Authors Note: This will be my one and only note so if you have anything you'd like answered leave it in the reviews and I'll personally get back to you. This is rated M for a reason - sexual explicit language and adult situations. If that makes you uncomfortable that's fine, I strongly suggest you turn back now. I hope you enjoy this modern reimagining of P&P, I have very poured my heart and soul into this. In a way, Lizzy has become an extension of myself and this Lizzy was more inspired by Bridget Jones, but she's a bit more put together.
CHAPTER 1
Just Call Me the Grinch
It's fine. Everything is fine. It's not like anybody died, though the jury is still out on whether I will survive the rest of the evening. But it will be fine. On the embarrassment scale, this is relatively low. I would recover. One day I will look back on this mess of an evening and laugh and think, 'oh when will I ever learn not to open my big mouth?' Ha, Ha, Hardy-Ha.
Maybe if I laugh it off I won't sink behind my mother's hideous floral couch, tearfully rocking back and forth in the foetal position until she calls an end to this entire thing. I keep swinging between nauseous and complete and utter mortification. And it seems the only thing I can do is sip my prosecco and chew on a pig in the blanket pretending nothing ever happened.
I will kill Lydia. Slowly. I might even revive the Viking tradition of the Bloody Eagle, but then that might be too good for her.
To say I should have answered Glenda Lucas's not so innocent question about my love life with a "fine, thanks" would be the understatement of the year. No, I had to blurt out that I was in a rather committed relationship with Bob – I blame the booze mum had been plying me with from the moment I stepped foot in my childhood home for her annual Christmas party.
Glenda Lucas, having been best friends with my mother since they were in antenatal classes with their firstborns together, had naturally yelled across the room to question her about my apparent boyfriend Bob. That was fine. I could have brushed that off, who knows I could have had a boyfriend named Bob, they knew I was on Tinder.
Mum naturally barrelled across the room in a bargain bin leopard print dress, because her big hair just wasn't enough, and pinned me with a dark stare she'd perfected the day I came screaming into the world. It was bloody scary, and my face instantly turned bright red.
It's all that Italian guilt she stores up year long just for me. It makes me crack and I tell them I was just joking. Hoping they would just let it go, and it seemed for a moment that they would. This is what getting away scot-free felt like!
But no, my darling, sweet as pie little sister Lydia just happened to overhear our conversation. Desperately I tried to pin her with a glare, but she resisted – she was always freakishly good at that.
Time seemed to stop when she announced, at the top of her voice, that Bob wasn't made up and that he came in the form of a purple vibrator I kept in the bottom drawer of my nightstand. I didn't even know how she knew that information. I didn't even have time process what was happening around me as my entire social credibility crumbled around my ears.
She was like a young, vastly more attractive Poirot. Where was she when I lost the earrings mum had given me for my twenty-first birthday?
There was no way I was ever living this down.
Thing is, my mum's Christmas parties weren't exclusive to just our family. Everybody I had grown up in our small town of Merryton were here watching in gross fascination. Even worse than that? My older sister had brought her boyfriend and his best friend from London especially for the event.
The friend? Dr William Darcy, or as I had been referring to him for most of the night, Dr McHottie. I hadn't said anything more than a friendly "hi" and the way he was glaring at everything wasn't exactly inviting. But now I wouldn't even get the chance to speak to him as an ordinary human.
I was vibrator girl now.
Christ.
"Buck up Lizzy," my dad said handing me a scotch, and I offer him a small smile. Some heroes wear capes, mine wears ugly mustard yellow diamond patterned sweaters.
"I'm trying," I take a sip of my drink, it's the good stuff he kept locked in his study. "Did she really have to do that? I should have bought her a muzzle for Christmas."
"Now there is an interesting proposal," he looks at me with twinkling eyes. "If you end up getting her one for her birthday, by all means, feel free to get one for your mother as well."
I choke slightly, before laughing. "I'll get matching leashes, it wouldn't do to let them run free even if they can't talk."
