by Iris Lim
Real
A Pride and Prejudice Variation Romance
—
Iris Lim
© 2018 by Iris Lim.
All rights reserved.
To my beloved husband, thank you for being living proof that Mr. Darcy can be real.
Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelwe
Epilogue
One
"And my head I'd be scratchin' while my thoughts were busy hatchin' if I only had a brain."
I smile. Always the early riser, she's usually making pancakes and airing out her lungs before I even brush my teeth. With a small flat like ours, that means I hear every word she's ever sung. Not that she doesn't have a nice voice — she does. She just has a tendency to be, well, loud.
Even the Scarecrow never screamed at his crows.
I grab my cardigan. You can never go wrong with a dress and a cover-up when it comes to office wear. It goes from day wear to nightlife in a snap.
Well, not that I have much of a nightlife. Or any nightlife, really.
"Oh, I could tell you why the ocean's near the shore."
Sometimes, I wonder how much Gigi hears herself. But hey, she's a Darcy — and Darcys only sing songs that were not written for Hollywood (or from the last fifty years).
It's almost hilarious, really — that my tennis-camp roommate ends up being Darcy's sister. Did I know Darcy first? Of course I knew Darcy first. How could I not? William Darcy: Embodying snobby-ness since 1984. He should get it framed.
Yes, I know his birthday and year. Sue me.
It's kinda hard not to when bimbos line up in the company lobby whenever it's his birthday, ready to offer cake and coffee and themselves. I try to ignore it, but our other colleagues don't. So yup, I know everything. I know he's a socially-challenged computer genius. I know that his lively sister is an angel from heaven he doesn't deserve. I know that all the ladies in town want to bed him (for what reason, I have no idea). And, of course, I know that he, not I, is the prime candidate to take Barry's place after his resignation last week.
I know this, but he doesn't. He is so consumed with everything in his snobby little entitled life that he has no idea there's actually any competition for him. Because as far as I'm concerned, I deserve that promotion. I've worked longer, harder and better for Pemberley Inc. in the past years than he's ever done. So what if the current CEO is on his family tree? I share his creative mind and work dedication.
Not that Darcy doesn't work hard. He does. No one can fault him for that.
It's just — I really need a break in life, okay? Pouring myself into work sounded like a good idea right after college. I was a boyfriend snob, the type of friend who looks down on you because you're dating and she's not. And I was all self-righteous about it too.
So, yeah, I lost a few friends. They got married and moved on. But after that — I got promoted! Then I met Gigi, who is the world's most amazing home cook and roommate. Who cares if she has the money to study while I climb (read: clamber) up the corporate ladder? Who cares if I've been stuck in the same position for the past three years?
Today is my day. I'm going to head to work and kick some serious butts — Gigi's enthusiastic singing and snobby brother notwithstanding.
"Hey, Lizzie." She smiles and nudges the plate of pancakes my way when I finally wander out of my room. She is seriously the best roomie ever. "Ready for your big, big day?"
"You're not rooting for your brother?" I'm genuinely surprised. I drop my messenger bag (juvenile, I know, but Jane gave it to me) on one chair and slide on to the adjacent one. "I thought Darcys stick together?"
"Darcys stick for what's right." She points the spatula — I mean, the flat one, I don't know what it's called — at me. "If we supported each other blindly, I'd still be married to Wickham."
I shudder at the recollection. "I still can't believe you did that. I mean — Vegas? You seem too prim and proper for that."
"Prim and proper — and susceptible to manipulative men." She cocks her head matter-of-factly. It used to be a hot topic, but she's grown out of it. I always kinda knew her moving out had to do with her brother.
But whatever she thought then — she doesn't know. Because she adores the guy.
"You'll find the right guy one day," I assure and smile — both extremely lamely. I suck.
"And you've already found yours." She grins.
"Gigi," I warn. This is one topic we could never agree on.
"What? Will adores you. You know that. He's got a crush on you since the day you spilled coffee all over his shirt."
Right — not my finest moment.
"And you're somehow confident that romantic feelings are the result of that accident?" I raise a brow, and start munching happily.
"He likes you."
"He hates me."
"Sure, keep telling yourself that."
Gigi turns away to fuss over her dishes. The girl's a world-class chef, but I can't say the same about her brother — or myself. With Gigi in the kitchen, every meal looks like fine dining, powdered sugar and all.
To be honest, whatever I've lacked in the boyfriend or career aspects, life has more than made up for in select people. Gigi is the funniest, most lovable roommate ever, Charlotte is the ultimate correspondent, Jane is the world's sweetest sister, and Lydia — well, Lydia — she's entertaining, I suppose. She says her 21st birthday bash is going to be a rager. I call it a brewing catastrophe.
I know, I know — Lydia would call me super lame. With birthdays just days apart, she's always trying to one-up me, telling me how my birthday celebrations are lonely, lame, and pathetic.
I can't help it if I like English Literature. Immersing myself in others' imagination and pretending to be from a time when people are well-mannered, educated, and astute — that's the dream. It's a world where snobby, stilted office frenemies don't exist. It's a world where people don't have to work extra hard to just get a chance at the next promotion.
