Personally, I'd Rather Lick Sand: A Modern Pride and Prejudice Variation Romantic Comedy

by Ari Rhoge

  “No, that's the darker one — he's a brooder.” I followed Affleck with a fingertip. “Damon's the suicidal one, remember? He keeps trying to leap out.”

  Jane snorted in response.

  “I hope this roommate isn't a bitch,” I murmured, resting my chin in my palm. “I'll flip shit if you let Cruella de Vil claim that bedroom.”

  “Where she'll design Dalmatian curtains and such,” Jane grinned, dipping a finger into her tea haphazardly.

  “Naturally.” I shrugged, taking a sip.

  • • •

  But, sure enough, we did show the three candidates in that evening. Jane had made such a beautiful show of it too. For our squashed living quarters in all their cramped glory, there was a very Zen vibe to the townhouse. Candles were lit at the end table by the front door. Homemade cookies were quickly baked so that the welcoming scent might diffuse through the air. And the lighting was just right so that one might be distracted from how absolutely tiny it all was, instead concentrating on the design. Boy, was Jane artsy.

  We were a little taken aback by the first girl — mostly because of the spike through her chin. Not that we're overtly judgmental, of course, but spikes are hazardous during power outages, you know. Lightning storm and bam — you have a weapon of mass destruction fumbling for her bearings in the next room.

  Plus, she heavily hinted at overt promiscuity. And, as students, Jane and I needed as many hours of sleep we could garner without panting — and squicky love declarations — ravaging our walls through the adjacent room.

  The second candidate never showed — call it a changed mind or lack of interest.

  The third candidate was received at 9:30 in the evening, three hours later than she had called us to expect her. We were weary and slightly frustrated at this point. And when I unlatched the door, prepared to shoo this traipsing little time-jerker off with some carefully chosen words, it all seemed to falter.

  This girl looked unbelievably shy. She was standing awkwardly, with her feet crossed and her hands wrung together nervously, cobalt eyes ridiculously wide. She straightened her purse awkwardly over a shoulder, and leaned her weight against one leg.

  “Are you Jane?” she asked, retrieving a neon-green flier from her bag.

  “I'm Jane, yes,” I grinned. “You must be our third contestant of the night.”

  “I'm so sorry I'm late,” she muttered, eyes downcast. “I had some car trouble.”

  “That's fine, as long as you're in one piece,” I said, jutting a thumb backward. “Come on in.” I led her inside patiently, and we entered the kitchen.

  “Lizzy?” Jane called, popping up from behind the counter. She had on yellow, elbow-length scrubbing gloves, and now promptly pulled them off, clutching them behind her back.

  “Still cleaning?” I asked, teasingly.

  Jane shrugged, and smiled at our newest prospect, extending a hand. “Excuse the Clorox smell — I'm Jane Bennet.”

  “Pleasure,” the younger girl said, smiling, but then turning with skepticism toward me. “I take it you're not Jane, then?”

  “Our names are interchangeable.”

  “Lizzy,” Jane warned.

  “Lizzy Bennet,” I greeted. “Sorry for the confusion, Miss —?”

  “Georgiana Darcy,” she said, a smile spreading on her face. “Thanks for the clarification.”

  “No problem,” I grinned, liking her already. “Let me show you the prospective bedroom.” I offered her the crook of my elbow, and she humored me and accepted it as we crossed the threshold into the sparse little space.

  “I realize it's not much,” I apologized, scratching my head unsurely. It wasn't the grandest of rooms to be sure — there was a single bed and a dresser, as well as a mahogany wardrobe perched across. But it was quaint and clean.

  “No, it's fine,” Georgiana beamed. “Really.”

  “Are you a college freshman?” I asked, taking a seat beside her on the stripped mattress. “Because you look younger.”

  “I'm 17, if that makes any difference,” she said, laughing. “I skipped the second grade.”

  “Impressive,” I teased, and Georgiana smiled, quietly. “So, Georgiana — that's a mouthful.”

  “You haven't even heard my middle name,” she muttered, glancing briefly at the walls.

  “Any nicknames?”

