It's so hot. The town is burning. Sun on concrete, metal, plastic. Cars must be ablaze, parked all day outside. Not that Elizabeth owns one.
The square near the subway entrance: beautiful trees, an ugly modern mall. A fancy café near the theatre, all modern lines and expensive beer, and another crummy one with a few tables on the square, under the trees. The crummy café is Elizabeth's favourite place on earth. With her new apartment, maybe. And her old apartment in the Bennet building. And the place near the park where she and Jane have fancy tea when they are in the mood for luxury. Also, Bingley's mountain house and her grandmother's old cottage. Elizabeth has a lot of favourite places.
So. The café. Metal tables, metal chairs, basic green parasols, seriously, not a classy joint. Elizabeth ordered rosé and olives. She's all alone on what should be called the café terrace but is really just the part of the square defined the sycamores on her left, the ice cream truck behind her, and the sidewalk on her right.
And she was wrong — she is not alone, actually. There's another customer just on her right. A man, her age, or slightly older. The tables are pretty far apart, at least five feet.
Elizabeth doesn't move. Basking in the heat. The shadow of the parasol, a sharp shape of grey on the metal table. Waiting for her drink, it's the best part, before the order comes. All the time in the world, waiting for something even better to happen.
A waiter approaches with a tray; he walks directly to the man and puts a glass of rosé and olives before him.
"Nope," the man says. "Not what I ordered."
His tone is a little clipped, but he was reading something. Maybe he was just surprised.
Rather handsome, too.
"Sorry, that must be for me," Elizabeth intervenes with a smile. "I asked Tina — did she leave already?"
"Yep," the waiter says, "sorry sir," he adds, taking everything back and bringing it to Elizabeth. The handsome man throws Elizabeth an exasperated look, like she is guilty of the horrid crime of having wine brought to him by mistake, and now she's also TALKING — aloud — to another human being, what horror will she think of next?
"Tina left at four," the waiter explains. "Hey, you were there last summer, right?" he asks Elizabeth with a warm smile. He must be around fifty, an Italian accent somewhere.
Vague memories of soda and conversation. "Yes! Did we speak about Milan?"
"I think so," the waiter says. "You wanted to go, right?"
"I did." Elizabeth is strangely conscious that the handsome man is listening. She feels flustered, no reason why, except he's handsome and unpleasant — it's silly, but she feels she's being judged. "I went with my friend Charlotte. We loved our stay, but there's so much to see. We spent an entire day in the Pinacoteca, we could not seem to leave... It is Italy's fault, you know. Too many beauties; tourists are overwhelmed. The government should ugly everything a little."
"I'll tell them," the waiter says, laughing, before making a fun little bow. "Well, back to work." He crosses the street to re-enter the café — yes, there is a busy street between the building and the "terrace," so each time a waiter brings an order out or a client goes inside to pay, there is a non-zero risk of someone dying in a horrible car crash.
It doesn't happen that often, Elizabeth supposes, or business would suffer.
She takes a sip of rosé, illogically self-conscious. Did she mention spending all day in the museum because the judgmental man was listening and she wanted to sound clever? Not that it's a lie, though. When the waiter comes back with the man's order Elizabeth is relieved to see it is alcohol too. At least, he won't judge her on her rosé — ok, she's being crazy. Stop.
Laptop. Elizabeth starts working. Soon she's immersed in her own little world of words. Sentences and paragraphs like connected bubbles. When she emerges and looks around, the man has vanished. At his place, two elderly ladies, happily chatting. The café is slowly getting fuller; the waiter crosses the street, dancing with death around moving cars, on his tray of collection of glasses, lemon slices and tall beers.
The sun won't set anytime soon. The temperature is still hot as fuck, but you can feel the evening softening, the air getting golden.
Summer. Elizabeth closes her laptop. She takes a new sip of rosé.
Life is pretty damn great.
- X -
Jane, Bingley, and Elizabeth are eating pizza on Bingley's beautiful reclaimed-wood bar.
"Elizabeth," the gentleman says, "we want to send you on a date! With the most wonderful man in the world. Or should I say, we want to set up a date for you — I'm not sure what is the right terminology here —Jane, help!"
Charles Bingley is Jane's fiancé; Jane is Elizabeth's eldest sister. A year ago, Bingley bought a huge loft with windows opening directly on the square. You can see the café and the trees. Elizabeth's trees. Yep, hers. This is Elizabeth's neighbourhood, her childhood neighbourhood, it belongs to her, and maybe to Jane, anyone else is just borrowing it.
We had dinner with Darcy," Jane explains. "Do you remember, Lizzy — we talked about him. Bingley's childhood friend?"
"The one who sold everything and got filthy rich?"
Bingley eats more pizza. "He was filthy rich even before."
Darcy is supposed to be a paragon among men, Elizabeth remembers. Smart, generous, good looking. He inherited — a business, from his father? Who died young? Anyway, Darcy shouldered the burden when he was not even twenty-two, he managed the business, or businesses, for years, and then his younger sister left — for Italy, maybe? Elizabeth's memories are fuzzy. Anyway, Darcy suddenly and recently sold "Pemberley", that was the name of the firm. Now he swims every morning in a diamond pool of gold doubloons.
