity to the door, and opens it.
She recognized the white box.
Pizza.
She didn't order pizza.
"I didn't order pizza!" she exclaimed, almost upset.
"You didn't, but someone did. It's already paid for."
Well, free pizza beats nothing at all. At least someone was thinking of her.
Pizza! Of all things! Emma Woodhouse never ate pizza for Valentine's Day dinner! French restaurants! Elegant little posh cottage inns! Small Italian joints on the side of the road.
And this Valentine's, she got pizza. Domino's pizza. Her admirer did not even care to send better pizza than Domino's.
George.
She almost threw it against the wall, but decided against it, and ate.
Our heroine was watching cheesy Made-for-TV Valentine's Day movies with a box of tissues, crying over herself in pity.
Of all elegant things she'd worn in the past, she never thought she'd end up wearing pajamas. Not even designer ones. Those were of the type that one could not pity oneself properly. No, it took her a while to find it, but she located her old sweatshirt from college, the University of Michigan, and some flannel pants.
Flannel pants! she sobbed into her tissue.
Of course, she'd never admit she was crying. No, there was something very persistent in her eye. That was all.
Door knock.
She picked the phone up. "Hello?" she asked, trying to keep the misery out of her voice.
Door knock.
Oh no. He came to gloat, didn't he?
She got up, miserably, and she opened the door.
And there he was, in his handsome winter coat, bundled up so nicely, with this nice scarf. Apparently ready for a night on the town; the coat was a full length one. And of course, handsomely polished shoes.
"You've been crying," he said, almost triumphantly. He almost felt pity. He cleared his throat to make sure that didn't show up in his speech.
"It's Valentine's Day. I'm not even allowed to date. Not even a casual date," she said, angrily. "And I haven't been crying!" she finished, a few decibels louder.
"Aw, come Princess," he welcomed himself in, placing his arm around her shoulders.
"I'd rather much prefer if you'd go away; did you come here to gloat? Oh you are low, Knightley!"
"Didn't save any of the pizza for me?" he asked, conversationally.
"I wasn't expecting to have any company. Not tonite," she said, almost bitterly.
"I would almost believe that, but I think on the contrary, that you DO want me here. My Caller ID said that you called 9 times tonite, in one hour."
"A mere question on the technicality of 'to be with someone'," she said, trying to cover the sudden jump on her nerves. "You never said I couldn't casually date. I wanted specifics."
"No dating at all," he said.
She gritted her teeth, muttering some names under her breath.
"Aren't you going to take my coat?"
"I don't see why, seeing as you're going to be leaving in a few minutes."
"Don't mind if I do, Emma," he smiled brightly, taking off his coat, and handing it to her, slipping off his nice shoes.
He wore sweats.
"You're not dressed up."
"No, I'm not."
"You're dateless!" she smirked.
"For you information, I simply decided that I'd make sure you didn't cheat tonite, with one of your technicality rules," he said, taking a seat in her spot in front of the tele, changing the channel.
She looked at him. She almost thought he looked rather adorable that way, the dignified anchor, transformed into a little boy in pajamas.
"Don't tell me you've been watching this crap all night," he started channel surfing.
She hated channel surfers. She frowned, standing, holding his winter coat. "I didn't invite you."
"Come on, you'd have nothing else to do, but pity yourself and hate me!"
"Oh, I hate you enough to not even consciously tell myself to. In fact, I don't even need to schedule it anymore. Now please, before you spoil more of my Valentine's Day..."
"Come, Emma, I brought you pizza."
"I'm used to champagne."
"That's what I thought, too. But then I thought, why would she need any of that, anyhow. No, let us be sensible, George, and I was."
"I do hate you sensible folk."
"Then I guess you shouldn't check my coat pocket."
She looked at him suspiciously, but nevertheless reached into his coat pocket, pulling out a velvet box. She looked up at him, almost stunned.
He could almost swear his heart almost skipped a beat.
She opened it, and giggled, like a little girl.
"Aww...Princess. Thought I'd make some peace with you and keep you some company. If I hang out with you, it won't be considered a date. And Valentine's Day isn't a day for anyone to go through alone...Thought I'd..." he kept on talking, not knowing really what he wanted to say. He got up, uncomfortable. "You know, I'll leave." She wasn't supposed to react this way.
"No," she said, smiling genuinely.
Wow. She was a stunner when she smiled like that, innocent and all.
She put on the Minnie Mouse watch he'd bought her.
It wasn't elegant, it wasn't stunning. It was ridiculous, but somehow, she was immensely pleased with it.
He wasn't sure if he bought it to mock all the diamonds she'd gotten before. He wasn't sure if he'd bought it for her just to...well...just to buy it for her. He wasn't sure he was here.
But the 9 hangups on his caller ID helped.
"Thank you," she said. "It was very considerate of you. Sit down. You can watch whatever you want. Like you said. This isn't a date. I'd like to have a...friend over tonite."
Part 3 Posted on Saturday, 15 January 2000
He was different. She liked having him over.
When he wasn't making her furious.
Today was a furious day.
She'd been resigned; she'd gone DOMESTIC.
Bustling about the kitchen, she cursed the pots, threatened each and every one that she'd turn the stove off if they continued to misbehave.
"Emma?" he came in through the front door, which she'd apparently left unlocked for him.
Crash!
He walked toward the kitchen. "Emma, dear, what in heavens are you doing? You know that leaving the front door of a New York apartment isn't safe!"
"Oh...huff, Knightley," she said, while trying to get the next pot off the stove in time. "I...couldn't...come to the door..." she sighed, as she managed to get the situation under control once more.
"Emma, are you cooking?"
"No, I'm making candles, and melting the wax. Of COURSE I'm cooking!"
Pop!
"Oh dear...or trying to!" she rushed to the stove in a dreadful state.
"Oh dear, you shouldn't have," he chuckled as she stirred down the nasty mess with the spoon, and moved it to a cool surface to cool.
"And what do you have hiding behind your back?" she asked casually, as she continued to bustle about.
She looked good in regular clothes. This was by far the longest stretch of time he'd seen in her regular attire. And in an apron! He'd never known Emma Woodhouse to ever wear an apron in her life! I see that this bet has made her explore some very odd turns.
He had to admit, though. Those jeans looked great on her.
He held out his delivery.
Dandelions.
"It's the middle of February. Don't tell me you imported dandelions," she took them, eyeing then suspiciously.
He grinned.
Emma sighed and started to laugh. "You're a character, George Knightley. If I didn't know you as the annoying person you are, I might actually think that you're courting, and you know that isn't allowed. Even from you."
He laughed. "Well if you don't want my company..."
"Oh no you don't! You were the one that called this afternoon and said you were coming over. I decided to try something new and cook tonight, and you have to stay because of it!" she said.
Part 4 Posted on Saturday, 22 January 2000
Laying in her bed, she stared at the ceiling, and stretched, tired, but happy. She turned to look at her companion, who lay sleeping peacefully beside her.
"Hello sweetie," she murmured, as she scratched Katorque behind the ears.
A preview of what life was to be. She sat up in bed, and turned on the lamp. 3 am.
Why couldn't she sleep?
She left the bed, taking the soft gray cat into her arms. She settled in front of her window and looked out into the light that was New York at 3 am. Did the city never sleep?
March 2Knightley's gone for a few weeks to Europe for some news thing.
Life proceeds to go down and more down.
I've perfected my soufflé, and can now make beautiful cake, but what's the use when I have no one to bake for? Even George is better than nothing.