  “My brother calls me Georgy on occasion. I hate him for it, but there's not much I can do,” she said, grinning sheepishly. “I'm branded.”

  “Sounds grim.” I rose to my feet. “My mother used to call me The Keebler Elf.”

  Georgiana raised an eyebrow in question.

  I shrugged. “I was small and mischievous — I would sneak cookies from the kitchen into my siblings' bedrooms.”

  “Robin Hood?” she said, grinning.

  “I guess you could say that,” I said, laughing, brushing my bangs out of my eyes. She smiled back.

  An hour later, we had officially found our third housemate. Mostly on the grounds that she seemed tidy, overwhelmingly polite, and had already had her first month's rent tucked away delicately into a crisp white envelope. The fact that her ringtone was David Bowie did her no harm either.

  She would move in that Thursday.

  3

  —

  A Little Brushing of History

  Three weeks until the semester's start and I was already knee-deep in chores. Our newest housemate's boxes had cluttered the hallways utterly, something she attributed to her brother (some sort of a guardian on her behalf) being excessively overprotective and not-so-frugal in shipping her “necessities”. There were still renovations to be made and schedules to be ironed out, made even more difficult by the maze of cardboard boxes barricading the hall like a fortress.

  “Holy shit, GDarce,” I mumbled, trudging a laundry basket over the mountain of packing supplies. “Where did you live before this? Buckingham Palace?” Jane shot me a dirty look, and graciously helped the younger girl unpack, foam peanut shells flying in impossible directions.

  “Charlotte, North Carolina,” corrected Georgiana, her long dark hair tied into a knot at the nape of her neck. “And how long until you stop calling me GDarce? It's been three days.”

  “But it's so catchy, isn't it?” I beamed, ruffling her hair. She pulled back, half-sneering and half-smiling. But it was a mutual agreement on both our behalves. She was kind of like a surrogate sister I could tease at my will — even if this meant butchering her name in a monstrous, rapper-inspired squashing of syllables. At least until I pulled together a new nickname. My mind couldn't process 'Georgiana Darcy' without thinking of the crown jewels. Something had to be done.

  But still, timid girls need encouragement. You need to embrace them wholly so they can bloom. And Jane and I were quite pleased with ourselves. She had sufficiently opened up and embraced our Townhouse of Crazy.

  “Charlotte, North Carolina,” I repeated, dragging in a box of neatly folded sweaters. “Second largest financial center in the United States.”

  “Did you just pull that statistic out of your ass?” Jane cocked an eyebrow, discreetly reaching down her blouse to remove a peanut shell with absurd speed.

  “I might have.” A beat. “And I saw that.”

  “Well, Daddy's company is based there,” Georgiana huffed, straining as she trudged a heavier box onto her mattress. It creaked nervously under the weight, and she eyed the situation with apprehension before turning to us. “My brother's temporarily in charge of it now, but I'm just sick of the area. I had to get away.”

  “Your brother sounds old,” I told her, conversationally, unsealing one of the smaller boxes. “Between keeping track of your things and single-handedly running a company, I mean.”

  “He didn't have much choice after my father passed away,” Georgiana said, quickly, tucking a loose strand of her hair behind an ear. At this, Jane and I stopped moving for a moment, glancing back to look at her. She stopped, sensing our trepidation. “This happened a while ago, guys ——
at least two years.”

  “I'm sorry,” Jane murmured, instantly wrapping the younger girl in a hug. Her blue eyes widened, and she awkwardly reciprocated the gesture, smiling nervously.

  “That's okay, really.”

  “So, your brother just up and took over?” I asked, quietly, sitting Indian-style by her wardrobe.

  “I guess you could call it that. He has a slew of advisors.” She chewed on the inside of her cheek thoughtfully. “He should be at it for another six months or so. Will had to put his career plans on hold, fresh out of college. He was going to go to law school, too, but he had to take over for Dad.”

  “Well, it's not too late — how old is he?” Jane asked.

  “25.”

  “And where's your mom?”

  “Somewhere in Los Angeles with her fourth husband and a baby on the way,” Georgiana replied, passively, brushing dirt from the hem of her Hanes tee. “I haven't seen her since I was 10 years old. — Nasty divorce… even nastier settlement.”

