finally, chappie four is written! Thanks to those of you who've reviewed, it's been encouraging. So here is some more Darcy/Lizzy interaction. Enjoy!
It was the big day of the match between Arsenal and Chelsea. Will Darcy was on the sidelines, listening to his coach along with the other players. Somehow his coach's motivational speech was going in one ear and out the other. He just couldn't keep his mind on anything.
There were news reporters swarming over the sidelines, trying to come closer and closer to the coach and the team.
Then, as they were instructed to warm up on the field, Darcy was accosted by one particular reporter.
"Why, Mr. Darcy!" the reporter exclaimed. Darcy, normally indifferent to reporters, regarded the sallow-faced, shorter man in front of him.
"Do I know you?"
"No, you don't know me, of course," the man said excitedly, "so I shall introduce myself. I am William Collins, a roving reporter for the London Banner. You are the nephew of the esteemed Catherine de Bourgh, single producer of the Banner. I can't tell you how delighted I am to meet you at last! Your aunt was saying how she—"
"Excuse me, I must practice my passes before the game," Darcy said coldly and walked to the field. He swiftly kicked the ball to a teammate far on the other side of the field, and it was returned to him.
Then he saw a glimpse of long wavy brown hair on the sidelines and he stopped for a minute and missed the ball.
"All right, Will?" his teammate yelled to him.
"Yeah, yeah, just...sun in my eyes." He kicked the ball back again. Of course it couldn't be that girl. The one who slept on his sofa, and drank his orange juice, and somehow managed to pick out one of his favorite books of poems in his London apartment.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Lizzy found that football players were more willing to discuss the match with reporters who were young, pretty, and female. She wasn't much of an anybody, and now suddenly she found herself standing next to one of the most famous footballers, Thierry Henry. She tried to act coolly as she fired her questions.
"With your left wing defender injured, what do you think will be the crucial—"
"Oh my God, Thierry Henry!" squealed a horribly familiar voice and one Lydia Bennet bounded into view. "You're so fit, will you sign my shirt?"
Lizzy was mortified. What was her sister doing at the game? "Er, do you mind? I'm trying to interview this man." She tried to sound intimidating. She also avoided giving any sign of recognition. Please, just please go away..
"Oh, Lizzy, don't be stingy. If my sister's interviewing Thierry Henry, I should think that she would help me get his autograph."
The French striker looked at her quizzically. "This eez your sister?"
Lizzy's face burned. "Yes," she admitted shamefully, after a moment of thinking she should pretend Lydia was simply a crazy girl and not give in. After all, she did know Lizzy's name, and that would be hard to deny.
Lydia would simply not go away and instead tried to pepper the football star with ridiculous questions, and finally Henry left after giving a hasty excuse.
"Lydia!" she exploded. "I'm trying to do my job, and you just embarrassed me in front of the one of the best football players!"
Lydia shrugged. "Oh well, you'll probably never see him again anyway."
"Why are you here?" Lizzy demanded furiously. "Is Mum here as well?"
"No, it's just me and Kitty. But did you know, Lizzy, that Arsenal is coming to Merryton to practice during the holidays?"
This gave Lizzy all the more reason to avoid her parents' home.
"I've been planning all sorts of ways to run into them, security guards or no security guards. You wait and see, I'll be dating one of them soon and he'll buy me all sorts of expensive presents!"
"You're sixteen," Lizzy said scornfully. "They wouldn't give you a second look. And I'm sure they'd prefer other famous people and not silly village girls. Now can you please go away and let me work."
No sooner than Lydia left for the fan stands than had another equally unwelcome person stepped into her view.
She tried to collect herself so as to not appear flustered. Standing in front of her now was Will Darcy, attired in his uniform. Lizzy had put away her notebook as she saw him coming; she wasn't about to interview him.
Apparently he had been making his way through the crowds in search of someone, and it was inevitable that they had to make some acknowledgment of greeting since they had made eye contact.
But Lizzy overestimated Will Darcy because he hurriedly looked in the opposite direction as he passed her, leaving her gaping like a fish.
Lizzy went to stand on the sidelines; the match would begin in a half-hour. Suddenly she was aware of someone trailing behind her as she wove through the people. She pretended to check her bag and caught a glimpse of Will Darcy, wordlessly walking behind her. Typical. He was also following her closely since the crowd was jostling them every which way.
Lizzy was feeling in the mood for a little confrontation.
She slowed down, almost to a stop, and he bumped into her. She turned around.
"Why, hello, Darcy."
"Hello." Lizzy wondered if he had forgotten her name. Probably.
"Do you think you'll win, Mr. Darcy?"
"Yes."
"You seem to be a man of few words, aside from when you're yelling at other people. You're not at a loss of speech then."
He blushed for a moment. "'Scuse me, have to go," he mumbled and practically took off for the field.
"Ha," Lizzy gloated
-
Charlie and the rumors were right; Arsenal did beat Chelsea. Lizzy wrote up the report for the match and sent it to her editor.
-----------------------------------------------------------------
"Oy! Will!" one of Will Darcy's teammates called out to him one day before practice. "Look at this article."
"What about it?"
