“I’ve just realised! You’re Benn bloody Williams!”
“Cover blown.”
“You must think I’m a right idiot,” he said, as he held out a beer mat for an autograph.
They posed for a few selfies before Martin gave Lizzy as massive hug, Benn a manly pat on the back and then left them to enjoy their desserts.
“Are you ready for home?”
He said, offering a discount coupon to the waitress who harrumphed at him, and wandered off to retrieve a new receipt. Lizzy finished the rest of her drink.
“I’m not actually, are you?”
“Surprisingly, no. Do you know anywhere?”
“I might know a place. Do you trust me?”
“Indubitably.”
The bar was small and dimly lit, one of the new breed of pubs designed to feel like having a drink at a friend’s house. It was cosy and very hipster – Kympton obviously a few steps ahead of Lambton in the trendiness stakes.
“Tell me about your divorce,” she asked as she nonchalantly studied the drinks menu.
“Really?”
She noticed that he sat up straighter, adjusted his collar.
“You don’t have to if you don’t want to, I’m curious…nosey, I guess.”
He studied her for a minute; she played with the foiled beermat, applied lip-gloss from a sparkly tube.
“There isn’t much to tell you about,” his face turned serious, wistful almost, “It’s all nearly done with now, the first bit came through a while ago, now it’s the last bit. The bit that makes it real. I have a great lawyer though, he’s called Mark Goulding. Costs an utter fortune.”
“Oh, I know Mark!” Her face flashed with recognition. “We did our LPC at the same time. He is bloody brilliant! Ruthless as they come though, he works for my Uncle Jeremy’s firm.”
“Should I ask him for Mates Rates?”
“You can if you want, but he will tell you to bugger off. You don’t get to be a Senior Partner before you’re forty without being a special breed of money-hungry bastard.” She ordered a bottle of wine between them from an uninterested waiter, “we can share, right?”
“Yes, of course,” he nodded as the bottle was opened at the table. “You’re a lawyer though, right?”
“I suppose. I deal with wills and stuff, which is nowhere near as glamorous. I hate it,” she fiddled with the olives on the table, “it’s what is expected of Darcys though, we breed barristers and business people.”
“And why are you not a barrister?” He raised an eyebrow, “you’d look pretty cute in one of those wigs.”
“I didn’t care enough to be barrister, which is a shame, because I do look cute in one of those wigs… but it’s not me. Not anymore. Law never has been really, it just pays the bills, and despite what everyone at Pemberley thinks, I do have to do something for a living.”
“Can you not give it up?”
“And do what? Join the WI, or be a patron for a local charity?” She grimaced, “sometimes you want to do something more than what you are born into, do you know what I mean?”
“Yeah, I totally get it. I wasn’t exaggerating when I said we were poor when I was a kid, and I knew that I had to do something if I didn’t want to stay there.”
“Luckily, you were pretty smart.”
He took a swig of his wine, “Luckily, I had my very own cheerleader.”
“What do you mean?”
“My grandad was my biggest supporter; he was the one who paid for my piano lessons, took me to rugby practice, paid for the extra tuition for the grammar school exam. He was the one who told me to always aim higher.”
“I expect he’s very proud of you.”
“He was, whatever I did. He was always very proud.”
Lizzy didn’t need to pry, she guessed that wherever in the grand scheme of things Benn’s grandad was, that he would be insanely proud of his wildly successful grandson.
“My grandad was the same too.” She raised her glass, “to Family Patriarchs…”
“…and all who sail in them,” he said, clinking his glass against hers.
She finished her wine with undue haste, then thought better of it and ate a couple of the mauled olives. He watched as she concentrated on stabbing them with the wooden cocktail sticks.
“How has it been having Mr Wickham polluting the shades of Pemberley?”
“Matthew? Oh, it’s as it always is. I heard you pissed him off today.”
“It’s very easy to piss him off,” he admitted. “He wants everything done very particularly. Like he’s Scorsese. I mean, he’s good, but – not to namedrop - I have worked with Scorsese, and Matthew Wickham is no Scorsese.”
“Alright, show off! But you remembered your lines?”
“Of course, I remembered my lines…” he said with a casual shrug.
Benn poured another glass of wine; he had forgotten his lines. It was embarrassing. They were falling out of his head, he couldn’t quite grasp them and make them stick.
“Was your big break really Praise to the Skies?”
“People like to think that, but it took years. Honestly, years! I did a few small films when I left RADA, terrible films” he groaned, recalling some of the shocking scripts he had accepted to be able to pay the rent. “Then there was a lot of regional theatre – I was the best Widow Twanky in Leicester for three seasons.”
“You did panto?” she questioned, “I thought actors like you were made in labs somewhere in Hollywood.”
“Actors like me? What’s that supposed to mean?” He grabbed an olive.
“Are you kidding? Look at you, you’re not real,” she poked his now firm bicep across the table. “When they said you were going to be Darcy, I was hoping that you would be much shorter and fatter in real life, and not as…”
She noticed the way he was looking at her, listening carefully to everything she said and became immediately self-conscious.
“Not as what?”
