Fifty Shades of Mr Darcy: A Parody (7 page)

The next day Elizabeth related to Jane what had passed between Mr Whackem and herself. Jane listened with astonishment – she knew not how to believe that Mr Darcy could be
so unworthy of Mr Bingley’s regard. Yet it was not in her nature to question the veracity of a young man of such amiable appearance as Mr Whackem. The possibility of Whackem having endured
such torment was enough to interest all her tender feelings.

The sisters were interrupted in their conversation by the arrival of Carrotslime Bingley, who bore an invitation to yet another ball at Netherfield. This afforded Mrs Bennet ample opportunity to
make many more testicle-themed double entendres, and the next week passed quickly in a whirl of bawdy jokes and the acquisition of new gowns and dancing slippers for all the Bennet sisters apart
from Mary, who insisted that she found balls to be hot, sticky and unpleasant. Instead, she declared, she would stay at home and perfect her fingering with her music teacher, Mr Fiddler.

When at last Elizabeth entered the ballroom at Netherfield, she searched in vain for Mr Whackem among the cluster of red coats there assembled. She had the suspicion of his being purposely
omitted for Mr Darcy’s pleasure in Bingley’s invitation to the officers. Lydia, who had already conversed with half the soldiers present, soon after delivered the news that Whackem was
washing his hair that very evening, and would be unable to attend.

I do not imagine he would have chosen tonight to attend to his toilette, had he not wished to avoid a certain gentleman here,
Elizabeth thought to herself.

She herself had dressed with more than usual care, borrowing Jane’s plum-coloured silk gown, which accentuated her fine, lissome figure. It was a fact not lost on Mr Collins, who
pronounced her to be almost as attractive as his beloved Lady Catherine de Burgh.

Mr Collins had secured the first two dances with Elizabeth, and for the latter they were dances of mortification and distress. Mr Collins, surprisingly for the former drummer with Genesis,
displayed little rhythm, and often moved the wrong way without being aware of it. The moment of Elizabeth’s release from him was ecstasy.

Discovering Charlotte Lucas in the orangery sneaking a cigarette, Elizabeth believed she had found both a refuge from the attentions of her stepfather’s cousin, and a sympathetic ear.

‘Oh Charlotte,’ she sighed, ‘I am beginning to think that I am being singled out among my sisters to be Phil Collins’s mistress.’

‘Would that be so disagreeable a thing, Lizzy?’ Charlotte asked reasonably. ‘Mr Collins is of no mean fortune, and with his back catalogue of hits, is sure to earn handsome
royalties for many years to come.’

‘That, I fear, is not enough to overcome my aversion to his company. I find him both foolish and tiresome. If I have to listen once more to his recollections of the Montreux Music Festival
in ’84, I declare I shall top myself!’

Charlotte smiled. ‘You are too harsh, I think, Lizzy. I find him quite personable.’

‘You surprise me, Charlotte! I had thought you more discerning.’

‘At least you are attracting
some
male attention, however unwelcome,’ countered Charlotte. ‘I’ve had to dance with a yucca plant for the last two hours. Anyway,
take a look under my petticoat. There should be a bottle of tequila somewhere.’

The young ladies’ plan to get totalled on cheap booze was soon thwarted, however, as Mr Collins, upon spying Elizabeth rummaging under her friend’s gown, made his way out to the
orangery to join them.

‘I have found out,’ said he, ‘by a singular accident, that there is now in the room a close acquaintance of my patroness, Lady Catherine de Burgh. How wonderfully these things
occur! I am now going to pay my respects to him, and trust he will excuse my not having done it before.’

‘You intend to introduce yourself to Fitzwilliam Darcy?’ asked Elizabeth.

‘Indeed I am. He is Lady Catherine’s godson, is he not?’

Elizabeth tried hard to dissuade him from such a scheme, assuring him that Mr Darcy would consider his addressing him when improperly attired in a ‘Genesis Reunion World Tour’
T-shirt as an impertinence rather than a compliment to his aunt. ‘He is a proud man and a great stickler for appropriate dress,’ Elizabeth advised him. ‘At the very least put on
your tailcoat.’

‘Do not distress yourself, dear cousin,’ Mr Collins reassured her. ‘I have made a study of these points of etiquette, and when a man of the cloth, such as myself, is addressing
the minor aristocracy, there is No Jacket Required.’

With that, he made his way across the room to the fireplace, where Mr Darcy stood prodding the coals with his poker.

