Jane Actually

online in the store. None of them knew the novelist Jane Austen shared the terminal with them and naturally none of the living customers were aware of her presence.
    Nevertheless, she decided to leave, having spent the better part of two hours surfing the net. She also hoped to avoid Melody’s displeasure, but her agent knew her too well, having replied immediately.
    From: [email protected]
    To: [email protected]
    Date: Jan. 6, 2011 09:31:11
    Subject: RE: The Watsons
    “Heads up?” Really? At least consider the offer. Now is not the time to rest on your laurels just because you’re the hot dead author of the month. After all, what if Hemingway proves his identity? Or a Bronte? Admittedly you’re one of the bigger fish out there, but still, what happens when God forbid Mark Twain pops up?
    She laughed at Melody’s favourite bogeyman. She invoked Twain whenever she wanted to goad Jane into action. She could picture Melody shaping her hands into bear claws, her shorthand for Twain coming back from the grave to continue his character assassination of her.
    As amusing as the image was, Jane had to take Melody’s advice seriously. The small, plump woman was undoubtedly her best friend and her champion. She had helped organize the search of Chawton House that had resulted in the proof of her identity. Jane knew she owed Melody far more than the 15 per cent an author owes an agent.
    So it was that Jane composed another email:
    Very well, Melody, you may amend our reply to say that I shall consider it, if you think that a better response. You do have my best interests in mind, as you constantly remind me.
    Speaking of reminders, when do we meet with Mr Pembroke again? I had thought him determined to arrange our next meeting for today or tomorrow. Or have they decided not to publish Sanditon after all?
    Jane
    Her last sentence was a bit cruel and would worry Melody unnecessarily, but Jane decided that it would at the very least occupy her for a time. She hit send and quickly logged out, determined to leave before seeing another reply. She waited until she saw a customer leaving the store and then darted out behind.
    She remained on the sidewalk, undecided what to do. She was at 63rd and Broadway through a concatenation of events involving a subway car she could not exit in time and then being distracted by the sight of a naked beggar, which consequently caused her to be struck by a lorry. That experience naturally confused her and then she entered a bus going north instead of south. Once she escaped the bus, she entered the Starbucks to compose herself, look at a map and, of course, surf the web.
    Before receiving the email from her agent she had already determined that she should visit Central Park, the southern end of that vast, urban green space being only a short distance away. Standing outside the Starbucks, she decided to pursue that goal, thinking that a stroll in the park might restore her equanimity.
    She crossed Broadway, this time giving close attention to the traffic, and proceeded along 63rd toward Central Park West. The human traffic on the sidewalk was also heavy at 10 o’clock on a Monday morning. She found herself dodging hurried New Yorkers intent on their business, talking on their phones and paying little attention to their fellow man. She did, however, see several young men loitering outside a store, paying close attention to their fellow women.
    She paused to pay particular attention to a young woman, who despite the cold January weather wore only a cropped jeans jacket—she might almost call it a Spencer 2 with its frog buttons—over a thin form-fitting knit top and low-slung jeans. As the young woman approached, the men offered their compliments. At least Jane assumed the young men were saying something complimentary; as she had lost her hearing upon her death, she had to presume upon her knowledge of the behaviour of young men in the 21st century. Unfortunately, despite her facility at reading lips, she could not discern their words, owing perhaps to the men being non-English speakers. The young woman tried to give the appearance of ignoring their comments, but the slight smile on her face betrayed her ready understanding.
    O tempora, o mores,
Jane thought.
Or perhaps more aptly and less pretentiously, the more things change, the more they stay the same.
Women displaying their bodies was nothing new to her. Even in the Regency, some women revealed far more than