“Lydia,” Jane said.
Chip seemed unfazed. “That’s the one place you do get privacy.”
“What’s Rick Price like?” The question came from, of all people, Aunt Margo. For the past eleven years, which in TV math was somehow the equivalent of eighteen seasons, Rick Price had been the host: an affable-seeming fellow from Phoenix, Arizona, who had gotten his start as a meteorologist.
“He was a good guy,” Chip said. “The same off-camera as on. It must be a strange job, because on a typical day, I’d guess he was on-set four or five hours, but then some of the challenges and ceremonies would literally last all night. Or he’d travel with us to Barcelona. One thing I had to remind myself was that even though he was nice, part of his job description was to stir the pot. He and the producers were like town gossips. They’d tell me, ‘Such-and-such girl told so-and-so that you said this to her.’ ”
“It’s your sister who convinced you to do the show, isn’t it?” Mrs. Bennet said. “It wasn’t your idea.” From their separate ends of the table, Liz and Jane made eye contact.
“I hadn’t seen Eligible when Caroline suggested I apply. She shot a video of me, just chatting for a few minutes. But I filled out the forms. I thought it was silly, but I did it to humor her.”
“I knew it!” Mrs. Bennet said.
“Now, I must admit,” Chip added, “that before you’re selected, they subject you to a very intense background check. There’s a battery of psychological and physical exams that must be as thorough as what a vice-presidential candidate goes through. The producers aren’t messing around. So it would be disingenuous to pretend I just woke up one day and found myself on TV. I could have opted out along the way.”
In a warm voice, Cousin Willie asked, “Any skeletons in your closet they uncovered?”
Chip shook his head. “For better or worse, I’m a pretty dull fellow. But they called my college roommates, my former employers, my parents—who were, by the way, none too thrilled to hear about my plans. Mr. and Mrs. Bennet, I suspect they felt the way you would if any of your lovely daughters announced they were appearing on reality TV.”
“Being on Eligible just sounds annoying,” Liz said. “As a journalist, I’ve seen how the sausage gets made in the entertainment world, and it’s actually not glamorous.”
“I’ve interviewed so many famous people,” Lydia said in what was apparently her Liz imitation, and Kitty, following suit, added, “Did you guys know I’ve been on TV three times?”
To Chip, Liz explained, “I interviewed Jillian Northcutt after she and Hudson Blaise split up. I certainly hope that’s not the crowning achievement of my career, but I did go on some shows to talk about her, and my impression of the producers I dealt with was that they were smart, friendly, and completely ruthless about getting you to say what they want you to on-camera.”
“No argument here,” Chip said.
Liz hoped she didn’t sound confrontational as she said, “So why’d you do it?”
Chip’s expression was strange, or perhaps it seemed so only because Liz didn’t know him well; she wasn’t sure if he was embarrassed or proud, but when he spoke, it was clear he was utterly sincere. He looked at Jane before saying, “I did it to find love.”
AFTER DINNER, JANE returned with Chip to his apartment, and he dropped her off back at the Tudor just before six in the morning, when he was due at the hospital. Though Liz could tell Jane was trying to be quiet as she entered the bathroom on the third floor, Liz was glad for the opportunity to talk with her sister. They decided to set out early for their run—the temperature was expected to reach the mid-nineties by noon—and they descended through the quiet and semi-dark house, where the rest of their family slept.
In the driveway, they stretched. “You don’t think Mom’s trying to pimp me to Cousin Willie, do you?” Liz asked as she extended her left leg, her heel balanced against the asphalt. “Even as desperate as she is on my behalf, I hope she’d draw the line at incest.”
“Since he’s our step-cousin, it’s not technically incest.”
“No,” Liz said. “But it’s still technically gross.” She pointed toward the street. “Ready?”
As they jogged out of the driveway, Jane said, “If you don’t want people to treat you like you’re single, whether it’s Mom or anyone else, you could tell them you’re not.” This wasn’t a new conversation; Jane thought that at least their parents should know about Jasper, especially since it was possible that Mrs. Bennet might feel sympathy for the delicate circumstances surrounding Jasper’s wealthy grandmother-in-law.
