Free Writing Jane Austen by Elizabeth Aston Page B

need our help, especially Yolanda’s.”
    “It’s a question of matching the parameters,” Yolanda said. “The structural balance and interplay of Austen’s texts. And we have also to consider the nexality.”
    Nexality?
    “People call her Jane Austen in England,” said Georgina. “And if you mean novel, say so. Nineteenth-century authors didn’t write texts, they wrote novels.” What was she saying? Of course it was The Text, The Text was holy, no one spoke or wrote these days of novels or poems or essays, to do so was to be branded instantly and hopelessly pre-post-modern. Unforgivable.
    “As an historian, I wouldn’t expect you to be up to scratch on current literary theory, but you can’t approach this with a head full of exploded clutter.”
    “Literary theory isn’t going to get a book finished, in three months or ever. What I do is called writing. And I do it the way I can. Which isn’t having a committee meeting about it.”
    Yolanda wasn’t listening. “Structural notes Monday, and then we need to work to a schedule. Austen’s novels are from eighty-five to one hundred sixty-five thousand words. One hundred twenty thousand is the specified extent for this book. Livia assures me that you’re a fast worker. I will expect a chapter every two days. Then I can run it through the computer, to adjust it so that it tallies with regard to sentence length, punctuational idiosyncrasies and so on.”
    Georgina felt a violent blow to her shin, and there was Livia eyeballing her as a python might look at a goat. “Liaise with me on the schedule, Yolanda,” Livia said, and then with a swift ease she began to talk about the cover design.
    Because of the glassy nature of the restaurant, sounds bounced across tables and walls and gleaming floor. The voices of other diners rose in an effort to make themselves heard; Gina wanted to cover her ears with her hands.
    “Palette of colours,” Livia was saying.
    “American tastes…”
    “A leading designer…”
    “PR.”
    A chapter every two days? Was Yolanda out of her mind? She had no plot, no idea how the wretched woman wrote, it would take weeks to get a grip, to turn out even a single chapter.
    Dear God, what had she taken on?
    “You’re drunk,” said Henry amiably, as she staggered through the door.
    “Wish I were,” said Georgina. “My heel came off, and I think I’ve dislocated my hip trying to hobble and hop along.”
    He looked down at her feet, and his mouth twitched.
    “Quite the ragamuffin. Did you end up walking in your stockings?”
    “Tights,” said Georgina. “And yes, I did, and I’ve got a blister on my heel, and I expect trench foot as well, I do not want to think about what I’ve been walking through.”
    “I’ll turn my back, you strip off those tights, and then go and wash your feet. There’s antiseptic in the bathroom, green tube, smells vile. If you’re not drunk, would you like a glass of wine? A whisky—oh no, you hate whisky, a cognac?”
    The sitting room was a haven of soft greens and cream. Her feet clean, if sore, Georgina padded across the parquet floor and sank into a sofa.
    “I suppose it didn’t occur to you to take a taxi?” Henry asked as he handed her a glass generously filled with what Georgina suspected was his special cognac.
    “None to be had. Yolanda dropped me off”
    “Yolanda?”
    “Yolanda Vesey. Dan Vesey’s sister. A terrifying academic. She was driving back to Oxford, so she gave me a lift part of the way. I thought I could catch a bus, and then I decided to walk, and then I came to grief on one of those grids people have over their basements. Can I sue, do you think?”
    “For a blister or two? A ruined shoe? Did the shoe cost a fortune?”
    “Ten quid in a sale.” Georgina leaned back and shut her eyes.
    “Not very civil of the Vesey woman not to drop you at your front door.”
    “She was in a hurry.” In fact, Georgina had discouraged her, eager to get away from the relentless flow