In a word, it's escapism in the best possible form.
"See you tonight, Lizzie. We are going to kill that movie marathon!"
All packed up, she slips out the door with the mixed grace of a wood-nymph and a hobbit. I smile.
Here's hoping that my day will end up as blithesome as hers.
• • •
"Bennet! Darcy! In my office. Now."
Thanks for the choice, boss. Did he have to use the PA?
I push away from my desk, away from the privacy of my three-walled cubicle. I stand up to the inevitable stares — some blatant, some discreet. Doesn't really matter, does it? At this hour of day, they'll all be hitting the clubs by the time our little meeting is done. They'll just hear the results through the grapevine.
So I put on a smile, smooth down my dress, and march down the aisle with my head held high. Sure, my heart is racing — but they don't have to know that.
"Sorry." Darcy mumbles when he walks right into me. His face looks red as he gathers back his limbs.
Was he about to assist me?
I glare at him. He looks back tentatively.
Good — because I'm not giving up this promotion without a fight. And I don't need a man's help — ever.
I can hear Charlotte in the back of my head. "Hey, it's proof that chivalry isn't dead, you know. It's a reflection of who he is, not you." She'll say with that knowing, mysterious smile and widened eyes.
Yes, it's not about me but about him — all 6-feet-tall of b
rainy, hunky deliciousness. But still, he's Darcy.
"Come in, please." Matlock sounds a lot less stern, now that no one else can hear him.
We grab our seats. Well, I grab, anyway. Darcy chooses and takes.
"Now, with Barry's resignation, there have been rampant rumors regarding who should take his place." Matlock leans forward on his elbows, teeming with textbook insincerity. "I am aware that both of you might have heard theories regarding my decision."
My heart tightens. This is the 'I'm-not-a-sexist' speech before he chooses the guy. I can see Darcy frowning from the corner of my eye. Heck, why is he worried?
"Since regional manager is a very important job," Mr. Pighead Boss continues, loving the drama. "I have come to a special conclusion."
Yeah, sure you did.
"I have decided." He pauses again, the jerk. "I have decided to postpone the announcement to Monday."
"What?" We react simultaneously — probably the only time we'll do anything simultaneously.
"I need to mull over my decision." Matlock grins, leaning back. "But I can promise — it's one of you."
So near yet so far.
Whatever.
"Thank you, Mr. Matlock." I stand up abruptly, momentarily forgetting the hordes ready to pounce outside the door. "I'll see you on Monday."
"Lizzie!" Darcy calls after me as I speed out the door.
I ignore him. God knows what he'd ever want to talk about right now.
• • •
"Do you have any idea what your brother just did?" I practically scream the moment our front door falls shut. My bag hits the floor. I don't care.
"Spill coffee over your dress?" Gigi, tucked in comfortably on the couch, is way, way, way too calm. She doesn't even look at me.
"Your brother —" I stop, not really knowing how to say this.
How do you tell a girl that she's related to the world's greatest weirdo?
"Yeah? What did Will do?" She turns a little, looking totally unperturbed.
I look back for a moment, too confused to really say much. She scrunches her face into her signature inquisitive look.
"He asked me out."
There. I said it. Take what you will.
Gigi doesn't reply. She doesn't even blink. She just pushes herself to her feet — and squeals.
"I knew it! I knew it! I knew it!" She's jumping up and down, circumventing the couch and hopping towards me. "Where are you guys going? What are you wearing? Is it the Marina? Is it La Folie? I told him he should do something for your birthday. Oh, this is gonna be the best birthday ever."
"I didn't say yes," I blurt out, anxious to stop her.
And she does stop — completely. She looks at me, likely in full-on shock.
"You said no?" Her voice sounds like a terrified little girl.
"Well, no, I didn't — I — I said I'd think about it."
"Oh."
Yeah — oh.
Wait, did Gigi know her brother was asking me out?
"You should go, you know," she says first before I can ask. She looks up at me, eyes shiny, like a kid. "Will really is a nice guy."
Uhm, maybe.
"We're vying for the same position, Gigi. I can't — I can't possibly go out with him, especially not this weekend." I shake my head, moving forward towards the nearest ottoman.
"But this weekend is your birthday," she says it like it's the perfect argument.
"And my birthday wish is a promotion." I turn around. "It's not a guy."
"BOGO is hardly a bad deal, you know?"
I'm surprised she even knows the term.
"Well." With no rule against office romance, I'm scrambling for excuses. "I'm not sure he even likes me."
"Uh huh."
Fine — that one's lame.
"He didn't even want to dance at the corporate party. Matlock practically begged us to, but he wouldn't. And that was before I even spilled all that coffee on him. There's no way —"
"He finds you attractive."
I can't tell if she's trying to finish my sentence for me or starting one of her own.
I sigh. "Gigi, look, your brother — he's hot, okay? I get it. I mean, lots of girls are always lining up to be on his arm. I get it. I just — I don't think it's a good idea."
"Why?"
Good question.
"Well, for one, he's gonna hate my family. You've seen Lydia and my mom."
