"Do you know I had named you 'The Most Obnoxious Man Alive' when I first met you?" Emma says.
"Oh God. Really? I named you Annoying Girl," is Darcy's instantaneous answer, and Emma laughs so sincerely that – everything stops, because all Darcy wants is to kiss her. The impression is so strong – he's not listening anymore, Emma is laughingly apologizing for being a nuisance before (clearly she doesn't mean a word of it), and suddenly Darcy grabs her hand across the table and kisses it – and the world does stop, Emma seems stunned, her hand is shivering slightly in his, she stammers something incomprehensible and turns red again, Darcy doesn't let her hand go, she doesn't move away, and Darcy is burning, everything is burning, and the dinner is not even over yet, far from it.
- X -
The world pauses. Candles. Darkness. The leaves rustling in the bushes. The subdued voices of the other guests, at the other tables, scattered in the small park.
"Your turn. Tell me something. Significant, essential…about you," George asks.
(Still holding her hand.)
Elizabeth's heart is pounding. It's painful, almost. She didn't expect it – the evening to go this way, so tender, so serious. This is all so unexpected from the beginning. Meeting someone in a café, someone worthy. She didn't expect the world to tilt on its axis, so fast.
"My…issue… My situation is the opposite of yours, George," she explains, after a while. She hesitates; it's complex, what she has to convey. "You are at a crossroads, personally and professionally. You want to change your life, to rethink your entire existence..."
"I do."
"I, on the opposite… Ok. See…" Elizabeth takes a deep breath. "I had a rather pleasant childhood, but of course, it was not perfect, it never is. I felt out of place. I had conflicts with…one of my parents." Their secret identities' game is still on, so Elizabeth has to stay vague, she cannot use "my mother", or "she." "They were not toxic or anything, just wildly and daily infuriating..."
George smiles. "We all have one of those. If not a parent, a close relation."
"I feel petty complaining about what really were minor family issues," Elizabeth sighs. "But we are sharing truths, right?"
"We are. Lying about our names, about everything and everyone, but sharing truths nonetheless," George confirms, his demeanor so serious Elizabeth cannot help a smile.
"You are so formal, sometimes."
"Is it the use of 'nonetheless'?"
"Yes – no – it is everything about you, George. Good family, good education, private schools?" Elizabeth asks, her eyes dancing with amusement. Then – again, what a gorgeous smile this man has. It's just not fair.
"My dear Emma, obviously, I cannot comment on your fascinating suppositions," George answers, exaggerating his haughty air of primness, and Elizabeth laughs, before George adds, "but let's get back to the topic at hand. You were saying you felt out of place."
Elizabeth explains, how she became so much happier when she got her own apartment, away from her affectionate but exasperating siblings and parents. Except, then, she chose the wrong path – going to medical school – of course Elizabeth still says "law school," because, the game.
"But see," she concludes, "now, I got it all at last. I love my family. I visit often, they live so close – but when they get too noisy – or too nosey – I can leave and go back to my lovely, tiny, peaceful home, in my lovely, quirky childhood neighborhood. I finally got the guts to quit my studies. I adore my work. My life is textbook perfect right now, and I do not want anything to change, ever…"
A pause. Elizabeth looks at George, trying to convey her meaning. "So… This is why… I have to admit I am kind of scared of… of this, right now," she whispers, holding George's hand tighter, so he doesn't interpret it as a dismissal. "Any – hum, fling - or a new budding relationship could be…" Elizabeth takes a deep breath. "Meeting a handsome man in a café could be potential for disaster."
"Or at least, for disruption," George comments thoughtfully, while Elizabeth nods. "Any change comes with the risk of destroying your hard-earned equilibrium," he concludes, still not letting go of her hand though; Elizabeth is still holding tight.
"Yes. At the same time," she adds, turning red, "there is seduction in… Something dangerous…is always, more, you know…"
"Taboo. Intriguing. Fascinating. Sexy..."
"Indeed," Elizabeth whispers, her cheeks burning, as the waiter brings them dessert; they both ordered lemon pie; dangerous, fascinating bitter taste of lemon, delicious meringue sweetness.
