Jane shook her head. “He told me the night he proposed that I’m the only person he’s met since he appeared on TV who loves him for him and isn’t trying to ride his coattails. He knows I have no desire for fame. He wouldn’t say it, but, Lizzy, I think he even wonders if Caroline is using him a little.”
“A little?” Liz repeated. “He wonders?”
“The house we’ll live in after the wedding is in a gated community in Burbank,” Jane said. “I hope it’s not weird being so isolated. I’m actually excited about L.A., but I’ll be happy when everything with Eligible is finished.”
“I know you will,” Liz said, though what she thought was Everything with Eligible hasn’t even started.
LIZ, JANE, AND Chip had arrived in Palm Springs a day earlier than their families in order for Jane and Chip to attend to various obligations, including fittings for their wedding clothes, on-camera interviews, and filming of B-roll footage (Jane walked pensively and alone on the resort’s golf course, and then they both sat by the pool gazing at the sunset, his hands placed protectively on her belly). A team of six from the national jewelry chain that was indeed a sponsor of the show held a consultation in which the couple chose from an array of rings; this meeting was also, of course, caught on camera.
Liz had expected the Hermoso Desert Lodge to be mostly empty upon their arrival, but after being met at the airport luggage carousel by Anne Lee—who proved to be a poised, unpretentious woman with stylishly cut black hair and a quick laugh—as well as a driver who hefted their suitcases into his white van, Liz discovered that the resort was already abuzz with a production crew of perhaps eighty. Indeed, the entire grounds—the main lodge, with its pink stucco exterior and Spanish-tiled roof; the elegant courtyard featuring a slate hot tub and a heated infinity pool; the lush eighteen-hole golf course dotted with palm trees, beyond which stood the scrubby beige mountains—resembled a small but busy village. Men and women, though mostly men, wore dark T-shirts and cargo pants, moved about briskly, and spoke into walkie-talkies; trucks and vans came and went from the parking lot, around the perimeter of which trailers and tents had been set up; collapsed ladders, large black plastic buckets, coils of thick orange extension cords, and mysterious equipment inside stacked black suitcases were transported on large dollies; long tables of craft services food appeared at intervals in the parking lot, crew members flocked to them, and then just as quickly both the people and the food disappeared again. Eventually, Liz deduced that some sort of control room was being set up in a first-floor guest suite that opened onto the courtyard; black twill fabric was unrolled to cover the windows from the inside, and people seemed to enter and exit with particular urgency.
The room Liz and Jane were sharing included two double beds, a balcony (Liz’s point of observation for outdoor activity), and a fireplace. On the desk, a gift basket contained a fat white scented candle, two pairs of pearl earrings, hair-removal cream, razors, mini-bottles of rum and vodka, and three string bikinis with padded breast cups. The attached card read, Liz and Jane, welcome to Palm Springs from all your Eligible friends!
Liz held up the bikini top. “Is this meant for me?”
Jane smiled. “It’s not for me, obviously.”
In her other hand, Liz held up the package of pink razors. “Very subtle.”
Much wasn’t quite as Liz had expected: Her cellphone would not be confiscated, nor had the television been removed from their hotel room. “That’s just for the longer shoots,” Anne Lee had explained when she’d escorted them upstairs, before pointing out what she referred to as a Pelco camera—it looked to Liz like a security camera—hanging in one corner of the room near the ceiling. “Just to catch any fun, casual conversations you guys might have,” Anne said in a lighthearted tone, and for Jane’s sake, Liz refrained from jokes about Communist surveillance.
The hair and makeup artists Jane had mentioned would be working with guests besides Jane and Chip only for the wedding itself—Jane seemed surprised to learn this, and apologetic—so otherwise, Liz was responsible for her own appearance. And though, as the sister whose wedding wasn’t imminent, Liz had anticipated having time to enjoy the lodge’s amenities—perhaps by booking a massage or, before she realized how public it was, soaking in the hot tub—she, too, was kept busy.
Her own sit-down interview occurred the first evening, while Jane and Chip enjoyed an “intimate” dinner in the hotel restaurant that Jane subsequently told Liz had been filmed by two camera crews of three men each. (Upon discovering that prior to the wedding, she and Jane rather than Jane and Chip were sharing a room, Liz had assumed Jane would sneak out during the night to see her fiancé. But if she did, Liz realized, the Pelco camera would alert the producers, and a camera crew would likely materialize.)