“Not as Benn Williams in real life. I mean you’re all Hollywood tonight, but you were still pretty hot when you got here all ‘off duty’ with your scowl and your pubey beard!’
He raised his eyebrows, so the beard was pubey.
“Well, I am flattered.”
“By what?” She shrieked impertinently, throwing Pinot down her throat.
“You fancy me. Can’t say I blame you, you’re only human.”
She laughed at him, possibly a little louder than she thought, judging by the tutting that emanated from the couple on the table next to them.
“I don’t fancy you! But,” she stopped herself to think, “do you remember that film with Amelia Hunt…? The one where you’re topless for most of it…? I might have watched that more than was socially acceptable.”
“Really?” he had more than a hint of surprise on his face.
“Had a bit of an inappropriate crush on you in that, if I’m being honest…” she said, taking a mouthful of wine.
He glanced at her, as if waiting for an explanation, and she ploughed on.
“I don’t know what it was, you were just so delicious in it.”
“I don’t think I have ever been called ‘delicious’ before.”
“Don’t expect me to say it again!”
“I was convinced it was going to be my big break”
“I think it was! I mean, it was only a few years after that when you were in everything.”
“A few years is a long time as an actor without a job.”
Benn didn’t want to go through telling her about the long spells working in minimum wage jobs and traipsing to auditions on his days off, how his family were constantly anxious that he had chosen a life of uncertainty and poverty, instead of the entry-level well-paid job in the City that had been offered. Sarah had freaked out about it as well, wanting a man who could offered her the lifestyle she was used to and the Tiffany ring she expected. She had brutally dumped him via a friend of a friend. She had even kept his Madness t-shirt.
&
nbsp; The conversation faded a little and she called for two bags of crisps, more wine.
“So which part of P and P is your favourite?”
“Favourite?”
“Yes, which bit?” She grabbed her compact from her bag, powdered her nose while she questioned him, “I mean the book, not the films, obviously.”
“Erm… there are so many,” he finished his glass of wine. “Probably the bit where Mr Darcy dives in the lake.”
She finished her own wine and laughed at him loudly; he looked back at her confused and then she realised.
“You haven’t read the book!”
“I haven’t, is that bad?”
“Oh. My. God. I cannot believe that you haven’t read the book! You are kidding me, aren’t you?”
He shook his head.
“Mr Darcy – what an impertinence!”
“I know, it’s bad.”
“Bad? It’s not just bad, it’s shocking! You should be ashamed of yourself.”
“Shush, shush,” he was giggling now. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”
“You should be…” she was feeling a little tipsy now. “Please promise me that you will read the book or at least listen to the audiobook. Please please please!”
“Okay, I promise!” He laughed. “One please was enough, Lady Darcy!”
“Be quiet,” she whispered in theatrically loud voice, “I’m incognito.”
“You’re very giddy when you’re drunk.”
“I’m not drunk, I’m just giddy,” she poured the dregs of the wine into her glass and knocked it back.
“You are a bit drunk.”
“Maybe a bit.”
“Shall I take you home?”
“Probably for the best,” she started to put on her coat, “but, please don’t be expecting anything untoward, acting is such a vulgar profession, and you, Mr Darcy, have no sense of propriety… I am a Lady, you know.” There was that laugh again, it felt strange coming out of his body; but he liked the way it felt, liked the way she made him feel. He dropped her off at the door of Pemberley, making sure she managed to get inside. He hadn’t even reached the end of the driveway when his phone beeped in his pocket.
LIZZY: Thank you, Iamnot, drjunnk. I can still spell. Soz.
BENN: Soz? You are drunk.
LIZZY: Perhhpas.
2004
The days were long in London, and not as much fun as Lizzy had thought they would have been. Uncle Jeremy worked her hard, thinking that he could get the best out of her whilst she was still hungry for it, but she truly knew in her heart of hearts that she wasn’t. It would have been different if she had been living in the city with friends, but she was commuting out each night back to Longbourn, her spare time filled with studying for the LPC, or tear-filled phone calls back to Derbyshire where she realised that she missed Harriet so much that her heart physically ached. Meanwhile her daughter was having the time of her life, staying at the Stables with Aunt Maggie and Grammy, who doted on her; she was even learning how to ride on her small pony, Peanut, courtesy of Maggie’s on-again-off-again boyfriend, Peter.
As Mark piled another binder of paperwork on top of her desk, Lizzy sighed loudly at him, and he rolled his eyes at her.
“We’re all heading for a drink, fancy it?”
“You are a terrible influence, Mr Goulding.”
“Your uncle owns the firm, Darcy. Surely you can spare a precious few hours on a Friday night to indulge me.”
“Okay,” she said grabbing her bag, “but you’re buying the first round.”
The bar was smoky and crowded, the dull thud of music vibrating underfoot – it was half nine on a Friday night in Soho, the room filled with every type of person you could imagine, and all pushing for attention at the bar. Catching the attention of the pierced friendly girl behind the bar, she ordered another large vodka and coke and retreated over to the cigarette machine. If Lizzy was getting drunk, then she was planning on smoking at least ten Marlboro Lights and making it worth her while; she took a large swig of her drink, feeling the delicious, familiar warmth of it rush down her throat. She hadn’t had a proper drink like this since arriving in London and it was hitting the spot. In the corner stood the small group from work – including Mark, attempting to chat up a beautiful red-haired girl that was completely out of his league, at the edge of the room.