- X -
"Dangerous. Taboo. Intriguing. Fascinating. Sexy," George repeats with evident self-satisfaction, half an hour later. They've been slowly walking back, under the veiled moon, in the heat of the night. "I have never been called a dangerous man before. Intriguing, yes..."
"I didn't say you were dangerous, George. I said the situation was…"
"I've been called fascinating, obviously..."
"Of course."
"Sexy, well, I hear it at least twice a day...
"I am not rolling my eyes right now. A lady never would."
"But dangerous, never. I like it. Dangerous," George growls, while Elizabeth is silently laughing.
"Again, not you exactly, also, the stakes are really pretty low…"
"Like a smuggler, but a sexy one. Like Han Solo… No! Like a pirate! A sexy, fascinating, irresistible pirate… Seeing a fair lady on the shore, tearing her away from her mundane, boring existence…"
"My life is not…"
"Poor defenseless maiden, whisked off to a life of peril and adventure, in the arms of this dangerous, irresistible rascal..."
Somehow they have made it back – back home, to the square with the sycamores, to Hamid's café – closed now, of course, chairs and parasols vanished for the night; they stop right where Elizabeth's table should be, "Can I kiss you?" George whispers.
A pause. The universe is a pool of shadows. Elizabeth is so tense, she's like a bomb.
Her voice catches. "You're irresistible, I hear."
George clearly hesitates – she feels the tension; like they're on the verge of something – dangerous – deep – here be dragons – George's lips brush hers, Elizabeth shivers involuntarily, they almost miss each other, he tries again and this time – this time –
This time.
When they break the kiss – they – she…
"Hey, hello there," Hamid says, prudently crossing the empty street – looking both ways before he steps on the road – Elizabeth steps away guiltily – the night is too dark for Hamid to have spotted their embrace, and even if he did, so what? She's not doing anything wrong, it feels that way though – taboo, she thinks, half amused, half dizzy.
"You know we're closed, right?" Hamid's smile, warm and somehow ironic.
"We do, Hamid," Elizabeth answers. "It's just, with the sycamores, you own the best part of the square, you know?"
"The place is irresistible," George chimes in, before discreetly taking Elizabeth's hand in his. A short conversation, Hamid goes home, George kisses Elizabeth again, and it's
- and then -
They trade phone numbers, finally. George catches Elizabeth's wrist after she said goodnight, he draws her nearer, a last quick, tender kiss before she walks away at last.
- X -
And then everything turns to ash.
- X -
Darcy wakes up in the morning in his stifling hotel room. The heatwave will break soon, but brace for two more days of hell, they say. It sure feels like it. (Hell.) The air conditioning's not working. Darcy tries to turn it on again, to no avail. Maybe the whole system was strained and gave up.
Nightmares, Darcy realizes, suddenly. All night. Not the heat, not the broken air conditioning, no, those are very real, but God – the dreams he had. Maybe because of the alcohol – rosé in the secret garden, white wine at dinner, champagne, yes, maybe he's just nursing a hangover. But. Those are familiar nightmares. The notorious thick, guilty, sloughy dreams of his youth. It's been a while, now they're back.
(Disappointed everybody. Failed. Did not do his duty, to his family, to his father, to Pemberley. His duty was to succeed, to make them proud, to be someone important, instead Darcy slid into the swamp and drowned and staid stuck at the bottom.)
God. It's been ages. Why now?
When his father died and Darcy inherited Pemberley, nightmares haunted his nights, including a nice "you failed Georgiana she's dead or worse and it is all your fault" subplot. Thank God for small victories because at least this part is totally gone; this choice morsel of culpability vanished the day Georgiana turned eighteen, a fine, well-adjusted human being. The rest of the dreams faded with the years, while Darcy was getting used to Pemberley's arcane mysteries, each week more in control, more competent. They completely vanished the day he sold Pemberley and quit.
He was free, he thought.
Turns out, he isn't.
The early morning is stifling; Darcy can't breathe. He puts on some casual clothes. He goes down to the lobby to get a cup of the good coffee. He says hello to the woman who's setting the breakfast buffet. He says hello and smiles to the guy at the lobby – except – it's ridiculous. Worthless. Why is Darcy doing this? Why would he care what a guy at the lobby in a crummy hotel thinks of him? Darcy goes back to his room, in front of the window, angling his chair just so he can see the tiny bit of view on the right of the wall.