"Read it."
Darcy read it. It gave a fine description of the plays of the game for the first part while the second part dealt with the performance of individual players. In fact, it mostly dealt with the performance of one Will Darcy.
"...seemed to be in possession of the ball more than necessary, when a pass would have been the best choice...""perhaps his pride prevents him from working well with others when all eyes are on him..."
In other words, I'm big-headed, Darcy thought.
"Almost this whole part of the article talks about me," he said in disbelief.
"And none of it's flattering," added a third teammate.
"What did you do to that reporter?"
Darcy looked at the byline.
"Elizabeth Bennet? How the hell would I know someone named..." He stopped. "Wait a minute...Bennet...Elizabeth...Lizzy. Elizabeth would be her formal name. Oh crap."
"So you do know her after all?"
"We've been acquainted," Darcy said stiffly.
Their coach walked over. "Darcy, why are you getting such bad publicity? Our team depends on our fans, you know. Try to be more appealing to the public. And a bit nicer to reporters."
Darcy soon learned what was expected of him the following week.
"I've arranged for you to attend a party commemorating the sixtieth birthday of one of our team sponsors. Everyone who is everyone will be there, including many prominent reporters. Even the head of the Banner will be present."
"Not her," Darcy muttered vehemently.
"You know Catherine de Bourgh?"
"Know her? She's my aunt."
"Really? Is she as overbearing as everyone says she is?"
"Worse. Why do I have to go?"
"Publicity, Darcy. You must be charming so that the public won't think you are—what were the words used?—ah, a 'big-headed, arrrogant man'' who 'thinks he is too grand to mingle with us "lower" people?'"
Darcy started, incredulous. "That was published in a football article?"
"No, in a gossip magazine. They've picked up on this controversial image of you, created by your charming Miss Bennet. Because you represent Arsenal, you're going to work hard to win yourself back in their favor."
"Oh, Christ," he muttered. He hated loud, crowded parties.
----------------------------------------------------------------
The party commemorating Mr. Beady was indeed loud and crowded and so he hated it within the first five minutes of being there. It seemed as though every reporter on the face of the earth was there, with the exception of the one who really intrigued him.
He wasn't exactly angry with Elizabeth Bennet, which was odd. Normally he would be extremely vexed if anyone else had published a criticism of his performance, and one that he felt wasn't entirely deserved.
An hour into the party he came across the reporter of his musings, who was conversing with that odious reporter of his aunt's newspaper. Actually it rather looked as if he were doing all the talking and she was only nodding and trying to get away. Or so he perceived.
With only a moment of hesitation, he took a few steps across the room.
"Hello, Miss Bennet."
She half-turned, surprised to see him. "Darcy."
"Ah, you know my patron's nephew?" Collins said excitedly, looking from Lizzy to Darcy.
Of course Lizzy had heard all about the famed Catherine de Bourgh, a sort of modern-day Pulitzer or Hearst; this reporter Collins had talked her ear off about the woman for nearly the entire half hour they'd been talking. Multiple times she had tried to extricate herself from the conversation but to no avail. She didn't know how, of all the interesting people to be met in the room, she had managed to stumble into this one first, a man whose worship of Catherine de Bourgh bordered along the line of deranged obsession.
So it was news to her that Darcy was this woman's flesh and blood. "Nephew?" she queried aloud.
"Yes, I'm her nephew," he reiterated. They stared at each other for a second until Collins broke the silence.
"I was just saying to Elizabeth how your aunt was telling me the other day what a comprehensive report I gave her when she instructed me to interview some prominent Labour party members on the newest bill. Your aunt constantly relies on my—permit me to say—strong leadership qualities to get a job done. I command a full section of writers for the Banner, nearly eleven people—"
"Eleven?" Lizzy asked in an interested voice that only belied her sarcasm.
"Yes, my dear Eliza—"
Eliza? Lizzy wondered, so astonished by his nickname for her that she nearly forgot he had called her "my dear..."
"—and my underlings, I flatter myself, think themselves fortunate to have such a superior as myself."
"Yeah, how lucky they are," she replied with utter seriousness in her tone; again her irony was wasted on Collins. "I feel inadequate myself, a mere reporter, speaking to you. I must leave and find other lowly reporters of my own station. Goodbye," she said cheerfully and finally left Collins.
And Darcy, who hadn't said more than a few words, which was absolutely typical.
To think he was related to Catherine de Bourgh. She was a ruthless businesswoman who had acquired the Banner nearly seven years ago when it was in a bad place and she had restored it to its former glory. She was powerful and could destroy anyone she wished by the power of the press—her press—and was rumored to be arrogant and ill-tempered. (Must run in the family, Lizzy had thought wryly.)
She went to get a drink after finding Stan, the corresponding photographer from their own newspaper, and briefly catching up with him. She spoke to a representative for Arsenal and the personal assistant of Mr. Beady for some quotes she might use later. Instead of using a notebook, however, she used a tape recorder. Everyone was only too happy to promote the team and its benefactors.
She saw Collins heading for her and ducked into an adjoining room—a ballroom in the old mansion—and headed for the drink table. She tried a glass of white wine as a large shape came up next to her and chose a glass of red.
