Back to Tennessee

"OK guys, listen up," yells Matt, standing precariously on a swivel chair. "I'm only going to say this once, so pay attention."

The general buzz of the room dies, and silence falls.

"Good," he says. "Right, last night's event was fantastic. We're already getting great feedback, we had more people there than we expected, it is all good. There are notes coming round on it for your information, things that went well, things that will need to change next time, things of which you need to be aware…read it, digest it, don't actually eat it." He glances at his notes. "OK. The Governor of Tennessee is throwing a fundraiser tomorrow and allegedly, he has fallen out with Dawn Lee over something, and is throwing himself behind us instead. Therefore, we are leaving a day early and stopping in Nashville for a night, before the next day going on to Austin as originally planned. Scheduling has sent you all the timetable. Please either download it or print it out. We do not want anyone getting left behind again." He looks at his notes again and nods. "Everything else is in the notes you should now have. Any questions about the next few days, ask Jo and the scheduling team. And that's it. See you later." He climbs off the chair, nearly falls flat on his face, but manages to somehow land on his feet. Then, he walks back into his office and slams the door.

Fr: charlottelu at warnerstantonandlane

To: ebethbnet; janebennet at charlesbingley

Subject: Back to Tennessee

Hey there- how are the dreaded politicians? I hope you're not wanting to kill yourselves. That would not be good. Anyway, I got an email this morning from the office of Marco Pelloux which was forwarded round the office, saying that as his lawyers, we are invited to his fundraiser tomorrow which is supporting Charles Bingley. After my first thought was whatever happened to poor little Dawn Lee, but my second was, WEEEEEE Lizzie and Jane are coming back to Tennessee! Albeit for a night. So, I have mentally scanned my wardrobe and found it wanting except for a few outfits which you would have done well to say 'spandex? Really Charley?' or possibly 'oh, hell no honey, you are not a bull fighter' and I am going out at lunch to find a dress. In short, I will be at the stupid fundraiser, despite the presence of Pelloux-the-devil, and just to see you two. Also, heads up Liz, I may have accidentally invited Bill Collins as my plus one. Despite your obvious revulsion that night at Al's, (yes I noticed. You are not the enigma cipher) he is a nice guy, and I've bumped into him a few times recently, and he's coming, partly to probably convince one of you two that it would be beneficial to your family to marry him (what is he, some kind of feudal lord?) and partly to meet William Darcy. He is apparently the nephew of Bill's boss, and he wants to pass on a message or something. I don't really remember. Anyway, I will see you two there, with Bill in tow. I will be the one in a fabulous spandex dress, with tassels.

Love you both,

Charley

xx

"That speech," says Charlie, and swoops around Lizzie, hugging her so that she is lifted off the ground and spun around. "You, Lizzie, are a crucial cog in this crazy machine." He grins, and puts her down at last. "Thank you," he says. "Hiring you may be the best thing I shanghaied Will into doing."

Will, walking up behind him, grimaces slightly, but there is a smile playing around his eyes.

"You're very welcome. It's not even a…you know. It's my job and I'm happy to do it."

Charlie smiles, and nods. "Good. Well, have a fabulous evening. Now, I believe that I am wanted over, where Jane?" He leans down to look at Jane's clipboard of names, his arm round her to look closer. "Oh, OK. Jackson Abbott, Will?"

Will's gaze is taken by Charlie's arm, loosely around Jane. "What?" He shakes his gaze off, and looks up properly. "Oh, yeah, he's all about burning the flag. He'll try and get you to agree to amendments and…you know."

"Yeah OK." Charlie straightens his bowtie, and then walks purposefully toward the old man in the corner. At this, the music begins, and Marco Pelloux guides his beautiful wife onto the dance floor, a tradition of their first dance which has continued now for years.

Lizzie watches, frowning, and Will, still there, notices. "You used to work for him, didn't you?"

She glances up, and nods. "Yeah. His first year, I joined the senior communications team."

"You only worked for a year though, didn't you?"

Lizzie looks up, surprised that he not only knows, but that he remembered. "I…yes."

"Why did you leave?"

She seems to turn it over in her mind, and then says, "I couldn't say," quietly.

