The Secret Diary of Lizzie Bennet (19 page)

She walked away from her degree, from the videos, and from her best friend.

I don’t know what to do anymore.

When I don’t know what to do, it turns out, Lydia does.

Yes, Lydia.

I had been slinking around the house, dodging Mom, whose disparaging looks and passive-aggressive attitude can get surprisingly grating after the first dozen interactions. Dad does his best to
mollify Mom, and Jane is constantly bringing me tea.

I just wanted to avoid life for a while. Because if I did face up to what happened, Charlotte would really be gone and I would really have been a terrible best friend for not seeing things from
her perspective.

I still can’t believe she did it, though. Gave up on her dreams of being a documentary filmmaker just to be No. 2 at Ricky Collins’s company. Comfortable or not, she’s still
depriving herself—just in a different way.

Anyway, it was just me and my melancholy thoughts on this subject until Lydia burst in and insisted we go out to Carter’s as a distraction. Remarkably, Jane was behind this plan as well,
offering to call up Bing and Caroline and have them come, too. But the coup de grâce that got me out of my sweatpants and out of the house was the fact that George Wickham emailed me, saying
he’s back in town and was waiting for me with an ice-cold beer in hand.

Talk about a distraction.

I swear to God, that man was made for a commercial on the beneficial effects of spending six hours a day in chlorine. The minute we walked in, he turned away from the girl he was chatting with
and focused his laser-beam baby blues right on me.

“Hey, peach.” He smiled as we approached, and he wrapped me in a bear hug. “And the peach sisters!”

“Hey, George,” Lydia said, putting herself forward—and by that I mean her boobs. He had met Lydia before, at least. I like to think she doesn’t immediately preen for
complete strangers.

“Hey, Lydia.” He winked at her. “You gonna cause trouble tonight?”

“Are you offering?”

“Okay, that’s enough of the Lolita act,” I said, enjoying the feeling of George’s arm around my waist.

“And this must be the lovely Jane.” George then turned on the charm by raising her hand to his lips, a paragon of gallantry.

“It’s so nice to meet you,” Jane said. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Have you?” He looked at me then, all flirty. “Well, I’m flattered to have been thought worthy of mention.”

“Worthy?” Lydia snorted. “You’re the most interesting thing to happen to Lizzie in, like,
years
.”

“Lydia . . .” Jane warned.

“Hey, look, a free table!” Lydia pointed, and shoved us toward it. “You guys hold it down—I’ll get drinks!”

Lydia dodged her way through the Saturday night crowd and tried to elbow her way to the bar, without much success. We Bennets inherited our mother’s petite frame.

“I’ll go help her,” George offered, as he held out a chair for me (!!). “And the first round’s on me.”

As George moved off, Jane caught my eye. “Well, I can certainly tell what you see in him.”

“He’s pretty great, right?”

“Handsome.”

“And charming,” I replied. “If only he were rich, we would have hit the mother-trifecta.”

“Don’t let her hear you say that—at this point she might be willing to take two out of three.” Jane laughed. Then her ridiculously perfect brow came down in confusion.
“Wait, does that mean you’re thinking about George . . . long-term? Hitting the mother-trifecta?”

“God no!” I replied immediately. “We’ve just been texting. You can’t think long-term about anyone like that when you’re limited in communication by your data
plan.” But . . . “He’s interesting to me, though.” I smiled.

The thing is, Lydia was not wholly wrong. George actually
is
the most interesting this to happen to me in years . . . at least guy-wise. I don’t let people get close to me easily.
It’s just not my thing. Jane becomes best friends with everyone within five minutes of meeting them, and Lydia gloms onto people with the fervor of a chipmunk on a sugar high. But I’ve
always been a little standoffish. A little suspicious, I guess. So the fact that I’m talking to a guy, liking a guy, letting that guy buy me and my sisters a round of drinks, is kind of a big
deal.

While I was contemplating the big deal that was currently leaning against the bar and showing off an incredibly perfect . . . pair of jeans, Jane’s phone buzzed.

“Oh, no,” she said, her entire posture falling.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Bing’s not able to come,” she sighed. “But Caroline says she’s on her way.”

