From: drhnobley at cam. ac. uk
Subject: Re:Sister of the Millennium
Date: 26 June 2013 10:41:12 PM EDT
To: cnobley at elenamail. com
Carrie, I was just about to call but luckily checked the time difference and saw that it's not even 4am in Cambridge! However, I have a belly full of food, a delightful buzz from the excellent bottle of champagne I just sampled AND, YES! I HAVE THE LOVE OF AN EXTRAORDINARY WOMAN!
So, I'm feeling… expansive, to say the least. Bear with me as I recount the events of the last how-ever-many-hours in romance pulp fiction from the third-person limited perspective:
Henry Nobley, our affable British protagonist, sat suspended in an aluminium tube 37,000 feet above the Atlantic Ocean and mused on the course of his life to date. Blessed with the best of all the world's little sisters, Henry had been given a better start than most, and yet he had never been particularly lucky in relationships with women. After one particularly doomed dalliance took a greater toll than previous attempts, Henry committed himself to the world of academia rather than to a wife and concentrated on producing books rather than heirs. Though he didn't believe that it was impossible to be happy without a partner, his beloved sister had been so fortunate in her own marriage, that she proved a compelling advertisement for matrimony, should the right candidate ever be forthcoming.
Henry's world was a cosy and predictable one and he was beginning to like it that way, until, that is, his beloved sister hatched a plot. He was to be surrendered for a week into the grip of their ever-so-slightly unhinged aunt, a widow of such outrageous personal fortune that she had purchased outright one of the enormous heritage homes of the English countryside and re-created, in incredible detail, an opulent Regency-era country manor the likes of Pemberley or Northanger Abbey. There she accommodated a troupe of bronzed male models and females of a non-threatening age who were appropriately dressed and deployed as domestic servants along with a handful of male actors all sharing the goal of making wealthy female Jane Austen devotees' dreams come true.
Henry was ill-suited and ill-prepared for such a role and yet found himself with no remaining free will. He was trussed up in breeches, cravat and knee-high boots and pushed into a sitting room with nothing to hide behind but a flimsy old book. It was here that he was first introduced to the lovely creature that would pierce his comfortable old armour. A flurry of e-mails between Henry and his sister divulge the details of this early stage of their courtship but, alas, ultimately, the two lovers were parted.
Jane, believing she had narrowly avoided falling for the wiles of two separate professional wooers of women, returned to her home in New York City. She felt finally free of her crippling obsession with fictional men but was also conscious that she must re-enter her existence with a more cynical shell – those men in the stories, to whom no real man had ever measured up, simply did not exist. Perhaps there would never be anyone in her life who could be trusted with her heart.
Henry was left in a state. He believed that he had genuinely stirred something in Jane but that she was denying it to herself for her own protection. He understood her predicament. Could there be anything more pathetic than fully giving one's heart to a man one believed to be merely pretending despite his protestations of honesty? He had tried twice to break down what Jane believed to be the fourth wall between them, to no avail. Could travelling three and a half thousand miles and appearing at her door do the trick? It was a choice between exposing himself to deep humiliation or living a life tinged by the dissatisfaction of having tasted bliss and then had it snatched away.
Thanks to his wonderful sister, flights were arranged, accommodation was booked and here he was winging his way into the terrifying unknown. He remembered what it was that made this woman so worth chasing, beyond her beauty, her sense of fun, her wit, her talent, her kindness. She had made him feel certain of something. He felt that certainty seeping into him, pushing his shoulders back, straightening his spine, strengthening his resolve.
The plane hit the tarmac and Henry swung into action. Sparingly only the time required to skull a cardboard cup of deeply unsatisfactory American airport tea, he ticked off task after task until, showered and shaved and clad in what he hoped was his least British Professor type outfit from his very British Professor type wardrobe, he stood gripping Jane's sketchbook tightly and staring up at the enormous New York apartment block that the address scrawled across the inside cover suggested was her home.
The elevator delivered him to the correct floor and left him there to negotiate the labyrinthine corridors alone. When he finally found it, the door that seemed to be hers was ajar, and he could hear the unmistakable sound of a kettle whistling towards full boil. He knocked tentatively.
"That was quick! Come on in," he heard her say, clearly not expecting him. He wandered in anyway and paused, momentarily contemplating a nearly headless cardboard cut-out of Colin Firth as Mr Darcy standing just inside the doorway. It seemed important that Henry stick his countryman's head back in place and, while concentrating on that task, he absent-mindedly responded with, "Love a cup, thank you," to Jane's offer of tea even though he knew it wasn't intended for him.
Jane wheeled around in shock at the sound of his voice. "What are you doing here?!"
