Lizzy woke to the banging of equipment cases being unloaded in the courtyard, Joyce's shrill tone echoing around the four walls as something clattered and fell. It was a wet Wednesday in July, the house was closed for three days for filming preparations, and she had resisted the urge to book a cheap flight to somewhere hot to avoid the drama. This first lot of disruption, according to the filming schedule that had been popped under her door, was only for four weeks whilst they filmed the exterior shots they needed for some key scenes – including Elizabeth's visit to Pemberley, but excluding the 'Darcy in Lake' sequence, which didn't appear in the book, despite Harriet's many attempts to find it. The production would then decamp to Shepperton and other locations, before returning to the house to film interior scenes, with rooms in Pemberley being the Darcy residence and standing in for some of the less-grand rooms of Rosings Park. It all looked exhausting.

Harriet and Summer, who had a holiday job in the cafe, had signed up as extras, something that had been offered to all members of staff, and were excited to spend the summer dressing up in regency costumes and having their hair and make-up done in the massive trailers that were now in residence on the car park. Lizzy thought that Harriet usually complained quite a lot about dressing up in regency costume/uniform, but she could understand the excitement. The last time Pride and Prejudice had filmed here she had been sixteen years old; they had only shot a few scenes here at Pemberley and none of them inside, but she had watched Mr Darcy emerge from the woods, complete with wet shirt and ruffled hair, and completely understood why generations of women had been totally in love with the arrogant aristocrat. The thrill of watching the process though had lasted with her and even though no following production had matched up to that one, this one could get pretty damn close.

Matthew Wickham led a fortunate life, and he knew it. He had been remarkably lucky in his career, being in the right place at the right time to slip his graduate film into the right hands, where it had been passed to a producer who loved it, and an agent who was desperate to make his percentage. Lauded by critics and tipped as a Best Newcomer contender, this tolerably handsome and remarkably charming man won his first BAFTA at the age of twenty-four, followed by an Oscar six months later for his short film, 'Ubiquitous'. There had been a scandal in the papers, of course, about his 'illegitimate' child with the daughter of the Duke of Derbyshire, but celeb mags weren't really his thing; besides which, any publicity was good publicity and it made for good tabloid fodder – especially when he took a shrieking, delighted Harriet to Disneyland for Christmas, ensuring that a few paparazzi were there to capture the special moments he shared with his pudgy four year old, who had his dark colouring and her mother's grey eyes.

Nominated for his second Oscar at the age of thirty for his producer role on 'Praise To The Skies'; a thriller written by British ingenue, Casey Muir, and also starring Best Actor nominee, Benn Williams, Matthew Wickham found himself moving to LA with his wife and three sons, Oleander, Brixton and Jude. They moved to a house in Beverley Hills, with a swimming pool and tennis court, which was bigger than the whole street they had lived on in Kensington, and he was dealing with budgets with more zeros than he had ever seen and massive pressure to continue his current success, particularly after he secured the prestigious Academy Award for Best Picture. It made it hard to see Harriet, of course, and he regretted that he missed her Christmas plays at primary school and first day at Lambton High, but he made sure that he regularly Skyped her and she was the main reason why he chose this current project so carefully.

Pride and Prejudice was basically the template for every romantic comedy ever made, and Matthew Wickham loved a challenge, especially when his interpretation of Wuthering Heights, despite being loved by the public, was panned by the critics for being an exploration of mental health, rather than a torrid, Yorkshire based love story. However, it hadn't taken much persuasion to convince Benn Williams to don his breeches once more for a role that Matthew knew would have middle-aged mums up and down the country whetting their whistles when the news was announced. The main advantage for him was, understandably, Harriet, who had turned sixteen a few weeks earlier and was waiting for the results of her GCSE's. She had been out to California a few times, but only on those weeks where school holidays allowed, and his attention was always divided between his other three children and his demanding wife. To say Cara was demanding was slightly unfair, she was just uninterested; the holistic, chilled out vibe that had been the basis of their first attraction had been replaced by an inherent, and quite ugly, sense of entitlement that he imagined had probably been there the whole time, just hidden by incense and tie-dyed fabrics. As he boarded the flight to Heathrow, Matthew hoped that this time with his daughter would be good for them both, and as he settled down in his First-Class seat, surrounded by the excessiveness that two Oscars and a good assistant could buy, he could not wait to smell the Derbyshire air, watch Coronation Street and have a good cup of tea.

