On The Market Chapter 23 - Off limits, a pride and prejudice fanfic

Some time later Will turned around and left. Elisabeth let herself in and leant back against the closed door, waiting for her wits to make their own lackadaisical way into the flat. It took a few seconds, but gradually she became aware of the TV's noise coming in from the lounge, and thought her senses might be returning. Only then did she start taking her coat off, very slowly and carefully, until it hung up on the peg, completely creaseless.

Aaah, how perfect. What a delightful - chaste, almost - over-in-a-moment little moment. She gave her coat another needless pat, musing that this was Fitzwilliam Kingsley Darcy she'd just kissed. She ought to feel at least a bit shocked, mildly outraged, possibly a little angry? But no, she felt fine. Her lips were still tingling and her head felt light, dizzy, kind of … blonde, perhaps?

How strange.

Even more strange, for once in her life she was able to shrug it off, to take a deep breath and to walk back into her lovely living room with her head held up high and a self-satisfied smile still hovering on her lips. Ben looked away from the football and turned to talk to her over the back of the sofa:

'Good weekend?'

'Good in parts,' she replied, suddenly and violently aware of her lips again – but in a nice way.

'Just got back, right?'

'Uh, yes.'

'There's a letter for you, it's on the fridge.'

'Oh OK, thanks!'

She went to her room, had a shower then a lovely snooze, and for the first time in ages she woke up with a smile on her face.

When she re-emerged around four in the afternoon it did not look like Ben had moved at all although he must have, judging by the additional food debris strewn all around him. He'd had to change channels, but on Sundays there was always enough sports on the telly to keep him glued to the sofa. She chucked away his leftover beans on toast, plonked herself on the floor, leant her back against the side of the sofa so she wouldn't be distracted by the TV, grabbed his discarded copy of News of the Screws and started scanning the front page kiss-and-tell about one of the members of The Soul Factory, some boy band, who according to an inarticulate but extremely pneumatic exotic dancer, was less than generously endowed but had nonetheless made love to her "like a wild animal".

'Elisabeth?' Ben started.

'Aha.'

'You opened that letter yet?'

'No, why? Is it from my parole officer?'

'Don't think so,' he replied as if she'd been serious. 'But I think you should open it.'

'You only say that 'cos you want me to grab you a beer from the fridge while I'm at it.'

'No, I'm OK. But you should open it.'

Elisabeth finished the story and got up to put the kettle on and get her mail.

It was rare, even back then, to receive a hand-written envelope with UK stamps on. The only people with whom Elisabeth still kept a terrestrial rather than an electronic correspondence were her grandma and a couple of her nicer aunties in France, and well-wishers for birthdays and Christmases. Anxiety rose in her chest as saw that the letter had been posted from Oxford. Better open that one in her bedroom then.

'Elisabeth?' Ben stopped her as she opened the door to the corridor.

'Mm?'

'Who was it you were snogging under the stairs?' he asked, without looking at her.

'Who said I snogged him back?' she said, and let the door shut after her.

She sat down on the futon, or rather sprawled onto it, her back to the wall, and waited for panic to truly hit her, the way she imagined one might watch the approach of a freight train whilst tied to the rail-tracks. Until Ben had asked about it she'd been absolutely fine –better than fine, in fact. She'd napped like a baby and walked an inch taller than usual. What a delightful, almost chaste, over-in-a-moment little moment, right?

Well, no.

Where to start? At the end? At her hands. At her hands at the end. At the end her right hand had peeled itself off Will's chest. That's right: Fitzwilliam Kingsley-Darcy's chest. Which meant it must have found its way there in the first place, somehow. And pressed into it. Or against it, conceivably, but she rather feared she'd pressed into it, not against. And found it warm, and just the right kind of firm, damn him.

As for her left hand, her good writing hand: she stared at it, and its fingers suddenly remembered wrapping themselves around the back of Will's neck. They remembered the unexpected smoothness his skin against that of her fingertips. And at the very same moment the sides of Elisabeth's head remembered Will's fingers weaving and searching through her hair.

Chaste little kisses do not involve such urgent fingers.