Too mortified to witness the unfolding exchange, which would doubtless end in humiliation for Mr Collins and, by extension, to herself, Elizabeth contented herself with watching Jane and Mr
Bingley. Their happiness and ease in each other’s company was evident to all, and Elizabeth allowed herself to imagine Jane settled in that very house, in all the felicity that a marriage of
true affection could bestow. Mrs Bennet evidently felt the same, as sidling up to Elizabeth, she said in a state of great animation: ‘It goes well, does it not, for your sister? See how Mr
Bingley rests his hand upon her buttock!’

In vain did Elizabeth endeavour to persuade her mother to describe the scene in a less audible whisper, for to her great distress, she sensed that the exchange was overheard by Mr Darcy, who had
moved away from Mr Collins at the first opportunity and was now busy colour-coding a nearby fruit bowl.

‘I am certainly not afraid to speak my mind in front of
him
,’ her mother scolded, ‘just because he has ten thousand a year! I dare say he thinks us a bunch of uncouth
country bumpkins, but he would not look quite so superior if he knew that earlier, when he was not looking, I pissed in his glass of claret.’

Glancing sideways, Elizabeth discerned that Mr Darcy was not looking at her mother after all. Indeed, his smouldering grey eyes appeared to be trained, constantly, on her, following her every
nuance of movement, every curve of her body. She squirmed under his scrutiny. It may have been Mr Darcy’s persistent appraisal, or the heat of the room, the exertion of dancing or too many
tequila slammers, but at length Elizabeth began to feel quite light-headed.

‘I must go onto the balcony and take some air,’ she declared to her mother, and, throwing open the doors, stepped into the clear, frosty night.

‘Miss Elizabeth, are you not well?’

Mr Collins had appeared by her side, as if from nowhere, and his beady little eyes were boring into hers. ‘May I be of assistance? Some water, perhaps?’

Elizabeth gathered some of the hair that had escaped from her chignon and tucked it back behind her ears. ‘Pray, do not trouble yourself, Mr Collins. It is a momentary weakness, that is
all.’

Mr Collins sprang forward so that his hands were upon her waist – they were drummer’s hands, and surprisingly strong.

‘Mr Collins! Whatever are you doing?’

‘Oh Elizabeth…’ Mr Collins stood up on his tiptoes and attempted to plant a kiss on her cheek.

‘No, please do not!’ Elizabeth protested. ‘Stop, I beg you…’

‘We could have a Groovy Kind of Love, Elizabeth,’ Mr Collins whispered into her hair. ‘Just let me kiss you…’

‘I think the young lady said no!’

Holy hero!
Mr Darcy was standing in the doorway, his rangy yet muscular physique almost blocking out the light from the ballroom beyond. His countenance betrayed a tumult of feelings:
rage, passion, indigestion.

‘Mr Darcy!’ Mr Collins released Elizabeth at once. ‘Miss Bennet was feeling unwell, and I was giving her succour.’

Mr Darcy’s voice was clipped. ‘If Miss Bennet is in need of succour, then
I
should be the person to administer it!’

‘I do not need succour at all, I merely need fresh air,’ Elizabeth said in an exasperated voice, bending over an aspidistra – she had an unsettling feeling that she might be
sick. ‘Please, I beg you both, leave me alone. I will be quite recovered in a moment.’

‘You heard the lady,’ Mr Darcy ordered.

‘As you wish, Madam.’ Giving a curt little bow, and a sideways glance at Elizabeth, Mr Collins retreated into the ballroom.

Mr Darcy strode across to Elizabeth and grasped her, tightly, by the buttocks.

‘Are you quite well, Miss Bennet?’ he asked anxiously, his eyes burning with concern.

‘Quite well, thank you, Mr Darcy,’ Elizabeth murmured weakly. But just then, to her mortification and dismay, she was caught in a paroxysm of nausea and was violently sick all over
Mr Darcy’s calfskin boots. She was aware, as she was bending down, of Mr Darcy holding back her hair with tender care, and then, as she straightened up, of him braiding it deftly into
plaits.

‘Oooh, that’s better,’ he announced, clapping his hands. ‘Pigtails!’

Looking upon her ashen countenance, he cocked his head to one side.

‘Whatever are we to do with you, Miss Bennet?’ he smirked. ‘You are unused to alcohol. I take it you did not eat before you came here tonight? Perhaps I could get you a
vol-au-vent?’

‘I do not need to eat anything,’ Elizabeth said impatiently. What was it with him and food?

‘Pray, do not keep defying me, Miss Bennet!’ Mr Darcy ordered. ‘My God, you have no idea what it does to me…’

Seized by a sudden agitation, Mr Darcy strode about the balcony, his hands balled into fists at his side. After pacing for a minute or so, he turned to her and growled, ‘Do you know what
it did to me to see Phil Collins with his arms about you?’

