The Secret Diary of Lizzie Bennet (13 page)

“Oh, my God, I miss you!” I cried, upon seeing my dear Charlotte enter the café. I hugged my bestie to me, unwilling to let go.

“I missed you, too,” Charlotte gasped. “But now I miss breathing.”

I let her go.

“So how are you?” I asked. “Tell me everything.”

It’s strange, but Charlotte and I have never had to fill each other in on our lives before. Even though we hadn’t seen each other in a week, we’ve still been texting and
tweeting, and she’s been editing my videos. But that’s not the same as talking about things in person, or more likely, experiencing them together in real time.

She told me all about work and her little sister (who’s been losing it over the latest
Doctor Who
news and makes me wish my little sister were a bit more like Maria—how do
you solve a problem like Lydia?), and I filled her in on Netherfield.

“Everything’s fine. Bing is great—”

“Of course.”

“And even Caroline is being really nice.”

“Uh-huh,” Charlotte said, unable to hide her inherent skepticism. “If you say so.”

“Hey, you saw Monday’s video.” She’d edited it, after all.

“True. And she was very understanding about the videos.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“I don’t know.” Charlotte shrugged. “I just think Caroline always has a reason for doing things. Including being nice.”

“Well, maybe her reason is that Jane and Bing are getting serious,” I offered, giving Caroline the benefit of the doubt that I, admittedly hadn’t given her before. “And
she wants him to be happy. You should see the way they are together—Jane has the tiniest cold and Bing just wants to wrap her up in cashmere and feed her soup until she gets
better.”

“Oh, I did see,” Charlotte replied. “After all, you caught them on camera.”

I had. The video I posted yesterday included one Mr. Bing Lee. Jane was filming an actual video letter to Charlotte—and not just using that as an excuse in case someone interrupted. Lo and
behold, Bing Lee did interrupt! They were unbearably cute together, on camera, for about three minutes.

So, unbeknownst to both of them, I posted it.

“And Bing really doesn’t know?” Charlotte asked.

“No clue,” I said, grinning. But Charlotte’s face was a bit more studious. “Well, how could I not?” I justified. “We’ve been talking about Bing on the
videos for so long . . . In the comments everyone kept asking to see him!” And oddly, they also had a fascination with seeing Darcy. Although that will never happen.

“I don’t fault you for it,” Charlotte said eventually. “It
was
too good to deny. The response was awesome, so ethical lines be damned!”

Wait, what?

“Ethical lines?” I asked.

“About showing someone on your videos who has no idea they exist. Or that his love life is fodder for thousands.”

Huh. I didn’t really think of it like that. I just thought that Bing and Jane together were too cute to pass up.

And then I began to get that feeling in the pit of my stomach. The one that crops up when perhaps you’ve done something wrong and only now realized it. Like you cut someone off while
driving but didn’t see him. Or you egregiously violated someone’s privacy.

“So, are we ordering?” Charlotte asked. “I have twenty minutes before my next edit bay shift and I need to caffeinate.”

As Charlotte flagged down a barista, I couldn’t stop one single phrase from rolling over and over in my head.
Oh, crap—what have I done?

I cannot wait to get out of here. Not that I don’t like it here—it’s impossible to dislike any place that has poolside margaritas nightly and a masseuse visit
biweekly. But Jane and I have been here almost two weeks now, and I jump every time my phone dings, thinking that it’s going to be my parents letting us know that the house is done and
it’s time to come home.

My antsy-ness to leave is not predicated on my ethical quandary of putting Bing’s adorableness online, thankfully. Caroline actually made me feel a lot better about it, because she says he
knew the camera was on, thanks to the “sending Char video letters” ruse, and that if he was okay with Charlotte seeing the video, it was already meant for semi-public consumption.

Plus, Bing seems to be fairly blissfully oblivious to most non-Jane things, anyway.

I’m still a little wary, but I also have to think about my audience, and the honesty of my video project. And if nothing else, it’ll make an interesting point for analysis in my
thesis.

And I’m not antsy because I miss my family. How can I possibly miss my family when Mom calls me every day asking for updates on Jane and Bing (right, like I’m going to tell her about
running into Jane coming out of Bing’s room in her PJs yesterday morning) and Lydia’s making videos of her own?

That’s right. Lydia is making videos. What kind of monster have I created?

Actually, they’re not too bad. I’ve watched a couple. They’re . . . cute. I guess. Lydia seems to be mostly torturing cousin Mary, exploiting the Internet’s love of cats,
and being her hyper, Adderall-fueled self. It’s fun, but silly. Like glittery vaudeville. Not exactly substantive.

No, my antsy-ness can rest squarely where it usually does, on the scarf-clad shoulders of one William Darcy.

But now, it has reached new levels.

Because last night, Darcy introduced us to his List.

We had all gathered in the “family room” as per usual, but had sort of split off into doing our own things. Bing and Caroline were trying to teach Jane to play Apples to Apples, but
she never wanted to insult anyone by possibly not choosing their card, so it mostly devolved into fits of laughter.