Cars passing. People. Life. He sips his coffee.
It's bitter. Stale.
The heat is already oppressive. The view doesn't mean anything.
He thinks about kissing Emma. How intense and meaningful it felt.
(A lie. A trap.)
He looks at the reminder on his calendar. Today at three.
- X -
The Matlock Foundation annual charity event, today at three.
It's another world, one Darcy has almost forgotten. (His world. And Hamid's café, the sycamores, the meandering streets of Emma's neighborhood, the secret garden with broken concrete and wildflowers suddenly seem powerless, puerile, like a spell that lost its potency.) Yes, this is Darcy's reality, the real one, buffet tables covered with white cloth, elegant waiters, lines of shining crystal glasses, food plentiful and expensive as a symbol of rank, (yes, rank, as outdated as the word seems to be), and, of course, the people.
This world is inhabited by very special creatures.
- Darcy's uncle is there. The Earl of Matlock. (Yes, a real Earl! Yes, they still exist!)
- Darcy's cousin Alcott is here. The Earl of Matlock's eldest son, Richard's eldest brother. Richard is, sadly, not present.
- And of course, the others, ghosts from Darcy's very recent past, from Pemberley and from Pemberley's rival firms and from his uncle's circles of friends, investors, acquaintances, enemies. A tide of ghosts. A flow.
If only Richard had been there. Yes, Richard's presence this afternoon would have changed everything. Because Richard hates this world, his father's world, the world he comes from. Richard knows the danger, Richard knows this universe and its dark seduction. Richard would have been by Darcy's side, sassing away invaders, his presence a reminder that this is not the truth, or at least that only a truth.
But Richard is not here, and wizardry wins, and Darcy is sucked in.
"It's like meeting your abusive ex-boyfriend too soon – when you're not totally over him," Elizabeth will tell Darcy, much later, when he tries to explain, in more details, what happened that day. (Yes, Elizabeth. Not Emma.) "The evil ex-boyfriend walks toward you," Elizabeth will continue, "you see him coming and you should flee, but you're hypnotized, and now it's too late, he's telling you why breaking up with him was a terrible mistake, how you've been failing at life since, how ridiculous and worthless all those things you hold dear really are, and wasn't it much better when he was at your side to steer you right? And you don't believe him – not really – not at first – but he keeps talking and doubt seeps in and your worldview begins to shift…"
"Wow," Darcy will answer, worried. "I hope this does not stem from personal experience."
Elizabeth will look at Darcy and smile (trust, affection, joy) before shaking her head. "No, nothing personal. Just… Four sisters. A bunch of female friends. Lydia had a really bad boyfriend, for a while. She was so young..."
But this is a conversation for much later, dear reader, we're not there yet. Darcy is not there yet. He is still at the Matlock event, in this beautiful, luxuriously decorated space, and all the ghosts are talking to him.
"Hey, Darcy! Still on your 'break'? But… You're pretending, right? What genius new project are you really concocting?"
"Darcy! So great to see you! So, you're in negotiations with a new firm? Keeping it a surprise? I can't wait to see what you are really about…"
"Darcy, so you're back! Indefatigable, like your father! I knew nothing could keep a Darcy down…"
"Darcy! So, I hear you were taking a sabbatical and there is, shall we say, a lady involved? Or maybe several?"
"Darcy, I have a woman for you. No, seriously, I have the woman for you. Sophia Grey, do you know her? Ok, man, listen…"
This is Alcott, Darcy's cousin, remember? Richard's eldest brother – the two men cannot be more different. Alcott drags Darcy near a pillar, he explains all about Sophia. First a substantial description of the young woman's physical assets, then the rest of the pedigree, see, Sophia is half Swedish, half American, she went to Harvard, you'll never guess who she's working for, and her father – you already know her father, Darcy, he's that guy who – Alcott is still raving about "what a great couple you two would make" when they are joined by Darcy's uncle, the Earl of Matlock in person, in a surprisingly good mood.
