“I’m still hoping it might,” Mr. Bennet replied.
“That happened during a rainstorm last week,” Mrs. Bennet said, and though Liz didn’t consider her mother a particularly faithful adherent to the truth, the fib, occurring in front of no fewer than six people who could have contradicted it, was unusually bold. “But now that you’ve reminded me, Margo,” Mrs. Bennet added cheerfully, “I’ll be sure to call the handyman.”
THEY ATE IN the dining room instead of the kitchen. Prior to Willie and Aunt Margo’s arrival, Lydia and Kitty had been tasked with moving boxes from the front hall and the dining room table to Jane’s old room (CrossFit notwithstanding, this was the first time since Liz’s return home that she had seen her youngest sisters exert themselves), and, along with her most elegant china, Mrs. Bennet had put out place cards, presumably to ensure that Chip Bingley sat next to her. He had arrived bearing both a bottle of wine and a bouquet of flowers, and though a vase of purple hydrangea had already occupied the table’s center, Mrs. Bennet had instructed Liz to whisk them away and display Chip’s arrangement instead, as if he’d interpret the existence of another bouquet as a personal affront.
After much discussion between Jane and Mrs. Bennet, the menu consisted of cold poached salmon, roasted potatoes, a green salad, and a berry tart. Because of the supreme importance of the evening, Mrs. Bennet had set aside her Women’s League responsibilities, and mother and daughter had spent the entire day tidying the first floor and preparing the meal.
It was only a minute or two after they’d all sat down that Kitty asked, “Chip, did they pay you to be on Eligible?”
“I was wondering the same thing,” Cousin Willie said, and Mrs. Bennet said, “Goodness gracious, Chip doesn’t want to talk about that. Tell me, Chip, is it Philadelphia where your parents live?”
Chip, who had recently taken a bite, chewed, then patted his mouth with a white linen napkin. “They live on the Main Line,” he said. “So the suburbs, though I’ve tried to talk them into buying an apartment downtown. Center City has really experienced a renaissance in recent years.” He glanced at Kitty, who was across the table from him. “I don’t mind talking about the show.” He turned back toward Mrs. Bennet. “If you don’t mind, that is. I wouldn’t want to offend your sense of propriety.”
Had sweeter words ever been spoken to Mrs. Bennet? And by a wealthy suitor courting her eldest daughter, no less! Practically purring, Mrs. Bennet set her hand on Chip’s forearm and said, “Go right ahead.”
Looking around the table, Chip said, “I trust that this conversation is off the record. But, yes, the star of each season gets paid. I think the amount varies based on negotiations by one’s lawyer or agent—in my case, it was an entertainment lawyer, because I didn’t have an agent—but it’s a respectable amount.”
“Six figures?” Lydia asked, and Mrs. Bennet said, “Heavens, Lydia, where are your manners?”
Chip smiled gamely. “Let’s leave it at respectable.”
“Are you saying you got paid and the women didn’t?” Mary asked.
“I fear that might be the case,” Chip said, “though it’s not because of sexism. The same is true when the star of the cast is female and the contestants are men. Either way, I think everyone at least gets a per diem.”
“How long was the shoot?” Liz asked. She was at the far end of the table from Chip, between Cousin Willie and her father.
“Shorter than you’d think,” Chip said. “Eight weeks.”
“It’s all scripted, right?” Mary said. “Everyone knows it is.”
“Yes and no,” Chip said. “Sure, the producers nudge you in certain directions. Or something happens spontaneously, but the cameras didn’t catch it just right, or maybe somebody was sneezing in the background, so they do three more takes. And obviously the great majority of footage never makes it on the air. They have a few hundred hours to whittle down for each eighty-minute episode. But I still think people’s essential personalities come through. A lot of those girls were a bit outrageous to begin with.” He glanced around the table. “Have I put you to sleep yet, Mr. Bennet?”
“No more so than our dinners usually do. Carry on.”
Chip grinned. “The other reason things could get dramatic was that the alcohol was flowing, and not just at night. They’d serve booze from lunch on, and if there was a justifiable way of offering it earlier, like a Bloody Mary at brunch, they’d do that.”
“Now it’s actually starting to sound civilized,” Mr. Bennet said.