Hey, everyone!
I'm back with a little P&Pol chapter-ette! It's obscenely short, but I'll post its follow up sooner than usual to compensate. As always, many many many thanks to my magnificent beta for working with what I have written so far. Any mistakes you see are my own, because I can't leave things well enough alone.
Many thanks for reading! Please comment with any thoughts or feedback!
xo brynn
CHAPTER THREE
Lizzie Bennet sipped her chai latte as she nodded her head to the beat of her playlist.
Today was a very special day, and she had downloaded the newly released Lorde album to celebrate. Not that she particularly liked Lorde, generally speaking, but it was entirely too fitting to pass up. She had never had anything worth celebrating on Valentine's Day before and found that she rather enjoyed the experience.
This year, instead of holing up in her tiny, one-bedroom apartment and watching Bridget Jones on repeat as she usually did, she would brave the streets of the city, walk confidently through the sea of glassy-eyed, hand-holding couples, order herself a nice big deep dish pizza, and…and go home, fire up Amazon, and watch Bridget Jones on repeat.
But still, this year was different. She wasn't spending the night with Colin Firth and a pint of raspberry swirl because she had to, she was spending the night with Colin Firth and a pint of raspberry swirl because she wanted to. It was a fact that made all the difference.
And to think, she owed it all to Will Darcy!
To be clear, she wasn't exactly feeling gratitude. On the contrary, she didn't hold a single friendly feeling for the man. He'd basically called her a crazy cat lady with a filter fetish, after all. No, Lord Darcy of Hyde Parkfordshire could go stuff all his cranky old money and his inevitable cease and desist letters up his ass, for all she cared.
But even though she fully expected there would be some consequences for her wildly popular and undoubtedly cheeky reproof in this week's headlining piece of the Sixpoint Star—she had gone viral, baby!—the constant ting of notifications coming from her phone were already proving more than enough compensation for whatever legalese the Darcy family lawyers were going to throw at the company on her behalf.
She had been writing for the online publication for three long years now, the first as a freelance journalist straight out of college, and the past two as a dedicated staff writer. In the beginning, she'd mostly written puff pieces: celebrity gossip, dive bar reviews, and special interest pieces on the occasional city council scandal. It was her city council reporting that had attracted the attention of Sixpoint's senior editor.
Meril Gardiner had been an investigative reporter focusing on the political beat in the 1970s, during the golden age of "New Journalism," a buzzword that no one but Meril used anymore. She constantly tossed her old-guard jargon around in staff meetings, apparently unaware that half of her writers had to Google the pre-internet and thus near-archaic terms she used—outdated phrases like "above the fold," "chasers," and "the lobster watch" being among her favorites. Lizzie knew that some of her fellow staff writers, and most, if not all of the interns, often felt like Meril was speaking a dead language, but Lizzie was fairly certain that the old spitfire did it on purpose. She had gotten the sense that Meril liked being set apart from the crowd early on in their relationship. By now, she was well aware of the fact that Meril used every element of her character, her charisma, and her off-beat, eclectic wardrobe to advance such a purpose.
Even though Lizzie was something of a favorite of Meril's, she'd never had a story this big. She'd never been assigned anything half as juicy as Will Darcy's eventual mayoral run, and had it not been for the rude comments he'd hurled across the Meryton Ballroom a mere four days earlier—she likely wouldn't have been. There were several more experienced, better known journalists in her office who still hadn't gotten over the shock of Meril's offer to Lizzie. It had been made the very day her article had been posted and within ten minutes of receiving its first 25,000 views. Elizabeth Bennet, cat blogger, was to have an entire column of her own! It was everything she had ever wanted. The Bennet Report would focus on city life, trending issues, hot gossip, and—of course—Will Darcy. It was like someone had handed her the keys to the kingdom when she was still learning to drive.
Then again, as long as Will Darcy kept opening his big, beautiful, snarling mouth—she'd be cruising in no time.
She supposed she had her sister Jane to thank for all of this, maybe even more than the somewhat-less-than-gentlemanly billionaire's haughty manners and bad attitude. If her well-meaning do-gooder sister hadn't all but dragged her to her zillionth fundraiser that night (and then spent the whole evening flirting with that suave blonde number), well, she would never have had the sublime pleasure of being horribly insulted by a man who might very well be the future mayor in a room full of witnesses.
Of all the luck!