I think I'll go over to his apartment tomorrow, and water his plants. The apartment must be lonely.
Katorque is a lovely companion. She's sitting in my lap now, purring as I scratch her behind the ears occasionally. But she isn't very conversational.
I may take up needlepoint soon. The next experiment's ideas will come soon. Until then, I remain restless.
He was coming home tonight.
She had to make sure things were all right. Katorque would stay with her until he could stop by and pick her up, and flitter on in conversation about all the rages in Europe, as she hoped he would, perhaps tomorrow, after he'd recovered from jet lag.
But while he was not here, there was work to be done. First of all, she found the Waterford crystal vase Isabella had given him a year or two previous. She then took the dozen cheerful yellow roses, not yet in bloom, and put them in.
In the kitchen, she heated some hot water, and put it in a thermos, and put some food for him in the refrigerator, and then settled down at the kitchen table to scrawl a note welcoming him home, that was neither too eager nor condescending: after all, she was glad he was back:
Katorque really does love being with me more. We've had a cheerful time of it these three weeks. However, I suppose I could be persuaded to part from her with some beautiful Belgian chocolates.Tonight I shall be out, as Taylor Kilbourne is actually getting married (I will tell you all the details of all my bringing this about later) The engagement party is tonight, and I feel obligated to go, as I was the means of bringing her and Patrick Weston together. Don't worry, I bring no escort, though I may not refrain from dancing a bit.
Anyhow, take care to rest. I heated water for tea, in the thermos. There's some dinner for you in the refrigerator, as you probably hate airplane food as much as I do. You can find me at my place any time tomorrow, save for early, for I will be hibernating then, and "pining away for your existence" adequately.
So she found a new hobby.
Laughing, she sparkled in her evening gown.
And beside her was undoubtedly her newest victim.
Matchmaking. Oh dear.
She'd sent off the young woman with Robert Elton and stood happily watching the festivities, sipping her champagne.
It'd been a while since she'd done herself up like that. He approached her from behind.
"And what have we here?" he said, joining her.
"George! You're back!" she smiled, as she eagerly hugged him, and almost kissed his cheek except for remembering him for who he really was. "And why aren't you back in your apartment, resting?" she scolded.
"I was bored, and had to find out what recent exploration of the life of the single I was to laugh at this time."
Emma laughed, and smiled. She'd missed his teasing.
"So who's the newest victim?"
"Victim? You speak of something I know nothing about..."
" 'My bringing this about' you said. I only wish you used your influence for something good," he sighed, as he sipped his champagne.
Emma pouted. Not even around for more than five minutes, and he again started to take her apart! Well, the phase of 'missing him' was definitely over.
"Miss Woodhouse, care to?"
She smiled at the stranger, and agreed brightly, as she allowed herself to be swept away into the life she was born to be in, that he'd succeeded in only temporarily separating her from.
Part 4 Posted on Thursday, 27 January 2000
Three months...
She'd been dateless for three months.
It was a different kind of scene than she'd pictured a year ago.
But alas, things were working out well, Harriet's life was romantic and fun enough for the both of them.
"And then we went..."
George went away again. Just as well, as they had not been getting along recently. Really, what was he expecting out of her? She wasn't dating, but from the way he'd been treating her lately, it was as if she had been, and he was somehow disapproving her lifestyle.
What did he want from her?
"And Michael is so sweet..."
Michael, who's Michael?
Harriet stopped talking, and Emma realized that she had uttered the words aloud.
"Michael Martin! Haven't you heard a word I'm saying?"
"Of course I have, but..." swimming thoughts. No she hadn't. "I didn't realize we were talking about different people...I thought you were talking about Robert Elton!"
"Robert Elton? Oh god no! Didn't you know he was interested in you?"
Oh dear.
A ball is a dance of conversations, intrigues and attractions.
It was also, with the right moves and right motivations, the perfect setting for something ridiculous.
She had the motivations.
She had the moves.
And he was there.
"Miss Woodhouse, would you care to..."
"Harriet, I can't dance, my foot is cut and bleeding right now, and I want to go to the ladies room..." she whispered into her friend's ear.
Harriet, immediately concerned, offered her arm to her friend, and guided her to the ladies' room.
"Now, we have a serious problem Harriet," she uttered urgently to her friend. "Robert Elton must be disposed of."
Harriet nodded, blonde curls bobbing, serious in her desire to help her friend from the evil clutches of the nasty man.
"Right, so this is the plan. Oh dear, I know it'll be so hard on you, but..."
"Go ahead, ask it! You've done so much for me, Miss Woodhouse."
"Please, dear, call me Miss Emma. It's just so formal to call me Miss Woodhouse."
"I need you to distract Robert Elton as much as possible, even if he's across the room."
Harriet nodded gravely.
"Oh that man! He is handsome, and charming at times, but I don't plan on any involvement, with anyone, for quite some time."
"My dear Miss Wood-Miss Emma, why?"
"Well, I just don't right now..." she should have thought this up earlier. "My life is changing a bit right now, and I want to makes sure I'm totally settled before I even think of men."
"Oh!" Harriet's eyes gleamed in admiration for the woman so wise to consider others in a time so tumultuous in her life. "Of course I'll do it!"
When they exited, Harriet set her sights on Robert Elton and attacked. Emma watched, in relief and happiness! Two birds with one stone! Robert Elton would fall in love with Harriet, redirecting his feelings for her, if he really did have any, and Harriet and him would be married, and everything would work out for Harriet!
Her smiles gleamed across the floor, as the music swelled. Robert danced with Harriet, looking at Emma. Ah, so he was trying to make her jealous! Well, just pay attention to that young woman you're dancing with.
Oh dear. That handsome stranger from the other night was approaching her.
If she talked with him, Harriet might not follow through. Next ball. Not tonight.
She had to run.
Ladies' room once more.
The encore came when Harriet flew in. "It's not working! He's outside in the hall, waiting for you, and sent me in with the urgent message that you must see him before the night is through!"
Emma dramatically sighed. "Oh dear! I don't know what I shall do!"
Concern was transparent in Harriet's eyes. "I'll do anything you ask, Miss Emma."
Well all right then! "Okay, I need you to ask for an audience out on the balcony, and confess undying love for him. He'll feel guilty and you will talk for a while, while he tries to tactfully get him out of the situation, and I'll make a run for it!"
Harriet's eyes looked wary. "I'll try, but I don't think he'll believe me."
Oh, he'll play you to make me feel jealous, and then he'll fall for you, and then I'll be out in the gold!
Harriet nodded dutifully. "If I must," she sighed, dramatically.
Emma had to give points to Michael Martin. Harriet seemed indifferent to Robert Elton's looks. Michael Martin? She ought to look into his name. However what could he possibly be? He certainly didn't hang around her circles. And Harriet certainly deserved no less!
After a good three minutes had passed in her musings of Harriet and Robert, she got up, ready to leave.
The question remained: ought she to stay and pretend she was jealous so that Robert would put the moves on Harriet? Or put faith in Harriet?
She ought to stay.
But she really didn't want to.
She went out into the ballroom, wary of the stranger from the other night, and Robert Elton.
Robert and Harriet were, as planned on the balcony, looking very much as if something would happen.
And the stranger...oh dear! He was over in the corner and had met her eyes, and was coming over.
She looked back at Elton and Harriet. Oh dear, he saw that, didn't he? He was trying to leave Harriet.
Kiss him if you have to! Emma mentally urged Harriet. Harriet tossed herself into Elton's arms, letting him drag her as he started to talk to the doors to the ballroom.
