“Caroline is odious. There’s no way she can compete with you.”
“Well, they were involved in the past. They’ve definitely slept together.”
“And that distinguishes Caroline from you how?” Charlotte was leering.
“Did you ever notice in Cincinnati that she was all over him? It’s obvious she wants to get back together.” Liz felt too jittery to remain seated, and she stood. “Is it okay if I take a shower?”
“Of course. The towels are on the bed.”
Before entering the house, Liz said, “Sorry for letting this stuff with Darcy hijack my visit. After we get through dinner, we’ll hatch a plan for your life here.”
“Lizzy, nothing could bring me greater happiness than to have you staying at my house, freaking out about a boy.”
THEY CARAVANNED BACK to Pemberley: Willie and Charlotte in his Prius, Liz riding with Aunt Margo and Uncle Frank. Willie had greeted Liz by saying in an accusatory tone, “Obviously, a lot has changed since I last saw you,” and Liz had replied, with a sincerity that took her by surprise, “I’m so happy for you and Charlotte.”
As she rode from Palo Alto to Atherton, Liz offered Aunt Margo updates from Cincinnati: Mr. Bennet’s health, Jane’s breakup with Chip (Liz provided much less detail than she’d given earlier to Charlotte), Lydia’s new beau. Conveniently, describing Ham was helpful in avoiding discussion of the house in which Aunt Margo had grown up being for sale. Shortly, Uncle Frank was turning onto Pemberley Lane; reaching the gates of the estate, he whistled in appreciation. “This must be some friend you’ve made, Lizzy.”
Hi it’s Liz, Liz texted Darcy. We’re here. A few seconds later, the gates opened.
In front of the main house, Liz spotted Darcy and a slender young woman who tucked her straight light brown hair behind her ears and kept her head slightly ducked, as if avoiding the glare of the sunset, though the house faced north. When the cars were parked and their occupants discharged, all seven of them stood in the gravel driveway while introductions were made and handshakes exchanged. Darcy wore high-quality flip-flops, khaki pants, and a white oxford cloth shirt rolled up to the elbows and plain save for a monogram on the left breast pocket—FCD V, it said, and Liz knew from looking online that his middle name was Cornelius.
It was immediately obvious to Liz that Georgie was anorexic. More than a decade in the employ of a women’s magazine had given her an abundance of experience discerning eating disorders, and made her both sympathetic to their challenges and wary of focusing inordinate attention on them; indeed, before the end of her first year at Mascara, she’d privately vowed to cease all conversation about food or exercise with her co-workers, lest she become as obsessive as some of them. She had, of course, broken the vow many times, but she still credited it with helping her retain perspective.
A few inches shorter than Liz, Georgie couldn’t have topped a hundred pounds; and though she wore a loose linen shirt along with jeans and flats, the line of her jaw and the prominence of her teeth were clues to her extreme thinness. She seemed far more fragile than Liz had anticipated; Kitty and Lydia were downright husky by comparison.
“We’ll eat at the guesthouse.” Looking among Uncle Frank, Aunt Margo, and Willie, Darcy added, “I’ve already subjected Liz and Charlotte to a tour of the main house today, so I’m inclined to spare the rest of you.”
Aunt Margo, Liz observed, met this news with disappointment that she quickly concealed, though neither Willie nor Uncle Frank seemed to care. As they all walked past the east wing of the house, Darcy said, “You’ll see that the pool is next to the guesthouse, but I have to apologize for not offering you the chance to swim. We haven’t opened it in a few years.”
Uncle Frank snapped his fingers, as if let down. “And here I’d stashed a Speedo in my glove compartment, just in case.”
Everyone chuckled politely at this appetite-spoiling image, and Liz found herself falling into step beside Georgie. “Thank you for having us over on such short notice,” Liz said. “I hope you weren’t alarmed when your brother said five strangers would be joining you for dinner.”
“Oh, the opposite,” Georgie said. “Fitzy’s talked about you so much, and I think he told you I’m a big Mascara reader.” Quickly, Georgie added, “At the risk of sounding like a dorky fangirl.”
“Ah, but I love dorky fangirls,” Liz said. “So Darcy—or I guess you just called him Fitzy—he said you’re a graduate student?”
Georgie nodded. “I’m in the middle of my dissertation, which will probably be read by about eight people total, if I ever manage to finish it. I have to ask you this, even though I’m sure everyone does—do you think Hudson Blaise cheated on Jillian Northcutt?”
Forsaking her usual guardedness on the topic, Liz said, “Of course he did!”
“Have you ever interviewed him?” Georgie asked.