“Oh, that sucks—you guys haven’t seen each other in forever.”

“I know. His school is going to start up soon, and they’ve been giving me so many extra hours at work, which means I can’t carpool with Bing . . .” She shrugged, letting
it drift off. But I had to wonder. Bing’s school is in Los Angeles. What was going to happen when he had to go back? A long-distance relationship? Jane making frequent trips down I-5 on
weekends? He seems to really like it here; would he transfer?

“Excuse me,” a guy from the next table leaned over, “but didn’t we go to high school together?”

Jane turned around, startled. “I think so. It’s so good to see you!”

Jane and the guy started talking, and he introduced her and me to his friends around the table. That’s how we were situated when Caroline and Darcy walked in the door.

Ugh.

I hadn’t actually seen Darcy in the flesh since Jane and I left Netherfield. He didn’t seem worse for wear. In fact, he actually . . . smiled at me.
Smiled
.

I think I may have approximated something vaguely smile-like in return, because as Caroline went over and air-kissed Jane, wedging herself into the seat next to her, Darcy came and sat next to
me.

“Hello, Lizzie.”

“Hello.” Yes, I do have the ability to mask my feelings and be polite. “How have you been?”

“I have been well,” he said, his posture completely perfect. Seriously, even his bow tie was perfectly pointed at the corners. It was ridiculous. “And you?”

“Fine.”

“Er, how are your students? The ones you tutor?”

“Good,” I replied. “Although for most of them school has already started, so our sessions are over.”

“Oh. So you’re not teaching them anymore?”

“No—I only tutor in the summer—because of my own workload with grad school.” Which will be starting up again soon enough. And I won’t have my regular partner in
crime anymore . . . but let’s think about that later.

“Oh, that’s too bad,” Darcy said. “Not because you won’t be . . . I’m mean it’s . . . I just find what you teach interesting. That’s
all.”

“What I teach?” I asked, a little bewildered by his inarticulateness. Usually he knows the most cutting thing to say at all times. “You mean English?”

“Yes. Especially for someone studying communications.”

“I’m getting my grad degree in mass communications, but my bachelor’s is in English,” I said defensively. “If my understanding of literature wasn’t
sufficient, my former teachers would not recommend me to their students.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he said quickly. “Just that it must give you an illuminating perspective about . . . Tolstoy.”

“Tolstoy?”

“Yes! I was thinking about how you were saying that Tolstoy thought Shakespeare was a poor dramatist, and that as a communications student you must—”

Darcy stopped talking, mid-sentence. His eyes fell on something—or someone—behind me. I turned around. George was standing there, four beers in hand.

“Here you go, peach,” he said, putting the beers on the table in front of me. “I got you the same kind you had last time.”

What was really amazing was that George did and said all of this while keeping his eyes locked on Darcy’s.

You know how I was saying I have the ability to mask my feelings and be polite? You know who doesn’t?

Darcy.

And at that moment, I could read everything on his face.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his jaw working overtime. “I have to go.”

Then . . . he just stood up and walked out of the bar.

“Darcy, wait!” Caroline cried, clearly flummoxed. “Um . . . he’s my ride. I’m sorry, Jane, I’ll see you later?” And without bending to air kiss,
Caroline was out the door on Darcy’s heels.

Out of all the weird things that Darcy has done in my presence, this was by far the weirdest.

And George Wickham is the cause of this weirdness. From the look on George’s face, he wasn’t pleased to have seen Darcy, either.

“What was that about?” I asked under my breath.

“Nothing,” George said, taking Darcy’s vacated seat next to me.

“That wasn’t nothing,” I replied.

“William Darcy and I have . . . a history. That’s all.” He looked down at the beers in front of us. “But let’s not let him spoil our night! I want to hear
everything you’ve been up to since I’ve been gone.”

If George didn’t want to talk about it, that was fine; I wasn’t going to push him. But obviously my curiosity was piqued. How could it not be, with such an enigmatic statement?

Jane might say that my curiosity was a little
too
piqued, because I did make a late-night video (not that kind, ew) about it. But come on, it’s too juicy to ignore:

George knows Darcy.