So really, who cared if she'd "snogged him back" or not? She would have, in just another suspended heartbeat. She would, she absolutely would have eaten his face up, snogged him for France and England put together, nothing but nothing at all chaste about that. Was that why he'd stopped? She couldn't be sure but she rather thought he was the one who'd stopped. She knew he'd started it, for sure, and not in an "oops missed your cheek sorry" way either, no. Not Will. Oh God! Had she been about to eat Will's face up? Why would that feel so…

Good?

Better than good, right? Walking in she'd thought it had been delightful. Perfect. Dizzy, kind-of-blonde-making. No no no no no, this couldn't be happening. Well, it wasn't happening now, but it couldn't have happened either.

Except that it had.

For how long, she'd never know. Long enough for Ben to wonder what was going on at the front door. Ben, who wasn't easily distracted from football on the telly so no, not an "over-in-a-moment" moment either.

She'd lost track of time. Will had made her lose track of time. First he'd done it in the car, what with the warmth and the comfortable silence, and then he'd done it again, with his mouth on hers. Had she gone completely mad? She must have. She must have gone mad, but him? Lord knew what his excuse was.

A momentary lapse of reason, surely, she tried to talk herself down. Perhaps it hadn't lasted very long after all. Perhaps she was just shocked, that was all. It was a pretty shocking thing for him to have done. It felt a little bit more manageable if she thought of it as a thing that he had done, not her. If she thought of her hand pressing him away, not trying to melt into his perfect chest and become one with it.

Her eyes fell back on the envelope that her other hand, in its confusion, had dropped to the floor. That did not help. She hadn't seen Tom's handwriting before but it was just like him: black and white, spidery, uneven. She could still feel Will's lips on hers, Will's hair under her fingers, and she had no idea anymore what she was more uneasy about, that or the letter on the floor. Should she just throw it away? What the hell was she going to say, or possibly do, to Will in the morning? Of course she couldn't just throw the letter away. Did she just want to know Tom was all right? Or did she want to know that he was missing her rotten? And what the hell was Will going to say for himself in the morning? He definitely hadn't been pissed this time. She opened the envelope.

The Bombsite, Summertown.

Thursday, 20th of February

I've been here ten days now. In that time I've written you thirty letters, twelve poems, and a song. They're all rubbish.

There once was a man from Wiltshire

Who went mad the moment he saw her…

See? Can't even make it scan. Mostly they're all about my love for you, but you've made it clear you're not interested in that kind of talk just yet. The bin doesn't seem terribly interested either. So let's see whether this one finds its way to London and to you. Are you sitting comfortably? I'm not: it's bloody cold in this kitchen. Are you still angry with me? I'm still angry with me, I miss you. Wait wait, I caught myself in time. Don't worry, I'll stop. I won't go on about my love, I'll tell you about my love

-ly life here instead.

Work called on Monday, which was very nice of them, wasn't it? At first I wondered how they'd got my number. I wondered whether you'd passed it on, whether perhaps they'd been lucky enough to talk to your real voice, rather than to the one that haunts my substance-induced dreams. I was envious. But apparently Ben gave them the number. They'd been a bit worried, you see, because I left without quitting properly, but it's all cleared up now and anyway, what's the point of quitting a job if you have to quit properly?

So I'm just your regular trust fund waster again: during the day when I'm not writing to you here I go and watch Sara paint and write to you there instead. She's still with her gallery owner. Her name is Vera and, disturbingly, she looks just like an older and Frencher version of you. She's as tall as you are, even skinnier, bigger glasses, and only ever wears black. Sara spends her nights with her and her days with me, when I feel up to it. She's smoking far too much, we both are. So I'm getting thinner and sometimes violently paranoid. Perhaps that's what she's got too. She's not sculpting anymore, but she's making this picture of the four of us. Except she's never seen you properly, so you have the body of a crab and two huge pincers for arms. One of them is slicing me in two, the other she tells me will be lifting my innards in the air. I don't think it's entirely fair to have given you the body of a crab. You have a very nice body, what I did get to see of it.

Stop now, Tom! Naughty! So yes, the painting's rubbish too. It will be, when it's finished. But we are all settling down nicely, as you see.