Henry tightened his grip on the sketchbook, "Well…" he said, holding it out with both hands, "you left this."
"Thanks." She looked at him, baffled. "You could have mailed it."
The coldest of figurative buckets of cold water sloshed over Henry from on high. He'd travelled all this way and she didn't want him. Not even a bit. Not even at all.
"I… I could have." He shook his head as if to clear the freezing droplets out of his ears. "You're right. What was I thinking?" And he turned tail and walked straight out of the apartment already yearning for the haven and warmth of Davey and Ginger's English pub and a place to hide his head and weep.
"Wait a minute!" she suddenly called. "Hey!" Jane appeared in the corridor.
Henry could barely even bring himself to look at her. He paused, but more like a sullen school boy than a man – hands in pockets, pouting.
"You know, I'm not gonna report your aunt. So it was a little overkill to send you all the way here," she said.
Henry sighed. Could he ever make her believe the truth? "She didn't send me."
Jane looked unconvinced. "Mr. Nobley, or whoever you actually are…" She paused.
Henry saw a glimmer of hope. Perhaps Davey and Ginger's could wait. "My name is Henry. It's Henry Nobley. I'm a history professor."
She looked slightly chastised. "Oh. That's really nice."
Henry took a deep breath and charged on. "I used to think my aunt's profession was somewhat grotesque, but the truth is that I enjoyed stepping into history. The idea of a simpler world where love is straightforward and lasting. I believe we have that in common. But all of this is secondary to the fact that I am completely mad about you."
Jane looked extremely unconvinced. "All right. Well you may have been mad about Miss Erstwhile, but... You don't even know me. I..." She gestured towards her apartment and all the secrets contained within.
Henry's spirits buoyed. Finally, they were having the right conversation. "You are Miss Erstwhile. I saw you in the theatrical. You were horrifying."
"Wait a minute," Jane interrupted, taking exception to this slander. "You were horrifying. I was...," she shrugged. "I wasn't great."
Henry grinned, "My point exactly. Neither one of us are capable of pretending."
He could see her trying to make sense of where exactly it was that she was standing. She thought she had just hammered the final nails into Fictional Romantic Hero's coffin. "Nobley, I just don't think this is a..."
But Henry could see he was making real progress. He was at least going to finish arguing his case. "The night of the ball, you said you wanted something real." He held out his upturned palms. "I'd like to believe that I am real." He took a step towards her. "Is it possible that someone like me can make you happy? Will you let me try?"
He leaned meaningfully towards her and noticed her close her eyes in anticipation.
"No," she suddenly broke away. "See, people don't do this. I mean, this is my fantasy. This isn't..."
Henry's brain was working quickly now. He heard her confess that she had just found herself living her fantasy and he was so close to realising his own.
He took her again into his arms and gently brushed a lock of hair away from her forehead. "Have you stopped to consider that you might have this all backward?" She looked up at him skeptically to find him grinning boyishly. "Jane... You are my fantasy."
With that, she melted into his arms and turned her face up to him. Henry kissed her tenderly.
She drew back a moment, smiling beatifically. "Tally-ho," she breathed.
He grinned. "Tally-ho!" And again he found her lips with his and they were once more lost in one another.
It had been some time since Henry Nobley last kissed a woman but never had his previous attempts felt even half as monumental as this kiss. He wrapped his arms around her and held her closely to him as if trying to absorb her into himself so that he'd never have to be without her again.
What did you think, Carrie? Is there a future for me outside of the safe, green pastures of non-fiction? Can you picture me as a romance novelist?
More to the point, I may have taken a bit of artistic license with the recount of events and dialogue but I hope you got the main gist - she loves me! SHE LOVES ME!
Where did I find the time to pen such an epic, I hear you ask yourself. Well, at this precise moment, my beloved is, by the sounds of it, just clambering out of the enormous bathtub. Her apartment doesn't even have a bath! Can you imagine such an existence of deprivation? You excelled yourself on the accommodation front, by the way, you can practically do laps in that tub!
We're about to head out to The Cock and Bull so I can show her off to Davey and Ginger.
Anyway, sounds like she's ready so I'll have to sign off. More to say but I'll get to it later. I can just imagine your face when you wake up to read this. It's so nice that I can rely on your blind support in all my ludicrous schemes, Carrie. I don't deserve you. If only I could be bringing her straight round to yours! I honestly can't say how long I'll be staying here but even though I am in raptures of joy, I'm still conscious of an ache for you, Nate and the kids. Smack Nate on the bum, ruffle Arlo's hair and twirl Lulu around for me, will you? And you are feeding my chooks, right?
Love,
Henry.