"He's not proposing, Lizzie. He's asking you out on a date — one date."
I frown. Then I add, "I'm his main office competitor."
"Makes you special, doesn't it?"
"Gigi, please."
"What? I'm asking you why you think this is a bad idea, cuz I sure think it's a good one. And so far, your reasons are really, really lame."
I sigh. "Fine, fine — I mean, for all you know, this is just coincidence. He probably doesn't even know it's my birthday."
My phone vibrates in my hand. The screen lights up.
William Darcy: 'I would've waited for a better time, really. I simply did not want to miss your birthday. Sorry if things became rather awkward earlier. I should not have asked you in the office. I will wait for your reply. Goodnight.'
I know all about Gigi's raised eyebrow without even looking up.
Why him? Why me? Why now?
I sigh again. "Are you gonna push this until I run out of excuses?"
She doesn't answer right away. That, more than anything, gets me finally looking up.
Gigi looks, well, impressively reasonable. "Is dating my brother — even just one date — really that bad?"
No, it's not. But, you know — Darcy. I tread carefully, a little tempted to reach for her hands like an old mother. "Look, Gigi, girl — I — well, I don't think going out with Darcy is gonna be most awful thing ever, okay? I — I can imagine it's probably not. But — that doesn't mean it's what I want."
It doesn't seem to bother her one bit. "And how would you know that?"
"Huh?"
"How would you know it's not what you want if you haven't even tried it?"
Point, Gigi. But still. "Oh, come on, don't be silly. There's — there's no way of 'trying' this without messing up everyone's life."
I shake my head, too tired to argue.
"Just — sleep on it, Lizzie."
I smile a little. "Sure, I will. Could we, uhm — skip that movie marathon? I'm sorry to get you all excited for it."
She smiles, the world's most understanding creature next to Jane. "No problem."
I wander towards my room. "Goodnight, Gigi."
"Night, Lizzie."
• • •
Judging from the amount of light peeking through the very see-through curtains, I place the time around 5 a.m. It's been an — interesting night of sleep.
If this can be called sleep.
I grunt and twist around again. Darn William Darcy and his ill-timed date-posal. I mean, could he have chosen any worse of a time?
I roll my back flat against my squeaky mattress and throw my hands beside me. Then I groan. Like, outright groan. Why him? Why me? Why now?
"Lizzy," a deep, male voice rumbles beside me.
I jump up.
What?!
"Lizzy, are you well?"
Was I drunk? Was I — what the heck, I —
My left hand scrambles for my lamp. Yes, I keep a lamp like a grandma. But I don't find a lamp. I find the nightstand — but there's no lamp.
I keep grasping. I grasp at the small, cylindrical object as I slide off the bed. Where's my lamp? Where's my phone? Where is —
Is this a candle?
"Lizzy," male voice calls again. The light from the window is growing brighter by the second, but my wide-awake mind isn't getting any more clarity.
None — until I turn around, look up, and stare straight at the source of said male voice.
What? No — no — no, no, no, no.
"Lizzy, darling."
Darling?
Darling?!
He's wearing this strange, girly white shirt. His hair is curly, ruffled. He's slept the night.
I look down. I'm wearing — something. It looks like a frilly nun's habit. It's really loose — it's — I don't know what it is, okay? But it's definitely not the shorts and T-shirt I threw on last night.
Speaking of shorts — I shift my legs together. And, as far as I can tell, I'm wearing nothing down there — nothing.
"Lizzy, is everything all right?" He talks in a weird, British accent. And he scrambles off the bed.
And I do the only thing I could think of for a girl waking up with an oddly-clad William Darcy and not a bit of cloth between her legs.
I scream at the top of my lungs.
Two
"Do summon Dr. Haddon. Elizabeth's night was — unrestful."
"Shall we visit the apothecary as well, sir?"
"No — let us see what Haddon says."
"Yes, sir."
"Thank you, Mrs. Reynolds."
Small footsteps hustle away.
Darcy, or whoever this period-drama version of him is, is a horrible whisperer. Without any central-air-system white noise, I can hear every single word he says. It's like he's not even trying.
Unless he isn't?
Ugh. I don't know, okay? Sitting here like a trapped person-turned-statue — I'm as lost as everyone else is.
When those screeches left my mouth earlier this morning, period Darcy ran right over to me, trying to pat my back like I'm a crying kid. I, of course, just screamed louder. I mean — what on earth, right? It took him and a butler and two women (one of whom is combing my hair right this moment) a ridiculous amount of shushing for me to shut up. And even when I did, they just looked at each other like I was some kind of wild animal.
"Lilieth, I shall proceed downstairs. Do tend to Mrs. Darcy."
Standing at the door right now, he talks directly to the girl — a maid, probably — behind me, as if I were invisible.
Whatever. Fine by me.
"Yes, sir." The maid — Lilieth, I guess — replies. And period Darcy disappears.
I groan, big time.
"Is everything all right, Mrs. Darcy?"
I groan some more, then look up at the pathetic excuse for a mirror on top of this ornate vanity table. My hair is probably in full Medusa mode — but that's not what I'm worried about.
