‘What the hell is she doing?’ she gasped.
Their fifteen-year-old sister, dressed in the tiniest pair of denim shorts and a sequinned vest top, was sitting on a low wall beside the entrance to the churchyard. Her arms were hooked round the neck of a suntanned guy with a sun-bleached crew cut, and her lips were fastened to his as if by Super Glue.
‘Who is that guy?’ Lizzie asked Jane as she pulled up at the side of the road.
‘Never seen him before in my life,’ her sister replied. ‘Should we call out to her, do you think?’
‘Too right we should,’ Lizzie nodded, zapping the window. ‘Lydia! Hi, Lydia!’
Their sister turned round, jumped off the wall and, grabbing the guy by the hand, dragged him over to the car.
‘Hiya,’ she said cheerfully. ‘Cool timing – we need a lift.’
‘You what?’
‘A lift,’ Lydia said calmly. ‘We need to get into town – only Denny’s bike’s off the road – this is Denny, by the way.’
‘Does Mum know what you’re doing?’ Lizzie demanded.
‘Lizzie!’ Lydia coloured and threw her sister a murderous look. ‘I’m not a kid. Anyway, what’s it to you? Will you give us a lift or not?’
‘Not,’ Jane cut in. ‘Lizzie’s only just got back.’
‘So? You can drop her home and then take us and —’
‘Lyddy – no!’ Jane said.
‘It’s no big deal,’ Denny remarked easily, glancing at his watch. He turned to Lydia. ‘What do you say I see you at the club later for a swim, babe, yeah? Say about seven?’
‘You bet! Can’t wait to see you with your kit off!’ Lydia giggled, blowing him a kiss and opening the rear door of the car.
‘Who is that guy?’ Lizzie demanded, the instant Jane pulled away from the kerb. ‘He looks way older than you.’
‘Oh God, Lizzie, don’t start!’ Lydia said, pulling a face. ‘He’s nineteen, OK?’
‘So how long have you known him? Where did you meet him?’ Jane demanded.
‘What’s with all the questions?’ Lydia snapped, scooping her long hair into a scrunchie. ‘Like it’s any of your business.’
She pulled the wrapper off a piece of chewing gum and stuffed it into her mouth.
‘If you must know, I met him yesterday,’ she said smugly. ‘He lives —’
‘Yesterday?’ Lizzie blurted out, as Jane turned the car into the paved driveway of their house. ‘And you’re snogging him today. Lydia, you are such a tart.’
‘No I’m not, I’m just irresistible,’ Lydia said laughing, totally unconcerned at her sister’s censure. ‘Denny says I kiss like —’
‘I don’t want to know,’ Lizzie interjected.
‘You’re in a mood,’ Lydia remarked. ‘Pining for the sainted Toby, are you? How sweet!’
‘Lydia?’
‘Yeah?’
‘Shut up.’
CHAPTER 2
‘Lizzie has something more of quickness than her sisters.’
(Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice)
THE VILLAGE OF LONGBOURN OAKS, EIGHT MILES FROM the ever-expanding market town of Meryton, dated back to the tenth century; it boasted a Saxon church, two pubs (The Gardiner’s Arms, which the locals favoured, and The Artichoke, which they avoided like the plague), a post office and general store and the locally famous Barn Theatre (a converted cowshed), home to the Longbourn Players.
None of this was of the remotest interest to Lydia Bennet. Two things had converted her in the space of twenty-four hours from being sullen, surly and totally opposed to living in what she called the back of beyond. The first was the fact that the mother of her best friend, Amber Forster, had just shacked up with her new man in the neighbouring village; the second was the discovery that just half a mile outside the village on the road to Pitswell stood Longbourn College of Equine Studies. It wasn’t the horses that appealed to Lydia; for her its greatest attraction was that at least two-thirds of the students were male.
‘Denny’s dad’s the principal,’ she had informed her sisters on the way home. ‘They live in this huge bungalow in the grounds. Anyway, Denny says loads of the final year students are hanging out round here for summer holiday placements, and riding in shows and stuff. There’s this guy Zak, I met him last night too, he’s got a quad bike and he says he’ll take me off-roading next week. Then there’s Tim, Denny’s best mate – he’s got his own horses and he’s really fit and he’ll be around all summer helping design the new cross-country course and Amber really fancies him, but I think . . .’