Oh dear, that only bought her a few more seconds!
She turned, and rushed out of the room as elegantly as she could, letting herself be stopped by society people, but quickly closing conversation and moving out.
As she finished the last one, a waiter came to her, "A gentleman wishes to see you in the foyer."
The foyer? Oh dear! He was blocking her exit!
She smiled neatly to the waiter, and moved towards the coat check.
Where was Harriet when you needed her?
She took a deep breath. She ran the mile in 8 minutes as a junior in high school. She could get out of here.
She moved down the hall towards the stairs to the foyer, and looked around the corner. There was Robert, with Harriet begging him on his sleeve, professing undying love for him.
Was that someone behind her? She heard a noise.
Oh dear! The stranger! She supposed she could go with him now, but...oh dear. George would be angered, as she knew from his look. He was waiting in the foyer with a not so friendly look.
George!
She had no idea what he was doing here, but no appearance could be more timely.
She immediately flung herself from the corner, and elegantly rushed to George, tossing herself into his arms. "Darling! I knew you'd come!" she gushed.
Elton looked at the couple jealously.
Emma noted it over her shoulder. Now for the finishing touch. "I've missed you!" and she took a deep breath and went for it.
Harriet dropped Elton's arm, the stranger tripped down the rest of the stairs, and Elton turned pale.
The society papers the next day showcased a pretty little picture last night, of darling Miss Woodhouse, in liplock with George Knightley.
Part 5 Posted on Friday, 28 January 2000
April 10I've done something horrible.
He's angry with me. And he has a right.
Tonight I kissed him. Not on purpose, really. Well, kind of, to get out of an awkward situation. I tried to explain to him afterwards, but he seemed even more angered with every word.
I don't try to vex him, really I don't. And I was happy to see him, maybe so happy to kiss him willingly, but enough to hug him. In that, I was sincere.
That angered him too.
What can I say to him? What should I say to him?
There's something in my stomach, turning over and over.
I think I'm hungry.
She took a deep breath and knocked on the apartment door.
When the guard let her in to the building, she almost felt her heart flip. But she had more composure than that.
Now, she felt her stomach tumble.
She knocked again when she realized she was not getting a reply.
This time, she heard the scrape of a lock, and the door opened.
He looked at her, apparently uninterested in what she had to say, and walked into the apartment.
She invited herself in, as it was evident that he was not going to.
She tried first to catch his eye. She tried for eye contact. Some signal in his body language that he had already forgiven her.
Fat chance.
"George?"
Oh god what was that sound? She cleared her throat. "George," she began again.
Oh dear. It was still there. Since when did Emma Woodhouse have a tremble in her voice? She was never nervous. But then again, it was a while since she last apologized. Really, what was she afraid of? He wouldn't bite her head off.
Clear in throat. Proceed once more. "I came here to apologize."
"For what?" he asked.
Pop quiz.
Oh dear, she was hoping he wouldn't ask her that one. She still had no idea why he was so mad at her.
So she improvised. "I shouldn't have kissed you."
"Why?"
Was he turning four? "Because that was inappropriate, and uncalled for. You didn't deserve to be..." Say it. No. Yes, you know this is probably what he wants to hear. She took a breath. If this didn't work, then she'd be sunk. "...used."
George cleared his throat.
Thank you, he was going to speak! She listened, eagerly to eat up happy words.
But they weren't happy. "I thought you'd grow up by now."
"I am trying, really I am!"
"What were you trying to accomplish, kissing me?"
"Getting Robert Elton off my back?"
George took a deep breath. In his mind, he relaxed. So she wasn't doing it to make Elton jealous. Somehow, it was important to him. Of course, if she did it to make Elton jealous, she'd of course lose the bet. But somehow it was important that she did it to save herself from him.
As if he had a part in saving her. A part in making her happy.
What was he saying? "Fact remains that you used me."
"I couldn't escape it. I really was happy to see you. It had been pretty boring already without you. I did miss you while you were gone..."
Did she never cease to talk and excuse herself? George held up his hand. "Still this mixes things up a bit."
"How so?" Emma pouted. "I've been good."
"Not good enough. Regardless of why, you kissed me. The papers think we're together. So you lose the bet."
"But I'm not romantically involved with you! I'm not even remotely attracted to you! I'd hate to lose the bet because I was involved with you!"
"My ego thanks you."
"Oh quit acting like it's hurt you. Fact remains even though we're linked in papers, that'll die off. And besides, you know this isn't about the kiss. You're just upset because I'm still enjoying my life, and you wanted me to start realizing how empty I was. I'll help you know I'm fine."
How perceptive she was turning out to be. Maybe there had been some changes in her. Annoying changes. Her ability to perceive contrasts in him. Irked, he turned away. "Fine, I'll let this one slide. No more though. I won't let you kiss me again."
And somehow that disappointed her.
But not enough to lament. "Aww..." she said, sarcastically, rolling her eyes. "I have cooties? Anyhow, darling. I'm going to get going. There's a party tonight..."
He rolled his eyes. As she closed the door behind her, he turned and walked into the kitchen, starting a kettle. He'd make himself some hot chocolate.
Something still bugged him. And he had a feeling that it was...
Well the kiss was nice. Really nice.
Oh dear.
Was he falling for Emma Woodhouse?
Oh dear.
At the end of the fourth month, Emma gave up.
Matchmaking wasn't working, and Harriet was determined to have Michael Martin.
And so, Emma smiled as Harriet gushed praises of dear Michael, and smiled, even genuinely, when Harriet announced that she was in love with him, and that sure as positive that he was the one.
Ever since the ball incident, she'd been wary of social balls, and intrigues and games. And now, she saw why it was so much better to be honest. Because everything once genuine and sincere, was so much...prettier. Harriet was beamingly gorgeous this way.
And Emma...Emma was comfortable in her flannel pants and sweatshirt. She sat on the couch, slouching even, as she talked with Harriet.
Really, when was the last time she saw someone that happy?
Part 6 Posted on Sunday, 30 January 2000
Charity.
She'd run out of ideas. Five months into this, and out of ideas. And now...
It was not without rewards, though. There was the handsome stranger right here across the room. The mysterious stranger.
Sure, no relationships, but nothing wrong with a flirtation, certainly. After all, there were no Harrriets or Eltons now.
"I must be the prettiest thing you've ever encountered!" she said conversationally. "Name's Emma Woodhouse."
"George Wickham," he took her hand, kissed it.
George. Emma's face fell. Cursed with the name.
"There you are, Emma."
Think of the devil... She almost jumped when she felt an arm around her shoulder.
"Go throw yourself over a cliff or something," she whispered to him.
"Not planning on breaching our contract, are you?" he whispered back, lips brushing gently against the golden tendrils around her ears.
She sipped her champagne. Really, that was what she got for not eating in the last 24 hours! An unstable stomach! "Of course not," she whispered back. "Just being good."
George rolled his eyes. "Please excuse us," Emma smiled to George Wickham.
She allowed him to hold her arm and guide her to the hall where she broke off contact and frowned deeply at him. "You never said I couldn't flirt! You never let me have any fun!"
"Wickham's not a good character..."
"How you are just nuts! It doesn't matter. It was just a flirtation, anyhow. You know I'll never let you win, so don't worry about me, if you call that worry. Find yourself something else to do. Go get a girlfriend."
