Another Musical Interlude
April was Lizzy's favorite month. The unfurling tree buds granted a daily inspection. The first flower deserved a photograph. The unpredictable weather made her laugh, especially when she walked out of the laundry-mat into an early spring thunderstorm. As she ironed a pile of shirts—Jane's, Lydia's, and her own—warm still from the dryer, she sang, "Who is to say I am not the happy genius of my household?" and it only bothered her a little bit that the song she was singing was part of B.F.D.'s first album.
April was also a month of spring breaks and marathons, and TV had turned out to be Lydia's biggest addiction in college. Apparently her mother had allowed her only an hour and a half of cable per day while she was growing up, so Lydia was determined to make up for her lack in her first semester at Vickroot. Jane had threatened to stop paying the cable bill, but Lizzy knew there wasn't much chance of that, not if it meant that Jane would have to give up Gilmore Girls every Tuesday night.
"Lydia," Jane chided gently from the kitchen (she was scrubbing last night's pasta dishes), "you'll get more homework done if you turn off the TV."
"I'll turn it off after this show is over," Lydia promised.
"You've been watching it all day," Jane pointed out.
"Yeah, but this is the Newlyweds Divorce marathon," Lydia protested. "I'm watching the progression of the break-up. Besides Lizzy's watching too."
"No, I'm not," Lizzy said swiftly, bending her head over Jane's baby blue Oxford. She smoothed it with one hand and ran a steaming iron over it with the other.
"Yes, you are--I saw your mouth drop open during the infamous Chicken of the Sea incident," Lydia told Lizzy smugly.
"I thought the press had exaggerated," Lizzy said.
"Nope," said Lydia, turning back to the TV.
"You said you were going to Caribou to study," Jane reminded Lydia.
"I am," Lydia replied, "Just as soon as I finish this chapter."
"Wait," said Lizzy. "What are you going to Caribou for if you're going to finish your work here?"
"This chapter," Lydia repeated. "I don't want to have to carry this book all the way to Caribou, that's all."
"Don't give me that shit," Lizzy said with a shrewd smirk. "You're a freshman; you don't have that much work. You're going to see Wickhead."
"Am not," Lydia said, but she was blushing.
Lizzy rolled her eyes, very grateful that Lydia was way too young for Jack to even consider dating.
"You can't hide it from me," Lizzy told her cousin. "I've seen your Mrs. Lydia Wickham doodles with all the hearts around them."
Lydia gasped and dropped her psychology textbook. "You've been reading my diary?"
Lizzy's mouth curled into a slow grin. "I was joking. I made that up. You mean you've actually got Mrs. Wickham doodles?"
"No…" Lydia said slowly, her eyes traveling past Lizzy to where a hot pink GODDESS diary sat on the kitchen table.
Lizzy and Lydia bolted for it at the same time. A struggle ensued.
"Let it go; it's mine."
"No way, shortie. Detective instincts are at full throttle now. I gotta follow the lead."
"You're going to fucking rip it."
"Quit whining."
"Hey, Lizzy," said Jane, leaning on the kitchen counter with her eyes on the TV. "Isn't that the guy you met at Rosings?"
Lizzy glanced at Jane, remembering that she still hadn't found the right time to tell her sister what had really happened at Rosings. With a guilty sigh, she released Lydia's diary and turned to see Fitz's smirking face lighting up the screen.
"In Boston, Richard Fitzwilliam—known as Fitz to his fans—ended up in the hospital today at approximately 9AM," the MTV newscaster said gravely, and Lizzy gasped. "He was helping his wife and manager, Margaret Smith-Fitzwilliam, check into the maternity ward."
"Snot," Lizzy snapped at the telecaster, who was busy tossing her bangs out of her eyes. "She totally did that on purpose."
"I doubt she writes her own lines," Jane told her sister.
