There was this window facing north at the top floor of the west wing library that despite its narrow frame ended up revealing a somewhat panoramic view of the entire northern Pemberley estate, obscured only by a series of undulating meadows and thick forests in far vision. At the right was the stream that turned dramatically away, and when seated comfortably at the settee by this special window a stable that despite being at least a few miles away still seemed too big. It was built on a patch of flat land (natural or man-made; who knows?) and had bundles of hay and other paraphernalia associated with bourgeois equestrian lifestyle. All this lay in the relative centre of the view, with the right side consisting mainly of the forests encroaching upon the crude parkland of the estate. In making mental notes of such a scenery, I found a somber and mellow moment to lean myself on the sill of this enchanting window and go through the memories of a few months ago, LA, Aidan. A pacific Christmas, Emily. Jane and of course, the bane of my existence, my mother and her immortal judgments. A path of abject darkness and the perils of being a failed adult. A life of material fulfilment emptier than this gothic library and this dark twilight of the northern sky. Some men were now bringing some horses into that stable and an old man leaning a sturdy wooden fence lit a cigarette, the flash of which twinkled through the autumnal haze.
I waited for it to get darker before I pulled myself away from this traumszene. By the time I meandered through that castle masquerading as a residence for a suspiciously secretive aristocratic family, the dining room was already teeming with more people than I expected. There was an adjunct room that functioned as a hall for the guests to sip informal drinks and murmur in warm voices. This seems more formal than I thought, I was dressed in a cocktail dress that was more like "business formal for office Christmas party" than "scene in a Henry James novel". I made an awkward entry through one of the side doors that opened into a little garden beside the entrance lane. It was a flood of unfamiliar faces that kept me at my toes in terms of general comfort. I spotted papa talking to Darcy Sr. and some other men his age, very obviously from London. I slowly started walking in their direction with the vague hope that he would spot me. But papa was enjoying whatever animated conversation he was having a bit too much and Darcy Sr. absentmindedly peered over his champagne glass towards me. His expressions reflected his train of thought interrupted by my appearance and after what seemed a few very long seconds he put on that debonair smile (Frank's main weapon) and made a magnanimous gesture by slightly raising his glass to welcome me. This caught the attention of his party and papa moved away from them to hug me.
"I thought you would get lost", he said pulling away, "I told James to send Oliver to chaperone you here"
"No papa!" I snapped instantly, "it wasn't that hard. Besides, " I started seeing Mr. Darcy come nearby, "this house is very beautiful."
"I am glad you like it," he said as he loomed over me.
"Oh my god Elizabeth you look so beautiful!" I heard Harry's wife exclaim from behind. I returned her imitation of a formal hug.
"You look great too" I said with bitter honesty as she was wearing a well-fitted Zuhair Murad dress. If only I could look as good after having kids. If I ever ended up having any. I wonder what it would feel like…
It is amazing how rapidly your mind will cycle through entire iterations of emotions over something so insignificant as an overpriced dress. But it was more about the vision- the red-haired, kind Harry besides his blonde wife. The glamour of these things can be very intoxicating and you lose the ability to think of life in terms of nuance and start visualizing everything as two-dimensional approximations of a moment of accidental charm. I cannot tell you what happened for the next few minutes, as far as I can tell it was a barrage of Diane introducing me to her London socialites and me mechanically keeping up with this performance. I would every now and then look towards papa, talking to a completely different set of people every time, happier than I have ever seen him in our sordid life in America.
There was also of course a dread. The sharp noise of Frank that penetrated my very being this afternoon made me ultra-conscious of the possibility of a reunion with an old flame. How long has it even been? I don't even remember half of the things yet. I didn't even know what I could say if he came in front of me right now. I went over to the bar and asked for a cosmo. Behind the bartender was another large dramatic 18th century painting depicting some war scene neatly bifurcated between the two warring sides. I was too anxious to figure out the meaning or anything but I kept my eyes glued to it in a vain attempt to calm my overriding nerves. Its purpose seemed to be one of giving unnerved party guests something to fixate upon as their fates hung heavy with bitter anticipation of dreadful social confrontation peppered awkwardly with etiquettes. The large painting seemed to be a deliberate addition to the decor of this sonorous ballroom, a looming scene adding to the pathos of elite society and their mindless mingling- giving an affectation of seriousness to the otherwise low-stakes lives of the guests of the Darcy family.
