Knightley whistles. “You are jaded.”
“I will tell you what I envision”—Bingley continues speaking, as if completely unfazed by Knightley’s criticism—“yet another Sense and Sensibility with zombies, but the creatures only devour married women, thereby liberating men from their marital shackles. I see a whole series. Peevishness and Perversity.”
“Snide and Separation?” Knightley suggests.
“Brilliant!” Bingley laughs. “Followed by Acrimonious Abbey and Misanthropic Park.”
I sit quietly, observing the exchange with a growing sense of sadness and unease. Does Bingley truly equate matrimony with slavery? If so, I am going to have a difficult time finding him his perfect match. What would Patti Stanger do? On second thought, Patti Stanger doesn’t really do forever and ever, amen, love matches, now does she? She does speed dating that results in high-priced booty calls and reality-television-worthy breakups.
I want to raise my hand and say, Um, excuse me. Hopeless romantic and incurable matchmaker here. Would you mind keeping your jaded views hidden, because they look super ugly through my rose-tinted glasses?
“Have you always been this jaded about love, Bingley Nickerson, or did you meet a Juliette Van Der Beck? Did she rip your heart out of your chest and stomp all over it with her red-heeled Louboutins?”
Bingley laughs so hard a single golden curl breaks free from its pomade prison and flops against his forehead.
“Love the obscure reference to a French rom-com and love, love, love the scrummy visual of a woman walking over my heart with a pair of heels designed by the most fabulous shoe designer ever”—he tosses his head back—“and I would love to titillate you with a tragic little tell-all, but, alas, I have no Louboutin-wearing, heart-stomping ghost rattling around in my closet of girlfriends past.”
I stare at him, wide-eyed with disbelief.
“Zero. Zilch. Zippo.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Zhere does not exist”—he sniffs and affects a comical French accent—“zhis girl who, how you say, walk in my heart!”
“Despite the atrocious accent, he is telling the truth,” Knightley says. “My little brother has been far too busy playing the bon vivant to fall in love.”
“Moi?” Bingley gasps. “A bon vivant?”
“Yes, you.”
“I don’t deny I enjoy the sociable and luxurious lifestyle to which I was born and have so fervently endeavored to maintain, but I am not the only Nickerson to live the life of a bon vivant, mon frere. There is a wonderful little psychological theory called projection. Have you heard of it, old bean?” Bingley does not wait for his brother to answer. “What am I asking? Dr. Malcolm Dühring is one of your authors, isn’t he? Your modern-day Freud, on a mission to help the masses unravel the mysteries of their minds, might suggest you practice classic projection in calling me a bon vivant. You, Monsieur Town and Country, are the most bon of the Nickerson vivants.”
“Monsieur Town and Country? Is this another of Knightley’s nicknames?” I ask.
Knightley clears his throat and shoots Bingley a withering, hush-your-mouth look, the sort of look Manderley has shot Tara hundreds of times.
“Town and Country is a lifestyle magazine for the Georgian country house set and the glossy arbiter of London high society, fashion, and culture. It is positively brimmers with articles like, ‘What to Wear to Meet the Queen,’ ‘The Delish Sex Secrets of Britain’s New Establishment, ’ and ‘Why You Should Covet Sir Ian and Lady Tildy’s Sublime Art Collection.’” Bingley grins, and again I am reminded of a gargoyle, a devilishly handsome, wickedly smart gargoyle. “If People and Vogue had a baby, it would resemble Town and Country. Tidbits of juicy gossip and splashy pieces about what it means to live the luxe life.”
“Ooo, fun.” I clap my hands. “Where can I get a copy?”
“I wonder!” Bingley cocks his head to one side, slaps his cheek, and fixes Knightley with a wide-eyed, innocent-as-baby-Jesus expression. “Do you know where Emma Lee might score a copy of Town and Country, perhaps the last winter edition?”
“Bingley writes for Town and Country,” Knightley says, looking at me. “I believe his last piece was something terribly weighty and terribly clever, like ‘Caviar and Cocaine: European Restaurants That Define Decadence, ’ or was it ‘How to Shag like a Thoroughly Modern Aristo’?”