The restaurant had been quieter than it usually was on a Wednesday, Maggie poured another glass of wine and called the waiter over to ask for the dessert menu. Lizzy had played with her food and not really eaten much, which was not like her.

"So," she asked casually, "are you ready for a month of filming?"

Lizzy rolled her eyes and ate a mouthful of pasta, slurping down the spaghetti and dropping some on the black lacy top that she had bought from Next in the sale.

"I'm always ready for a month of hot Hollywood actors and regency romping," she said, wiping the sauce off herself with the napkin.

"I cannot wait to see Benn Williams in a pair of tight trousers," Maggie breathed. "Do you think Joyce will organise a meet and greet?"

"I can guarantee it," Lizzy laughed. "You know how crazy she is for Darcy, we might even have to peel her off the courtyard!" She took a sip of her wine, "did you hear about the job?"

Maggie look at Lizzy with a puzzled look on her face, "what do you mean?"

"You can't have any secrets at Pemberley, you know that…" she laughed softly. "Austenation will be absolutely bonkers if they don't offer you all of the riches in Christendom."

"Are you cross?" A look of nervous hesitation passed across her face.

"Why would I be cross?" Lizzy looked at her incredulously, she was absolutely thrilled for Maggie, this was something that she had wanted for so long and now she was finally getting proper recognition from the organisation that she admired so much.

"I feel like I'm abandoning you, and Harriet, and even Joyce… I feel like I'm just walking away."

"You have to live your own life, Maggie… Pemberley has been around for centuries now and I'm sure it will continue to stay there as long as we keep finding money to fix the roof."

Maggie smiled at her friend, it was such a relief. She has been so nervous about telling her that she was leaving her job of nearly seventeen years and the home she had lived in all her life to move down south.

"I'm hoping this film will pay for a good wodge of the repairs this winter to be honest, Matthew promised us a great payment, but I'm not sure what they settled on in the end."

"Aren't they dealt with by HQ? I didn't think we had much to do with it at a local level."

"Technically, Lizzy, you don't have anything to do with it – you know how annoyed Joyce got when you wrote that letter about volunteer expenses." Maggie chastised her friend.

"Well, Mary deserved that £15.87 and she just wouldn't ask for it."

"Yes, but you have to let Joyce deal with it. That's what she gets paid for. No wonder she gets so pissed at you."

Lizzy took a moment to choose the mascarpone and figs from the menu as she always did, Maggie had the brownie and they ordered another bottle of wine.

"Is Matthew okay?"

Maggie deep-sighed and then laughed into her wine, "he's in the midst of a mid-life crisis, if you call that okay."

"Mid-life crisis? He's only thirty-seven!"

"I don't know what's going on with him, but I think Cara might have left him again."

"Shit."

"Please don't have pity sex with him this time. I'm sure he sometimes just makes it up so you will sleep with him."

Lizzy looked at the wise face of her friend, more than a friend – a sister, a mother- this sophisticated, well-spoken woman had held her as she cried over David, James, Ian; had taught her how to roller skate down the Bright Gallery (and replace the carpets and not get caught); comforted her when she was ill, knew all of her secrets and all of her lies.

"Fuck off, Maggie," she laughed. "The only reason that happened last time was because of three bottles of Merlot and misplaced nostalgia. He regresses back to being eighteen when he comes to Pemberley, you know that."

"What's your excuse then?" She smiled quizzically.