No, bollocks to that: I'm lost. I'm fucked up, I'm drowning, I'm as unhappy as I've ever been, and you were right, I'm a silly little boy who can't tear himself away. So last night when I'd drunk enough to catch some sleep I dreamt that you came and rescued me and I woke up smiling. Will you? Will you come and save me? You know where I live. And there's a corner of that kitchen where I can stand and replay that day, last year, last century, when you walked into the light. I have to wait until about four o'clock in the afternoon on a sunny day to get it just right but that's alright, I've got plenty of time on my hands now.

Oh, do come! Walk through that door again, and all will be well.

Yeah right, you won't. You probably still hate me. Bollocks. I know you won't come. You'll let me pickle and smoke myself to death here. Because I've fucked up and gone and hurt you, and because nominative determinism's gone boink, Elisabeth Ruth Bennet. You're ruthless, so ruthless you won't let yourself forgive me, even if it kills you too, even as I die over here of a splinter in the heart with your name on it.

Shoo! Away, maudlin creature within! Stop before we have to tear that one too. Instead I will woo you back to me with diamonds from the purest night sky, with kisses for each of your fingers and toes and a thousand more for your lips, and another slither of my stout heart, served still warm and beating upon a silver plate for you, my love.

Tom

By the next morning she more or less knew the letter by heart. She also knew by heart the more laconic text Will had sent, just before midnight, and presumably by mistake. It said:

Elisabeth,

She could not decide what she would have wanted him to have written next, let alone guess what he could have meant to write. All it conveyed with any clarity was that he too must have been mulling it over, hours and hours later. Whether light-headed with bliss or utterly mortified… she couldn't be sure which of the alternatives was scarier. Her head had already been hurting before she'd received the text but afterwards it started to feel like a vice was being tightened around her temples, a quarter turn each time she moved her eyes from the letter in her left hand to the phone in her right, and back, until it became too painful to read either and she had to shut her eyes for a minute or two.

Then she would almost fall asleep, and perhaps remember that moment of perfectly pure elation she'd savoured in the hall, and become unsure whether she'd just dreamt the whole thing. If so, it was one of the better dreams she'd had of late. But no, her phone was still there in her hand, reminding her she would have to see Will again tomorrow in the office, and then her chest would start to tighten and her head to hurt again and in the meantime she would read Tom's letter once more and wonder what to do about that, so that by morning the only concrete action plan she'd been able to formulate was that she'd try and avoid Will, or at least avoid one on ones with him.

To that end she hit the pool rather than the office first thing next morning, and made sure she didn't reach her desk until well after the open, penalty coffee round in hand for everyone.

It went swimmingly.

The avoidance tactics continued to work so well all day that she suspected Will must be cooperating with her. Around 12:30 for instance, she stood up without so much as saving her last half hour's work when she saw him walk back across the atrium after the fortnightly Operational Risk meeting. But as soon as Will saw her he turned on his heels, and rather than exit the atrium to his desk he crossed it all the way back to the other side. She considered sitting back down, but instead went out through the back stairwell to get a sandwich, and to try to gather her wits again. When she got back he was busy giving Credit Suisse what for on the phone and mercifully he didn't look her way when she sat down.

It started to look like with a bit of luck they might be able to brush the whole thing under the carpet, together with their numerous other embarrassing moments, and be done with it. She kept her eyes on her screen all afternoon, broke three perfectly good pieces of UNIX script, went home early to re-read Tom's letter, and hardly slept.

The next morning she was too exhausted to go swimming again, so she showed up at her regular time to find that Will and the coffees were waiting for her:

'Morning, Elisabeth. Mind if we have these in 3.11 today?' he asked as soon as her coat was off. He sounded perfectly normal, something she struggled to emulate as she answered him:

'Right, uh... now?'

'Yes, now.'

'Right,' she said, rooted to the spot by sheer blind and severely underslept panic.

'Go on then,' he said, stood up and somehow managed to grab both their coffees and both their notepads.

'Right,' she mumbled, and followed him the few meters to the meeting room in stunned silence. They sat down, he shut the door. 7:08 on the clock. Elisabeth's stomach felt ready to implode.

'You might need this,' he said, handing over her notepad.

'Thanks,' she said, opened it, and took heart. Perhaps this was just a tradePad catch up after all. Great! Phew, silly her. Of course it was. She took a deep breath, forced a timid smile on her face and looked up from her latest to-do page to him:

'So what's up then?'