Will raises an eyebrow. "You don't know, or you shouldn't say?"

Lizzie turns to meet his gaze, and sighs, but doesn't say anything.

"This guy's a joke," comes Caroline's voice from behind them. "I mean, he may be a wonderful humanitarian and all that, but he's so far up himself he's practically looking out his own mouth."

Will turns to look at her, surprised not just at her crudeness, but at the fact that, for once, they agree. He smiles slightly. "He's good at raising money," he quietly remonstrates, half heartedly.

"He'd be good at selling his own mother. That doesn't make him a good person." Will and Caroline both stare at Lizzie, who shrugs, and then walks away.

Fr: joshlyman at whitehouse

To: williamdarcy at charlesbingley

Subject: heads up

Will,

I hear you're in Tennessee right now at Pelloux's fund raiser. Don't spend too long there. You'll want to kill yourself with a fondue fork.

I thought you should know, the attached got passed to me today as a courtesy, early, and I happened to notice the name, and thought you should see it. Please don't act on it, as I shouldn't potentially have sent it to you but I thought you deserved a few days heads up. It doesn't appear to be at all slanderous, to you or anyone, but I know your history with the guy, and I know that he's an idiot.

Anyway, next time you're passing through, come and have dinner. Donna thinks you're working too hard and Claudie wants to see her uncle Will. Well, I'll be honest, she doesn't remember you. She was only eight months last time you saw her, but I'm sure she'll take to you again. She does, after all, seem to like political types. It's the only way I can explain her not immediately crying when she saw Toby. In fact, she pointed and laughed.

Bear up.

See you soon,

Josh

I've never really understood the idea of someone's face looking like thunder. I mean, thunder is the sound of the lightning, not the look of it. You can't look like a sound. That's just stupid, if not, I suppose, reasonably poetic. Anyway, this thought has occurred to me a few times, and yet just now, Will pulled it off. He walked up to me, his fist white he was clenching his Blackberry so hard, and my first thought was, "gee, his face looks like thunder." Genuinely.

"What in the hell were you thinking?"

I am mystified. "About what?"

He waves his Blackberry in my face, and when he finally stops waving it long enough for me to register what is actually on the screen, I recognise a few of the things I said to George. "That," he practically spits, as my face no doubt, registers the said recognition.

"But I mentioned it to Caroline. She said that it sounded fine…"

"Fine!" he practically explodes. "It's not enough to be fine. Do you know what this could do?"

I grab it out of his hand to read a little more than one solitary line. He is now pacing back and forth. "But there's nothing bad. It's all good, isn't it?"

Will pauses and I notice a vein throbbing in his jaw. "The content, maybe. The choice of publication?" He sneers. "And the journalist…?" He starts pacing again having whipped the Blackberry back out of my hands.

I start to feel annoyed. I can't really help it. I had decided to not think about what an ass he had been to George. I had decided that it would be better for our working relationship. But now? Now he is throwing it in my face. It's like he's inviting me to yell at him. I control myself, just. I mean, what right has he to be angry at George? He screwed up George's chances at law school, he forced him into the life he has now. Where does he get off now being angry just because George has made something of his life, with no help at all from Will.

"Look…" I start, and really think we should have this out, but at that moment, Charlotte appears at my elbow.

"Are you all right?" she mutters. "It's just you looked a little…"

"It's fine," I say. "I just need a minute."

She nods and is about to gracefully glide away in what, I have to admit, is a fabulous dress, when from behind her, out pops Bill Collins, like one of the gophers in Billy Bunny's Animal Songs.

"Mr Darcy?" he enquires, somewhat smarmily. "My name is Bill Collins. I work for your aunt."

Will turns at some high velocity and nearly clocks Bill in the ear with his elbow. Boy, he really is tall. The vein in his jaw is still pulsing too. "What?"

All pretence at politeness gone, he appears to be furious.

"Uh…" begins Bill, to his credit, a little unsure, "I'm Bill Collins? I'm a senior executive at DBD Advertising?"

Will has an expression of undisguised loathing. "My aunt?"

"Yes, sir, and I thought you would like to know that she is very well. I'd imagine that you have little time to see her while you are so busy, so I thought you would like to know…" He trails off lamely as Will shakes his head ever so slightly, and walks off. "Huh," he says.