She wasn't really learning anything. In the past months, she'd acquired a dislike for matchmaking, a proficient knowledge of the kitchen, some taste in needlepoint, and a collection of other small useful things. If only she'd take one of them, and...but he had to admit, she'd changed a little. Charity wasn't a bad thing to be interested in. He was oddly surprised when she called him asking for a good charity she could do something for.
And she was making it quite a success, he mused, as he looked around the room.
How did she always manage to make the oddest things a success? While her interest in the cause was probably cursory, she'd intensely put together this benefit ball, and made it a success. Emma was the type of person who could always do things so well. The problem was giving her the things to do.
She looked pretty entertained with this idea, though. Maybe she'd stick with it. It was heaving in the right direction. He had half a year left.
Half a year. It sounded so long, and yet, it he was afraid way too short.
Part 7
June 23It's a slow life. But highly rewarding. I think I could really get used to this charity thing.
George is taking an active role in my life, god forbid, and he may become important in the near future. Looking after his investment? I'm not sure.
I'm not sure if he wants to really win or lose this bet. He's so confusing. He's very kind and courteous, and has fully forgotten the whole newspaper incident.
But I haven't.
I don't know why. It wasn't as if the Earth moved when we kissed. I was just...so happy to see him. I've never been happy to see him. And it wasn't just a way to get out of the situation, even though that was part of it. I might actually have been happy...because of him.
Now I know life is really bad. Since when does George Knightley ever make a woman happy?
Emma Woodhouse, handsome, clever, and rich, with a comfortable home and happy disposition seemed to unite some of the best blessings of existence; and had lived nearly twenty-six years in the world with very little to distress or vex her.
And it really bugged George Knightley.
Five months. Five months. As he prepared for his newscast, he counted off Emma's habits. She'd been infatuated with charity for a long time, far longer than she had with the other habits she'd selected. He was highly impressed with what she had done. She'd raised so much ruckus in the social world these last 2 months, and managed to raise over $1,000,000 to various causes.
He straightened his tie. It was unprecedented. The passion she now had for charities was placing her in magazines, for reasons different from previous. She was becoming an admirable character in society.
And he had a part in forming this.
And he was discontent with how she had formed. He should be proud of her. And he was, at times.
When she smiled as she attended the opening of the new obstetrics wing of the hospital last week. Her smile as she announced her own donation of $100,000, and the promised $100,000 that was to be raised as a gala later this month.
How was she going to raise $100,000 in one night?
She was magical.
"I have no time for you!" she said, as she opened the door.
"No hug? No 'I miss you, George?' No 'I caught your report in San Fran'?"
She wore glasses? He had no idea. How adorable.
There were still so many things about her that he had yet to imagine about her, and he liked discovering them. It was a slow process, but this bet was bringing out all those little quirks.
"I missed you," she gritted out. No, what was she thinking? Whatever inclination she had developed for George Knightley was now gone and she was relieved, for some unknown reason.
But it was nice he visited. She hadn't seen him for a week now.
A week. She needed it. Away from him. Her speculations on George were becoming vexing and resulted in the one conclusion that she needed time away from him.
He smelled something nice. Besides her perfume.
"You ordered Chinese?" he followed her into the kitchen.
"No, silly, I made it!" she smiled. "It's Americanized Lemon chicken, but would you like some?"
She looked so odd, in those nice dressy pants and sweater, cooking in an apron and bare feet. And those glasses.
A beautiful picture. He could see it gracing the covers of magazines. "Renaissance Woman," the caption would read.
She did everything.
"Of course!" he remembered to reply.
"I haven't seen you around often. I take it that you're busy?" she asked conversationally.
"They've got me traveling everywhere."
"Ah...those were the days...traveling," she smiled, reminiscing weekends in Paris, Milan, Acapulco, Beijing...but those days were put on hold.
"So what have you brought me? Where did you go again?" she asked, as they sat down to dinner. She'd quickly stir-fried some other dishes, and had some extra rice cooked.
Ouch, that hurt. But they hadn't seen each other for a few weeks anyhow. "San Francisco, and I brought you..."
"Fork it over!" she smiled eagerly.
Still a child in so many ways. The way her eyes were lit now, as they were when he'd first met her, glowing in childish spirit. The most beautiful blue eyes he'd ever seen. Expressive and always enthusiastic. Passionate in vexation, sadness, and most often happiness.
A book? In Japanese?
"What the heck is this?" she questioned him.
"Sailor Moon."
"You bought me a comic book in another language?"
"Not a comic book, Sailor Moon."
"Ah I see..." No she didn't.
"This is the first volume. You can't read it, I know, but I think you'll like the illustrations. The story centers around a happy flighty little girl of fifteen..." With glowing blue eyes and bright golden hair... He'd bought it on a childish whim.
"I guess I'll have to learn Japanese some time," she sighed.
He smiled. Just like Emma. She wouldn't just appreciate the illustrations. She'd want to know what it said. "I thought of that," he handed her a bag.
Book with cassette. And dictionary. Nice.
"Thank you"
"And then I thought why would she only learn for one book? So..."
"Plane tickets?!" She looked at him warily.
"I have to travel in a few weeks to Tokyo. Thought you might like it. You've never been there."
"No, I haven't," she looked at it.
"It'll be after the Hospital Charity Ball, I made sure..."
The project for Habitat for Humanity could perhaps be dictated over seas? Maybe she'd get most of the paper work done for it.
Her eyes clouded over when she calculated in her mind. It was amazing. It was as if she left her body and shut down operations as long as she had to get this problem sorted out.
"I think I can. You've scheduled for a long weekend..." she looked at the tickets. "I'll do all my stuff earlier that week, and make sure everything is done."
"Good," he smiled, almost awkwardly.
"So what happened?" she asked, concerned, after dinner, while they sat drinking Jasmine tea at the dimly lit table.
"What do you mean?"
"Come on, your surprise me with gifts and a trip to Japan. While you're rich, you don't shower me with gifts. Something happened."
George's good natured look disappeared as he looked away from her, as he cursed her for being too smart.
"There's something else in that bag of yours, isn't there?" she asked quietly.
"Yeah."
"I'm not going to like it?"
"I don't think so," he said, taking out the newspaper. "You've been too busy to notice news, I know..." he tossed it to her, and looked away, out of courtesy.
"He's getting married?" she asked softly. "Frank's getting married?"
Part 8 Posted on Saturday, 5 February 2000
Franklin Churchill could not get married. He'd just broken up with her! He was in love with her! Had been in love with her! He had no right to move on with his life!
She certainly hadn't!
But...
Wait.
This was all so confusing.
She looked at George.
There was big question mark on her face.
He sincerely wished that her feelings for Frank Churchill were superficial. "Emma, darling, don't tell me you actually cared for the chap..."
She'd never been dumped before in her life. And now, this was the final insult!
Anger. Did this look good? He wasn't sure, and remained silent as her mind stirred up ideas and obsessions.
She had always expected Frank to come back to her.
To which she's respond how? Would she have scoffed at him? Would she have taken him back? Gone back to original plans?
Frank Churchill, with his golden looks, would have been a great accessory. As conversation, he was proficient, and he was somewhat witty and charming. He would have done well, and his golden looks, with hers, would make them a stunningly angelic couple.
Frank Churchill.
"Frank..." she got up, leaving George at the table, speechless.
Two weeks later, life got worse for the already very pissed off Emma Woodhouse.
The final insult. An invitation to the wedding.
She was not to be trifled with! He wanted her to attend his silly engagement party? Fine!
He wanted her at the wedding? Fine!
She stormed around the apartment, wrenching clothes from her closet and stuffing them harshly into her bag.