'Elisabeth, you know very well what's up.'

Oh. So not tradePad after all, then? In which case she did have a fair idea, yes, but she was not prepared to go there unless she absolutely had to.

'I do?' she asked, and swallowed hard.

He, by contrast, was looking perfectly relaxed, leant back in his chair with his arms crossed as usual and his face looking almost amused:

'I see. OK, let's spell this out for you then: how long do you reckon we can keep avoiding each other?'

'I wasn't avoid...'

Why bother? Her protest was pathetic, pitiful - laughable even, judging by the look on Will's face. How could he be smiling at a time like this? When she couldn't even get enough breath inside her to whisper two sensible words?

'Like hell you weren't avoiding me, Elisabeth, come on,' he said, looking straight into her panicked eyes. She quickly lowered her gaze back to the safety of her notepad. He was right, as usual, she was going to need it.

'Look, I'm not going to apologise for Sunday,' she heard him say, 'Frankly I'd wanted to do that for a long time and I'm glad I've had a go. Clearly you didn't like it and that's a shame because I certainly did, but at least now I can stop kicking myself for being too much of a wuss to take a punt.'

Right, great, at least now he could stop kicking himself for being too much of a wuss to take a...

What?! Her eyes froze, her brain went into tailspin and her next breath caught in her throat. She felt her fingers clench hard onto the edges of her notepad and she had no idea how long a time elapsed before he spoke again:

'You OK, Elisabeth? Look I'm hoping that if you were going to report me to Talent Management for harassment you'd have done it already by now, right?'

'Hmmm?' she said, 'Oh believe me, Will, I could report you to Talent Management over way worse than that.'

If she'd been thinking straight, which she hadn't since about 4:30 pm on Sunday, then she would have realised that Will wouldn't hear that sentence and think: I must watch my language on the desk. He'd hear it and think: whoppee for me, she didn't not like it! And he'd be right about that too, and that would make her… a complete blabbering mess.

'Great! So perhaps it wasn't even that bad,' he said, and his dark eyes shone briefly with that dangerous spark of Saturday night. She blushed to her ears. 'That's a relief, really, but if you're going to be gracious enough not to get me sacked over it, then I suggest we both just get over the fact that I like you, I like you a lot, even, and just get on with life. What do you say?'

She looked at him, stunned and beetroot red as he smiled on.

'Oh come on, it's not that weird. How many girls like you do you know?'

She stared on at him, dumbstruck. Fabulous: what was he expecting her to say to that? She certainly hadn't come across too many guys like him before either.

'Right, chin up now, Elisabeth. You don't have to say anything. In fact you're right, silence between us can be extremely refreshing. But we do have some work to do, we've got that 3 o'clock with Deutsche tomorrow. So if I promise to be a good boy can we be cool?'

'Sure.'

'Great! Off we go then.'

He stood up. 7:10 on the clock.

'I'll just go to the...' she felt compelled to mutter back on the desk as she grabbed her phone and headed for the back staircase. Will tactfully pretended to be too busy to notice and after only a modicum of agonising Elisabeth decided that her situation did warrant interrupting Charlotte's belated honeymoon.

'Elisabeth, hi! How are you?' came Charlotte's cheerful voice after barely three rings.

'Charlie, hi, I'm sorry to gate-crash your honeymoon, how are...'

'You're not gate-crashing anything, darling! I was just enjoying a cocktail on the jetty watching Colin's diving boat sail back in. How wifely of me is that?'

'Very wifely,' said Elisabeth, trying not to get too depressed as she gazed through the staircase's narrow window, and into the cold smudge of grey dawn outside.

'And!' Charlotte started, 'You of all people will looooove Caroline's last email. I quote, and do pardon her French: Homeless. Fucking bastard brother and his witch girlfriend kicked me out of the flat.'

'What? Was she trying to sofa-surf at yours or what?'

'She offered to "housesit" during our honeymoon, but we declined,' Charlotte said, and burst into laughter. 'Ah, well, there you go, Elisabeth. You should be proud of yourself, I'm sure this would have never happened without your little intervention.'

'Hmmm...' said Elisabeth vaguely. She was in full intellectual agreement with Charlotte that she should be proud of herself, yes, but sadly she was far too disorientated to enjoy the full karmic justice of the moment.