With that Bill walks off to the buffet, leaving me and Charlotte both looking bemused, at the very least. Jane hurries up. "What just happened? Will's looking like he's going to murder someone."

"Yeah," I say, running a hand through my hair, irrespective of the massive amount of hairspray and pins that were in to keep it up and neat. "I'd keep him away from Charlie, and from Marco Pelloux as well…"

Jane shoots me a look.

"Don't ask. I'm not even sure what happened."

She bites her lip for a second, and then hurries off. I sit down in the corner, and Charlotte sits by me. "So," she says. "That was unexpected."

"What?" I ask, resigned. "That Will was a pompous ass or that Bill was an idiot?"

Charley smiles slightly. "You have a point."

"This is going from bad to worse."

She frowns a little, and fixes my hair. "Are you hating the job?"

"No." I'm surprised to admit it. Will is hard work, and Caroline is rarely anything less than a heinous bitch, but everyone else is lovely, and it feels just right. I sigh. "I'm really not."

"Then what's wrong?"

I chew my lip for a second. "It feels like we're on the edge of a cliff, and any second now something or someone's going to push us and everything is going to come tumbling down." I almost feel like crying. "I don't know," I say. "It feels like we've got a really good thing here, and yet it's just balancing on a knife edge, you know? Me and Jane working together. Both of us happy. Far away from Mom."

Charley snorts. "I feel that. My mother dropped in on me the other day, very casually, to ask when I'm getting married as apparently my cousin Mei is now engaged."

I'm tired. Suddenly exhaustingly, drainingly tired. And yet I somehow dredge my memories of Charley's family barbeques out of my mind. "Isn't she, like, seventeen?"

Charley rolls her eyes. "Yes, and pregnant, although we don't talk about that," she says, ending in a perfect impersonation of her mother.

"Oh. OK."

Charley slips an arm round me. "I'm sorry about tonight."

"It wasn't your fault. Will was already in a foul mood."

"OK, well, I don't think I helped but... let me buy you a drink?"

Suddenly we are cast into shadow. Will is towering over me.

Before I even have time to mutter "speak of the devil" he has taken a deep breath, completely ignores Charley, and says, "Elizabeth, would you like to dance?"

I am stunned. Speechlessly completely without words. "I…with you?" is all I manage.

"Yes."

He hardly looks thrilled at the prospect.

"I…" Something takes over and before my mouth and my brain catch up with each other, I've said, "sure."

How did this…?

Damn it.

I have a few questions for which I would like answers:

1) Why, oh why the hell, did I say yes?

2) What possessed me to wear this dress? It is not helping my thought process.

3) Why, oh why the hell is he not speaking?

Seriously. It feels like he has been twirling and swaying me here for hours, and yet he says nothing. Not one thing. It's almost as if he has some kind of bet, or that his family is all suspended above a vat of boiling oil, and he has to get through this dance, however painfully, and save them. It's not as if it's deafeningly noisy in here. I mean, there are some clubs where it is so loud there's just no point. You just dance. Except there it doesn't usually involve classical ballroom hold. Anyway, this is not the same. Everyone else is maintaining either some light banter, some witty back and forth, or, in the case of Charlie and Jane, looking like they are unaware of anyone else. They're just kind of smiling at each other, looking incredibly happy. Not that it would ever happen with Darcy. But it would be nice if he was registering something more than extreme remorse at asking me to dance.

"So," I begin, "do you think of Tennessee as home, or is it DC, or New Hampshire, I guess…" I trail off as he raises his eyebrows. "I mean," I carry on, "you've lived in all those places. Where is home?" It really is a sickness, this inability to maintain an uncomfortable silence. In fact, I think he may have noticed this particular disability of mine.

"Do you always talk while you're dancing?"

I shrug, as well as you can in ballroom hold, mid waltz. "I can't say I'm often in this situation. But normal dancing, sure."

He doesn't answer. He just looks bemused. The fury has left his face for the moment. He just looks resigned, somewhat strained. But then, Charlotte and Bill have just danced past. In all fairness, I would have to restrain myself not to clock the guy.

"So, home?" I reiterate.