"Ouch! If you're going to treat Katorque like that I'm not quite sure if I can ethically allow you to lose our bet..."
Lock the doors next time, genius. "I don't want to deal with you right now, George."
"Well you have to. I'm not letting you lose to me on account of a man as unworthy as Franklin Churchill! Emma, darling, look at me," he took his chin in her hands.
"I have to win him back."
"For what purpose?"
Emma looked back at his eyes. Her expression was infuriated and determined.
"I know what you're thinking," she told him. "I am doing this as a service to him. This is totally selfless. He doesn't really love Jane Fairfax! My bet is that he met her while on the rebound and picked her up to boost his ego. Once he's got her on his finger, then he'll dump her. I'm saving her from him."
George looked at her, probing her.
"Ok, so it is a prior claim! No one dumps Emma Woodhouse!" she said. "And certainly no one immediately gets married after!" she threw her bag down, throwing herself on the couch. A feeling suspiciously akin to disappointment and maybe sadness overtook her. "He said he couldn't marry me, and not long after..." she said softly.
Hands on her shoulder. "He just wasn't the right person for you."
"He was! And even if he weren't, he should have at least had the consideration to let the relationship go on long enough until the novelty was lost on me, when the loss of the relationship would not have bothered me."
"Ah I see, so you wanted to dump him."
"I'll admit my ego's bruised. I cared about him, sort of," she pouted.
George remained silent, but caressed her shoulders. "Emma, darling, you wouldn't have been happy with him anyway. It's not fair that he didn't wait..." It's not fair that you even suffered a second for this half-wit... "But life isn't fair...you don't always get what you want..."
"Spare me the lectures on my brattiness, please," she muttered, frustrated. "Go away, George."
He looked sadly at her, and put a hand to her hair, smoothing out the golden silk. He then leaned forward and kissed her forehead before leaving.
Oh and she had to be oh so beautiful and sweet.
Jane Fairfax was absolutely charming. And Emma gritted her teeth, as she flashed yet another artificial smile.
Brunch with the happy couple. Jet-lagged and very upset, having had to wait at the airport for 9 hours to get her lost luggage.
How lucky could she get?
The day was uncommonly bright. She had her sunglasses on to accommodate the brightness.
And to hide the disgusted look in her eyes.
Why did he have to insist on her taking brunch with them? She wasn't a special guest, so she only assumed it was to rub it in her face.
"Darling I'm needed back at the office. I'll leave you and Miss Woodhouse?"
Frank nodded, and Jane kissed him on the cheek, smiled at Emma, and left.
"Well?" he asked after a long while of silence.
"She's a very beautiful young woman, Frank," Emma said, after a moment's silence.
"You know why I asked you to brunch, right?"
"No, please elucidate me," Emma took off her sunglasses. "To gloat? How low."
Frank sipped his tea. "I loved you, Emma. Not the right way. I couldn't make you happy. I knew it."
Emma had absolutely nothing to say.
Frank continued. "I didn't love you the way you wanted me to. I didn't love you the way that I ought to. You're a beautiful woman, Emma Woodhouse, but hell to please. I wouldn't have made you happy. It's going to be a very brave man and selfish man to please you, to make you please him. I hope you meet him, I hope you know that. I wish you happiness, from the bottom of my heart. I invited you to my wedding because I hoped that you'd wish the same for me."
Emma stirred another spoonful of sugar into her cup of tea, sat quietly, drinking his words. At length, she looked up, and decided that she was pleased with his answer. "I hope you are happy, too," she said, slowly, words alien to her lips.
She smiled. Alien, but beautiful words.
"He loves her, you know."
"Don't be ridiculous. I give them six months. Not even. He won't like her spinelessness so much even after a few days," she turned, walking out onto the balcony with him. "Besides, I don't really care if Frank Churchill fines anyone else. He deserves happiness as much as the next idiot," she tried to toss of lightly.
George smiled for her benefit, but she would see his underlying worry.
Could he even realize how oddly happy she was? She had no idea why. Something in her heart was lifted and light, lighter than it had ever been, and never had she felt so fulfilled, and so complete, even when she was at her most alone point in her life.
It was sweet of him to care, she mused George's soft glance, that held her in an embrace that comforted without even touching her.
"Thank you for coming tonight," George said, conversationally.
"I came here for Isabella. She's missed me. I've missed her," she said, quietly.
The charms of London still sparkled, but Emma was discontent. There were things to do back home.
Oh dear.
She looked at George, who was smiling at her. It was if he knew he'd ruined her appreciation for idleness.
She turned and walked back towards the ball room.
"With whom are you going to dance?"
"No one. I was not thinking of dancing at all," she said, truthfully, and perhaps even a little mournfully.
"Dance with me."
She shifted uncomfortably. "It's not a good idea. I'm feeling dizzy. I've had too much today."
"You weren't drinking."
"I didn't have to," she replied.
She was discontent. Not about Frank, he didn't think. No, she was genuinely happy for him. He knew that from the quirky almost hidden smile on her face when the ceremony took place.
Something was bothering her.
He didn't like to see Emma sad. Emma wasn't a creature of sadness.
Despite himself, he wondered what he could do to make happy.
I'm a fool for you...
Bags? Check.
Passport? Check.
George? No.
George.
Hmm.
She went to the phone, and was about to call him and scold him for not being there yet, when there was a knock at the door.
"It's about time," she said, as he let himself in.
"Katorque had some problems being handed over to Taylor."
"If you just let me bring her with us, we wouldn't have had these problems."
George rolled his eyes. "We're not getting into that again..."
She grabbed her things. "We don't have time to. I'm ready. Let's go..."
August 10Three more months. How delightful. Three months, and he'll be off my back, because I'll have proved him wrong.
Japan is an interesting place. Quite a new area to shop around. Picked a few trinkets for Taylor and Harriet, and a few new things for me, but outside of that, have just been enjoying myself.
George is always out, somewhere or other, doing his job, I suppose. He keeps odd hours. Sometimes we hang out during the afternoon, and he leaves me for evening meetings, or sometimes he works all afternoon and comes back to whisk me off.
If I didn't know any better, I'd say that this would be frighteningly close to marriage.
"Home." Did I just write that up there? "Marriage"? To George Knightley?
I must admit, George is a very fun traveling partner. I've never really been around him as much as I have now. He doesn't have any horrid habits that alarm me, and he's always treated me nicely, and with respect. When we go out together, his tastes do not seem to differ much from mine, and we usually can carry on a conversation for an extended period of time.
And he makes me laugh. Oh how he makes me laugh. My heart pounds with laughter when I see him, in anticipation. It makes me feel very...full?
This could be dangerous.
"You look stunning," he smiled to her, as she opened the hotel door.
She looked at him, shook her head, "Save the wise cracks," she shrugged, in her sweats.
He impulsively kissed her on the cheek, put his arm around her. "And how was your day?" he asked adorably. Her heart pounded that he asked in a very husbandly way. She was tempted to kiss him back, to snuggle into his embrace, and just be content, in a matrimony-ish sort of way.
"Isn't that supposed to be my question for you?" she asked.
"I don't know, I figured it could work either way," he sank back on the couch.
"Long day?" she asked, massaging his shoulders.
"The taping wouldn't go, and the translator was late, and the interviewee suddenly developed a fear for the camera...." He sighed.
"Oh poor Knightley..."
He leaned back into her hands, and said, "Well it's over now..." And I'm back here with you...