"The Fitzwilliam's baby was a week overdue, and Maggie Fitzwilliam apparently decided to induce pregnancy," the newscaster continued. "As it usually happens in the rock-and-roll business, the paparazzi caught wind of the appointment and waited at the hospital to greet the couple. Needless to say, the parents-to-be weren't too pleased to see them. A gun was pulled. Two, in fact."
"Oh, my God," Lydia said as Lizzy's mouth fell open.
On screen, the program switched to home-video quality footage—a shaky camera focusing on the door of a silver BMW with background shouts of "Mrs. Fitzwilliam, Mrs. Fitzwilliam, look here" and "Fitz, how 'bout a word from the father-to-be?" The Fitzwilliams appeared around the corner of the car: Maggie—dark-haired, petite, and in a wheelchair, and Fitz—red-crested and wheeling her. Their scowls were identical and grim. "Now, Mags?" Fitz asked his wife, and both of them reached into the inside of their jackets simultaneously and pulled out matching silver pistols. They started a wheel-by shooting: Maggie with both arms stretched toward the paparazzi, Charlie's-Angels style, and Fitz, one-handed as he pushed his wife along. Lizzy, Jane, and Lydia could hear the surprised and disgusted cries of the photographers as a stream of water sped toward the camera lens and blurred the shot. Just before the footage ended, a female voice shouted, "Don't BEEP with our kid, you BEEPholes!"
Lizzy was doubled over laughing, tears blooming out of her eyes. "It's not that funny, Lizzy," Lydia told her, but Lizzy just shook her head, too breathless with laughter to explain.
"Their daughter was born at 4:30 this afternoon," said the newscaster smiling. "Her name is Zarine Smith-Fitzwilliam. None of the photographers have yet filed charges against the proud parents." Lizzy stopped laughing; she hadn't thought about the threat of a lawsuit. "In other news," continued the newscaster, "Fitz's bandmate Dar has started a solo career. That's right. William Darlington is his on own. Just for this one song sadly, but guess what? He wrote his own lyrics. Stay tuned—his new video is coming up next on Fresh."
Lizzy thought she was going to have at least a few commercials' time to prepare herself, but MTV cut immediately to a fuzzy black and white frame of Dar, sitting alone under a spotlight in a plastic folding chair, his acoustic guitar in his lap.
It wasn't fair, Lizzy decided as she narrowed her eyes at the screen. A girl wasn't supposed to be surprised by the guy she was trying not to think about while she was watching television, for crying out loud. Lizzy flinched, remembering Charlie, and looked at her sister sharply, but Jane was just standing arms crossed, with a bemused smile on her face. When she noticed Lizzy looking at her, she said, "He's gorgeous, isn't he?"
"Jane," Lizzy hissed, mouth agape.
"Oh, come on, Lizzy," Jane scolded with a wry grin. "Look at him. Isn't he handsome?"
"Totally hot," Lydia agreed.
He was. Lizzy always forgot exactly how attractive he was until she saw him again, but it was startlingly obvious in black and white. The dramatic shadows emphasized the angles of his face and the spotlight bring out highlights in his dark hair as he leaned over his guitar and shuffled through the papers at his feet.
He looked up into the camera, and Lizzy recognized the look on his face, the terrifying one where it seemed like he expected something from her. He wetted his lips once and began to sing:
You told me,
'It's so easy to misunderstand you,'
and baby,
I can't help but think
That's what you've done.
You told me,
'you don't listen,'
but baby,
I've heard
every word you've said.
Lizzy felt a blush start on her face, and she shook her hair forward to hide it from her sister and her cousin. She had no reason to be embarrassed. She had no reason to think that he was singing about her.
CHORUS
You told me
'Every girl has a secret dream
Of being sung to.
Remember that,' you said,
'For when you fall in love.'
So, I've written this song
And I'm singing it to you.
Lizzy didn't think she'd said something like that to Will. No—by the pool, maybe?
"Huh," said Jane as Will sang on, and Lizzy could hear the laughter in her sister's voice even though she couldn't manage to tear her gaze away from the screen. "Looks like even the moody Dar can fall in love."