This isn't so bad. I can recover from complete social mortification. Strong independent woman and all that.
"But then how would they be able to snoop in your bedroom?" He chuckled, he was having the time of his life when his daughter was about to perish from mortification.
I downed the remainder of my scotch with a single gulp and handed him back the empty glass with a glare.
"You're really not funny."
"Au contraire daughter mine, I'm hilarious you just need to get a sense of humour."
Glaring half-heartedly at him once more, I turned spotting Jane on the other side of the room with Charlie and Dr McHottie. Making a split-second decision, I hurry across the room to the safety of my sister. Only she isn't really paying attention to anything but Charlie and I had to say her name three times before she even acknowledged me.
"Oh, Lizzy!" She slurs, too much Prosecco. "There you are, I thought you'd run off to cry in your car."
Apparently drunk Jane doesn't have a filter either. Time to tread carefully, very, very carefully. Oh goody, she was now making moon eyes at the perfect Charles Bingley, stay tuned for the inevitable showing of the tonsil hockey championships.
"No such luck, I'm still standing," I smile brightly.
That's it pretend everything is fine.
"If that happened to me I would have died," right, I had forgotten that Charlie's awful sister Caroline was here as well. Maybe I was hoping she would just spontaneously combust.
"Sisters," I shrug with a small laugh. "Am I right?"
"Your sister wouldn't do anything like that would she Darcy?" I watched as Caroline wrapped her red talons around Darcy's bicep possessively.
"Certainly not," he muttered just loud enough for me the catch the most panty melting Scottish brogue I think I've ever heard. Holy Hell. I'm pretty sure he could just talk me into having an orgasm.
"Georgie is such a dear…" Caroline simpered and I briefly forgot my embarrassment for a moment and chose instead to focus on hers. Did she not realise how desperate she sounded?
As awful as I thought she was, Caroline Bingley was stunning. She was a model or fashion editor or something in that vein of things. Practically skeletal, with gorgeous dark brown hair, and face that could make a man drop to his knees. Even her eyes, ice blue and frosty to the core, were hard to look away from. It was way too easy to hate her,
Darcy smiled tightly but made no move to respond.
"So," I said giving Darcy my full attention. "Charlie said you're a doctor?"
Talking about work is a nice safe topic. I would have spoken to Jane but she now had her tongue shoved down Charlie's throat none too delicately. It seems the championships have just begun.
"I work emergency at the Royal."
"I bet you have some cracker stories to share!" I smiled brightly. I lived for medical stories, the weirder the better.
"Not really," he said tightly, his brow furrowing slightly.
At this point, I was certain that I'd had conversations with brick walls that were more responsive.
"I had to go to the emergency room when I was eight once. Dad had wanted to teach me how to fish so he was showing me how to tie a lure. I have no idea how it happened but somehow, I fell backwards into the tackle box and managed to get a hook stuck a good two inches into my ass. They had to cut it out. My right cheek never fully recovered."
I have no idea what prompted me to tell that story. Scotch, I blame the Scotch and the apparently innate need to completely embarrass myself at every turn. Judging by the slightly horrified looks on both Darcy and Caroline's faces, I shouldn't have opened my mouth.
"Okay then," Darcy shifted from foot to foot before just turning and walking away. Lovely. A real charmer that one.
I followed Darcy's lead and left Caroline standing there alone. Someone would surely come and speak to her at some point.
Hurrying into my parent's stuck in the seventies kitchen I sought out the bottle of emergency wine mum hid behind the pots and pans. Desperate times called for desperate measures. It wasn't like I was driving home anyway, I was going to be sleeping in my old single bed upstairs. Something that was almost embarrassing at my advanced age of twenty-four.
The Pinot Gris, the sneaky bugger, was hiding way up the back of the cupboard and I almost whooped in triumph when my hand wrapped around the bottle. Pulling it out, I quickly glanced at the label and made a mental note to make sure mum's gift was extra nice this year.