Yep, surprising. Considering that when Darcy and his uncle last interacted, Darcy had just sold Pemberley. The Earl went crazy, yelled at Darcy for ages, or would have, except Darcy left, dramatically banging the door, and…scene. The yelling was, of course, about Darcy abandoning his inheritance and making the family look bad because of a childish tantrum, and what would Darcy's father say, etc. Anyway. This afternoon the Earl is in a good mood because of the rumor spreading, maybe thanks to Alcott, that Darcy is taking a sabbatical because he is looking for a wife – yes, seriously, this story does take place in the 21st century.
See, for the Earl, this puts a completely different light on the matter. His nephew did not have a "burnout" like an overworked proletarian chump, ha, no. Darcy did not walk away from his glorious responsibilities, he is just on pause, focusing on private matters, before coming back married and ready to start a new, shining business career.
Dear reader, this is nonsense, of course. Such was never Darcy's intention, a single man in possession of a good fortune is not always in want of a wife, but when Darcy hears his smiling uncle he freezes – they cannot know the truth, right? His uncle cannot know about Emma? Darcy rewinds all his recent conversations and no, thank God, Darcy only mentioned Emma to Georgiana, who is in Italy, and has cut ties with all the Matlock clan anyway.
And for a fleeting second there Darcy wishes he had done so too. Cut all ties. For a fleeting second he wishes he had not come here today, because he can feel it, his reality, shifting – and Emma – what the hell was he thinking? Emma wouldn't fit here. Emma who has not gone to Harvard, Emma with her ratty purple backpack, Emma who works on a café table with an old laptop named Harriett, Emma who flunked law school – or quit – Emma and her tiny apartment, her shabby neighborhood, she – she's great – but she isn't – it doesn't – Darcy's family would be so disappointed – except – it doesn't matter, right? Who cares about their opinion, that is what Georgiana would say, but it's not about their opinion, Darcy thinks, it's…
Emma wouldn't fit.
So now both the Earl and Alcott are recommending Sophia Grey, five stars on Yelp! The Earl pats affectionally Darcy's shoulder, says he never doubted him, oh and if it doesn't work with Julia, has Darcy heard of Emma Woodhouse? Darcy bristles because of the name "Emma," it's another Emma though, a rich and beautiful one, "the Woodhouses, they're loaded", Alcott confirms, with this laugh he has, a cynical-we're-all-bros-here-but-in-an-ironical-intellectual-superior-way laugh that always put Darcy's teeth on edge and suddenly Darcy is too hot, the air conditioning is working here but – he's hot anyway – uncomfortable – after a short and polite conversation he leaves his uncle and cousin to go refresh his drink.
"Darcy! So there's a new project, right? No need to keep us all in suspense…"
"Darcy! We all know what you've really been doing…"
Darcy smiles politely, sometimes his answers sound clipped, he knows, but the situation feels unreal. The feeling of wrongness becomes so strong, he has to make an exit. It's been three hours anyway, so Darcy's again very polite about it, he asks Alcott to say goodbye to his uncle for him, he walks away, calls a Uber, he wants to go home, except he doesn't have a home, just a stupid hotel with a window and no view.
Oh my God, what has he done?
"Darcy! We all know what you've really been doing..."
Nothing, that's what he's done.
He stayed in his stupid, third rate hotel, gone to a crappy café with crappy service, read outdated novels. Only talking to Bingley and Jane – and Emma – and Emma, she – she dragged Darcy into her odd, sweet reality of make-believe, inside jokes, little, unimportant things, and it – it's not him – not Darcy – he's been seduced by the easiness of it, the simplicity, but – they're right – why hasn't he been concocting a new project? Why hasn't he been creating a new firm? Why isn't he right now having meetings with – people – important people – instead of hanging out in tiny Greek restaurants drinking awful coffee – and then his phone dings, and Darcy's heart stutters, because despite all his musings, he still hopes for a text from Emma…
It's not.
It's a text from Palmer – one of his old friends, one of the ghosts Darcy just talked to at the event. Offering him a job.