Bingley gasps and presses a hand to his heart.
“Gutted, old bean. Mortally, massively wounded. You make it sound as if I penned a penny-dreadful piece.” Bingley looks at me. “I wrote a retrospective on royal fashion, how the monarchy has wielded fashion to further their personal, political, and philanthropic causes. Kate loved it.”
I sit up so fast I practically lift off my chair.
“Kate Middleton?”
Bingley closes his eyes and shrugs.
“The Duchess of Cambridge reads your articles?”
“We are practically best mates.” Bingley sniffs.
“Shut up!”
Knightley groans and rolls his eyes.
“You are not best mates, not even close.”
“I party with her brother, James,” Bingley says, ignoring his brother. “He might have come up with the idea for Boomf, his marshmallow company, when we were doing shots of Smirnoff Fluffed Marshmallow at Bunga Bunga.”
“What is Bunga Bunga?”
“A pizzeria-cum-karaoke bar in Battersea. Utterly kitsch. Loads of fun. Prince Harry used to hang there, when he was still on the pull. Jennifer Lawrence, Margot Robbie, Harry Styles—”
“Harry Styles?” I squeal again. “I love, love Harry Styles.”
“Me too,” Bingley says. “I will take you to Bunga Bunga. We will eat pizza, do Smirnoff shots, and sing ‘Kiwi’ at the top of our lungs.”
“Are you serious?”
“Abso-bloody-lutely!”
I look at Knightley, beaming, because this, this, is the life I imagined when I pictured myself moving to England. Hobnobbing with British blue bloods. Dinner parties at historic country houses. Popping to London to visit swanky shops and eateries. Sipping tea and chatting about classic literature. Okay, not the chatting about literature bit, but the rest of it. Definitely.
“You will come with us, won’t you?”
“Old bean at Bunga Bunga? Have you completely lost the plot?” Bingley’s explosive laughter startles me, and I nearly drop my teacup. “Can you envision Knightley getting pissed on flavored vodka and belting out ‘It’s Raining Men’?”
“I’ll bet you have a great voice,” I say, smiling a Knightley. “Though I can’t imagine you singing that song.”
“I will take that as a compliment.”
“I meant it as a compliment.”
Knightley smiles, and I imagine him pulling me into his arms and holding me real tight while he softly sings “I’ve Been Loving You Too Long” in my ear. On sultry summer nights, my daddy used to sit in one of the rocking chairs on the veranda at Black Ash, a glass of brandy sweating in his hand, a cigar clenched between his teeth, listening to Otis Redding’s Greatest Hits. I sensed those were the times he was missing my momma something fierce. So, in my young mind, Otis Redding became the soundtrack of lovers, and the mournful “I’ve Been Loving You Too Long” the quintessential love ballad.
“You should join us, old bean,” Bingley says, capturing our attention. “Invite Annalise. The editors of Town and Country’s Society pages are right-wing nutters. Wouldn’t they just lose the plot if they were able to snag pictures of publishing titan Knightley Nickerson and supermodel Annalise Whittaker-Smith belting out a duet in some campy club miles from Marylebone?”
My heart suddenly aches, as if someone ripped it out of my chest and impaled it with their six-inch stiletto heel.
“Annalise?” I try to keep my tone casual-like. “Oh, I didn’t know you had a thing going with Hayley’s sister.”
“I don’t.”
“He did.” Bingley looks like the Cheshire cat, all m
ischievous, glowing eyes and broad, toothy smile. “And I have the back issues of Town and Country to prove it. My brother and Annalise were one of the couples featured in a four-part article entitled ‘London’s Bright Young Things,’ an utterly splashy, slightly trashy piece about the lovely ones that comprise the new aristocracy.”
Knightley glances at his wrist, and I notice he is wearing an antique Cartier watch, the sort that might be passed down from father to son.
“Come, Bingley,” he says, standing. “It is growing late, and we have imposed on Emma Lee enough for today.”