  “I see why your brother is so careful with you, though,” Jane responded, thoughtfully. “You're practically the only family he has. Who's to say I wouldn't be as careful with my own siblings?”

  “All four,” I teased.

  “I guess,” Georgiana said, smiling gently. “He was so nervous about my moving out. It makes no sense, though, because he's rarely home anyway. But I guess he just felt more assured with me in the area. Now I'm just out of Philadelphia with two perfect strangers.” A pause. “Not that I don't trust you guys. —— I'm just not sure he does.”

  “We're not axe murderers,” I assured her.

  “You should invite him into town for a couple of days,” Jane said, smiling brightly. “He could get a taste of the city and your own living situation. We could convince him to get off your back.”

  “Or you could just block his number,” I muttered, gingerly unloading a box. I paused after finding both my housemates' eyes steadily glued to my head. “What?”

  “Anyway,” Georgiana grinned. “His best friend's family lives in Philadelphia, so he's definitely been here before. Maybe I could convince Will to come down and visit us both. I could get a good word put in. The Bingleys are a trustworthy family.”

  “As in Bingley Steel?” Jane blinked, enforcing a shrug from Georgiana.

  “Sounds like a plan, GDarce.”

  At this, our housemate sighed audibly.

  “Lizzy, go feed Ben Affleck — you're bothering her with your nicknames,” Jane snorted, flinging a pillow cushion at me.

  Georgiana blinked in confusion. “Ben Affleck?”

  “Fish in the kitchen,” I informed her. “Our second, actually, since last month when we had to flush George Clooney down the toilet.” I sighed, smoothing out a sheet of bubble wrap. “He was such a sweetheart, too.”

  “You guys name your goldfish after A-Listers,” Georgiana stated, dully, eyebrows raised. The smirk on her face did indicate that she was heavily amused, though.

  “No,” Jane pointed out, clearly. “Lizzy names our goldfish after A-Listers. I just look on helplessly and get no say in the matter.”

  “That's because your names suck.”

  “She's brutally honest — you'll learn that after a little while,” Jane assured Georgiana, shrugging her shoulders apologetically.

  • • •

  I know that, theoretically, I should have waited to send my manuscript to a publishing house until gathering more experience. My stories do have the propensity to wander aimlessly or fizzle in disappointment. But Nottingham and Draperies had been a 14-month-old assignment — a brainchild of research and endless study that had threatened to blow up into something much more than a side hobby. It was the first attempted work that I hadn't wanted to throw into a vat of oil and set ablaze. And my family and friends were wonderfully supportive.

  And now I was very threatened to trash it, given my most recent feedback. I guess bitter criticism has that potential. Instead, I buried it in a back folder of a filing cabinet of our bedroom. Maybe I'd feel like being less depressed about it at a more convenient moment in the future. For now, I had other things occupying my mind.

  • • •

  That Saturday, Georgiana had agreed to meet with her family's friend (“Bingley Steel, Lizzy,” Jane had muttered, in shock) — the catch was that she severely wanted us to come with.

  “I can't… I'm working on a historical charting of differences between Louis XIV and Louis XIII that day.”

  “Lizzy, the semester starts in a week.”

  “Damn it.”

  I got George to cover my shift. And so, we accompanied our adopted housemate to downtown Philadelphia for a better portion of the day — which was fairly convenient, seeing as we got to tour Hertfordshire's campus, it being in the vicinity — until we were called to Ye Ole Bingley Manor, of course.

  “It's actually a penthouse,” Georgiana corrected, in the cab ride, smiling crookedly. “Charlie wanted something a bit smaller than his parents'.”

  At this point Jane and I exchanged incredulous glances.

  When we were finally buzzed up (inside a building consisting entirely of smooth glass panels and a modern, expensive silhouette), I couldn't help but sputter, “you're saying this elevator goes directly to his apartment.”

  “Yes.”

  “I want one,” Jane said, laughing, eyeing her reflection in the marble tiles.