Lizzy walked up the grand staircase. It was late, and the absurdly bright moon was casting shadows on the wall. She never did like this staircase, or the corridor through the door where the White Lady of Pemberley was meant to reside. Winston had always scared her and her friends with ghost stories when she had sleepovers; the story of the Lady Darcy - who had been pushed down the stairs by her evil, unfaithful husband – had been a favourite when she was younger, but now it was just horrible to think of the poor woman lying at the bottom of the stairs, dying alone. It would be easy to fall over the low bannister, she thought, as she looked over the edge at the floor below. There was carpet there now, but when she was little it had been varnished floorboards and there was a stain in the wood marking the spot where the woman fell. If she remembered hard enough she could almost hear Winston shouting at her from the library. "Now, Miss Lizzy, if you fall it will make a damned awful mess, do you want to have to clean it?" His voice was deep and blustery, with the clipped tones of a public schoolboy, and she wished she could hear it again, or see him sitting on his chair, reading some dusty old law book and then falling asleep with it balanced on his chest. The chair was gone now, consigned to another room, and the library protected by a blue velvet rope.

"Hey."

Lizzy jumped and fell onto the banister, it was Matthew.

"Did my sister fill you full of Pinot G and send you home?"

"Yes, pretty much," she grinned, walking over and giving him a hug. "When did you get here? Was the flight good?"

"Yeah, we got in about five…I came over to see Harriet as soon as the flight landed but she was asleep on the couch," he shrugged. "I woke her up and sent her to bed." He grabbed her hand, "C'mon, you old lush, let's make you a coffee."

She followed him into the flat, where he stopped and turned around to face her, drinking her in. "Ooh, look at this… canteen medals, not like you, Lizard" She chuckled softly as he stood closer and looked her directly in the eye. Her eyes were amazing, he thought, like melted mercury one day and tonight like the dark side of the moon.

"Matthew, please don't look at me like that."

"Like what?" He raised his hand and touched the side of her face, stroking her eyebrow, despite herself she nuzzled his hand. His face was now directly in front of hers, she could feel the heat of his breath on her cheek, the soft pressure of his lips on hers, his arms around her neck, she pulled him into her, the weight of him pushing her back against the wall. She ran her fingers through his hair, it was longer now, more like it had been when they had first learned that kissing could feel this good, how the push and the pull made you tingle all over. Even now, she could still feel that familiar burn for him deep within her and they moved together. He pulled at her top and she fiddled with the buttons before pulling the shirt over his head. The Southern California sunshine agreed with him and even in the darkness she could see that he was a deeper, caramel colour. He pulled her into him, burrowing his face into the nape of her neck, she smelled like home to him, like a thousand memories all rushing back, and he immediately felt grounded and alive.

He kissed the top of her forehead before he left, breathing her in before rummaging about on the floor to find his socks and boxers. She sat there on the bed, the one he had helped her to build, with the sheet wrapped around her, her mass of curls tied back on top of her head and a concerned expression on her face.

"Matt," she said, knowing that he hated his name being shortened. "This can't happen again."

"It shouldn't," he said. "But we're like a comfortable pair of shoes, you and I… It's easy for us to slip each other on and off again."

He grabbed his phone from the dresser and left, quietly shutting the door on his way out. Matthew was wrong, she thought as she pulled on her sweatshirt and pyjama bottoms. It had taken years, but eventually she had realised that when he had disappeared all those years ago, refusing to return her phone calls, ignoring her attempts to contact him, that it wasn't because she wasn't enough, it was because she was too much. He always assumed that she was familiar enough that he could wear her about the house when he came home, falling into the ease of her and the history they shared. Comfortable pair of shoes indeed, what a tosser. The truth was different though, she was an expensive pair of high heels – that would only be worn for very short periods of time, too high and expensive to be worn every day. That was why she could invite him into her home and into her bed without worrying about risking her heart, it wasn't because she cared too much about him, it was simply because she didn't really care about him very much at all anymore.