She had babbled on relentlessly until Jane turned into the driveway of their new home. Priory Park, an exclusive development of nine houses, was built on what had once been Priory Home Farm, until the owners realised that building houses for aspirational homeowners was a lot more lucrative than attempting to cope with government cutbacks. It was planned as a figure of eight, so that none of the houses had the ignominy of a garden that backed on to anyone else’s, but all overlooked either the newly designed eighteen-hole golf course to the west, the Longbourn woods with the eponymous oak trees to the north and east, or the River Mere to the south.
The Bennets’ double-fronted house, constructed of locally reclaimed creamy coloured stone, stood at the end of the cul-de-sac. Built in an L-shape, it had huge picture windows, wide chimneys and not one, but two conservatories. There was a small one jutting out from the side of the house, and a much larger one at the rear which Mrs Bennet insisted on calling the morning room. This wasn’t because she chose to eat her muesli there each day, but because Geneva Jevington had written an article in the Independent stating quite emphatically that the morning room was enjoying a revival among those for whom gracious living was second nature.
However, as Lizzie trundled her suitcase through the heavy oak front door and into the hallway, still smelling of fresh paint, the atmosphere was anything but gracious. Before she could draw breath, her youngest sister, Katie, came careering down the stairs, her face like thunder.
‘You cow! You went out without me!’ she shouted, pushing past Lizzie and grabbing Lydia’s arm. ‘You swore that if I did your geography homework, I could come too.’
‘Oh, get stuffed! Like I really want to nursemaid you for the rest of my life,’ Lydia retorted.
At which Katie promptly burst into tears. Katie did that a lot. In fact, for twins born within seven minutes of one another, Lydia and Katie could not have been more different. Lydia, fifteen going on twenty-five, was one of those girls who truly believed that the world owed her a living. She didn’t give a toss about school work, or indeed any kind of rule or regulation, she changed her hair colour on a monthly basis – it was currently a rather overpowering shade of russet with what the packet called ‘corn cob highlights’ – and she had an innate sense of style, bolstered by an unwavering confidence in her own magnetic charms. Her mother said that of all her daughters, Lydia would go the furthest; her father said that he was sure she was right, it was just that he worried in which direction she would head.
‘You are always so horrid to me!’ Katie wailed as Lydia shrugged her off impatiently. Katie, of course, was also fifteen. But there the similarity ended. Where Lydia was reckless, Katie worried about everything. Lydia could eat for England and had her mother’s chubby build and rosy cheeks; Katie was skinny, pale and picked at her food as if suspicious that every pea was out to poison her. Katie had just one ambition in life: to win her twin’s approval. This Lydia gave very infrequently and then only when it served her own purpose.
‘Oh, save your breath to cool your porridge, loser!’ Lydia snapped. ‘You are so juvenile!’
‘Can you lot shut the hell up?’ Meredith stormed out of the sitting room. ‘I’m trying to listen to Eco-watch.’
Meredith was as unlike any of her sisters as it was possible to be. She had neither Jane’s delicate features and flyaway blond hair, nor Lizzie’s unruly chestnut curls and olive skin. She wasn’t sociable like Lydia, and she certainly didn’t
worry about pleasing other people the way Katie did. The only characteristics she had inherited from the Bennet gene pool were her father’s height and his total lack of style. Much as she adored him, Lizzie had to admit that even when dressed for the office, her six-foot-three father resembled a hat stand on to which someone had carelessly flung an assortment of garments, none of which co-ordinated and most of which appeared to be resting en route to a jumble sale. Meredith, who scoured the charity shops for clothes, was the conscience of the family – monitoring their recycling, nagging her mother whenever she bought a banana that wasn’t fairly traded, and constantly turning down the thermostat on the central heating while lecturing her sisters about global warming. It was all very worthwhile and Lizzie admired her for it; but she couldn’t help wishing that her sister was a bit more cheerful about it all.
‘Oh, hi, Lizzie, you’re back,’ Meredith said, frowning and picking distractedly at a spot on the side of her nose. ‘That’s good, because I need you and Jane to sign this petition I’ve drawn up.’
She paused, as from behind the closed kitchen door all hell appeared to be breaking loose.
‘How can you even think of it? Him? Here? After everything that happened?’ Mrs Bennet’s voice, shrill at the best of times, was getting higher and higher.