He'd hoped that the trip would somehow wear off her charm to him. That somehow her beauty was transient, that it would vanish if he just looked at her close enough...
But she was beautiful. When he went back to the hotel every time after work, and found her there, conversational and curious about his day, he always sighed with contentment. He enjoyed having her there.
He'd never enjoyed a trip so much. Trips to coffeehouses, sipping tea to late hours while reading alone, walking alone on sidewalks at insane hours seemed relieving at one time, a time to unwind, but paled in contrast to just sitting 15 minutes with her, telling her some interesting story that he'd been saving up for her all day, or some niggling frustration that had been a stone in his shoulder all afternoon.
She sat up now, and backed away as she felt him getting too cozy in her embrace. This was uncomfortable.
"Well, I made reservations in an hour, and have yet to change, so let's get to it?" she exited the room quickly.
When she came back in five minutes, however, she found him asleep on her couch.
Sigh.
She blamed it on the jet lag.
When she'd gotten back home three days ago, she locked herself in her apartment and refused to go out. George had called her, but his messages were left unanswered on her machine.
George. There was a serious problem. She couldn't believe that he would do this to her.
There was a project to work on, she determined once more, as she picked up her paperwork and tried to review it.
But she could not concentrate!
She threw the papers down in dismay. Since when did a man ever consume her thoughts? It bothered her so much, that he could even dare to take up her mind...that she would even let him.
And now, with about 5 concerned messages on her answering machine, she knew that she could not hide from him forever. He'd come soon, and demand to know what was wrong.
And what would she say?
"Emma? Open up! I'm almost positive you're there!" he banged on her apartment door.
Where was she? A week she hadn't returned his phone calls. He got a message one day while he was at work (and he was almost positive that was contrived) saying that she was all right, and life was all right, that she was busy, and that she didn't want to see him for a while.
Did he do something wrong?
"Emma? Open the door! Or I will find someone who will!"
Another five minutes of silence. He knew she was home. She had to be. She always was around this time. If she was out, where could she be? Taylor and Harriet were both reported to be out of town.
"You can't avoid me forever you know. I need a reason, at least, for why you're avoiding me." Did I do something wrong? He denied himself the relief of asking that, however. George Knightley never admitted to anything wrong, especially when everything was so right.
Right. It still stunned him at times. To think that Emma suited him?
Finally the scraping of the lock could be heard, and the door opened. A composed Emma, dressed up in formal black, looked down at him.
It was a punch in the gut. She was absolutely gorgeous. The pictures, the images that he had in photographs, and in his memories were dull in comparison with the vivid color of her lipstick, the azure of her eyes, the energy lending that startling color...
Her hair was pulled back stiffly in a chignon, and the expression she wore on her face almost frightened him; it was so cold. "Where are you going?"
"Ball. Charity ball," she simply said. "I'm afraid I don't have time for this."
Make time. His eyes narrowed, and he took her shoulders, and pushed her back into her apartment, closing the door behind him, and pointed to a chair. "Sit."
She took a seat, and looked up at him condescendingly and emotionlessly. A queen, held against her will. She would not speak out. She looked at him, as if he were a mere commoner, and said rather exasperatedly, "Well?"
As if he were a little child, trying to understand something that was not worth telling him. "What's wrong?" he asked, helplessly. How was he to put into words how he felt? I love you. I want you to marry me. "Something's wrong, Emma." He said, pacing. "It's not the same anymore. What happened? Why are you so distant now?" Why don't you return my calls?
Distant. She looked at him, stood up. "As if you didn't know."
"Please, enlighten me. I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Sure you don't," she scoffed, brushing off imaginary lint from the lines of her dress.
"There were so many right things..." he started to say.
"And that's exactly what's wrong," she said. "I don't know what you were trying to pull, but of all things, Knightley, I never thought you'd try to put yourself into this bet. Do you really love your cat that much? I trusted you to respect me as a person, and to respect what I was pushing myself to do, and you try to turn me into what I was before..."
"What are you talking about?"
"What am I talking about? I am talking about the fact that you are trying to make me fall for you! That you are trying to get me to...that you are manipulating me!" she said.
Oh my.
"Manipulating? Emma!" he protested.
"You just can't accept the fact that I may win this bet..." ...that I am someone that you could admire! ...that I could be beyond the shallow stereotype you had pegged me for!
The thoughts had been tearing her apart.
"How could you? I suppose when the others didn't succeed you thought you might as well toss in your share of charming advances!" she spat out. "I'll have you know, George Knightley, that I am made of stronger stuff than that!"
Out of her life.
Oh, he'd tried calling. Lots and lots of phone messages on her machine remained unreturned, and he could only imagine her deleting them as she went along.
There was no way he was going to tell her the truth on the answering machine...
But what was there?
He'd tried sending flowers. They'd been sent back to him, accompanied with his cards, unopened.
Unopened letters.
He was getting madder and madder everyday.
Finally, after one week of Emma-exile, he went back to her apartment, pounding on the door, begging for an answer.
He didn't get any response at first.
Finally, a security guard came up. "I didn't think I'd have to do this, Mr. Knightley, but Miss Woodhouse, she called me and told me that she's got an appointment early tomorrow, and she needs sleep, and cannot deal with the noise...so if you could please...it is three in the morning, after all..." the guard tried to smile.
George looked down at his roses, now limp after being clutched in fists. The red buds he had so carefully selected and transported from the florists' were mangled now, the formerly perfect petals had brown bruises.
"Come, Mr. Knightley," the guard carefully approached George, as if preparing for George to lash out violently.
"I'm not drunk. I'm not angry. I'm hurt," he told the guard, dropping the roses on the carpeted floor of the hall, walking to the elevators.
She drew in a sigh of relief as she heard the elevator bell ding. She stood up from her former stooping position by the door, ear pressed to the wood. She now checked the peephole. There was no one in the hall.
She opened the door, and took the roses from the floor. Caressing the blossoms carefully, she decided that she could not send these away.
Did he really love her?
Perhaps. After her previous outburst with George a week ago, she'd decided that he did not come in with intentions to woo her when others had failed. No, George was too noble and above that.
It was her own weakness for men that allowed her to fall for George. Allowed herself to be attracted to him, allowed his charms to enchant her. And ultimately, allowed herself to fall in love with him.
Though he had never told her he loved her, she was almost positive that he did.
It would be a happy ending, she supposed.
But what did he think of her? She'd tried an assortment of things to keep her occupied from the beginning, and perhaps she had changed, a little. But in the end, she was still only nine and a half months into the promised year.
The bet probably did not matter to George, who somehow managed to forget that she was self-centered, conceited. But it mattered to her.
Had Emma Woodhouse ever existed without being known as some man's girlfriend? Had she ever existed on that path of Life alone?
And right when she thought she'd achieved that independence, right when she'd reached a balance of generosity and happiness which contented her, she found that in fact the whole time, it was riveted on what one man thought of her.
It would have been all right, she supposed, if she had not realized that so much of her opinion of being independent and without man was centered on what George thought. She had seen that amused pride in his eyes in the beginning, when all she did was cook and clean and shop; she knew he admired her creativity in avoiding those very occupations which she knew would improve his opinion of her ten-fold. And when she did step into that arena, his estimation of her not only grew in his mind, but the importance of it weighed heavier in hers.
It urged her to better herself further. She became involved with charities, and started to enjoy giving away the money. She enjoyed watching the dance of the dollars, to places where the money seemed to seal up cracks in the walls, and dissolve wrenches in the works immediately, almost magically.