  “In a one-story townhouse, I think it kind of defeats the purpose,” Georgiana said, grinning, seeming in high spirits. I smiled after her as the doors opened and chimed, exposing an incredibly modern, tasteful penthouse straight from the pages of a glossy Ikea catalogue.

  “Oh, damn — that's you, Georgy, isn't it?” called a slightly distressed, disembodied, distinctly British tone — though one somewhat Americanized. Jane and I poked our heads out of the elevator cautiously, eyebrows raised. Then Charles Bingley II entered the room — a lanky, boyish looking man with a dimpled grin, and an apron tied around his narrow waist that looked only minimally ridiculous. He stopped, shortly, once he realized that Georgiana was not alone, and turned crimson, the hue of his face matching that of his hair. The apron was duly tossed.

  “I mentioned I was bringing friends,” Georgiana defended herself, reaching up to kiss him on the cheek.

  “Did you?” he asked, scratching the back of his head. “I swear I can't remember.” He paused, then looked apologetic, addressing us. “Not that I'm not happy to meet you or be in your company — any friend of Georgiana's is a friend of mine.”

  “They're my housemates — I'm extremely lucky because they're extremely nice.”

  “Will should be relieved, then,” Charlie said, smiling, extending a hand. “Pleasure to meet you.”

  “Lizzy Bennet,” I said, taking his hand. “You're British.”

  “I hadn't really picked up on that,” he said, wincing, then breaking into a smile. “And, yes, yes, I am —— English, actually.”

  “Even though your family's company is American.”

  “Charlie's mother is English,” Georgiana corrected. “He lived in Cambridge until he was 10. His father is American.”

  “I left when I was 11,” Charlie corrected, with an easy smile, nudging her with his elbow. “But thank you for the miniature biopic.”

  “Oh, and this is Jane, Lizzy's sister,” Georgiana said, remembering, shoving Jane more efficiently into the circle — at which point a blush slowly but steadily crept its way up my sister's face as they exchanged hands. And, if it was to be deemed possible, Charles Bingley's smile widened a fraction of an inch more.

  “Would you like a tour?”

  4

  —

  This Particular Happenstance

  Charles Bingley II was undergoing three very distinct emotions as he fumbled for sodas in his refrigerator, balancing a Blackberry between shoulder and ear. The first was vague enchantment. It might have had something to do with the really pretty, adorable blonde in the next room (h
e was trying to not think about this at that moment). The second was frustration as he tried to tackle two chores at once. And the third was mild irritation at his best mate's voice grumbling down the phone line.

  “I'm fucking stuck in traffic, Charlie,” the voice, deep, rattled out. “It's incredible… the cabs actually don't move. They're frozen to the roads — in the middle of September.”

  “Will, relax. Please,” Charlie huffed, shoving the eight-pack onto the countertop. “I won't let Georgy leave without seeing you. —— I do feel like a bit of a prat for lying to her, though.”

  “You were the one who suggested I come down after you found out she'd be visiting today. It's not even lying — it's more like an extremely unexpected surprise from a sibling who is never spontaneous.”

  “Is that what you're going to tell her, then?” Charlie snorted, shutting the stainless-steel door closed with his heel. “Not that you had a mental breakdown in the middle of your father's office, insulted your receptionist, and hopped on the nearest flight to Philadelphia — oh, no… you're just being spontaneous.”

  “I'm glad we understand each other.”

  “I still can't believe you insulted your receptionist,” Charlie said, chuckling, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Becky's a sweet, timid girl — you probably made her cry.”

  “She was incompetent.”

  “She started working there two weeks ago, Will,” Charlie balked, incredulously.

  “Yeah well, whatever — How's Georgy?”

  “She's fine.”

  A pause, then a cautious, “what are you not telling me?”

  Charlie sighed, switching his mobile to his other ear. “She's not exactly alone here, you see.”

  “Who's she with, then?”

  “Her housemates —— but both are really great girls,” Charlie beamed. “Or else they seem it.”

  “Wonderful.”

  “I know, sound enthused. I'll see you here in a couple of hours, then, mate. Please don't harass the cab driver or spontaneously combust. I know it's difficult.”

  “It is difficult,” Will said.