Liz said, “You mean the way you’ve been so open about your IUI?” When she glanced at her sister, Jane’s expression was somber. “You know I’m kidding, right?” Liz said. “So I thought last night with Chip went really well.”
Both women were quiet as three SUVs in varying hues of silver drove by, then Jane said, “Maybe Chip’s the right guy at the wrong time. Would you ever live in Cincinnati? Like, permanently.”
Liz chortled. “Wait, are you planning to break up with him or to stay here forever and become his wife?”
“There are reasons to live in Cincinnati besides Chip.”
“Name one. And don’t say Cincinnati is cheaper, because everywhere is cheaper than New York.”
Jane smiled. “Yet you were outraged that Darcy doesn’t like it here.” They were approaching the country club, and Jane continued: “Everything in New York is such an uphill battle. And even though I used to feel like I couldn’t live in Cincinnati because I wouldn’t have my own identity—I could only be Fred and Sally’s daughter, or ‘one of the Bennet sisters’—maybe I was wrong. Talking to Dad’s nurses in the hospital, or that night I went to the lecture at the Hindu temple—I can see now that there are a lot of different Cincinnatis. This sounds dumb to even say, because it’s so obvious, but most of the city has nothing to do with Seven Hills or Hyde Park or”—Jane gestured to her right—“the country club.”
“So where would you live? Over-the-Rhine?”
Jane’s expression became sheepish. “Oh, I’d definitely want to live in Hyde Park. Not next door to Mom and Dad, but maybe a bungalow around Erie Avenue.”
Had Jane been looking online at real estate? Would it be a betrayal for Liz to check the search history on her own laptop, which Jane occasionally used? Liz said, “If I moved back, I’m sure I’d find some great place to live. I wouldn’t have to make a reservation to take a spin class or wait in line just to get into the grocery store. But then I’d look up one day and be like, ‘What the fuck have I done?’ ”
“You still sound like Darcy,” Jane said. “Speaking of which, Chip is planning a dinner party, and he wants you to come. But just to warn you, Darcy will be there, and so will Caroline, of course.”
“I’d be delighted to attend. I’m willing to overlook Chip’s horrible taste in friends and sisters because of his wisdom in falling for you.”
“Caroline is actually nice when we hang out at the apartment.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet.”
“The only night Darcy’s free this week is Sunday. Can I tell Chip you’ll be there?”
“Not only will I be there,” Liz said, “but I’ll be impersonating a pleasant woman with great manners.”
“COME HERE,” KITTY whispered. Standing in front of the open door of the second-floor guest room, she crooked her finger.
“What?” Liz said at a normal volume, and Kitty whispered, “Shh!”
As she got closer to her sister, Liz could hear a rhythmic whirring, like that of a fan. On reaching the guest room’s threshold, she was greeted with the sight of Cousin Willie sprawled on his back on one of the twin beds, the covers kicked off and Willie clad in tighty-whitey underpants and nothing else. His mouth was open, and he was snoring extremely loudly. Beside Liz, Kitty convulsed with silent laughter.
It was then that Lydia appeared behind them in the hall, apparently having gone to retrieve her smartphone. She held it in
the air, its camera trained on Willie’s form, or at least this was what she did until Liz grabbed the phone away and jammed it under her left armpit. “No,” Liz said, also at a normal volume.
“Give it back,” Lydia hissed, lunging toward Liz.
“Only if you leave him alone.” Liz’s preference at this juncture in adulthood was to avoid physical fights with her sisters, yet the longer she’d been in Cincinnati, the less remote the possibility had come to seem.
“Give it to me,” Lydia said.
“He doesn’t even know,” Kitty said.
“Exactly,” Liz said. “If I catch either of you filming him again, I’ll drop both your phones in the toilet.”
“Fuck you,” Lydia said, but when she grabbed for the phone again, Liz let her take it. Lydia and Kitty strode away, and Liz glanced inside the guest room. She’d expected that the commotion would awaken Willie, but he continued to snore undisturbed. Gently, Liz shut the door.