‘Alice, be reasonable, it’s only . . .’ Lizzie heard her father murmur.
‘Me? You’re the one who’s not being reasonable. You’ll just have to say no, tell him —’
‘I’ll tell him he’s most welcome!’
Lizzie and Jane exchanged glances. Seldom was their father that assertive, opting more often for the quiet life than facing a confrontation with his volatile wife.
‘What’s going on?’ Lydia muttered to Lizzie.
‘I think,’ said Lizzie, as the kitchen door flew open, and her mother, scarlet in the face, burst into the hall, ‘that we’re about to find out.’
‘You want to know what’s going on?’ their mother shouted, pushing past her husband who was standing in the doorway with a look of bewilderment on his face. ‘Ask him! Oh.’
She paused, eyeing Lizzie in surprise.
‘You’re back. Good. Maybe you can make your father see sense.’
‘Yes, thank you, I had a great time,’ Lizzie commented sarcastically. ‘Ask him about what exactly?’
‘Hello, darling, we missed you,’ her father said, blowing her a kiss. ‘It’s something about nothing. I had an email this morning at the office, that’s all. From Drew.’
‘Ah.’ Lizzie sighed. It was all beginning to fall into place.
‘Drew? Who’s Drew?’ Lydia burst into life at the mention of a boy.
‘You know,’ Jane reminded her. ‘Dad’s godson Drew. Lives in America.’
‘Him? I thought he was called Andy.’
‘That was when he was little,’ her father explained, a faint smile flickering across his face. ‘He’s called himself Drew ever since he started shaving.’
‘So – what about him?’ Lizzie asked.
‘I’ll tell you what about him!’ Her mother exploded into life once more. ‘He’s invited himself to sponge off us for a fortnight. And your father is set on letting him.’
‘Alice, for God’s sake!’ Harry shouted. ‘He’s not sponging, he’s —’
‘Really? Well, his parents sponged so I’m sure it’s in his genes,’ Alice spat back. ‘But of course, you never could see things even when they were under your nose and —’
She was stopped in full flood by their new, multichannel electric doorbell trilling out the first few bars of ‘When the Saints Come Marching In’. Lizzie, cringing at the total naffness of her mother’s choice in bells, edged gratefully towards the stairs, glad of a diversion that would let her escape to her bedroom.
‘Oh my God, what if it’s Denny?’ Lydia cried. ‘I’m nowhere near ready, I haven’t done my face!’
‘And I can’t see anyone,’ her mother blurted out. ‘I’m far too distraught . . . oh!’
At that moment, Katie, clearly wanting to do anything that would stop the argument dead in its tracks, threw open the front door. Standing on the threshold, immaculate in a pair of white linen trousers and a cerise silk shirt, was a tall woman with a sheaf of papers in her hand and a somewhat bemused expression on her face.
‘Oh, I have got the right house,’ she declared. ‘There was such a commotion going on, I thought for a moment I must be mistaken.’
‘Mrs Bingley!’ Had Lizzie not known her mother so well, she would have been astonished at the transformation from screeching banshee to charming lady of the house. ‘You caught us in the middle of one of our silly little games – role play – it helps Katie and Lydia so much with their drama homework.’
Jane snorted quietly into her hand while Lizzie, struggling to keep composed, found herself examining in some detail the watercolour of Clayton windmill that hung on the hall wall.
‘Would someone have her put down, please? Like now,’ Lydia muttered, and stomped up the stairs.
‘Really? How interesting.’ Mrs Bingley sounded anything but interested. ‘Now the thing is —’
‘This is Mrs Bingley, girls,’ their mother said. ‘She lives at Netherfield Manor.’
Lizzie sighed inwardly at the way her mother put the emphasis on the last word.
‘Hello,’ Lizzie and Jane chorused obediently.
‘My goodness, what a lot of you!’ Mrs Bingley murmured, glancing round the hall. ‘Now I can’t stop, Alice, but when you called round the other day, I was so wrapped up in my preparations for our Barn Theatre fundraiser that I quite forgot to invite you to a little gathering we’re having tomorrow evening. Nothing fancy – just Pimm’s and canapés. I want as many people from the village as possible because . . . oh, well I can explain all that later. Now will you come? Seven o’clock sharp.’
‘Mrs Bingley, I’d be thrilled,’ Lizzie’s mother trilled.