Lizzie scrolled through her feed for what might have been the thousandth time that morning as the 74 bus rounded a corner to a crescendo of angrily honking horns. She often thought it was a miracle that they arrived at her small Lincoln Park office without incident as often as they did—although not always. It was all part of the joy of the commute.
She smiled as she skimmed the long list of hashtags currently pairing with #Love4Longbourn across Twitter. #CatBlogger, #TeamBennet, and #DumpDarcy were becoming fast favorites—in that order. A loud, very un-commuter like laugh escaped her as she caught sight of a meme featuring an obviously Photoshopped Will Darcy on horseback, complete with both a top hat and a monocle.
It was accompanied by "#ChicagoGent," a moniker Lizzie gleefully chased down the Twitterverse rabbit hole. It was better than she could have imagined. The tired, miserably single, or otherwise spurned ladies of Chicago had latched onto #ChicagoGent with a fury, sharing their own hair-curling tales of dating disasters, terrifying Tinder matches, creepy coworkers, moronic mansplainers, and epically bad breakups. Three days in and Will Darcy had already become the poster child for every unbelievably bad date, awful ex, and miserable perv the city could hold.
She almost felt bad about it all. Almost. For a moment. And then she remembered that Will Darcy was a nasty, disagreeable, vulgar know-it-all who probably couldn't care less what she thought of him. Darcy had billions to fall back on if even one of his precious dreams should fail, which, it seemed, they never did—and she had an overdue rent check to send, a Capital One statement longer than The Odyssey, and more importantly, a column to write.
"Sorry not sorry, Darcy boy," she said with a shake of her head. Free creative license to take down the infamously arrogant, overindulged, playboy-villain of Chicago? This might even be fun!
Wearing a self-satisfied smile, she clicked on one of the many featured links that led back to her own article and reread it for the hundredth time, still not entirely convinced it hadn't needed a bit more of an edit—but what was done was done. She would just have to do better next time. And the time after that. And the time after that.
Yes, this was going to be fun—and profitable, in every sense of the word.
When her latest perusal was complete, Lizzie's eyes darted to the blinking email notification at the bottom of her phone and watched as the number climbed higher, higher, and higher.
"Well, well, well, Lord Darcy," she whispered to his image, the meme now screen-capped and saved to her favorites. "Your forked, platinum tongue just might be the best Valentine's Day gift I've ever received. How shall I ever thank you enough?"
By the time the 74 screeched and scuttled its way to her stop some twenty-odd minutes later, she had a very good idea of where to start.
Next time on P&Pol: Whatever happened with Jane and Charles? Will poor old Chuckie ever get another dance, or is Darcy purposefully keeping him buried in paperwork? Who will win the battle of the hashtags?! Has Caroline learned how they work? (And does anyone care ?) Top notch answers at bargain prices!
And there are pancakes! And Nutella! And pancakes!
Thanks for reading! Share your thoughts with me in the comments!
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I bet you all thought this chapter was over, but I have a bah-bah-bah-bonus bit to share! Warning: The piece below was not beta'd! Enjoy!
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SIXPOINT CHICAGO: WE KNOW WHERE YOU LIVE.
Love and Loss in Logan: The Heartbreaking Tale of One Catblogger's Brush with Will Darcy
Lizzie Bennet
Staff Writer
With zillions in the bank, almost impossibly great hair, and a likely mayoral bid looming in his future, one would think that Will Darcy has little to complain about. However, if my brush with the heir to Darcy Development, Chicago's premier investment, construction, and real estate group is any indication—one would be dead wrong.
In other words, sorry ladies(!), but Chicago's most eligible bachelor is no gentleman.
Last evening, I attended #Love4Longbourn, a Valentine's Day themed fundraiser which many of you might remember from my last piece, an interview with my sister, Jane Bennet. Jane heads up the Longbourn Foundation, an organization dedicated to building community works projects and funding local educational opportunities for all ages. If you missed that piece, I can summarize it by saying that The Longbourn Foundation's work is massively important to those keeping our city's community centers open, stocked, and ready for students. This year's event was aimed at funding Longbourn's Growing Communities initiative, an urban gardening project which allows students to learn and participate in the food system by growing produce for local service centers and shelters.
I knew from the invitation that #Love4Longbourn was going to be a great night filled with my favorite things: good people, dancing, homemade tamales, and bingo, but when I received the evite, I had no idea that I would have the unequalled pleasure of inhabiting the very same ballroom as Will Darcy! Yes, that Will Darcy—every red-blooded Chicago woman's very own Prince Charming. And yet there he was, in all his finely-pressed, indulgent, elegant, and most-likely-imported glory.