And he had to spoil it.
Of course, it was his fault. She always had decided it was his fault. She may have fallen for him, but as a dignified journalist, he was supposed to be discreet, with the way he used his words, with the way he used his timing. He was supposed to be able to know what words would send her into panic. He was supposed to understand the disappointment she felt in herself.
But no, he didn't demand that she think of him. He did not tell her that she had to live her life in accordance to what he thought was right...It was a sinking feeling when she had realized it. It made everything so disgusting to her, including herself. The way she just so unwittingly...
It was something she did naturally! Frustrated, she locked herself from seeing him, hoping it'd go away.
But it didn't.
And now, she was stuck. She loved him. He loved her. They could be together, but what did it matter?
She was just the same woman he'd been so disgusted with earlier, no; she was worse! At least back then, she did not allow the men in her life to be so involved with her thoughts, to affect her choices. She had let him get under her skin, entwine himself in the fibers of her brain, until she could not think without associating some belief with something he had once told her.
Improving herself this past year? No. Catering herself to him. Forming herself to suit the opinions of one man.
She cried as she threw the roses in the garbage can in the kitchen.
There was no card, but if there had been, she would have burned it.
Noon at George Knightley's apartment on Saturdays usually saw him midday in his weekend routine of exercising and leisure reading. He'd usually be enjoying a lunch in a café in the Village, or browsing the used bookstores in the area.
This Saturday found George Knightley with the worst hangover in his life. Even worse than the one he had last weekend.
Two weeks since he'd been thrown out of Emma's apartment building.
Two weeks!
He looked at himself in the mirror as he splashed cold water in his face. The five o' clock shadow looked like it had been growing for quite a bit longer than that, and there were heavy bags under his eyes.
When the doorbell rang an hour later, he was slowly cooking himself some makeshift breakfast. Opening the door to his apartment, he tried a smile at the delivery woman. "Good afternoon..."
The woman smiled at him. "Hello, I have a delivery for Mr. George Knightley?"
"Um, all right."
"Sign here," the woman pointed to a spot with a big X by it.
Why must Xs be so violent? He signed the spot, and looked to the woman, who now carefully brought his package indoors for him.
"By the way, you might want your paper..." she said, gesturing to the outside to the hall.
"Oh, of course," he went out into the hall, picked up the newspaper, and brought it inside the apartment.
"Have a good day, sir," the woman smiled.
Why must smiles be so violently bright? He mumbled what he hoped was an affirmative return, and closed the door.
The package was large. He could have sworn it had the dimensions of...
"D---" he got a letter opener and stabbed at the tape until it gave way. He opened along the seam down the middle, and slashed at the sides. He opened the box.
The Renior.
What was she doing? What had happened? Was she giving up? Was she going to come to him? There were going to marry and be happy for ever after, right?
His hopes were high until he saw the paper's cover story; "Hospital raises $1,000,000 for cancer wing." There were three pictures; one of a little girl in a wheelchair, shaking hands with Emma. Another of Emma in another fundraiser. And finally, one of her and her date for the charity ball, Charles Bingley.
Author's Note: Yay! ANOTHER DOT! I tip my hat to Margie D for her editing, and to Alethea who told me that Bridget Elinor was about to kill me for not posting a conclusion for so long. Thank you to both ladies for your overwhelming support."Emma, darling, hurry!"
"All right, I will be there as soon as I finish with this."
As she hung up the phone, she checked the time on the clock: 3:34 p.m. She'd make it to city hall just in time for the ceremony.
The knock on the door startled her, but she smiled as she opened the door. "It's about time..."
The angry glare of her guest silenced her. "Um, hello."
"You moved," he said, through gritted teeth, now very much exhausted from trekking and calling around to find out that she moved to an apartment just a block away from his.
"Yes, I moved," she turned around, nervous, taking a calming breath but not succeeding. Didn't take him long to get to her. She'd only packaged off the painting two days ago, after finally settling down in her new home. The other one had too many memories of him. She had thought to move back to England, but she knew that that would be cowardly, and though she still was rather meek, Emma Woodhouse would not back down. No, she sent the painting to him with a statement, in her mind.
She knew it'd be more than enough to send him off in a fury. And she had known when she had sent it off that he'd come to her for an explanation.
She still didn't know what it'd be.
She retreated to her room, to continue her preparations. She was not surprised that he grumbled and followed her.
He was silent. And she certainly wasn't going to speak first. Lord knew what he thought of her.
Checking her reflection, she put in the other pearl earring she had been about to put in when the phone rang before. In the mirror, she met eyes with him, and quickly darted her eyes away, back to her own face, which was very pale.
She looked nice enough, in a presentable, elegant cream suit. "Going somewhere?" he started casually.
"Yes, as a matter of fact, I am," she turned to him. "In fact, I will be leaving in a few minutes, so you might want to make this quick."
Well, then... "Why did you send the painting to me?" he began on her.
"I lost the bet," she said, simply, proud that she was able to keep the stutter down.
"You got involved with someone?" The question suspended itself in air,
"I got involved with-"
The door.
She growled. She finally had the courage to say it, and was interrupted! "I really have to go..." she said.
"Then I'll come with you," he said, matter-of-factly.
"Um, I'm not sure that's a good idea..."
"You don't seem to be having many good ideas lately," he said. "I'm coming along."
Emma muttered under her breath, and went to the door, and smiled artificially. "Hello Charles." You have horrible timing...
He laughed, knowing Emma's eye-language very well. Did I interrupt something? His gaze moved to the man behind Emma, who seemed to have just finished sizing him up and was now considering if he could take him in a fight. He looked back at Emma. Darling, you won't ever change will you?
She laughed aloud. How ironic. "Um, Charles, this is George Knightley, my brother-in-law. George, this is Charles Bingley."
"Nice to meet you, George," Charles held out his hand.
George looked at it, and looked at the smiling blue eyes. And restrained himself, and decided not to take Charles's hand for fear of wanting to mangle it seriously. "I could say the same."
Charles almost whistled through his teeth. A difficult one, was he? Well, he turned to Emma, I think I could have fun with this one...
Emma frowned. I don't think...
Just stop thinking for once and let me take care of things! And he was very sure he would. "I've known Emma since she was a little girl. We grew up together. Neighbors. Was in love with her half my life..." he smiled congenially.
Emma almost groaned. "Charles, don't we need to get to city hall?" she smiled a grin that was painful to look at.
"Well, if you say so, Darling. The Justice of the Peace was in a hurry when I called..."
Emma wanted to hit Charles. Very hard. Probably not as hard as George did, from his glare, but she said nothing. This was not the place to yell at Charles, and the wedding had to happen today, or else she'd never hear the end of it from Charles. "All right all right. Oh, and George wants to come along, don't you, George?" she turned to George, smiling condescendingly. He did ask to be included, anyhow.
George ground his teeth. "Of course."
The car ride to city hall was strained, and Charles was the only one who talked at all. His choice of topic: how adorable Emma was, how he and she always got along, and how she was so special to him. The loud sounds of city traffic did not muffle his words, and he shouted over the loud wind that churned the tension in the convertible.
Emma, sitting in the front seat by him clutched at her purse to prevent herself from slugging him. Charles...
And George, he unsuccessfully tried to tune out Charles's words.
The whole day was now rather surreal. Getting the painting, finding out Emma had a new boyfriend, had moved, and was getting married...his hands fisted, knuckles white.
He thought she loved him.
Well, if the current situation was any indication, it would seem that his thoughts had been very much mistaken. He had been very much mistaken.
