AN: Ok, I have taken some liberties here with cultural references which may not exactly fit with the ages of ODC in my modern setting. Much of these are written and remain because they amuse me. They may not amuse anyone else. You will need a more than passing familiarity with the movie Top Gun (the original) to appreciate Lizzie's humour in one little part of this chapter. I could tell you [more], but then I'd have to kill you (also a TG reference, sorry).
Chapter 4
My bare feet pound the sand in a steady rhythm as the sun breaks over the low-lying scrub past the dunes. The waves crash on the reef a few hundred metres beyond the beach, and I begin to see the dark shapes, lit by the first light of dawn, slowly paddling the Australian crawl towards the break, to catch the perfect waves and ride them back to land in an endless cycle of surfing heaven.
I slow to watch them, catching my breath as I imagine the smooth even strokes I would make, timing the next wave and positioning myself just so, to catch the next one, skimming lightly over the dangerous reef just scant metres below the surface, feeling the powerful surge beneath and behind me pushing me, as I curve back and forth across the face, adrenalin and exhilaration bursting out of me in a bellowing whoop of joy. My body tingles at the memories.
I haven't been surfing since Dad died 3 years ago. I had always been groomed to take over the family business, but when the "family business" is a national conglomerate of agricultural, pastoral and mining interests, there was only so much I could learn in the 4 years I got with Dad, between graduating with an MBA from Monash University and stepping in as the greenstick heir, and former understudy, of one of the most dynamic and controversial businessmen in the country. I should be living large off my inherited wealth, in my private jet, rolling from red carpet to charity event to my yacht off Monte Carlo, exchanging supermodels for wealthy debutantes every month or so, even if the thought of touching any of them makes me physically ill.
Instead, I've spent the last 3 years working my arse off to drag the business away from the spotlight with ASIC and ACCC investigations that Dad's less than salubrious business partners had taken us. The cloud surrounding the circumstances of his death have only just started to lift and I have barely kept my head above water, selling off the most incriminating assets and ploughing time and resources into the underperforming blue-ribbon assets that are the Darcy legacy in Western Australia. Instead, I am weighed down by the responsibility and the debt I owe to my forefathers and my future descendants, even if they all end up being Georgie's kids. I refuse to be the Darcy that threw it all away.
My mobile starts to vibrate against my thigh just as my breathing was slowing. It's my cousin, Richard Fitzwilliam, who, along with Bing and Georgie, are the only people I trust without reservation. Richard is CFO of the Darcy Group, the son of my mother's brother, and the only other family member worthy of an income, according to Dad. Richard is the only reason the Darcy Group is still solvent. Even Dad, on his worst days, listened to his CFO.
"Hey Rich, what's up?" I begin to laugh at his opening remarks. "Yep, I'm back, it was a good hike and great to get away from the schoolies. I know his family has been coming down here forever, but seriously there's nothing but wall to wall teenagers everywhere… Yeah, at the beach. Just had a slow jog, loosening up the joints before I hit the waves. Anyway, why are you calling me at the crack of dawn?"
He runs some numbers at me, wanting to confirm the figures on a deal we're working on before he meets with the lawyers. We talk shop for a while, then he tells me to get laid and come back happy. I tell him to F-off, hang up and start stretching. He knows me too well to think that will ever happen.
My Dad lost the love of his life when I was 11 and a few years later I watched him begin to hollow himself out, with a succession of lovers he never took seriously, until he was nothing but an empty husk of a human being. I am grateful that he made sure I got the help I needed and kept G with us instead of farming her out, after the disaster that was Aunt Cath. But he refused to marry again or have any more kids, as though that would have been the worst betrayal of my mother. She wouldn't have recognised him anyway. It would have broken her heart.
I never wanted to be that dependent on another human being again. Losing my mum was just the beginning of one of the worst periods of my life. And just when I thought I was back on track, I watched my Dad disappear before my eyes. I shake off the memories and feel the sun warming my back already. It is going to be a scorcher today, so I strip off my shirt, toss it with my phone behind me and jog towards the waves.
The water is crisply cold and salty, and I dive beneath its depths as soon as it is deep enough. The bay is sheltered by the surrounding reef, providing protection for the coastline even as it offers tantalising danger to those beyond it. I am content to dip and dive, floating in the gentle ebb and flow, hearing the distant roar and crash, accompanied by the shouts and bellows of success and failure for the riders out to sea.