"Oh, Washington I guess," he says, not really seeming to concentrate. "No," he suddenly says, as if coming to, "Wales."

"Wales?"

He nods, curtly, but says nothing, as if his answer should have been enough.

"Oh, I…"

"Why do you want to know?"

I look up at him, which is hard at this proximity. I have to crane my neck back a bit. "I'm just interested," I say.

"You want to figure me out?"

My immediate response would be 'no!', but in all honesty, I guess I am. "Maybe."

His voice is getting more strained with every sentence. "And you think that you can work that out just by knowing where my house is?"

"Where you call home. It's very different."

He is silent again for a moment. This is all very strange, to be dancing in what is essentially a backless dress, with a man about whom I know next to nothing, his hand on my aforementioned bare back, while he boils in rage over something which he clearly can't quite articulate. He swallows hard, clearly making a monumental effort.

"Have you known George Wickham long?"

I'm surprised. I mean, not as much as I was when he asked me to dance, but still. The shock is measurable. "Uh, no. I've only met him once."

"No doubt he was very charming." His tone is chilly.

"Yes," I say, in all honesty. "He was."

"You take an interest in him?"

I don't quite know how to answer. What has he asked? Am I dating him? Do I like him? Do I know about his terrible treatment of George? This is all so confusing. "I suppose. He certainly is interesting."

His hand on my back becomes tense. "He has always known how to spin a good story." The vein has reappeared in his jaw.

"No doubt partly why he became a journalist."

He looks down at me, and there is a look in his eyes, troubled, and confused, but with a dawning recognition. "He told you…"

"That he has been so unfortunate as to lose your friendship?" I butt in, edged with a little sarcasm. Or maybe a lot.

He seems to be about to say something but then he stops himself. "It may be better that we don't talk after all."

"Does small-talk bore you?" I can't help it. He winds me up.

He pauses, seeming to turn over words in his mind. "It's hardly educational," he says, sarcasm darting round the edges.

Educational? Does he weigh and measure each little thing for its worth before uttering it? I give up. "Maybe then it is better if we do say nothing."

"Was that your own decision, or are you just doing as I ask?"

Man, this guy is irritating. He says to stop talking, I agree. Now I try to, and he questions me over it. I am fast approaching giving up on civility all together. "I was in the happy situation where I could please both of us," I say, jaw clenched. "I mean," I continue, on a roll, "neither of us actually wants to talk. Silence is clearly always so much more preferable unless you can say something which will amaze the whole room."

The music ends. While other couples laugh together, walking off, others like Charlie and Jane just stand there, almost unaware that the music has ended. Will however stares down at me, his eyes looking stormy. I shrug. Neither of us does have anything to say. Why bother? I step back out of his arms, and walk away.

Fr: richardfitzwilliam at dbd

To: williamdarcy at charlesbingely

Subject: Your happy little munchkin face

Hey there.

So. I was feeling pretty bad. Jules is away on work, and can't come back, and the thing is, she'd really like to, because the kids have all gone down with something approaching stomach flu, which, I will tell you now, is no joke, and, you know, I've spent the last 24 hours solidly with one child or another throwing up, crying, wetting the bed…and I was thinking, this sucks. I need to take a break. And so, in a brief moment of non-vomiting, I found time to check my emails and what has actually been going on in the world, and my eyes were greeted with this prize picture, which I believe was only taken tonight, but some earnest photographer has whipped it onto their website. Anyway, I realised that whatever was going on with me must be only half of what is happening to you to make you look like the UN-DEAD. Seriously Will, has there been some kind of tragedy that I don't know about, because you look dreadful. So if you don't at least email and tell me that you're just about all right, then I may have to pack up the car with the kids, weeping, vomming and so on, and come and find you, wherever you are right now, because I feel in the capacity as your only family, G excluded, that I should organise some kind of intervention.

Let me know mate,

Rich (and the three Stooges: Weepy, Vommer and Pee Pants.)

Fr: williamdarcy at charlesbingley

To: richardfitzwilliam at dbd

Subject: I'll tell you what you can do with your Munchkin face

Well first, I'm sorry to hear about the kids, although with those delightful nicknames, I don't feel so inclined to come and visit any time soon.

