"One's inspiration needs be drawn from the unique perspectives of the subconscious human psyche. Plebeian perusals of popular art do not suffice as justifiable grounds for innovation," Lizzie spits out each word like venom, as if reading the e-mail aloud one more time would help in any way. She wants to cry; she wants to growl. She settles for an ugly snarl before shoving herself and her haphazardly-stuffed backpack into her lousy excuse of a car. At least, this time, she remembers which strap's the broken one.
Submitting work directly for DBC was the chance of lifetime. Even in the heights of her pity-parties, she's never denied that fact.
Having her artwork accepted as one of the final proposals is something even she admits is worth smiling about.
But did it really have to come with that brute of a boss?
"Bloody Mr. Darcy," she groans before her engine finally wakes up under her persistent key-turning and gas-pedal churning.
The drive to Rosings brings very few surprises. It may have taken some time - but, once reconciled, she and Charlotte never did wander far from each other's orbit. In so many ways, she's Lizzie's second Jane - another foil to her own craziness. Women who are too alike never stay friends into adulthood. It's the opposites - the geek versus the scatterbrain, the whimsical versus the sensible - who actually need and appreciate each other more in the long run.
The engine's constant lamentation doesn't let up the whole entire trip, and it takes a few strange looks from new neighbors to help Lizzie remember that not everyone knows a car can sound like a train trudging uphill.
"Lizzie!" Charlotte answers the door, wide and wise smile in place.
Lizzie offers her own grim one in response. "Hey, Char."
"Thought my big shot corporate designer would be - happier?" Charlotte ushers her in - half mother, half sister, half friend, all housewife. The door latches soothingly behind them.
Sure, there's no place like home.
But, sometimes, this luxurious corner of timeless tastes and architecture is much closer to home than her own dingy apartment ever will be. Her backpack lands on the edge of the bed, keeps its balance for two whole seconds, and slinks on to the rug.
"Your husband said anything this time?"
Charlotte shrugs. "Just the usual."
"I can pay you. They did give us a stipend for making it this far."
"And steal from your damsel-in-distress stash?" Charlotte pours them their customary tea on autopilot. The familiar purple cup of comfort beckons Lizzie to her side of the small table. The steam settles some of the chill from her inconsistent car thermostat. "How would that make us any better than your - what was it - 'snobby, entitled DBC jerk' project handler?"
Lizzie snorts. "It's not like he knows I'm a girl."
"Oh?"
"I applied under 'E. Bennet.' I think I always will." She takes a sip. "It helps to know I succeed at something because I did - and not for some cause that pushes the powers that be towards or away from female designers."
"No winning despite or because of PC."
"Exactly." Lizzie finds herself draining her cup a few seconds too fast. That little burn will hurt a day or two, at least.
For one quiet moment, the room is still. The promise of tomorrow hangs as thickly in the air as a heavy shroud of tropical humidity.
"What time's your presentation?" Charlotte starts packing up their pretty utensils, after they finish all the tea.
"Eight-thirty, I think?"
"Country hours, huh?"
Lizzie shrugs. "I've had worse."
"You run on caffeine."
"Thank goodness for the modern age."
Charlotte's laugh is hearty - always deeper than the average woman's. "Your coat is in the closet, by the way."
"You found it?"
"The guest before you did."
"Oh - I'm sorry, Char."
Her friend just shrugs. "It's fine. He didn't sound bothered."
"A 'he' - huh?"
"I don't think he's a pervert, Lizzie."
Sometimes, her friends knows her frenetic mind a little too well.
"He's a regular. No worries." Charlotte shrugs. "He didn't seem too bothered anyway."
"I'm not costing you any future revenue?"
"No, I promise." Charlotte smiles.
"Fine." Lizzie stands up to give her friend a goodnight hug, carefully maneuvering between all the china. "I'll get right on to unpacking."
"Don't sleep too late."
"Yes, Mom."
There's a happy benevolence in Charlotte's grin that helps alleviate even the most desperate of days.
In life, there's a shady grey area between the brightness of hope and the darkness of despair. Today, fresh off the strangest business presentation of her life, Lizzie feels herself wafting around on a lost, singular raft among the waves of these mysterious grey depths - a dot in the vastness of the ocean blue.
"Eccentricity must run in the - company," she mutters to herself before collapsing unceremoniously on the half-made bed. The full weight of her caffeine crash, abated all morning by Ms. de Bourgh's oddly personal probes into her background, starts closing around her all at once.
What was that last question again?
Try as she might, she just can't come up for any justification for a successful female business founder to demand that a lady designer 'explain how her unmarried state would not hinder her progress over a project of this magnitude.'
Shouldn't she be happy that more women are making it in the field?
And what was it with the constant references to her goddaughter?
Lizzie rolls on her side, content with ironing her coat again the next day instead. It's not as if she would need -
The pack of pages that hits her side has her sitting up quickly and scrambling for her comfort blanket. She wanted to read her usual pages last night. It was just work and nerves and uncertainty that kept her from her well-established routine. Her e-book copy has kept her company since her last visit, but there's something different about a physical book. There is always a romance in its tactile nature, a warmth in its weight - a beauty of legacy knowing that she's rediscovering her favorite story through the same medium that the very first generation of readers did two hundred years ago.
'To Liz,
Spoiler alert: They eventually do come back.
-Liam'
The note catches her off-guard.
Then it worms its way into her fragile little heart.
Suddenly, the piece of Swiss chocolate she'd magically found in her coat pocket this morning makes so much more sense.
She's not sure when she'll be back - or if this Liam guy would ever be visiting again. Charlotte did seem pretty casual about him.
And before she can overthink it, Lizzie shoves Liam's note into her backpack, reads her customary set number of pages, and reaches for her own stash of sticky notes.
'To Liam, if all men were as attentively negligent as D and B, no wonder W stood a chance.' Then, like him, she signs it with a simple 'Liz.'
She sleeps a little better that night; and when she takes off the next day to await her fate with DBC yet again, she leaves the note in the book in the pocket of the coat in the closet.
A/N: For all those wondering, Catherine de Bourgh doesn't actually appear directly in this entire story, but she is always hovering behind-the-scenes. I'm sorry there wasn't any Darcy in this chapter. I also miss him!