‘Oh, call me Vanessa,’ Mrs Bingley urged her graciously. ‘And do feel free to bring the whole family – my two are home, and Charlie’s brought a friend down for the summer – be great for you all to get together. Caroline is always moaning about having nothing to do now we’ve sold the Chelsea pad! Till then!’
And with that she turned and clattered down the driveway on her four-inch gold stiletto heels.
‘Well, now!’ Alice declared, shutting the door behind her. ‘Isn’t that wonderful? Pimm’s and canapés – very county!’ She turned to her husband. ‘Isn’t that nice of her to invite us?’
‘Considering you have been pestering her on an almost daily basis, I assume an invitation to this party was the only way she thought she’d get any peace,’ he remarked.
Lizzie grinned. She and her father shared the same sense of humour, a fact that irritated her mother beyond belief.
As Alice retreated into the kitchen, he gave Lizzie a hug. ‘That’ll take her mind off Drew coming, anyway.’ He smiled.
‘I wouldn’t count on it,’ Lizzie replied. ‘Knowing Mum, she’s only just begun.’
‘Peace at last!’ Lizzie said to herself ten minutes later, closing her bedroom door firmly behind her and flopping down on her bed (which had been put in quite the wrong position and which first thing tomorrow she would move under the window). Even though the new house didn’t feel like home yet, it had one distinct advantage – she had a room to herself. Of course, she’d been on her own in term time before the move, but every holiday when Jane came back from Goldsmiths College, they had been forced to double up just like when they were kids. Of all her sisters, she was closest to Jane; but sharing with someone who thought a room was a tip if one pair of socks peeped out from under the bed was a strain she could do without. From now on, she could do what she liked, when she liked.
‘Hey, can I come in?’ Jane peered round the door. ‘I need sanctuary!’
Lizzie groaned to herself and bit her tongue. ‘Sure,’ she said, patting the bed. ‘What’s up?’
‘Katie’s cr
ying, because Lydia keeps baiting her; Meredith’s giving out recycling target sheets; Mum’s so busy yelling at Dad about Drew that she’s burned half the supper and Lydia’s borrowed my pink shirt and got make-up all over the collar. Need I go on?’
Lizzie threw her a sympathetic smile. ‘I wonder what life would be like if Mum and Dad had got their heads around family planning,’ she mused. ‘I mean, I love them all but . . .’
‘. . . preferably in small doses and not all at once,’ Jane finished with a laugh. ‘I know what you mean.’ She winced slightly as a door slammed downstairs. ‘This Drew thing,’ she went on. ‘I don’t really get it. I mean, it’s not like Dad’s forever spending time with the guy these days. They haven’t met up since he was ten and now he’s what . . . twenty-two? What’s the problem?’
‘The problem,’ Lizzie reminded her, ‘is that he’s Felicity’s son.’
Back in the days when Lizzie’s father had been at university, he and Felicity had been an item. Big time. Lizzie knew a few of the details from her dad’s brother, Uncle Guy, who said that Felicity was brainy, ambitious and loaded.
‘We all thought they’d get engaged the minute they graduated,’ Uncle Guy had told her, ‘but then along came your mum.’
That was the bit of the story that all five girls had loved best when they were small; how their mother, a student at the nearby art college, had been sitting on the pavement in Meryton town centre one Saturday afternoon, doing chalk drawings while some of her mates busked outside the library to supplement their meagre grant. What happened next was to change at least three lives forever. Lizzie’s mum said it was all down to Mercury being retrograde and Venus being in the ascendant (or something like that), their dad said it was divine intervention, and what Felicity said is not repeatable. Suffice to say that at precisely three o’clock, Harry and Felicity had been charging down the High Street in the middle of a flaming row, with Felicity screeching at the top of her voice and Harry, who never liked to make an exhibition of himself, attempting to look as if he wasn’t there. Felicity had belted round the corner, bumped into Alice’s friend Jo, who was attempting to play ‘The Entertainer’ on the clarinet, and totally failed to see Alice squatting on the ground in front of her. Felicity’s stiletto heel landed smack bang in the middle of Alice’s hand and Alice, never stoical at the best of times, proceeded to faint right across her chalk drawing of Mickey Mouse in a hot-air balloon.
Love, Lies and Lizzie Page 2