HER ARTICLE ABOUT asking for a raise was due by the end of the week, and Liz still hadn’t succeeded in interviewing Kathy de Bourgh, the famous feminist. To Kathy de Bourgh’s publicist, Liz had sent emails that were, in various iterations, lighthearted and casual, stern, obsequious, and desperate. She’d been rereading Revolutions and Rebellions, the classic work in which Kathy de Bourgh chronicled her time in the women’s movement from the early sixties on: the marches and sit-ins and arrests, her testimony before the Senate Judiciary Committee on behalf of the Equal Rights Amendment, which had occurred (this detail had titillated Liz when she’d first read the book as a college freshman) on the same day that Kathy de Bourgh called off her wedding to the smolderingly handsome attorney general of New York. However, as much as Liz was enjoying Revolutions and Rebellions this time around, she knew that her editor wouldn’t be pleased if she used decades-old book quotations in lieu of fresh remarks from an interview.
So cognizant of Ms. de Bourgh’s jam-packed schedule, Liz wrote in her latest email to the publicist, but if I could get her on the phone for even five minutes, I know our readers would be thrilled to hear her perspective. And just as a reminder, we at Mascara still proudly consider Ms. de Bourgh “family.” Prior to becoming a professional activist, Kathy de Bourgh had herself been a reporter and had worked for two years at Mascara; it had been Liz’s employer that in 1961 published the still-legendary article about the week Kathy de Bourgh had gone undercover as a dancer at a Times Square nightclub.
Liz had just hit Send when her mother entered the room. Mrs. Bennet glanced around, as if for spies, before whispering, “Is Lydia dating a bodybuilder?”
Uncertainly, Liz said, “Do you mean that guy Ham?”
Mrs. Bennet appeared distressed. “Gyms can be very dirty places. There are lots of germs on the equipment.”
“Kitty and Lydia seem pretty healthy to me.”
Mrs. Bennet took a step forward. “Can you find the bodybuilder on the computer?”
Liz looked at her watch. “I’m leaving in a minute to take Willie on his tour.”
“Just quickly,” Mrs. Bennet said. “It won’t take long.”
Liz sighed and pulled up the same webpage with the photo of Ham she’d found before. Her mother bent toward the screen.
“Oh, he’s very handsome.” Mrs. Bennet sounded surprised and pleased. “And look, he did go to college.”
So that had been the source of concern. “How do you even know about him?” Liz asked.
“I just heard some talk. Oh, dear.” Mrs. Bennet was again reading from the computer screen. “Does ROTC mean his family couldn’t afford tuition?”
“Either way, CrossFit is very popular,” Liz said. “I bet he’s financially stable now.”
“I hope he doesn’t take steroids. They shrink the testes, you know.”
Trying to ignore the unappealing sound of her mother using the word testes, Liz said, “I don’t think steroids are a CrossFit thing.”
“Your friend Jasper,” Mrs. Bennet said. “Is he married or not married?”
Liz tensed. Had she been lured into a trap with this talk of gym germs and Ham’s testicles? Looking straight ahead, not at her mother, Liz said, “He’s married.”
“I was trying to remember,” Mrs. Bennet said, and Liz thought, Yeah, right.
She put her computer to sleep and closed it. “Want to come on the tour with Willie and me?”
“Oh, I’d just be a third wheel,” Mrs. Bennet said confidently. “I’m sure the two of you have loads to catch up on.”
IT WAS COUSIN Willie who kept Liz waiting; still apparently on Pacific time, he had slept in, and at noon, their agreed-upon hour of departure, he was in the shower.
Even though it was hot, Liz went outside, sat on the Tudor’s front steps, and pulled out her smartphone; checking it only worsened her mood as she saw an email from Kathy de Bourgh’s publicist saying that Kathy de Bourgh would be available for the next ten minutes. Which wasn’t completely impossible to take advantage of, though Liz would have preferred that it were—she wished she hadn’t known about the publicist’s message until it was too late. Because although she could dash upstairs, turn on her digital recorder, and ask earnest questions while hoping Kathy de Bourgh couldn’t hear her panting, Liz didn’t, in this moment, possess the will. She didn’t feel like a grown-up professional journalist; sitting in the heat in a T-shirt, not-so-stylish shorts, and flip-flops, waiting for her dorky cousin, she felt instead like a sweaty, grumpy teenager. So sorry but about to enter a meeting, she typed on her phone to the publicist. VERY disappointed and really appreciative that Ms. de Bourgh has made time for our conversation. Any way to reschedule for late this afternoon?
