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.”
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?”