Darcy works in cafés. In the mornings. When he's in town.
He wakes up, he showers. He goes to a café. Coffee. Laptop. Serious work. More coffee. More work.
Monday morning. He's in a really bad mood. His usual place, closed this morning, he ends up elsewhere. The place—awful. Smells of rancid soap, bad wi-Fi, acidic expresso.
A text from Elizabeth.
A text from Elizabeth. It never happened before.
"Oh don't you see, you belong to me" blares in the small room. A bastardized version. To avoid royalties, certainly.
Darcy stares at his phone dumbly. It's a group text. In a chat. Called "Bingley's Birthday." Elizabeth is not talking to him—to Darcy—but to everyone. She and Jane, preparing a surprise party for, well, Bingley. Jane is Bingley's girlfriend now.
Texts come and go. Where? When? Darcy's migraine, getting worse. He proposes to have the party at his apartment. He wants the flood of texts to stop. He wants to make Bingley happy.
Elizabeth is taking care of the food. She and Darcy have to meet in person.
- Free for coffee now? - Elizabeth writes.
Darcy hesitates. Looks at the phone. His head is pounding.
- Tomorrow. - he writes tersely.
- Sir yes sir - Elizabeth answers. Jane adds a smiley.
Jane uses too many smileys.
Tomorrow.