It was Anne Lee who conducted Liz’s interview, in the living room of a first-floor suite. A man stood behind a camera set on a tripod. Two panel lights were mounted on separate tripods, and there was much adjusting of the lights, the furniture, and even of Liz’s posture. She sat in a brocade-covered chair, and Anne sat off-camera in an identical chair facing her. “We’re so excited for this amazing love story between your sister and Chip,” Anne said warmly. “And America will be so excited, too.”
Since the initial conference call, Anne had been Jane’s primary contact; when Jane spoke positively about the Eligible people she’d met, she mostly meant Anne, and indeed, it was Anne and a crew of four who had flown to Cincinnati the week prior to interview assorted Bennets. An impulse to travel there herself for purposes of supervision and possible intervention had arisen in Liz, but she’d been scheduled to conduct two Mascara interviews of her own on back-to-back days in New York; plus, wasn’t all this Eligible stuff not in her jurisdiction? Still, she had been unsettled rather than reassured by her family members’ universal praise of Anne Lee (or, as Mrs. Bennet referred to her, “that nice Chinese girl,” though Liz suspected Anne was of Korean descent). The more favorable everyone else’s opinion, the more suspicious of Anne Liz had become, and meeting in person hadn’t allayed Liz’s concerns. It was that Anne was so upbeat, so easy to talk to, so reassuring about what a nutty situation this was, and above all so totally not fake-seeming that Liz distrusted her primarily on the basis of her very trustworthiness; it was no wonder that, at this woman’s behest, hundreds of Americans had gotten inebriated, fought, stripped, canoodled, and divulged secrets, all with cameras rolling.
“What I need you to do,” Anne was saying, “is talk in complete sentences, which should be no problem since you’re obviously super-smart. But if I say, ‘What’s your favorite color?’ I need you to say, ‘My favorite color is blue,’ as opposed to just ‘Blue.’ Is that cool?”
“You might already know that I’m a journalist,” Liz said. “I’m the writer-at-large for Mascara. So I’m definitely familiar with how interviews work, although I’m accustomed to being on the other side.”
“Fantastic.” Anne beamed. “Now, TV is a different medium, and I won’t be saying ‘uh-huh’ or laughing, even if you say the most hilarious thing ever, because I don’t want to make noise while you’re talking. If you lose your train of thought, no worries. Just pause and start over. And you don’t need to censor yourself—talk how you normally talk, and if you drop an F-bomb, we’ll bleep it out. This isn’t live.”
“Just please don’t Frankenbite me,” Liz said, and Anne looked at her blankly. “Isn’t that what it’s called?” Liz said. “When you take one word I said here and one word there and put them together into a sentence that you use as a voiceover?”
“I’ve never heard that term.” Anne was still smiling. “You’re funny, though. Okay, to get us going, how about if you tell me your name, your relationship to Jane, your age, and where you’re from?”
Bullshit, Liz thought. Bullshit you’ve never heard it. Aloud, she said, “I’m Liz Bennet. I’m Jane’s sister, the sister closest in age to her. I’m thirty-eight years old, and I live in New York.”
&n
bsp; The interview lasted for an hour, and Anne was, Liz had to admit, highly competent—she asked all the questions Liz herself would have—and also skilled at disguising her attempts to look for points of tension or vulnerability. The bulk of the questions were about Jane—her “journey” as a single woman, her “love story” with Chip—though Anne also inquired about alliances and discord within the Bennet family and about Liz’s own love life. (On this front, Liz was graciously tight-lipped.) Liz learned with relief that Anne was aware of Ham’s transgender status, and thus it was not up to Liz to divulge or conceal it; but on one topic, Liz was unhappy with her own lack of discretion.
“You know Chip’s sister Caroline, don’t you?” Anne asked near the end of the hour, and Liz said, “Yes, I know Caroline Bingley.”
“What’s your opinion of her?”
Liz was tired, both from traveling—it was midnight Eastern time—and from answering Anne’s questions.
“She’s fine,” Liz said.
“You sound kind of tepid,” Anne said, and, as ever, her tone was friendly. “Are you sure that’s how you feel?”