Second, I am not going to kill myself, if that was what concerned you. I have had a bad night. One of those monumentally bad nights, and I'm not quite sure what I'm going to do about it, but right now, I am hammering out my rage on my laptop keyboard, which is cathartic.

See, George Wickham appears to be back. And around politics. Yes. Just my luck. So in fact, I may just kill myself now. Anyway, it appears that one of my staff was interviewed by him, and he appears to have told her about us, or our past, or some version of it. Anyway, I was seized by reasonable rage about that, probably unfairly directed at this member of staff, who I then inexplicably asked to dance, and it went even further down hill.

So. That is the reason for the face, which, if it was taken at the point I think it was, was when I was just finished yawning. No one looks good then. Except, you know, babies and puppies.

Kiss the kids for me. From a safe distance.

Will

Fr: richardfitzwilliam at dbd

To: williamdarcy at charlesbingley

Subject: What, Will? What will you do?

I realise that there was more going on in your email than this particular revelation (one thing being I'm guessing you mean that George told said staffer about you and him 'us', not me and you, because, you know, what is there to tell beyond how we used to have matching pyjamas and I once gave you a bloody nose) but, you know, I'm essentially a twelve year old boy stuck in a thirty-five year old body, so what the hell. You danced? Voluntarily? With a girl?

What kind of madness made that happen? Were dogs miaowing and, like, all the birds flying in one direction?

Rich

Fr: williamdarcy at charlesbingley

To: richardfitzwilliam at dbd

Subject: Death awaits you

I knew it was a bad plan to tell you. I'm not sure what overcame me. I had been a total ass to her, and she looked so fed up, and there was really great music, and it just kind of happened. But then, unfortunately, we had the most painfully difficult conversation of my life. It seems to happen all the time with her. We just don't get on. Anyway, it was a bad plan from the start. Everything. Even going to the stupid fundraiser. Marco Pelloux is an idiot. I think she has more reason to hate him than anyone, and yet says nothing. I really don't know…anyway, I am putting it behind me. We're off to Austin tomorrow. Tennessee is nothing but trouble.

Will

Fr: richardfitzwilliam at dbd

To: williamdarcy at charlesbingley

Subject: By what means? Your rapier wit?

You were born there. Tennessee is after all, allegedly, America at its best. Although did you know that it has no state dinosaur? According to Wikipedia, we in New Jersey have the Hadrosaurus foulkii. Check it out. It looks like a shovel. And allegedly our state soil is Downer, which has four horizons…and you in TN have Dixon, which isn't interesting enough for Wikipedia to tell me anything about it. So I'll admit, Tennessee hasn't much (soil and dinosaur-wise) going for it. And actually, I wouldn't blame you if you wanted to be from Pennsylvania. They do, after all, have the Slinky as their state toy.

So. I think all we have learned here is that I love Wikipedia. Which we all already knew.

Oh, and the girl. Well, I'm not surprised. I mean, you aren't the world's greatest conversationalist at the best of times. Now add incredibly busy, extraordinarily long days, and George Wickham to the mix, and you were bound to screw up. Just say sorry, and tell her that George is a massive waste of space. And then kiss her. Or whatever. I'm sure Jules would have better advice but, you know, she's still stuck in Washington. The real one, not DC. And, you know, their state motto is By and by which is nothing to good old Liberty and Prosperity. Or even Pennsylvania's Virtue, Liberty and Independence. They get the best of everything. Except dinosaurs. Although it appears your beloved DC has one. So take heart.

Rich

Fr: williamdarcy at charlesbingley

To: richardfitzwilliam at dbd

Subject: Yes. Exactly.

Are you some sort of one man advertisement for Wikipedia? And of course I can't just say sorry…tell her that George is a massive waste of space…and then kiss her, you imbecile. I'm not sure what I will do, but it may be something above your playground antics.

Now go play kiss chase. I need to go to bed. If today was long, tomorrow will be longer.

Will

Thank you for reading and especially for reviewing.

NYT: Thank you. I have corrected it. And though Collins says it in this chapter, I think he would be that kind of pompous ass.

Lelalini: Some confrontation, delivered. No kissing, as yet. Hold your horses. It's in the pipeline.

Everyone else, thank you.