'So anyway what's up, Elisabeth? To what do I owe the pleasure?'

If she knew Charlotte, there would be loud shrieking on the other end of the line within seconds of the word kiss. She braced herself and spat it out, and true to form Charlotte soon drowned her with her cries:

'What?! Elisabeth, oh Jesus Christ almighty, you poor poor thing! You alright? What possessed him?'

'Hang on, what do you mean: what possessed him?'

'OK, I didn't mean that last bit. That was just the shock. Of course who wouldn't want to kiss you? Naturally. But you've got to admit that coming from him it's a wee bit surprising, right? Are you OK?'

'Well that's the thing. See, and please don't make too much fun of me, OK? You see, taken within the wider context of the fact that we spent a large part of Saturday night flirting shamelessly with each other, him kissing me on Sunday morning wasn't all that shocking.'

'What?!'

Elisabeth had fully expected Charlotte to cry as loudly as she just had, but she'd also rather hoped she would laugh her head off. Sadly, Charlotte's legendary peals of laughter failed to materialise.

'Look, I know, it sounds bad. I mean we both got a bit silly on Saturday, you know how it is, when it gets late and too much booze and... I thought, well I mean I thought at the time it was just a bit of harmless fun, I don't know...'

'Hell, Elisabeth, at this point I don't know either. Do try and make some sense, will you?'

'Then this morning he comes out and says he's wanted to kiss me for ages.'

'What?!'

'I know: right? But I mean why would he say that?'

'True.'

'So he's wanted to kiss me for however long but now you know what, now he's just really glad he's had a punt - his words exactly- and he's enjoyed it tremendously, but he knows when he's not wanted and hey, ho, it's a shame but let's just move on. I mean he's just acting like absolutely nothing is the matter again!'

'Aha.'

Aha? If Elisabeth had been after another dose of cool indifference then she wouldn't have called Charlotte, of all people. Seriously, was "Aha" the best she could come up with? Also since when had kissing her, Elisabeth Bennet, become such a non-event the world over?

'OK, Charlie, explain "Aha" to me,' said Elisabeth, trying hard not to sound as vexed as she felt.

'Aha,' Charlotte said more slowly, 'as in I don't get what the problem is. Now the rumours are true, you have actually kissed him. Well done you by the way, I'm officially impressed! You got one over those dreadful girls on the Data Team, game over. He moves on, you move on, everybody moves on: perfect!'

'Perfect?'

'Let me get this straight,' Charlotte started again, dropping her girlie exclamation marks, 'On the one hand we have Will, who's been into you for ages but is busy pretending not to care, and on the other we have Elisabeth, who's not the least bit interested of course, except that she's calling me at what must be 7 in the morning where you are, and over-analysing it in the most incoherent fashion. Assuming you're calling to ask for my opinion, honey, I'd say just go with it. Have fun, you have my blessing.'

'Charlotte, are you mad?'

'Excuse me, what's the problem here? Is he too handsome or too rich for you, or are those macchiatos really getting to you?'

'Oh, shut up!'

'Methinks you really do protest too much, hon.'

'I'm never going out with him, Charlotte. Ne-ver.'

'And why not?'

'For starters, I'm just not prepared to give him the satisfaction... oh stop laughing, I'm serious. The guy's never had to try for anything in his rosy life. He just always gets everything he wants, served up on a plate.'

'And?'

'Everyone fancies him, I'm not prepared to jump onto the bandwagon it's... it's common, it's unoriginal.'

'Jesus, Elisabeth, how old are you, six? I mean don't get me wrong it's cute that you're contrary and everything but really, that's the worst reason I've ever heard for...'

'OK how about this then? We work together, he's off-limits, period.'

'Is this in the company handbook?'

'I have no idea but it's in the Elisabeth Bennet handbook. Jesus, Charlie, do you know how long it's taken me to be taken half seriously in this place? Do you want me to end up like Sarah Atkinson?'

'What, behind the reception desk? Dear Lord no, save the bank from that, Elisabeth!' Charlotte said, laughing again.