It was Darcy. Bad timing indeed. If she couldn't evade Collins, she would have to suffer Darcy's presence, as karma would have it.
She didn't attempt conversation this time and was surprised when it was initiated by him.
"Are you enjoying yourself, Miss Bennet?"
"You don't have to call me 'Miss Bennet'. It's too formal-sounding." She took another sip of the wine and then gave the rest to a waiter; it wasn't to her liking. She walked over to an attendants' station.
"Then what do you prefer to be called?"
He was still right beside her, now walking at her fast pace. She handed her bag with its tape recorder to an attendant with a quick thank-you, without even a look at Darcy. "You can call me Lizzy, I suppose, or Elizabeth."
"But not Eliza, I'm guessing?"
It took her a minute to realize he was lightly joking with her, in reference to Bill Collins.
"No," she said swiftly, permitting the corners of her mouth to turn upwards ever to slightly. "Not Eliza."
He was still walking with her—though now she had slowed her pace—as she walked back into the ballroom.
"So...are you enjoying yourself?" he asked her for the second time.
"Not really. Well...yes, I suppose. It's exciting to be on an assignment from my newspaper. And this is a prominent party. Maybe next time I'll cover a story that's actually within my realm of interests."
"And what kind of stories are those?"
"Ones that have to do with politics. Global politics in particular. International relations."
He risked a glance at her expression before risking, "Not football?"
She avoided his eyes. "No. Not football." They walked in silence for a moment. "I only covered the story of the Arsenal-Chelsea match because the weekly reporter who does football write-ups requested me to fill in for him. He was on vacation. Unfortunately I don't have a lot of experience in covering sports."
"I read the article. You did a fine enough job in describing the match...up until your little bash about me."
Now she did look at him. "I took nothing that wasn't there."
"I do not hog the ball!" he said indignantly.
"I didn't actually write—"
"But you implied it.
"You did hold on to the ball longer than I thought you should."
"Says the reporter who doesn't know anything about football."
"You're doing it again."
"Doing what?"
"Assuming things. And you know what they say, To assume makes an 'ass' out of 'u' and 'me'."
He snorted without meaning to. "And what assumptions am I making?"
"I do know about football, I used to play myself. I just don't always keep up with every team, and I hadn't reported on it before. But I know all about the game itself."
At this point Lizzy felt a tap on her shoulder, and lo and behold, there was Collins, attempting a winning smile that looked more like a leer, which Lizzy was sure wasn't his intention. Her own smile was a grimace.
"My dear Eliza—"
"Elizabeth," Darcy quickly corrected the man from their left. Both looked at him.
"My dear Elizabeth," Collins began again, "Would you like to dance?" He added, as if to hammer a battering ram into the point, "With me?"
"I..." Lizzy thought about this. She really wanted to dance, just not with Collins. But she couldn't refuse him and then go dance, it was bad manners. And after all, songs were only about four minutes, tops. How bad could it be? "...sure."
"Excellent!" He grabbed her hand with his own sweaty one and propelled her to the dance floor.
Lizzy should have reconsidered the moment Collins began to dance. He looked like an idiot. It was a fast dance, and his arms were flailing out all over the place, his knees jerking around as if he were dancing on a hot bed of coals. His eyes never left her face, and she noticed his eyebrows were wiggling up and down in every manner imaginable. She tried to concentrate on something, anything else. She was mortified, especially when Stan appeared near them, grinning, and snapped a picture.
The dance ended. Whew. She went to leave Collins, but a slow song had started and before she knew what was happening one arm was around her waist and one gripping her hand.
"Er...I really don't feel like dancing anymore."
"What's that, dear?"
"I said I don't want to dance anymore," she said loudly.
"It's just a slow one. Not much to it."
That was the problem. All they had to do was sway back and forth and they were too close. It was awkward as anything.
From behind Collins she could see Darcy slowly coming up behind him. He made eye contact with her. What was he doing?
Will Darcy tapped Collins on the shoulder. "Excuse me, you've danced with her long enough," he said bluntly. "Can I have a go?"
Collins's first reaction was one of irritation which melted smoothly into graceful retreat—after all, this man was the nephew of his patron—and he handed Lizzy over to him. Darcy was used to getting his own way, after all.
"Of course, sir, of course...I'll just go and find something else to do." He left them abruptly. Lizzy was speechless.
Darcy looked at her expression. "I only wanted to dance with you to discuss the article and defend myself," he said, rather ungallantly, "but now I really don't feel like talking about it."
Lizzy, surprisingly, wasn't in the mood to pick a fight, either—at least not tonight.
Instead Lizzy turned the conversation to other things. Darcy chimed in every now and then. In fact, Lizzy was almost glad when the song was over—she still couldn't understand how he couldn't seem to say anything, how he made every social situation awkward. It was strange dancing with someone and not saying two words to them.
Still, it beat the pants off dancing with Collins. Lizzy escaped from the party when the night was over having nothing to do with the reporter for the rest of the evening—although, to her dismay, when she got her coat back from the attendant and reached her hands inside the pockets, she found a slip of paper with Collins' phone number.