Unscrewing the cap, I debated briefly on whether I should get a glass or not and promptly took a swing straight from the bottle. Who was I trying to kid? I slumped down against the cupboards, the Island effectively hiding me from the world.
I can't believe how rubbish I am at being a functioning adult. How could I even catch a man if I couldn't even have a conversation with one? The truth is, I know I'm supposed to be all "I am woman hear me roar" and that "I'm a strong independent woman who don't need no man". But I have found, increasingly as I spiral towards my twenty-fifth birthday, that it seems so great in theory, but does nothing to help with the crushing loneliness. Everyone I seem to know is either shacked up, engaged, or married and ready spawn. And here I am drinking wine straight from the bottle and realising my longest functioning relationship is with a vibrating piece of plastic.
My stomach clenches and I swallow hard. Can't think about that. Come on Lizzy, you're better than this. Taking another swig, I tried to think of everywhere I would have rather been than sitting alone in my mother's olive-green kitchen.
The only place I want to be, I quickly realised, was in my bed preferably with my cat Minerva curled up with me watching The Grinch. The one with Jim Carey that's so bad it's actually good. He, like me, didn't hate Christmas, he just hated people. I could relate on a deeply personal level. I wish I had a cool cave to hide from the world in. My own personal paradise right there.
Another swig of wine.
I'm pathetic. Truly pathetic.
I pulled my phone from my pocket wondering vaguely how much it would cost me to Uber back to my flat in London. Too much. No Grinch for me, more party to suffer, but at least I had good wine.
Scrolling through Facebook slowly there was a common theme on my homepage – engagement, baby, wedding, so and so is in a relationship. Which only served to fuel my none too secret bitterness.
"Hate, hate, double hate," I said as pictures of the smiling couples went scrolling past. "Loathe entirely."
Well paint me green and stick me in a cave. I have ceased being Elizabeth Bennet and instead morphed into the Grinch. When did I make the transition from young, hopeful Cindy Lou Who to this?
Do we just reach an age when being jaded becomes the norm? I'm guessing it occurs after about six months of unwanted celibacy. Pretty sure I had cobwebs down there and with no romantic prospects there was no end in sight for this particular dry spell.
A notification from Tinder flashed on my phone telling me I had a match. Well, things were beginning to look up. Getting out of Facebook, I opened Tinder and found I had been matched with Steve who was twenty-five and lived in Brixton.
My face fell as I saw his profile picture. The image of an overweight, balding man in a full bondage suit is something no amount of bleach would ever be able clear from my mind. And oh goody, an accompanying message;
You look delicious. I want to tie you up and eat you whole. Call me daddy and I'll have you screaming my name.
I didn't know I could feel such utter revulsion. Yeah buddy, let me just drop my knickers for you right here and right now. All I needed now was a dick pic and I would be done for life.
Steve from Brixton was clearly a lesson in what could go wrong when you played Tinder roulette. Swiping right continuously until your likes ran out was good for a bit of entertainment, but oh how quickly I was feeling the repercussions.
I locked my phone and pushed it away from me as I took another bracing gulp of wine. Maybe I could become the crazy aunt of the family, that one person that's invited everywhere out of obligation and not because anyone actually wants you there. I only attend these events because I was forced to, and I was particularly susceptible to my mother's special brand of guilting.
As I took another gulp of wine, I begin to think and ponder, both things that are entirely too dangerous for me to do. Maybe I should message Steve from Brixton back. I think I could enjoy light BDSM ala 50 Shades but without the abuse.
Could I really call a man who wasn't my father daddy though?
Another gulp of wine and my phone was back in my hand, opened on Steve's message. Stuff it. I deserved a bit of fun. I wasn't dead yet.
I quickly typed a reply;
Does that ever work?
More wine as I waited for those three little dots to appear. I almost cheered when they did and if that isn't the saddest thing in existence I don't know what is.
You can call me whatever you want my sweet ginger snap. I prefer master. Do you swallow?