Elizabeth was astounded, and immediately coloured.

‘Put down those damn crayons and look at me!’ Darcy commanded.

Elizabeth laid her colouring aside, and, tentatively, looked up to meet Mr Darcy’s cold, penetrating gaze.

‘You have no idea of the effect you have upon me, Miss Bennet,’ Darcy said, running his hands through his copper hair. ‘You do something to me. Something deep
inside.’

‘Please,’ Elizabeth groaned, ‘I have had my fill of song lyrics.’

Mr Darcy seemed to check himself. His face relaxed and, straightening up, he held out his hand. ‘Come…’ he ordered. ‘Dance with me.’

Elizabeth gazed up into those molten grey eyes, full of erotic promise and dark, dark desires. ‘You still have sick on your boots,’ she breathed. Mr Darcy shook the diced carrot from
his feet with one sexy flick of each ankle. How masterful he was!

Elizabeth felt the eyes of all the assembled company upon her as Mr Darcy led her back into the ballroom. The fiddlers had just struck up a lively tune, and he bowed low, his lips quirking into
an amused half-smile.

‘Shall we jig, Miss Bennet?’

Although Elizabeth’s every inclination was to decline, to retreat to the safety of the balcony, she felt inexorably drawn to him, like a mouse is lured by a hunk of cheese towards a steel
trap. Into what dangers would her desire for this cheesy hunk lead her?

Curtseying, she took Mr Darcy’s hand, and allowed herself to be chasséd across the room.
He dances so beautifully
, thought Elizabeth, as Mr Darcy performed a neat
fleuret.

Her head still swimming from her tequila binge, Elizabeth was soon lost in the music. It was hypnotic: the drummers drummed, the flautists flauted, and the fiddlers kept on fiddling –
despite many polite requests to do it in private. Mr Darcy moved sensuously to the rhythm, moving his hips in snake-like patterns, grinding his body against Elizabeth’s and then pulling away
– teasing, tantalizing her until she wished for more. As the music reached a crescendo, he span away across the dance floor, performed two high kicks followed by a shoulder shimmy, and then
landed – with a high-pitched squeal – in the splits.

‘Don’t say it,’ she muttered to her Gaydar.

Mr Darcy rose languidly from the floor, and made his way through the throng to Elizabeth’s side, never once taking his eyes from hers. She could smell his by-now-familiar leathery scent
wafting across the dance floor as he moved, and her insides performed a somersault, with her kidneys ending up somewhere underneath her bladder. There was no denying her powerful attraction to him.
Dancing, walking, talking – was there anything Mr Darcy didn’t do sexily?
she wondered.

‘You look faint, Miss Bennet,’ he said in a voice tinged with anxiety. ‘I trust you are not feeling unwell again?’ He guided her towards a chair. ‘Wait there, I
shall fetch you some hors d’oeuvre.’ Before she could speak he was away again, striding purposefully through the dancers as they attempted to do-si-do in formation, scattering them
hither and thither and accidentally kicking Carrotslime Bingley in the shins.
Jeez, he even collected snacks sexily
, thought Elizabeth.

At that moment, she was distracted by the sound of giggling from underneath the console table to her right. Curious, she lifted up the floral swags and muslin drapery with which it was decorated
and peered underneath. In the darkness she could just make out two figures, evidently a man and a woman, closely entwined.

‘Why, whatever are you doing there?’ she enquired.

The figures immediately sprang apart. Elizabeth stared in astonishment as the young lady hastily adjusted the buttons of her gown.

Her companion reddened.

‘Miss Bennet.’ Mr Collins nodded gravely.

‘And
Charlotte
?’ Elizabeth gasped. ‘Is that you?’

Charlotte Lucas, for it was indeed she, looked up at Elizabeth with a grin that lit up her potato-like face.

‘Have you lost something?’ Elizabeth asked, uncertain as to why her stepfather’s cousin and her closest friend were scrabbling under a table like kitchen mice.

‘Indeed I have, Elizabeth,’ Charlotte replied with a triumphant smile. ‘My virtue.’

To be deflowered, by Phil Collins, under a table at a party! This was unwelcome news indeed! Whatever was Charlotte thinking?

‘Charlotte! I confess I am shocked! I had not thought you would give up your virtue so easily.’

‘Oh, get real, Elizabeth,’ Charlotte sighed. ‘It’s easy for you to say. You’re gorgeous. I, on the other hand, look like the back end of a coach-and-four. We both
know I’ve been lucky to get rid of it at all.’