And yet, he could not deny that he still felt a sting. She's not worth this, Knightley.
Say it. Emma scowled into the wind. No.
Say it, stupid! "I love you!" George exclaimed.
The other two occupants in the car jumped. Charles turned to George, "I'm sorry, but I just don't feel that way about you."
George growled at him, "You be quiet, pup! Emma, you can't marry him."
"Of course I can't! Jane would never forgive me!" Emma stated to him calmly. "Honestly George."
George eyed the couple in front of him very narrowly. At the next stop light, he took Emma, yanked her into the backseat, and kissed her.
And it was not a friendly kiss.
Emma sat back. "George Knightley! What in heck are you doing?" Her mind was still spinning from the kiss.
"Doing what I've wanted to do since god knows when..." he said, stroking her soft cheek, hearing his heart pound. He put her hand to his heart. "Feel that? That's my heart. It's echoing in my head now, and I'm dizzy. It's all because of you!"
Emma's face was red. He didn't know if it was the wind, or if it was mortification.
"I didn't mean, at any time, to trick you into losing the bet, I hope you know. I didn't even know what I was doing..."
Emma remained quiet.
"Emma, I do love you. And it's not for being an image of a perfect little woman who runs charities, but for a woman who enjoys a challenge, a feisty, active mind, who has changed...the bet wasn't to make you realize how empty you are, but how full you can be...you have such a potential...and I did not like seeing it wasted. Emma, I didn't think I would fall in love with you, but I did. And now that I have, I'm sorry but I'm going to have to marry you."
"And I don't get any choice in the matter?"
"Not really..." he paused, and grudgingly added, with a tinge of fear, "...unless you need it."
She saw the fear, and felt the stumble of his heartbeat as he said those words. He mumbled on. "You'll be able to see Katorque everyday...she's so lonely without you. Please, at least for the sake of the cat, marry me."
Emma simply watched him.
That's when he realized that she had not said more than one question since he began on his long monologue, and gave no indication that she appreciated his attentions. She sat across from him, elegant, as she had been the first time he'd seen her at his brother's wedding. And he loved her. He felt the strange, unexpected attraction then, and even now, even more so now, now that he knew what she could be.
Could. But now that the bet was over, she was at liberty to do whatever she wanted. But he had so much faith in her that once she saw her potential she would not want to give up that...
Faith. George Knightley, schooled newsman put his heart and faith in a woman. The stakes of the bet, he now realized, were not the material objects. It was a bet against himself.
Would he take another leap? "Just now, I was very selfish and very presumptuous. If you find that you do not really like who you are now, that you prefer your previous lifestyle...then..."
Then what?
"I love you regardless." The words came as a surprise to him. He loved her, even as selfish as she was? Then must he have loved her from the beginning?
The beginning. He had loved her in the beginning, when she turned her cool eyes on him, assessing him with those smooth sapphire eyes. He had seen those eyes burn with passion of life. He could claim that, yes?
Silence, as she continued to watch him. "Are you done then?"
He cleared his throat. "Um, yes."
"All right."
Silence.
"Here we are!" Charles smiled to the couple in his back seat. "All parked, though garnering a few odd stares, as we have been sitting in this car for the past five minutes with no sign of leaving or doing anything. Why don't we get inside? I want to get married."
Charles certainly loved how to spoil a moment. She sighed as she saw two of her closest friends from her childhood marry.
Charles and Jane, names that slurred on her tongue fluidly. She turned to George who looked considerably grave and introspective.
Later, they went to dinner, and the happily married couple smiled across the table at Emma. "Thank you for suggesting this, I seriously don't think we could have gotten married in less than a year if we had left preparations to Jane's mother," Charles laughed.
Emma laughed. "I had been waiting forever for the ceremony..."
Jane smiled back. "Mother won't like it much, though."
"You've got four other sisters. They'll get married. She can plan their ceremonies," Emma shrugged. "No, you two have waited too long to become engaged. It was only right that you could skip the wait for the wedding."
Jane laughed. "Of course. Oh, and thank you for coming through for us on Thursday. Charles always feels awkward when left by himself in public, as we remember during the graduation speech...but he tells me the hospital benefit went well. I'm just sorry I was out of town."
"Well, I did not have any other date in mind for the evening, so it was just as well...there's been a remarkable lack in the society columns about Emma Woodhouse and her conquests lately..."
"I thought you had a major one to take your time lately..." Charles looked at George, who sat and silently drank his ice water. George looked up back at Charles, debating whether or not to be insolent. The man had been the root of a lot of his troubles lately, including truncating the previous discussion.
He still awaited Emma's decision.
Emma scowled at Charles.
Charles got the message but wasn't going to pay heed. Jane, detecting that her new husband was being a nuisance, decided to take him away. "Honey, we need to get up early for the plane ride to Milan tomorrow, and I want to call Lizzy, at least, to tell her about the ceremony. It shouldn't surprise her, I don't think..."
Charles laughed. "No, nothing ever surprises her. Anyhow, I'm sorry Emma, but I am an old married man and must consider my dear wife's health as well as my own now. So if you'll excuse us..."
Jane kissed Emma on the cheek, and took George's hand. "I'm sorry..." she mouthed to the man, with an exasperated nod gesturing towards her husband.
"For what?" Charles put his arm around his wife as they walked away from the table.
Emma remained silent.
"Won't you say anything at all?" he said.
She sipped her wine, considered it, and turned to him and smiled politely. "Aren't they a lovely couple? Charles and Jane have always been in love with each other. Their families, however, have not, and after subjecting themselves to the torture of having other people deciding what is best for them, they came to me, and asked for my help in giving them what they decided was best for them."
Silence.
"I know what's best for me, as well."
"You do?"
"It took me a while to decide. I spent the last months exploring different ways to please myself. In the end, I found that many different things were good for me. I acclimate, you know."
"Yes, you excel at whatever you put your mind to," he said quietly. "It's one of things that I..."
"Don't start on that anymore. Really, I thought you above groveling."
"I think it's the least I can do after putting you through a long torturous process of making you something that..." he trailed off.
"Why don't you complete that sentence?" she said.
George closed his eyes. "It's not groveling you want, is it? You want the truth? Fine. I didn't know I was doing it, but I wanted you to deserve me."
"There, that wasn't so bad now, was it?" she smiled across the table, signaling the waiter for the check.
"So?"
"So what, George?"
"Tell me I'm a selfish bloke for putting you through it."
"You're already doing a pretty good job of doing it to yourself. It was sweet of you, though. I mean, correct Emma and make her all the better for yourself."
"I already told you that I'd take you as yourself."
"I know."
"So?"
"I'm grateful for that. No one has ever challenged me as you have, and to know you did it for purely selfish motivations has confirmed my theory that all men are selfish, even the ones with the most sparkling appearance of nobility and generosity. But I digress. Back to the point. I'll marry you, of course."
"You lost me. Come again?"
"I'll marry you."
"Yes, I heard that. How did this come about? You just said that I was selfish."
"Yes, I did. I like selfish men. I like imperfect men. While I do not appreciate your efforts of reforming my character, I'm sure at some point, you did want to help me out. You're not perfect, George Knightley; your logic is just as demented as mine, at times. For that, I love you. You're a horrible person, George, I'll have you know, and will remind you daily, but I love you. And that's all that matters."
It's all that matters. George grabbed her shoulders across the table and kissed her. The waiter passed by, and discreetly laid the bill between the two lovers, who now were oblivious to everything around them but each other.