“Caroline Bingley is charming,” Liz said in a jokingly posh voice. “She’s delightful.” Then she looked directly at the camera guy and said, “Don’t use that.”
“Why don’t you want him to use it?” Anne asked. “Are you being sarcastic?”
Simultaneously, Liz felt regret surge through her, and she felt a desire to speak candidly to Anne—to say, I’m exhausted. I need to go back to my room and sleep. I don’t like Caroline Bingley, but surely you can understand how publicly disparaging my sister’s new sister-in-law will only create problems that will long outlast your television special. As one professional woman to another, let’s strike that from the record.
“Did something happen between you and Caroline?” Anne said.
Liz shook her head. “I do like Caroline,” she said. “I’m kidding around.”
“Do you find her bitchy?” Anne asked. “I’ve heard that some people find her bitchy.”
Liz laughed. She couldn’t help it. She said, “Which people?”
“It’s just the word on the street.”
Again, Liz was tempted to acknowledge the preposterousness of the conversation, to say, I understand exactly what you’re trying to do. Instead, firmly, she said, “Well, I’ve always gotten along well with Caroline.”
On returning to her room, Liz looked up Frankenbiting online. There were many search results, they went back as far as 2004, and the term meant exactly what she’d thought it did.
“LIZZY, I DON’T know why you never got married,” Lydia said. “It’s really fun. I make steak for Ham when he’s finished teaching at night and I totally feel like a grown-up.”
Shortly after the Cincinnati contingent’s arrival at the Hermoso Desert Lodge—they were a party of seven, counting not only the Bennets but also Ham and Shane—Lydia and Kitty had come to inspect their sisters’ quarters. On the same hall, Lydia and Ham were sharing a room, as were Kitty and Shane; Mary had been assigned her own room, which made Liz wonder why she herself hadn’t, until she recalled Anne Lee’s remark about the Pelco camera capturing her and Jane’s “fun, casual” conversations. Liz was newly determined to provide no such thing.
Jane was away, but Lydia and Kitty had made themselves at home on her bed, in spite of the fact that Liz was sitting at the desk, laptop open, trying to finish writing the toast she would deliver at the reception.
Without looking up, Liz said, “When I started working full-time and paying my rent is when I felt like a grown-up. And that was, hmm…” She pretended to calculate “Sixteen years ago.”
“Don’t you want someone to come home to at night?” Lydia said. “I’d be so bored living alone.”
“Then I guess it’s a good thing you don’t.”
“If Jane’s baby turns out cute,” Lydia said, “maybe Ham and I will use the same sperm donor she did.”
“Your kids will be doubly related,” Kitty said. “That’s weird.”
“It’s just some dude’s jizz,” Lydia said. “He won’t be part of their lives. Anyway, sometimes two brothers marry two sisters, and their kids are double cousins. Jessica and Rachel Finholt married brothers.”
“I hate Jessica Finholt,” Kitty said. “In kindergarten, she stole my Raggedy Ann out of my cubby.” Kitty was paging through a brochure that had been lying on the nightstand. “Do we have to pay for spa services here?”
Liz glanced over her shoulder. “I’m sure.”
“It’s such a waste that Jane is getting married on Eligible when she doesn’t even watch it,” Lydia said. “Don’t you think Ham and I would make a good reality-TV show?”
She wasn’t wrong, which wasn’t the same as the idea being a wise one. Mildly, so as not to encourage Lydia, Liz said, “I bet living with all those cameras would annoy you guys.” She stood. “Both of you follow me.” She walked into the bathroom, and Lydia and Kitty looked quizzically at each other. Lydia said, “Are you going to teach us how to do monthly self-exams of our boobs?”
“Just come here,” Liz said.
When they’d joined her, she closed the door and lowered her voice to a whisper. “Did you notice that camera hanging in the corner of the room?” she said. “Don’t say anything the whole time you’re here that you don’t want to be on TV. I’m serious.”
“Like what?” Lydia asked.
The lecture was probably, at best, useless; at worst, it could promote the opposite of the behavior Liz hoped to encourage.