“You haven’t imposed.”
“You heard her,” Bingley says. “We haven’t imposed.”
Knightley gathers our empty teacups and carries the tray back into the kitchen, returning seconds later.
“Mum is expecting us for dinner and it is after six already.” He walks to the foyer and removes his coat from its hook. “That reminds me, my mother wants to know if you fancy joining her for a proper tour of Welldon Abbey tomorrow afternoon, followed by a casual dinner.”
I look at him from beneath an arched brow, remembering the last time Isabella Nickerson invited me to a casual dinner at Welldon Abbey.
“How casual? Little black dress and five-course-meal casual, or jeans, tee, and pop-a-squat-on-the-grass-while-you-eat-leftovers-off-a-paper-plate casual?”
“Good God!” Bingley cries. “Our mum has never popped a squat in her life.”
“Somewhere between caviar and cold cuts.” Knightley laughs. “A humble home-cooked meal shared with Isabella Nickerson and her three charming sons.”
“Well, when you put it that way . . .”
“I will be back to pick you up tomorrow afternoon, say around half two?”
“Sounds great.”
“What are leftovers?” Bingley asks, putting a space between the words left and overs.
“Good night, Bingley.”
“Good night, Janeite.”
I wait until Knightley’s car disappears, his headlights fading in the darkness, before grabbing my iPhone and opening my text application.
Text to Hayley Bartlett:
Hey girl! I had loads of fun with you today. Can’t wait for our mango margs and makeup mash-up. What do you say we make it a sleepover and invite Deidre to join us?
Text from Hayley Bartlett:
Deidre Waites?
Text to Hayley Bartlett:
Yes. Miss Isabella told me she spends most of her free time looking after her mother, and I got the feeling she could really go for some girl time.
Text from Hayley Bartlett:
Um. Why not?
Text to Hayley Bartlett:
Yay! This is going to be so much fun. Don’t forget: BYOJ.
Text from Hayley Bartlett:
Bring Your Own Jameson?
Text to Hayley Bartlett:
Jammies, silly!
Next, I text Bingley and ask for Deidre’s cell phone number. His response hits my phone faster than greased lightning.
Text from Bingley Nickerson:
The more relevant question would be: Does Deidre Waites own a mobile?
Text to Bingley Nickerson:
I am serious!
Text from Bingley Nickerson:
So am I. In case it escaped your notice, No Date Waites is a spinster. Do I look like the sort of chap who surrounds himself with plain-faced, verbally incontinent spinsters? (Rhetorical question)
Text to Bingley Nickerson:
Harshness looks ugly on you, Bingley Nickerson. It clashes with your fierce Cartier Panthère specs.
Text from Bingley Nickerson:
LOL. Well played, Miss Thing. HOAS.
HOAS. Hold on a second. I grab a nail file out of my purse and file my nails while I wait for Bingley’s next text. I wonder if Bingley Nickerson is as jaded and harsh as he presents himself to be, or if it is merely a shtick he has adopted for his career as a lifestyle writer. People have shticks. Olivia Tate, Manderley’s bestie, adopted a Botox and Breakfast at Tiffany’s, dahling, shtick after she moved to Hollywood. Don’t get me wrong, Olivia was always a character, but she upped the volume on her I’m ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille routine once she was surrounded by the plastic fantastic, Manderley’s term for people in the moviemaking industry. Strip away her chakra-clearing sessions, oxygen treatments, caviar hair packs, and twenty-four-karat gold facial masks, and Olivia is just a sweet-hearted, poor girl from Poughkeepsie, trying to make a name for herself in an industry that binges and purges names like a supermodel before Paris Fashion Week. I hope Bingley has a kind heart under his sharp-dressed, sharp-witted, party boy façade.
My iPhone blings. I look at the screen. Bingley has located Deidre’s contact information and texted it, along with a GIF of Taylor Swift in a pair of thick black hipster glasses, sitting in a room brimmers with cats. I thank him for Deidre’s number but ignore the mean GIF.