Oh, Lord. Okay, first a reference to my red hair which was more boiled carrot than ginger. Master? Nope. That's a huge nope right there. I didn't even have words for the last part.
Another message came through quickly;
I can't wait to make you choke on my nine incher.
This was a bad idea.
Steve from Brixton is gross.
He was also clearly compensating.
Yet the wine told me to reply. Bad wine. I would resist the call. I had more self-control than this.
I wrestled with myself for all of thirty seconds before the wine won out and I found myself replying;
Nine inches huh? Nine inches of what? Bullshit?
The three dots appeared almost instantly as I took another massive swig of wine. He seemed to be taking a long time, so I took a second and third gulp. Looks like Steve from Brixton is having trouble collating his thoughts.
Oops spoke too soon.
A single word message popped up:
Bitch.
Oh no, I think I drove Steve from Brixton away. I took another swig of wine and I must say I was feeling rather good for the first time this evening. The buzz was nice and I could almost forget where I was.
Almost.
Because like all good things, my solitude soon came to an end at the hands of Dr McHottie and Charlie. Both of whom crashed into the kitchen in rush of hushed words.
They clearly didn't know I was there because I somehow got this distinct impression that this wasn't a conversation I was meant to overhear. I quickly took another sip of wine and went into full eavesdropping mode.
"Isn't Jane just wonderful?" Charlie's words were slightly slurred. Clearly, he wasn't immune to the prosecco either. "I think I love her Darce, full ass over head in love."
"Jane is… lovely," Darcy conceded. "But the rest of her family seem to be non-compos mentis."
My family may be a little crazy, but at least they didn't have a massive stick shoved so far up their ass they may as well be choking on it.
"I like Lizzy," Charlie laughed. "She's funny."
I could practically hear Darcy's eye roll. "She's deranged."
"Eccentric," Charlie amended.
"From the shallow end of the gene pool."
Alright, Dr McDouche. I think he gets the picture, no need to be a complete tool.
"Everyone is different," Charlie is so sweet. If Jane ever leaves him I will beat her senseless with my stilettos – well, her stilettos I only owned sneakers.
"In her case, she may as well be a different species," Darcy sighed. "Who the Hell starts rambling on about getting a hook stuck in their ass to a complete stranger?"
I will not think about how much the way his says the word "ass" turns me on. It's the wine talking and clear heads would prevail in the morning. Focus Lizzy! I have to remember everything so I could regale Charlotte with all the information in the morning.
"Probably nerves."
"I'm sure that's it," Dr Douche didn't even attempt to keep the sarcasm from his voice. "Charlie, look the thing is…"
Taking another swing of my wine, I settled in for the long haul, because even though my ass was going numb and I was possibly five sheets to the wind, I needed to hear whatever came next. Call me a nosy Parker if you must.
Only, Darcy never got to finish his sentence because right then dear, sweet, drunken Jane decided then was the opportune time to invade on our little party.
"Charlie," she called in a sing-song voice. "I need you."
Must not think about my sister having sex. We were fairly open in most things, but that wasn't one of them.
I heard her trip and stumble into his arms with a giggle. "Janey, you, me, upstairs now."
Oh, God. Did I pack earplugs? Wasn't this a traumatic enough experience for me already?
They both bade Darcy goodnight in a fit of giggles and I could just tell he was loving that by the fact he said nothing in return. And I could only hope they didn't walk through the kitchen and spot me in my hiding spot.
But like everything that occurred that evening, I wasn't so lucky.
Charlie had thrown my sister over his shoulder and was carrying her caveman style to her childhood bedroom. Jane was laughing uncontrollably, her blonde hair falling over her face. She pushed it back of her face and looked me straight in the eye.
I tried to shake my head, but she opened her mouth anyway.
"There you are Lizzy!"
Think fast Lizzy, you can do it.
Falling forward, I pretended to be searching the ground in case anyone bothered to look. They did.
"Oh, there's my contact."