Churlish as her mood was, Liz recognized that Cousin Willie was not at fault, and once he was in the passenger seat of her father’s Cadillac, she made an effort to sound chipper. “I thought we’d start by going to the riverfront,” she said. “It’s kind of nice to walk along Bicentennial Commons, even though it’s sweltering. And then we can go to the Freedom Center, and after that a late lunch at Skyline Chili.”
“Great,” Willie said. “I always enjoy spending time with you, Lizzy.”
“Remind me what you’re working on now,” Liz said, and after that, little more was required of her because Willie proceeded to deliver a monologue that took them all the way to their destination: He spoke of load balancing, scaling strategy, CPU usage, SSL certificates, and maintenance windows, or lack thereof. Finally, as they were pulling into the parking lot off Pete Rose Way, Liz interrupted and said, “So tell me about the coolest women in Silicon Valley that I’ve never heard of.”
Willie seemed confused. “Cool how?”
“The movers and shakers,” Liz said. “The up-and-comers. Who’ll be a household name two years from now?”
“If you’re trying to write an affirmative action piece about female entrepreneurs, you have a better chance of finding a field full of four-leaf clovers.”
Slightly taken aback, Liz said, “Well, who’s the next Nancy Nelson?” Nelson was the CEO of one of the world’s largest software companies.
“My point exactly,” Willie said. “She was hired for that job two years after the IPO. She’s a suit, not a visionary.”
“I realize she isn’t a coder, but she has an impressive track record.” Then, to change the subject, Liz said, “Have you been seeing a stylist?”
She’d meant it as a factual inquiry, but Willie seemed pleased. “A woman at Nordstrom named Yvette has been helping me. It means a lot that you noticed, Lizzy, with where you work.”
“Well, I’m not in the fashion department. But you’re welcome.”
After a brief silence, Willie said, “You don’t have a boyfriend, do you? I’m assuming I’d have heard about it if you did.”
Liz hesitated before saying, “Not exactly.”
“Do you want children?” It was strange but not offensive—certainly less offensive than his remark about female entrepreneurs—to be asked so straightforwardly. With h
er family, such questions were usually alluded to rather than openly discussed. Somehow the fact that all five sisters were unmarried made them a phenomenon, an amusing or appalling one, depending on your perspective, though in either case there was rarely recognition of each woman’s individuality.
Yet still Liz knew better than to answer honestly. She said, “I’m not sure. Do you?”
“Of course,” Willie said. “And, Liz, you’d be a great mom. For someone like you, with your quality of genes, not to have kids would be a real waste.” Clearly, he believed himself to be complimenting her.
“Are you seeing anyone?” she asked.
“Frankly, a lot of the women I meet are gold diggers. I recently thought I was taking a girl out for dinner, and it turns out she was a lady of the night.” Willie hadn’t relayed the information in a humorous tone, so Liz tried not to laugh.
She said, “How’d you figure it out?”
“She eventually mentioned a fee.”
Liz pressed the back of her hand to her mouth, which didn’t adequately conceal a snort. “Sorry,” she said. “I’m not—you must have been horrified. But how did—did she say, ‘Okay, now you have to pay me’?”
“We’d gone out for dinner, and I thought we were having a good time. I asked if she’d like to have a glass of wine at my house, and she said, ‘Okay, for a thousand bucks.’ ”
“Jesus. I’m in the wrong line of work.”
Liz had parked, and they climbed from the car and followed the path toward the river.
“There was no penetration,” Willie said. “Just a BJ. I hope that doesn’t make you think less of me, Lizzy.”
They were walking side by side, which Liz hoped meant Willie didn’t see the revulsion that passed over her face. It hadn’t occurred to her that he’d accepted the prostitute’s offer in any capacity. But Liz couldn’t deny that she had helped lead them to this point in the conversation. She said, “I’m sure there are lots of women who’d love to date you free of charge.”
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