Darcy knows George.

And given his actions, Darcy hates George.

I can’t help it—I have a curious nature. And as my old DVD copy of
Harriet the Spy
as my witness, I am going to get to the bottom of this one.

* * *

I had just closed this journal when our doorbell rang. Thankfully Mom wasn’t home, because I can only imagine the freak-out that would occur upon seeing one Mr. George
Wickham on the other side of the door.

“Hey,” he said. “I was thinking about going to the beach today. And I thought, maybe I could use a local tour guide? Someone who knows all the best spots?” He grinned
wide. “You interested?”

George Wickham at the beach? In a swimsuit? Yes, please.

“Let me grab my suit,” I said, and ran upstairs.

I have to admit, George is in town for three days and already, things are a lot more interesting around here.

George just left my room. I was making a video, and he was curious about it, so I let him come in and be on camera today. But what I learned . . . turns everything I thought I
knew about Darcy on its head,
and
confirms him as a worse person than even I had previously thought.

George and I have been hanging out pretty much every day this past week. He doesn’t start with his swim clients until Monday, and my classes don’t start up for a little while, so
might as well make the most of it, right?

And it’s been
great
.
He’s
been great. I know that it may seem a little fast, but . . . I like him. He’s funny and ridiculously hot and charming. Granted, I
don’t think he’s read any book longer than a
Men’s Health
magazine, but since when are common interests and tastes the basis for good relationships? Whatever happened to
opposites attract?

If Charlotte were here, she would be freaking out that I was getting too involved with him, but 1. She’s not here, and 2. I’m not getting that involved. We’re keeping it
casual. Casually going to the beach. Casually meeting for a movie. Casually making out in the back of my car like ridiculous teenagers who can’t afford a hotel room. (Although we actually
can’t, come to think of it. Plus, he has roommates and I live at home, so no wonder I never date.)

But I don’t see anything wrong with enjoying myself a little. School is going to start soon enough, my life will be consumed by my final year, and my thesis and then getting a job/probably
moving/real life will invade. If I was ever going to have some fun, now’s the time.

George is a great partner for it. And he listens to me. He’s interested in me. Which is why, when he said he wanted to see me make a video, I let him be on camera.

I also figured it would be a really good time to put him on the spot and ask him about all the Darcy drama at Carter’s the other night. Hey—I had waited patiently for a
week
to know the answer. That speaks to a level of maturity I did not know I was capable of. Perhaps I
am
ready for the real world.

Anyway . . . while we were filming, I asked him. About the “history” he has with Darcy. He was pretty reticent to tell me, especially while the camera was on. So, I turned it
off.

“Listen,” he said, “I don’t want to tell tales out of school, or denigrate someone who isn’t here to defend himself. But honestly, Darcy really doesn’t have
much of a defense for what he did.”

“If you’re worried about impeaching one of my friends, don’t be,” I said quickly. “We only know Darcy because Jane is dating a friend of his, but that doesn’t
mean he’s her friend, and it certainly doesn’t mean that he’s mine.”

“And he’s not one of mine, anymore,” George replied.

“How long have you known each other?” I asked.

“Pretty much my entire life.”

Wow. I hadn’t expected that. Which must have shown on my face, because George continued. “I know. It’s hard to believe. But there was a time when we were best buds. My mom was
his parents’ housekeeper. When my dad skipped out on us, Mom and I moved into an apartment on the Darcy estate, and Mr. Darcy stepped up, sort of taking me under his wing.”

I hadn’t known his mother was a housekeeper, or that his father had left them. He said it so matter-of-factly, but I could tell he was sad underneath all the charm and smiles. I just
wanted to hug him. But instead I let him talk.

“William and I grew up together, always hanging out, waging fake wars in the woods, basic boy stuff,” he continued. “I was pretty much a second son to the Darcys. So much so,
Mr. Darcy promised that he’d cover my bill for college.

“Anyway, my mom retired from being a housekeeper when I was sixteen, and we moved out of our little apartment. Darcy and I didn’t see each other all the time anymore, but we were
still tight. At least I thought we were. Then . . . Mr. and Mrs. Darcy died in a car accident.”