"He is great," Jane explains. "I was intimidated at first, and Charles had ordered takeaway — I thought, Darcy's an important man, maybe he will be offended…"
"He's not like that," Bingley protests. "And he's not an important man, he's my friend. My grumpy unsufferable friend."
"He was perfectly polite and pleasant," Jane comments. "Maybe a little diffident. But then we talked about his sister and music and art and we had a great time…"
Elizabeth laughs. "Nope, no, sorry, too much conflicting information. A week ago, you told me Darcy was charming and glamorous and had ALL THE QUALITIES. Now, he's grumpy and insufferable, but...great anyway? Somehow?"
Bingley smirks. "What can I say? It's all true."
"I would not call him 'charming'" Jane replies prudently. "He's too reserved."
"But you want me to go on a date with him."
"I do." Jane smiles. Her soft, sweet smile, the one Elizabeth mostly cannot resist. "Do not listen to Charles. Seriously, Darcy is interesting, and — I don't know, thoughtful? I liked him a lot. I think you would appreciate him too."
Elizabeth drinks some water. Going on a date with a millionaire. Grumpy, unsufferable, shy, but still perfect. "I…don't know," she muses.
I mean, why not. Elizabeth enjoys meeting new people, and this guy at least sounds interesting. High maintenance, certainly, but she likes sketching characters. Although... Truth is, laziness wins. Elizabeth is just not feeling it and she doesn't want to force herself to try. Also, Darcy is Charles' best friend. Elizabeth is already unmotivated, the date will most likely be a bust, and then what? Elizabeth will meet Darcy all the time in Bingley's vicinity. Recipe for awkwardness. Because Charles Bingley is here to stay. He and Jane will get married soon, they did not set a date, but they are so in love it hurts.
(Strange thought. "They are so in love it hurts." Why should it hurt? Elizabeth is so happy for her sister. She has always been afraid Jane would meet an asshole who hurt her. But she didn't, she met Bingley, who's even kinder than Jane somehow — sometimes destiny works exactly right.)
"Listen, Janey, it is it ok if I pass? I'm just, I don't know… Not in a dating mood right now. My life is pretty perfect. I'm holding my breath, I don't want anything to change, ever. No throwing rocks at the surface of the lake."
"Sure, of course," Jane says, at the exact moment where Bingley exclaims,
"Aw, no! We already told Darcy, and he agreed. To the date, I mean."
Jane intervenes again, with the diplomatic tone she uses when Bingley is over-enthusiastic. "Not — exactly. I was talking to Darcy about you, Lizzy, saying how crazy it was you two hadn't met yet, and how great you were, and Bingley talked about setting this date, and…"
"And Darcy agreed!"
"He smiled, Charles. Politely. Then he changed the conversation and complimented the falafels."
God, Elizabeth thinks. Poor guy. A least they agree on not wanting to date each other; that's a start.
- X -
It gets even hotter.
Elizabeth loves it. All your muscles go soft. Tension evaporates. The world slows down. Events and people float in the summer haze. Elizabeth knows she'd be less enthusiastic if she had to take the overheated subway and go every day in a stifling office, but now she can work from home, or from anywhere else, really.
The café. The tables are white-hot. The sycamores are so horrified they refuse to move a leaf. The concrete would melt if it was allowed to. Elizabeth orders sparkling water. A lot of work ahead; she doesn't need her laptop; for now, a notebook and a pen will suffice.
Organizing notes. Structuring future documents. Again, a bubble of focus inside the heavy, peaceful warmth.
"No. This is not what I ordered."
The handsome, judgmental, exasperated guy. With his judgemental, exasperated voice.
Same table than yesterday. Elizabeth too. They got the best tables, far from the street, close to the trees. A public fountain nearby, the parasols just at the right angle.
"Oh, sorry, sir," the waiter says. He smiles at Elizabeth. "Iced coffee. Is it yours?"
Right. She ordered it after she finished her water half an hour ago. Tina must have left again.
"Yes, it's mine," she says, smiling; she chats with the waiter for two minutes maybe. She FEELS the handsome, judgmental, exasperated man's annoyance. Palpable waves of disapproval surging towards her. Elizabeth gives the man a quick glance; he puts his book down (Moby Dick) with a longsuffering expression. A "how dare you keep sending me things to drink and converse in an establishment where people habitually ask for things to drink before conversing" expression.
The waiter leaves. Elizabeth turns to the handsome, judgmental, exasperated man and gives him her brightest smile. Her winning smile. Her Elizabeth Bennet's "I am so pleasant and funny and charming" smile. Her "I am going to shame you into politeness" smile, her "I am going to be so delightful you will regret having been unpleasant till the day you die" smile.
"I am sorry," she says. "You hate being interrupted while you are reading."
"Yes." His voice, so cold. "And you just did it again."
THIS IS THE MOST OBNOXIOUS MAN ALIVE.