Text from Bingley Nickerson:
Beware! The rapid descent into spinsterhood begins with an invitation to join a Jane Austen book club and ends with Thursday night text sessions with a cat-loving, cozy-knitting, candy-selling virgin. Consider yourself warned.
Text to Bingley Nickerson:
Charitable acts are the finest accessory a lady can add to her wardrobe. I have no intention of descending into cat-cuddling, cozy-knitting spinsterhood. I intend to lift Deidre up.
Sororities have this thing called Big/Little. It’s when an older, more experienced sister (a Big) is paired with a younger new recruit (a Little). The Big acts as a role model to the Little, guiding her through campus and sorority life; guiding her through life, really. Sometimes, a Big has a rush crush. She sees a pledge—a sorority sister wannabe—with the cutest Lily Pulitzer dress, like, ever, or the Little says something superclever about the Kardashians or global warming, and the Big is gone, crushing harder than a preteen. Now, let’s say a Big meets the pledges but doesn’t develop a rush crush. In that case, the Big will interview several Littles. Inevitably, a Big and Little will bond over a shared passion, whether it be Netflix binging, planning theme parties, scrapbooking, or saving the whales one orca at a time. When a Big finds her perfect Little, the rush crush develops into an enduring, lifelong bestie-ship. Roberta Hearst was my Big, and I love her as much as I love my blood sisters. When it came time for me to be a Big, I rush crushed hard. I mean superhard, y’all. I was ready to lock it down, put a Kappa Kappa Gamma ring on it, within minutes of meeting Gemma Duncan, communications major and former allstate dance squad member. I thought Gemma was a mini-me, my perfect sorority sister match. A petite, blond people lover who wanted to make the world a happier place one friendship at a time. The Emma-Gemma union was ill-fated, tragically doomed, because Gemma turned out to be a faithless Little (fill in the blank). I am too much of a lady to go into the details. Last I heard, Gemma Duncan is living in Goose Creek, South Carolina, working as a manager at the Piggly Wiggly on Saint James Avenue. A mutual acquaintance spotted her stumbling out of a bar in the middle of the damn day with some Air Force pilot hot on her heels. Enough said.
Long story short, Gemma Duncan taught me a thing or two about how to choose a Little. The first flush of a rush crush fades mighty fast, so if you don’t pick your partner for the right reasons, you’re going to find yourself half of a miserably unsatisfying union. When choosing a Little, I found it is more important to share values than Netflix watching habits. Hobbies change; character is forever.
What do I know about Deidre Waites? She dropped out of college when her dad died so she could help her mom run the family business, which means she is selfless, a trait I totally admire. She takes care of her invalid mother, which means she is compassionate and nurturing. She wears tights patterned with lollipops, Heidi braids, and iridescent eye shadow, which means she is unafraid of being unique (and in a world of pouty-lipped Kardashian copycats, unique is priceless). She is warm, talkative, creative, clever, and totally puts the quirk in quirky. I don’t know what Deidre b
inges when she signs in to her Netflix account, or if she even has a Netflix account. I don’t know which One Directioner she favors (naughty Harry, with sweet Niall coming in a photo-finish close second). I don’t know much about Deidre, but I know she has a good heart. That’s why I am confident in my choice of Deidre Waites as my second Little.
Text from Bingley Nickerson:
And how, pray tell, do you intend to lift No Mates Waites?
Text to Bingley Nickerson:
Easy-peasy! Deidre Waites is going to be the first person from Northam to benefit from my God-given skills as a matchmaker.
Text from Bingley Nickerson:
ROFL
Text to Bingley Nickerson:
Just you watch. By this time next year, you will have to call her Many Dates and Found Her Soul Mate Waites.
Text from Bingley Nickerson:
Doesn’t exactly trip off the tongue.
Chapter Fifteen
Emma Lee Maxwell’s Facebook Status Update:
Everybody wants to live happily ever after! Those words might have been uttered by the beautiful Amy Adams as Giselle in Enchanted, but that doesn’t make them less true!
Badly Done, Emma Lee Page 13