Lighting her cigarette, she stood there observing for a moment; the dancefloor was full of people, gyrating, dancing to the loud thump-thump of the bass, a blue haze of cigarette smoke floating over the crush of the crowd, the faint breeze of perfumes, the pungent waft of aftershave, the push of freshly washed shirts and shiny fabrics moving against each other, and above all else, ringing out in the corner, she heard his voice. She could recognise his laugh anywhere and it felt sad somehow to be on the outside looking in.
He had grown his hair out a bit longer than she was used to, had grown a stubbly beard, looking so different but so similar that she felt overwhelmed with it all. She hadn’t expected to feel like this, hadn’t expected to feel the prickle of anxiety run all over her back, hadn’t expected that seeing him again – for the first time since they had spent the afternoon together in the Lantern, for the first time since she made him a father – would make her feel so helpless as her heart thudded in her chest, almost to the beat of the music.
Stubbing her cigarette out on the floor, she downed her drink and pushed her way out of the bar. The cool air of the early evening felt great against her face and she stood for moment, before getting her bearings and walking towards the tube.
“Lizzy!”
Her name echoed on the street, causing a few people walking to turn around and look before carrying on with their Friday night plans. She didn’t want to look back, taking a deep breath and carrying on walking.
“LIZZY!”
She stopped, nervous energy bursting along her spine like freshly popping corn. It would be weird to see him like this, and not as his friend either, but more like an outsider stealing him away from his inner circle.
“Hey. How have you been?”
It was midnight when they stumbled back into Matthew’s flat, their inhibitions reduced by the copious number of cocktails they had drunk in the Chiquito’s on Leicester Square, before they were politely asked to leave by the bouncer for causing too much noise. From there they had gone to a karaoke bar in the depths of the West End, singing terrible songs and dancing on the stage, and they had fallen into each other’s arms and kissed passionately on the street outside, until a kindly WPC asked them to move along and hailed them a cab. They had fallen into the house, barely opening the doors before leaving a trail of clothes to the bedroom. The morning after was altogether different, she had tried to kiss him, and he hadn’t responded, making her feel small and flat. She left, wondering what she had done wrong, thinking about it as the train rumbled toward Manchester, contemplating as she caught the connection to Lambton, and driving herself half-crazy with her thoughts as she walked the country lanes home.
The lights were all on at Pemberley, Maggie had been to tidy the flat and had put a shepherd’s pie in the oven, waiting until she got back. Harriet was already fast asleep, and Lizzy went up, kissing her on the forehead and tucking the blanket up under her chin. Slumping on the sofa in her PJ’s and watching some crap on the tv, she grabbed a pile of unopened post, a small stack of bills, junk mail, and then. A soft lilac envelope addressed to her and Harriet in a beautifully handwritten script.
Lord and Lady Andrew Dalhousie
cordially invite you to celebrate the
happy union of their daughter
The Hon. Cara Jayne Dalhousie
& Matthew Stuart Wickham
In the quietness of his flat just off Portobello Road, Matthew sat and stared at his phone. He needed to be wanted, and Cara wanted him with her whole heart, not just the part of it she deigned to share. He loved her in the way that he thought she wanted to be loved, and they had been fairly happy for the first
few years before it slipped into something that felt like boredom. She had told him that she had forgiven him for Harriet, but he knew that his daughter would always be living, breathing proof of his transgression and he didn’t know how much of his life he could devote to apologising.
The wedding had been her father’s idea; Lord Dalhousie was a different breed of aristocrat to the ones he was used to, and he had been swept along with the idea of it. But now… Lizzy was always so closed off, always too reserved in her affections. He couldn’t spend his life half waiting and half guessing when she would next decide she wanted him, that was if she even wanted him at all. But he needed to know. Needed to know once and for all if there was any chance of it. He tapped out a question, and then he pressed send.
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Ten
Deb clambered into Lizzy’s car. There were papers and sandwich boxes tucked into the doors, CD cases littered the floor and the back seat was covered in a collection of coats, jackets and shoes, with a blue-ribboned bonnet tucked onto the parcel shelf for good measure. Pervading the whole car was the vague smell of off vegetables where, on a client trip to Birmingham, Lizzy had managed to spill a whole cup-a-soup onto the passenger footwell, attempting to mask it with a jolly Rocket Lolly air freshener that dangled from the rear-view mirror. She held tight to her handbag, not wanting to place it on the floor of the car – she didn’t know what might get stuck on it.
“Do you not earn enough money to buy a new car?”
Deb did the payroll and knew exactly how much Lizzy earned and she knew full well that she could afford something not as grim as this twenty-odd year-old Mini. Lizzy rolled her eyes as they pulled out of the car parking space that had her name on.
Becoming Lady Darcy Page 16