Offering him a partnership, actually. See, the main associate of the firm had a heart attack, the guy is fine now, but retiring, they had vaguely someone in mind, but seeing Darcy at the party, Palmer says, it gave him an idea, they should discuss it, is Darcy free tomorrow?
** I am ** Darcy texts.
- X -
The hotel. The stifling room. Air-conditioning has not been fixed yet.
Another bad night. A very bad one. The nightmares are back, full force. In the morning, the heat is unbearable, Darcy can't breathe. The last day, they say. Also, Darcy is very conscious that he has not texted Emma yet. It's been more than twenty-four hours now, after their date; he's not been to the café either. He pictures it all too well. Yesterday, Emma, arriving at Hamid's, radiant after the evening they just had, looking for him – for George – maybe she waited for him all day, writing, of course, but still expecting his arrival, except George never showed up – and then, no call, no text, Emma's phone, painstakingly silent. Of course she would think…
Darcy could still save it. He could still text, right now. Make up a story. Or just tell the truth – the charity gala, unpleasant family conversations.
Instead, Darcy goes to the meeting.
Palmer's offices, white and metal. Darcy is welcomed into the executive conference room on the upper floor, a crazy view, they pull all the stops, you know, excellent coffee, thick financial documents, impressively high numbers, the partnership is exciting, or should be. Yes, it's Darcy's world, no, better: it's his expertise, he gets back into the groove, he's focused, on point, he mentions some directions Palmer could take, he proposes risky investments and some not that risky, Palmer is very excited, having "the Pemberley Darcy" would be so great for their image, time to leave, Darcy shakes hands and smiles, he says all the right things.
As soon as he is outside he realizes nope, he's not interested. The job would bring a Pemberley's level of responsibilities without Pemberley's advantages – his father's legacy, Darcy's innovations, the charms of the place itself, Ms Reynolds' invaluable assistance, employees Darcy had known his whole life. And Pemberley was not only a business: they helped a lot of people. So no. Darcy won't work with Palmer. But – all this strategy talk has pulled him even more into his old reality.
The café, the books, the quirky neighborhood are fading away.
He cannot wait anymore. Ghosting Emma, that's not… It's unfair. Rude. She deserves to know.
Darcy takes his phone and starts typing.
** Hello Emma. I apologize for not being in contact before. **
He hesitates. The words seem trite. Maybe they always are, in these circumstances.
There are not a thousand ways to break up with someone after all.
** Listen, thanks for a lovely evening. I had a really great time in your company. But… **
- X -
Darcy pukes. Yep, he's actually sick for a while, in his tiny, impersonal, too white hotel bathroom. After breakfast, after sending Emma the text. Maybe it's the heat, maybe it's the food, maybe it's something he ate or drank at the gala yesterday.
Or maybe it's because… It's over. Emma must have received his messages by now. She must have read them. The situation is not salvageable.
Maybe he made a mistake.
(Of course he didn't make a mistake.)
But maybe…
(No.)
- X -
** Hey, free for dinner? I'm making curry! **
Bingley. When Darcy's phone chimed, he thought maybe Emma just answered, and… And, what? The best he could hope for was a cold, but polite reply.
Of course, it was not her. Hours passed and Emma did not text back. Darcy wouldn't have, in her place.
He's certainly never going back to Hamid's café now.
** I'll be there ** Darcy sends to Bingley.
- X -
Evening comes. It's still so hot. Darcy buys a bottle a wine, and after some thought, flowers for Jane. It's not because he...because he changed his mind about a few things that he should forget his resolution to be more pleasant, more thoughtful. Emma, the way she interacted with the staff, at the café – Darcy should take lessons. He will.
Darcy arrives at Netherfield (the building), he rides the elevator. Fifth floor. Bingley cheerfully opens the door. Jane accepts the flowers, all smiles, and grateful thanks, she ushers Darcy in the main room, someone's already here, a woman, looking toward the window. "We have a last-minute guest," Jane explains, radiant. "It's been so long, I'm so glad you two can finally meet!"
The young woman turns to him, while Jane happily concludes,
"Darcy, this is my sister, Elizabeth."
- X -
And just like that, the heatwave is over.
- X -
(Not the end!)