Will Freaking Darcy. Talk about a night to remember! I can honestly say I've never had a more memorable evening.
Settle down, girls! I'm getting there.
He was characteristically aloof—or what I assumed to be characteristically aloof, given that he looked pretty damn aloof in every one of the bazillion Google image results that returned when I typed his name into the search bar from my secluded position at the bar.
Yeah, I Googled him. Don't act like you're so above it. I know you've Googled him too.
So, there he was—all characteristically aloof—making some sort of face at the appetizers. Mmm mmm mmm! Ladies, you have to believe me when I tell you that it was love at first sight.
I have never, ever, not in all my life laid my eyes on a sharper, more refined, perfectly exquisite Wisconsin cheddar. Seriously. It changed me.
Oh—and Will Darcy was there too. Unfortunately, he didn't appear to be having a similar experience. A quick return trip to Google revealed no mention of what I perceived to be an unfortunate case of lactose intolerance, but I resolved to check for myself.
That cheddar was calling my name.
While I loaded my plate with enough cubes to rival a set of Lincoln Logs (it was cheat day, okay?), I couldn't help but overhear that the—wait for it—characteristically aloof Will Darcy had a few words for the cheese course himself. In fact, it soon appeared that he had a few words for everyone and everything in the room. I won't waste your time by getting into all that was said, but suffice it to say that the word "hipsters" passed through his perfectly pursed lips more than once in my hearing, and that you or somebody you know would most likely be insulted by his opinions on both liberal and fine arts studies. Odd, considering how well he seemed to expect his own prose to be received.
Shakespeare! You have been warned!
Anyway, the fact that Mr. Darcy, The Viscount Moneybags, was no friend to sliced cheeses and the assembled company of community leaders, local business owners, program staff, and #Love4Longbourn donors didn't surprise me overmuch. After all, my initial Google search had made it pretty clear that he was more comfortable popping bottles on sixty-foot yachts in a sea of barely-legal (not to mention barely-dressed) models. What's a community center fundraiser when you have Dom and a transparent swimming pool waiting at home for you?
Yes, really.
Either way, despite the fact that I had a few questions of my own for Little Lord Darcy, my knight in shining Armani, who has lately been rumored to be running for mayor in the next election cycle, I had cheese to eat—and cheese waits for no man (or woman). More particularly, I got the feeling that he wasn't likely to agree to an interview with one of the great unwashed normals under the present circumstances. I set a reminder in my phone to contact his people the next day regarding the potential mayoral bid and went on with my evening, fairly certain that I had heard the last from him for the evening.
Was I ever wrong!
About an hour later, I could be found getting down—waaaaaay down—with some Jarabe Tapatío.
(If you must know, I have killer moves. Especially when there is sangria involved.)
It soon became pretty clear that I hadn't been the only one to take note of a special someone while paying my respects to the cheese platter. Far from it! In fact, it appeared that our very own champagne-pickled, diamond encrusted, All-American dreamboat—yes that Will Darcy—had noticed me. Me!
Let me tell you, when the music stopped and the room went silent… well, it was like some kind of romantic comedy. The big budget kind! Failing that, at least one of those sexy little indie flicks where everyone talks their feelings to death in a semi-circle for two hours.
There he was—all characteristically aloof—looking every inch the gentleman, despite the rather unfortunate (and what I can only imagine to be surgically induced, given its permanence) pout. He was looking right at me, ladies.
Despite all my Googling, it was hard not to feel a little like Cinderella at the ball.
And then, he spoke.
Now this prose—ladies and gents—well, I remember every single solitary word! It would be hard not to, given that literally every person in the room would repeat them all back to me a few moments later. For the sake of accuracy (and because I will certainly never forget them), here they are in their entirety.
"I have an image to protect! I can't be seen slumming it in Logan Square with a professionally unemployed volunteer who blogs ironically about her cats, Instagrams her meals, and sports a tattoo that embodies how Lorde's lyrics make her feel! Get a grip!"
Now, I know what you're thinking.
SWOON, amirite?
That image though!
Seriously, he checks all my boxes: rude, insufferably arrogant, horrible conversationalist, likely emotionally unavailable, my dad would probably hate him on sight alone… I could go on and on.
Unfortunately, by the time I made my way across the room to profess my undying devotion to the man, Prince Charming's coach must have been about to turn into a pumpkin because boy was gone. That's just low, right? I mean, how can you say such incredible things to a woman and just take off without so much as a: "Hi, what's your name? Nice to meet you. I'm a massive prick."