“The producers don’t care if we look good or bad,” Liz said. “All they’re trying to do is create TV that people want to watch. Just don’t say anything nasty about anyone else, and don’t pick fights.” It was hard not to think of the intemperate remarks she herself had made the night before about Caroline Bingley. “They’ll be looking for conflict.”
Lydia laughed. “I doubt they’ll have to look that hard.”
Liz sighed. “Fine,” she said. “Do what you want. But I warned you.”
IN HER PARENTS’ room, Liz found her mother bustling about and her father sitting in an armchair, an enormous hardcover book about the Renaissance open on his lap. The room contained just one king-sized bed; surely, Liz thought, it would be the first time in years her parents had slept beneath the same sheets.
From the bathroom, her mother said, “I can’t find the hair dryer. When I called the front desk, they said it’s here, but, Lizzy, they forgot to give us one.”
Liz entered the bathroom and pointed to the shelf below the sink. “It’s right there, Mom.”
Irritably, Mrs. Bennet said, “Well, it wasn’t there before.” As she picked it up, she added, “I think it’s much better if they say Jane’s baby is Chip’s. People who are watching will be confused otherwise.”
“Have you seen Jane yet?” Liz asked. “She looks good, doesn’t she?”
With great confidence, Mrs. Bennet said, “She’s carrying low. That means a boy.” In the hushed tone she used for delicate matters, Mrs. Bennet said, “Liz, I don’t know if Kitty and Shane are serious, but life can be very hard for mulatto children.”
Liz winced. “I wouldn’t say that to either of them.”
“Fitzwilliam Darcy is Chip’s best man.” Mrs. Bennet now sounded oddly approving, even before she added, “It speaks well of Chip that he has such high-quality friends. Is Fitzwilliam single?”
When, and why, had her mother developed a favorable opinion of Darcy? Back in July, at the Lucases’ party, Mrs. Bennet had been offended by him on Liz’s behalf. “He’s going out with Chip’s sister,” Liz said.
“What a shame.” Mrs. Bennet frowned. “Now we also need to make sure the Chinese girl knows to say on the show that Ham’s situation is a birth defect. People might think it’s disgusting otherwise, but if they know it’s a birth defect, they’ll understand.”
Her mother’s belief that she could, via Anne Lee, control the narrative of the Eligible special�
�it was, Liz thought, so utterly wrong that there was no point in trying to correct it. As if sensing Liz’s disloyal musings, Mrs. Bennet looked intently at her. “Don’t you think it’s confusing if they say Jane got pregnant from a man she doesn’t know?”
“Mom, that’s not the way anyone would describe donor insemination. And, no, I don’t think it’s a difficult concept to grasp.”
“I think it’s nicer if they say the baby is Chip’s.”
“But it’s not true.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Mrs. Bennet said. “That doesn’t matter.”
AS WHEN SHE’D returned to Cincinnati for the closing of the Tudor, Liz was constantly alert to the possibility of encountering Darcy. With the bachelor and bachelorette parties just hours away that evening, surely he’d arrived on the property, but even by standing on the balcony and surveying the grounds at regular intervals, she hadn’t spotted him. Though, she reflected, perhaps not seeing him at all was better than spying him and Caroline strolling arm in arm on the golf course.
The balcony did afford Liz a bird’s-eye view of the courtyard meeting between Mr. and Mrs. Bennet and Mr. and Mrs. Bingley, which of course was also attended by Jane and Chip. This summit took place around a table on which was set a handsome flower arrangement, champagne flutes, and no food. Though Liz couldn’t hear the conversation, there was no doubt it would exist for posterity; a man held a boom mic a few feet above the heads of the family members, two more men with cameras on their shoulders stood just behind the families, and freestanding lights illuminated the proceedings as dusk fell.
Mrs. Bingley was a slim woman with a classic blond bob, wearing beige capri pants, a matching beige jacket, beige flats, a pale purple silk scarf, and no smile; she was recognizable to Liz as the sort of woman who played tennis at the Cincinnati Country Club, who was rather like certain friends of the plumper and frumpier Mrs. Bennet. Mr. Bingley looked like an older version of Chip, with gray hair parted on one side; he wore a dark blue suit, a white oxford cloth shirt, and a green bow tie. Liz felt too much anxiety on Jane’s behalf to observe the interaction in its entirety, and she soon went back inside to shower and dress for the evening.
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