"I wish somebody would write me a song," said Lydia, hugging her knees and grinning into the TV screen.
Jane was quiet for a moment, glancing at Lizzy. Lizzy was still watching the screen. "It's very flattering," Jane said smiling.
"Well, maybe not this particular song—" Lydia started, but after missing a whole stanza to Jane and Lydia's conversation, Lizzy said sharply, "Shhh—"
Will was singing again.
You asked me,
'What did you think?
That all you had to do
Was tell me?
That I'd jump
At the chance?'
Lizzy knew she was being manipulated. She knew that it was only the angle of the camera—looking down at Will, from slightly above, and the illusion of poor quality film and how he'd placed himself alone and helpless in the spotlight. But Will just looked so vulnerable—so hopeful—that she couldn't help feeling a little guilty.
You said,
'You coward,
You can't even admit
You've screwed up.
That you—
The garbage disposal garbled on, drowning out the last words of the stanza, and Jane flipped it off and jumped away from the counter, whispering, "Sorry, sorry—I thought that was the light switch." Scowling, Lizzy took the remote from Lydia's hand and turned up the volume just fast enough to hear Will sing,
Last man on earth
Last man on earth
Last man on earth
Lizzy winced, remembering that afternoon and the look on Will's face just before he walked out the door—very pale, very young and scowling with a mouth open and vulnerable. On screen, Dar began a guitar solo, plucking out long, twanging notes that reminded Lizzy of Eric Clapton. And crying.
A small box appeared in the bottom right hand corner of the screen, showing Dar's scowling face and the side of the interviewer's head.
"So, Dar," said the interviewer, his gelled hair glinting in the studio lights, "critics have predicted that the release of your single preludes your band's break up. Do B.F.D. fans have any need to worry?"
"No," said Will, so stiffly that Lizzy had to smile.
"Why did you choose to make such a career-changing move?" asked the interviewer.
Will glanced into the camera and back at the interviewer. When he responded, the return of his American accent made Lizzy flinch. "There was a song I needed to write."
"And record. And release," added the interviewer with a grin. Lizzy grinned wider when she saw Will's eyes narrow. He really hated this interviewer. "Any word on your label's reaction to this song?"
"No," Will said, and Lizzy snickered.
"How about the song itself then? Is it true? Did some girl really—"
"I'll let the song speak for itself, thank you," said Will sharply, getting up off the chair MTV had allotted him and walking off screen. Lizzy half-grimaced, half-smiled, and didn't envy Will his next round of interviews.
Jane said to Lizzy, "He hasn't changed, has he?"
The smile fell off Lizzy's face, as she looked guiltily at her sister. Will Darcy would've had to change to write this kind of song.
I think you were wrong.
I think there's a chance.
This is me,
Reaching out to you.
This is me telling you,
I've heard everything you've said.
Now maybe, this once,
You might listen to me.
CHORUS
You told me
'Every girl has a secret dream
Of being sung to.
Remember that,' you said,
'For when you fall in love.'
So, I've written this song
And I'm singing it to you.
Yeah, I'm singing it to you.
Will glanced up from his notes on the floor and stared back into the screen one final time. There was a half-smile lighting up his face. "Yeah," he sang, "I'm singing it to you." The last chord rang out, and the credits appeared in the left-hand corner (Will Darlington/ You Told Me/ Catcall Records 2006). Then, the latest Gwen Stefani video filled the screen.
Lizzy realized she was holding her breath and let it go in a sigh.
"Well," said Lydia, getting up and shoving books in her backpack, "I guess we know why B.F.D. doesn't write their own lyrics."
"What do you mean?" Lizzy said defensively. "It's a good song."
"Lizzy," said Jane, red eyebrows raised and corners of her mouth curling, "I thought you hated him."
"I don't hate him," said Lizzy, remembering the look on his face as he sang to her. No matter how else Will Darcy confused her, Lizzy was sure of that at least.