'No, I was referring to the fact that the guys call her the office bike because she gets off with a different "co-worker" at every office function. So yeah I'm sure she's had more fun than me at those, over the years, but now what do you reckon her career prospects are, with a rep like that?'

'I really don't see how this applies to you, Elisabeth. You've already got a successful career, you've got Paul reporting to you, Raj loves you. So if as it turns out Will also fancies the pants off you then for goodness' sake just go with it! You'll be fine!'

'No, Charlotte. No way. I'm just his latest weird crush, it would never go anywhere, and meanwhile I'll have to sit next to the guy day in day out, whatever happens. Plus, I'm a VP and Will's an MD but even were it not the case, it still seems to me that a woman's always got a lot more to lose in these scenarios. It's a terrible idea, Charlie, I'm sorry: I've already wasted my stupidity quota on Tom for the year. Will's off-limits, that's it.'

'Hmmm OK, fair enough. I see what the problem is now.'

'Thanks, Charlie, I knew you would.'

'The problem is it was a fantastic snog, wasn't it?'

'I… technically I think it was still just a kiss.'

'Trust you to get technical: if it feels like a snog I'm sorry but it's still a snog, hon, tongues or not.'

'If... if you say so.'

'No, dear, I think you were just saying so. Well good luck with the denial then - or would admitting to denial constitute a failure of denial, so that you'd have to deny that too?'

'That last one, yes,' said Elisabeth, smiling bitterly. Whoever had decided that bottle blondes were thick clearly hadn't met Charlotte Williams, nee Lucas.

'Oh, darling! Cheer up, you're doing the right thing, and it sounds to me like you've just had the perfect ego-boost!'

'Ego boost?'

'Keep visualising a jealous Market Data girl.'

'Thanks for that image.'

'There you go! And going by what you've told me of him, well, until today that is, I'm sure he'll have no trouble carrying on and playing it cool.'

'He is very good like that.'

'It sounds like he's very good in a lot of ways.'

'Oh, stop it!'

'I will, actually. Haven't you got any work to do, cos I'm getting a bit hot and I rather think I need another cocktail?'

'Oh poor you, enjoy!'

'Love you too! Bye!'

Charlotte was right: if Will had any trouble carrying on playing it cool he hid it very well. He was perhaps a little quiet, a little silent on the cab to Deutsche's offices and back, but the coffee rounds carried on as normal for the rest of the week. Then, very conveniently, the bank whisked him away to California for the yearly MD off-site and Elisabeth was spared the trouble of having to act cool back.

Charlotte was right on another count too: to admit denial would have been a failure of denial. So in Will's absence Elisabeth made sure that she did not beat herself up over missing her morning macchiatos. Why wouldn't she, and why wouldn't she miss Will being around to shut Andy up as, over the course of the week, he grew louder and more obnoxious? These were natural reactions, the product of a healthy aversion for weak coffee and strong language, sentiments which in no way compromised her standards of professionalism.

Meanwhile Tom was making his absence harder to ignore. Letters arrived from him daily and she spent many tortured and unproductive hours wondering whether to open each one. It was tempting, terribly tempting to rip those envelopes and read on for a fresh slice of Tom's stout heart, but what good could that bring? Whatever those letters said he was writing them from Oxford, which meant that he still hadn't extricated himself from his drug-fuelled, cross-generational, bisexual love triangle. And that, Elisabeth reminded herself daily, was the only point his letters made with any material relevance to her present situation.

Oh but if only Ben would stop playing the "Zab a zab zab" tune! If only she wouldn't think of Tom every time she gazed out into the garden through the French windows. Eventually she would pull herself together again, and bury another envelope unopened under five years' worth of payslips and bank statements, down the very bottom of her bottom-most drawer.

Thankfully, Charlotte was right about one more thing: Will's "punt" had indeed given Elisabeth a much-needed ego boost. Not, as Charlotte had assumed, because Will was so universally fanciable: to derive pleasure from that would have implied sharing a crush with those silly girls in the Market Data team, and Elisabeth still could not countenance the idea. So although it was far less to her credit she preferred to believe that what she'd enjoyed was merely paying forward onto Will part of the pain and humiliation she'd suffered at Tom's hands.

And hell, if Fitswilliam Kingsley Darcy could take his with good grace then so would she. To start with she would go out and plant some dahlias.