"I have tried many times too" said a man to my right, "I couldn't figure it out for the life of me." He smiled sheepishly holding a whiskey sour in his large brown hands.
He was dressed in a crisp black shirt with the top two buttons unclasped revealing a dense, hairy chest and a gold chain of considerable thickness. He had wavy black hair and brown almond shaped eyes. He was leaning over the bar; unlike me, standing, and still taller than I was sitting on that high stool. He had a smooth mouth with somewhat feminine lips that were surrounded by a very dense and black beard groomed very meticulously; probably touched up for this evening. He seemed aware of his broadness and was trying to look less menacing- and that gave him an overall charm that made him come across as disarming.
"Maybe it makes sense after enough drinks" I replied after a sip of my cosmo. The guy didn't say anything but just smiled boyishly and cocked his head on one side. He then lifted his glass up and I clinked it with mine to complete the non-verbal joust of alcoholic wit. I was taken aback by this gesture because till now he seemed somewhat held back and hesitant.
"Are you old-fashioned?" I asked, looking at his glass. He took a few delicious moments to work it in his brain and said, "When in Rome" as he moved his right arm motioning the absurd and stultified air of aristocracy that was all around us.
"And are you a follower of the great Saint Carrie Bradshaw?" he added to my train of humor.
"Only when I'm looking for a Mr. Big" I heard myself blurting out these words followed instantly by a micro dose of panic and anxiety. What the hell did I just blab about?
He smiled but he maintained eye contact this time while looking deep into my eyes. I couldn't tell you when exactly he moved closer to me but I realized that I was getting a better view of his unbuttoned shirt. I wanted to drain the entire cosmo at the moment but had to force myself to take dainty sips as I tried very hard to not look at his mouth or chest. This is absolutely the worst place and time to flirt with a stranger. Nevermind how gloriously bronzed this absolute Adonis was. Because the hall was rather too drafty for the September evening (the windows used to stay open during summers), a waft of wind came from behind the man and carried his mild scent- spicy musk with a note of something smoky blending smoothly with his own personal smell. If I was struggling with keeping up appearances till then, wait till I smelled his amazing cologne.
A moment that elongated into an eternity under the intense heat of this man's mind-melting, honey-sweet, amber-glow gaze. I wanted to break the moment and get into the formalities but after a very long time I was completely mesmerized by the mise-en-scene of that night. That crowded hall with low hum, the chilled air, smell of cooking coming from adjoining kitchens, clinks of glasses and spurts of occasional mirth emanating from the various groups of detached and dissociated assholes assembled here in the mansion of some old-money patriarch. A weird mellowness engulfed almost all of my senses and despite my weak drink that I barely drank I felt drunk with the soothing cool air. And among all these is his man standing barely a feet from me, leaning on his right over the high bar, very unaware of the roiling emotions behind my very poor façade of decorum and formality.
"Kabir Randhawa" he said, jutting his right palm towards me. The name in conjunction with the thick metallic ring-like bracelet hanging on his right forearm added some confusion with respect to his accent that sounded a weird mix between Northwest American and Midland.
I produced my right hand hoping desperately that it wasn't too sweaty or shaky. His big warm palm completely engulfed my tiny trembling hand and he lingered a bit after a taut shake. I took a sharp drag of the cold ballroom air to say my name.
"Elizabeth Bennet" said a deep voice standing right behind. I froze with the dread that has been impending for quite a while. It dragged me out the moment in the span of a single microsecond. This is it, I said, as I slowly turned my neck around, my hand still clutched by Kabir.
There he was, white t-shirt under a casual navy-blue jacket and dark jeans. Frank was straining every nerve on his face to recreate that look of detached amusement he uses to torture people subliminally into submission but this time around I was smart enough to notice that he was very much trying to contain the overflow of some emotion he wasn't too used to. He was nevertheless relaxed, maybe because he was home. He was dressed in a way I have never seen before. At this point my mind was short circuiting all over the place and his memories were now trying to claw their way from whatever chasm I threw them in in an attempt to rid myself of all the complications that came with Frank.
