NOTES: Lizzy's POV, normal length. Next will probably be Darcy's. There is humor in this chapter, but we're in the midst of the angst now. Fluff won't be back until a while later— but I'll still be posting regularly, and I'd really appreciate if y'all kept pushing thru :)
Stay safe, you guys ~Vinny
Lizzy should have known from the steps that she would be in for trouble. The steps leading up to a party always tell you so much about what's inside. Usually, there would be just two or three concrete ones, leading up to a bar or a club. Sometimes they would be made of wood— rustic. Sometimes there would be no stairs at all— a party among friends.
And, in extreme cases, there were Cinderella-type stairs, made of marble, leading up to an entrance at least 15 feet above ground, with a football field's length of red carpet, stretching from here to GODDAMNED TIMBUKTU.
Tonight, as it seemed, was one of those… special cases.
"How many stairs ARE there?" Lizzy whispered, frustrated, to Fitzwilliam.
He chuckled deeply, the sound resonating through his chest. "Just be glad you're in flats— look."
Fitzwilliam pointed discreetly to where, a few yards away, a woman with her hair piled up as if her catchphrase was 'Let Them Eat Cake,' was struggling to mount the two inch steps in her hundred-inch heels.
Lizzy snickered, first at the sight, then at her boyfriend's statement. "How is that you noticed my shoes? You can barely see my feet under this skirt."
He smiled, and spots of pink manifested on his clean-shaven cheeks. "I.. I just noticed."
"I'm going to interpret that as sweet," she teased, "rather than you having a foot fetish."
She expected FItzwilliam to laugh. Or smile. Or at least roll his eyes in amused resignation.
What Lizzy did NOT expect was her boyfriend's face turn to a stony expression of helpless hatred— concealed, of course, but she could see through him by now— and for him to pull her in by the elbow to whisper even softer, "Hey, um, Lizzy?"
"Hm?"
"Can you.. not… make jokes like that.. inside."
"Of course, of course," Lizzy said, quickly, a little offended, "But why would y… oh."
Ahead of them, Lizzy's gaze finally landed on a woman clad in a fabulous black evening dress, whispering furiously to her (probably fourth) husband, who looked like he was hanging on every word. The couple turned to glance back at Fitzwilliam every few sentences.
"I see." The color in Lizzy's face rose to match Fitzwilliam's blush, which is to say, the shade of an ambitiously red tomato. "I'm sorry."
"It's okay," he mumbled, looking miserable and extremely embarrassed. "Just.. because of the rumors circulating… about.. uh, our relationship, that I really don't want to make worse."
Lizzy's brain had to gnaw at that one for a second before it clicked: the last time these people had seen her was... Then her cheeks deepened a shade, and she buried her face in Fitzwilliam's suit jacket, whispering even softer, "Oh fuck, they think I'm a prostitute, don't they?"
"No, no," Fitzwilliam hissed back, gently pushing her off of him, "Just that you're.. a… um… woman of.. questionable morals."
"So a prostitute."
"Yeah pretty much."
"Great," Lizzy sighed, plastering on a fake smile cheesier than the dairy section of the grocery store. "Just great."
"Hey," Fitzwilliam nudged her, "It'll all be okay. I'm with you."
Lizzy shot him a grateful smile, then took his gallantly offered arm, and made it up the endless flight of stairs.
As it turned out, the gala's entrance hall was no less daunting.
The walls were shinier than the inside of an oyster, and all the lights glittered like pearls. Golden globes were hung from the archways, fancy collandes draped with silver curtains. Figures swayed and mingled in the throng; men in tailored suits and women in gold necklaces and sleek dresses. Waiters strolled through the crowd, toting trays of champagne and shrimp.
"Are you okay?" Fitzwilliam whispered.
Lizzy tightened her jaw and squared her shoulder. Breathe. She could do this. "Yeah.. yeah, I'm good."
"Alright," he swallowed. "Let's get started."
Immediately, Fitzwilliam's features shuffled, and he took on the look of a man twenty years older; one who worked in an office, probably had a divorce in the making, and slept no more than four hours a night.
"Mr Bromley," he called, in an emotionless voice, "How are you this evening?"
A portly man with a stiff collar turned around, saying, "Ahh, Darcy! I'm splendid, simply splendid— though the champagne may be helping."
He laughed heartily, and Fitzwilliam laughed too. Lizzy had never heard that laugh. It sounded like he was in pain, even though the sound itself was low and soft. It worried her that Fitzwilliam's eyes didn't crinkle, even a little.
"And who is this lovely lady?" Mr Bromley asked, looking to her with a self-satisfied expression.
"This is Elizabeth," Fitzwilliam said, somberly, "my girlfriend."
"Nice to meet you," she said, extending her hand.
Mr Bromley's eyes went wide, then narrowed into gleaming slits. His smile didn't falter for one second. With a sweeping bow, he kissed her hand like an old-time gentleman. "A pleasure, Elizabeth," he murmured, oozingly.
She gave out a strained giggle, and wiped her hand as discreetly as she could on her dress.
Unfortunately, Mr Bromley seemed to notice the motion, and took it as an invitation to look closer at her dress.
"I say! This fabric is simply marvelous!" He cried, insincerely. Lizzy was very uncomfortable with the way his pudgy little red fingers were brushing against her skirt. "Which designer did you use? Vera Wang? Pierre Cardin? Chanel?"
"Um, no," Lizzy hummed, trying to keep a smile on her face as she wrenched away her dress as politely as possible, "My, uh, sister actually designed it."
"Ah." Mr Bromley dropped his fistful of her fabric as if it was infested with maggots. "I see."
"Well! It was very nice to see you, Mr Bromley," Fitzwilliam cut in, stepping between the two.
"Ah, yes. Very.. very nice… splendid."
After Fitzwilliam gently led the portly man away, he returned to whisper urgently to Lizzy, "Why did you say your sister designed it?!"
"Because it's true, dummy," she murmured back, her tone trying for teasing, but falling flat at the end.
"Yes, but it killed the conversation," he said, looking around nervously. "Mr Bromley is one of the friendliest people here; I was planning on having him introduce you to the other board members."
"Mmm, well, sweetie…" Lizzy touched his face, turning his head back to face her. "He seemed the.. wrong type of friendly, if you know what I mean."
Fitzwilliam's eyebrows pulled together. "I don't think I do. Was he too nice?"
Lizzy had to resist rolling her eyes. "No. Not at all. I just wouldn't want to be alone in a room with the guy without pepper spray, ya know?"
After another second of confused silence, Lizzy sighed, and put her head on his shoulder for just a second before lifting it again. "Just.. intervene, next time, if I look uncomfortable. Please."
"Okay," he nodded, "I will."
"Thank you," Lizzy smiled.
She rose up on her tiptoes to kiss him, needing a little intimate contact to remind her she was part of a team, and not all alone… but was met with nothing but a chaste peck from cold closed lips.
Going off her confused (and somewhat hurt) look, Fitzwilliam said, "It's better not to do PDA at these kinds of events. Shows weakness."
Lizzy frowned and looked around the room. It was true. All the couples around the room were at MOST linking arms. Nobody was smiling. All the laughter was fake.
She shivered.
But before she could look to Fitzwilliam, and at least get a little bit of comfort, he had turned away, his shoulders tense as a board, to talk to some other businessmen.
Lizzy was pulled along by her arm in his, and then she was whisked away, back into the throng of unfriendly faces, and one face who she had thought would be different.