As I swim towards the shore, I notice a figure seated beneath a hooded towel, holding what looks like a telephoto lens. Fearing the worst, I angle my strokes away from them and hope I can find my shirt and phone quickly. The lens is directed towards the surfers mostly, so I hope it's just an amateur photographer. Lady luck is not with me, and my belongings are not anywhere obvious. To be fair, I did not look too closely where I dumped them. Assuming I had just drifted further down the beach while swimming, I start walking back to Bing's thinking I'll see them on the way.
"Do you want your shirt? Or maybe, your phone?" It's her. She's not shouting, but her voice reaches me, carried on the wind, or in the silent spaces between the wind and the surf. I turn back and she gestures up the beach with her thumb, like she's hitching a ride. When I start walking towards her, she takes up her camera and continues focussing on the surfers, oblivious to me. I walk behind her so as not to get in her way and I notice my shirt and phone are not even 5 metres from her, exactly where I tossed them.
"Were you sitting there the whole time?" I chuckle, embarrassed, as I put on my shirt. She must have heard me talking to Rich. She shrugs when I look at her, so I know she's paying some attention to me, despite her keen interest in whatever is in her viewfinder. I settle down behind her line of sight and train my eyes to the distant surfers. I can feel discomfort radiating from her but somehow, I know she isn't really threatened by me. She's obviously walked here from her campsite so she's close enough to scream if she needs help. I hear her sigh when I stretch out and lean back on my elbows, crossing my large feet. When I chuckle, she puts her camera down with another long-suffering sigh and deigns to look at me.
"Are you so desperate that you must bother complete strangers on the beach, who are simply minding their own business - so well in fact, that you don't even notice they're there? You do know there's like a thousand kilometres of beach in both directions, right? With no one else in it?" She gestures with her free hand, and I am caught by the graceful motions of her slim fingers dancing in the air, until they form the universal signal of the middle finger. She makes me smile. I never smile for new acquaintances. I most certainly never flirt.
"I know you, Lizzy."
"Hm. You found out my name."
"We had a moment, me and you. I won't ever forget you."
"Well, the first time we met, you insulted me. The second time I saw you, you didn't speak a word to me. I only know you as Charles Bingley's less than affable companion. I don't know you at all."
"Oh, well, I met your sister. She didn't tell you my name?"
"I didn't ask."
"Ouch. Well, Fitzwilliam Darcy, at your service, ma'am." I stick a sandy hand out towards her, which she turns her nose up at, pointing to her pristine camera and her sand-free fingers. "Ouch, again." She looks a bit ashamed and stretches her hand out in a fist to pound mine. I take what I can get, desperate stranger that I am. Her eyes flick to mine.
"Fitzwilliam? Did your mother not like you or something?"
She makes me laugh. I never laugh with new acquaintances, either.
"This is the part where you tell me it's your call sign and I pretend to be impressed that you're a pilot. But seriously, Fitzwilliam?" She arches one eyebrow, unable to keep the mischievous glint from her eyes or the quirk from her lips.
"I would have you know that the Fitzwilliam name has a proud history in this provincial colony. My mother's family landed with Captain Cook, but I am the last male in her line, so the name lives on in my first name only." I don't tell her that my first name is actually Llewellyn, Fitzwilliam being my middle name, as that secret has been closely guarded since I was 8 and a new school meant I could choose how to introduce myself. You would think it would have been hard to find a first name less appealing than Fitzwilliam. I don't know what my mother was thinking. I am glad they didn't go for the double-barrelled surname though, my dad was too proud for that, and my mum was the traditional sort.
"Huh. So, your dad was the new money, your mum brought the heritage. I get it. Fitzwilliam-Darcy is a mouthful for a surname, though I have heard worse. Ugh, double-barrelled names are so 1980. But the first name is a sweet gesture. Good for her."
For some strange reason, her praise of my mother gives me an instantaneous joy that makes me bark in laughter. Again, with the laughing. That she has managed to drill to the heart of my mother's humility and goodness from 2 sentences about the provenance of my name shows a level of human insight I have never seen before. Or maybe, she just got lucky.
I want her to dig deeper so badly my bones ache and the sensation terrifies me. She watches my face change from laughter to terror in a heartbeat. Her pupils dilate in surprise and confusion, but never waver. I mumble something about being late for breakfast and maybe seeing her later with Bing, snatch up my sneakers and jog away as casually as someone who was being chased might look.