"As in 'Bennet' Bennet" Kabir said while looking over his left shoulder to behold Papa who was now talking to some cabinet minister.
"Yeah" I said sheepishly. I pulled away my hand. Frank now moved closer in the group.
"How do you know Elizabeth?" he asked Frank directly, a heavy implication that they had known each other. My eyes nervously darted towards Frank but he looked steadfast at Kabir.
"We met in Beardsley," he said coolly. "Oh" Kabir said and smiled down at me formally.
In a horrid moment of flash the memory of that doomed birthday party of his came crashing down on me like a mass of heavy rocks. The way I yelled at him. Everything that happened around that party seemed like a montage of some stranger's life. It felt difficult to believe that I experienced all that, that I was the one living those things. How did I end up all the way from Beardsley to England via Los Angeles? All the places I've been, all the men I've been with. I sometimes wondered if it all would have happened had I never met Frank. This trajectory of life was probably invoked, triggered, offset by the trysts with Frank I had that one September all these months ago. And here we are again, another ascendant autumn but on the other side of the Atlantic this time round. It feels like I have been everywhere, and I have seen nothing.
And then, looking coolly into Frank's eyes as if the feeling of a fresh start finally seeped into my blood, I said, "We met last when…"
"On my birthday party, the one your mother had in Beardsley" he completed.
I was taken aback by the precision of his memory. The way the response flowed out of his mouth without wanting to jog his mind.
A loud, sonorous gong deeply went off somewhere in the distance to signal for dinner. "Well", Kabir said with a soft sigh, "let's eat!". He moved away from the bar to join a group of guests migrating towards the dining hall. I saw him place a hand on one of the guys and whisper something in his ear, in response to which he shot a look turning back over his shoulders towards me and Frank. I found myself quite detached from the urgency of the guests heading towards the dining hall.
"You like him?" Frank asked standing behind me in a deep tone. "I'm asking because it is difficult to tell with you."
I slowly turned around to put my unfinished drink on the bar. I did so slowly trying to avoid his gaze.
"I'm sorry about the divorce" he said. "I'm well beyond that now" I replied.
"I know how messy these things can get" he said, more to himself. I said nothing, just gave a sardonic half-grin.
"You leaving so abruptly, really pushed me off balance" he said swiftly coming close to me. My five inch heels put me just barely up to his neck, and my eyes seem to be drinking in every detail of his face.
"All this running away, it won't do anything you know? You did what you thought you had to do and what is done is done but..." he trailed off.
"I'm hungry, Frank" I practically snapped and turned away to follow the last people drunkenly heading towards the dining room. I heard a series of loud footsteps behind me and caught my heartbeat rising in conjunction with their pace but before I could register anything I felt Frank's big hand clutch at my left forearm. I was probably trying to outrun him because that action (along with my heels) almost made me loose my balance.
"Liz, I should have said it before but please I..." he started talking.
"Frank" a loud booming voice came from the corridor. Frank's father stood at the far end of the hallway, opposite to the entrance for the dining hall where our banquet was laid. "I need to have a quick talk with you before joining the guests" he said with a stoic expression as he eyed me with as much indifference he can conjure.
Before he could respond I jerked my arm away from his loosening grip and rapidly started walking towards the hall. My heart was beating mercilessly in my throat and I was tempted to just take off my shoes and run outside into the gardens and then into the dark woods.
What is going on? I never took the time to sit down at a spot and actually think about Frank. I just let all these thoughts and feelings fester deep inside a part of me that never gets sunlight and air. What do I even want? Am I just, at the end of the day, a clueless bitch?
Before I could pull myself out of these thoughts, I entered the hall. I spied Oliver doing a double take as he saw me sit down at one of the tables while he was leaning over a table with bottles of champagne and wine. I looked over and past him doing my best to pretend that I didn't just fuck him a few hours ago.
Frank entered from a side door trying to be as covert as possible while greeting the guests who spotted him with a formal and dignified charm. I turned my head to the table beside mine and saw Kabir listening to a woman talk while he looked around the hall.
He caught my eye and gave a coy smile. I returned back a shy grin and raised my glass of champagne to him.
All this was feeling like such a haze, a bastard child of a dream of hope and a nightmare of regret. I wonder if I ever came out of the traumszene to begin with.