But a girl has to dream big, right?
So, because it's almost Valentine's Day and I believe in fairy tales, I thought I might spend this week's opinion blog on something a little less important that the never ending road-work on the Dan Ryan (still never ending), Kendall Jenner's latest lip color (just more mauve), or even my Westworld Season Two predictions (seriously, don't get me started).
So here it is: This week's opinion piece—the last before Valentine's Day—is my very own open love letter to Will Darcy. It's written predominantly in Will Darcy's first language, Richpeopleeze, so there's no shame if you need a dictionary to translate (like me).
Here goes nothing!
ATTN: His Royal Highness The Prince William Charles Andrew Darcy of Chicagolandia, Prince and CEO of Darcy Development, Duke of Hyde Parkfordshire, Earl of Lakeview, Baron of Snide Remarks, Lord of the Side-Eye, and Great Steward of Capital Gains
Thank you for the rare compliment of your attention, kind sir! As you away-ed so suddenly to your barouche, I was not free to share my own, rather passionate feelings regarding the many subjects of your exceedingly eloquent discourse. Allow me to do so now, should it please your most excellent excellency.
Fine sir, while I do spend my days "slumming it" in Logan, it occurs to me that you must be unfamiliar with the area, considering that you so rarely leave that frigid, hundred-story Apple store in the sky you call home. Please do excuse us if we are rowdy. It's fun here! We have real coffee, countless taco options, neighbors that make eye contact, and grass! That's right! Grass!
And while I do work with organizations occasionally—unfortunately, I am by no means such a diligent a volunteer as you believe! Further Googling suggests that you might need a little assistance in this area yourself, considering you've done little more than cut ribbons over the last five years that you've presided over Darcy's Development's "outreach" arm. Perhaps we should rectify such an oversight together! The Longbourn Foundation breaks ground on a new community center this Thursday. Will I see you there? Perhaps I should bring Mary and Kitty?
But of course, you have not been introduced! How positively improper of me!
Kitty and Mary, my two tabby cats, often make cameo appearances at Sixpoint from time to time. Judging from your earlier comments across the entire length of the Meryton Ballroom, you must have known this already. Could it be that you are a fan of my work? I knew you would be an ardent reader! Mary is an old, morose mouser from home and Kitty is a lively, if rather stupid, tag along. I'm not sure if they plan to head to the polls next February, but if our conversation last night is any indication, they might not be voting for you.
And, dearest heart, of course I Instagram my food! I live in one of the most colorful, delicious neighborhoods in the city! #NoFilterNeeded is a way of life. Many of our restaurants source our food from urban gardening projects right here in the neighborhood! Unfortunately, we have lost three such gardens to Darcy Development projects over the past two years. Alas, such is the cost of doing business in areas Will Darcy would like to do business.
Oh, my little golden ducat! There is but one misapprehension you seem to hold. I do not, in fact, have a Lorde tattoo (at least not yet!). Imagine my surprise that you, who knows the deepest longings of my heart so well, would suffer such a falsehood!
There is a particularly fine artist at ChiCity Ink who would be glad to remedy such an oversight on my part. Char has done some excellent work for me in the past, but we seem to have forgotten all about Lorde! Perhaps after joining me to volunteer at the Longbourn Foundation's new project site, we might mark the occasion with matching his and hers tattoos?
You're paying.
If not, I will try to understand. It's not every woman who can compete with a bevy of shirtless bombshells who come prepared with their own non-disclosure agreements (I told you I Googled), but a girl can dream!
We'll always have Meryton,
LB
Unfortunately, Lord Darcy's email address is not publicly available, so my silly little cat-and-taco blog here at Sixpoint will have to do. If I get a response (fingers crossed, gals!), you'll be the first to know.
In the meantime, I'll be paying very close attention to his mayoral run (and you should too!). I won't name names here (how positively uncouth!), but personally, I think it would be incredibly unfortunate if a man who cannot abide the company of Chicagoans for more than five minutes at a time became their mayor based on nothing more than the number of zeros in his bank account and an (admittedly incredible) head of hair.
Will Darcy, for instance (totally random example, just off the top of my head), may want to be your mayor...but do we want him?
Something tells me we can all do a lot better for ourselves—Lorde tattoos or not.
Is there a "Lord Darcy" in your life? What would you say to them? Share your own horror stories and sound off in the comments!