“This game needs more players.” Caroline sighed. “Darcy?”

But Darcy just tucked his chin back farther and kept his eyes on his computer. As previously mentioned, Darcy is not one to take part in anything involving fun, so he had drifted away back to
his spreadsheets and his artfully arranged hipster scarf.

Yes, he was wearing a scarf. In July. In California. Inside.

“Lizzie?” Caroline turned to me. “Why don’t you join us? Oh, but you don’t like games like this, do you? You more into video games?”

“I like games of all sorts,” I said, and held up my book. “But unfortunately, I have to get through this.”

“
Anna Karenina
?” Jane said. “Lizzie, you’ve read that book a dozen times.”

“I know, but I have a tutoring student, so I need to brush up for her.”

I think the biggest indication that we live in an extremely competitive culture is that the students who seek out tutoring are often not looking to catch up, but instead are looking for an edge
over everyone else. Such is the case with most of the kids I tutor. The aforementioned student is actually going into AP Lit in the fall, and in our school district, AP Lit means Tolstoy. So
instead of spending her summer at the beach and having a social life, she’s spending it in the library with me, trying to be first in her class.

“They’re reading Tolstoy in high school now.” Bing shook his head. “Man, everyone has to be so accomplished these days. It must be exhausting.”

I find myself smiling, thinking of my student. “Girls especially.”

“Oh, girls will always have a leg up on guys when it comes to having their act together.” Bing held up his hands. “You’ll get no argument from me.”

“I don’t know that many women who have their act together,” Caroline argued. “Really, we’re few and far between.”

“What are you talking about?” Bing argued. “Every woman I’ve met around here has it together. Darcy—back me up.”

Darcy’s head didn’t even come up from his computer. “I’m afraid I have to side with Caroline on this one.”

Caroline preened. “See, I told you.”

“Come on. The women around here have grace and style,” Bing said. He did glance at Jane then, and I watched her blush. “They’re funny, and kind, and can balance a
checkbook. What more do you want?”

“And that’s the problem. The bar is set too low. Some women are considered together if they know how to tip a waiter and go to the gym twice a week. I doubt there are half a dozen
women I know who actually have their lives together,” Darcy said.

I can feel my blood starting to boil just remembering him saying that.

“Then you must have a very strong opinion of what constitutes someone who is together.”

He looked at me directly then.

“I do.”

“Oh,” Caroline said, not noticing the stare-off between us. “Like what, Darcy?”

And then he proceeded to reel off his List.

“Someone who is together is someone who is fiscally responsible . . . and interested in arts and culture beyond the standard Hollywood movies or pop music.
Someone who is physically fit, and takes care of herself. And also takes care of others by being courteous, and has a charitable nature.

“But she should be selective of who she spends her time with. Education is important, so she should at least have or be pursuing an advanced college degree, and fluency in more than one
language is so important in this day and age. As is being up to date on current affairs, and I’m not talking about who did what on whatever reality show seems to have gripped the nation at
the moment. That is not a talent anyone need pursue.” He paused, seeming to consider a moment. “Oh, and she should be well read, especially in the classics.”

I don’t know which was more amazing—the fact that Darcy said that many words to me at once, or the fact that he obviously meant it.

You hear about guys who have prerequisites. You read articles about them putting those requirements up on their online dating profile and then being shocked when they get no dates . . . and you
laugh and laugh at their boy rage. But I’ve never actually met a guy who has such a list. Or at least, I’ve never met someone willing to admit it.

“You said that you know six women that fit these standards?” I asked bluntly.

“I said I doubt I know as many as six.”

“I can’t imagine you know any.”

“I do!” Caroline piped up. “There’s Gigi, Darcy’s sister—”

“There is no woman in the world who meets every requirement on that list. In fact,” my eyes fell to my book, “the only one I can think of is Anna Karenina. And she’s
fictional.”

“Anna Karenina?” Darcy asked, skeptical.

“Tolstoy wrote the perfect woman. Elegant, refined, socially savvy. She was, in fact,
your
perfect woman. Until she dared to be herself.”

“And that didn’t go so well for her, did it?”

I felt the corners of my mouth tighten. “No. But I like to think that women don’t live and die by what people think of them anymore.”

Before Darcy could respond, Caroline broke in, her voice over-bright.

“Ugh, this is so boring. Bing, deal out another round—or better yet, who wants a cocktail? I have a great organic juice Daquiri recipe!”

Darcy seemed happy to go back to his computer, and I was happy to drop the subject. But that didn’t mean I got any reading done.

I couldn’t help running the list over in my head. Trying to imagine the person that would pass muster. It sure isn’t me. Honestly, I think I hit three—maybe—out of all
eleven requirements.

I am pursuing an advanced degree, and I do read a lot. When it comes to languages, I’m passably fluent in HTML. But everything else . . .

Jane’s the charitable, courteous one. I have too short a temper, am too quick to bring the snark.

As for exercise, I haven’t played tennis in years.

My student loan situation speaks to my fiscal responsibility.

While not a fan of most reality TV,
Top Chef
rules.

And you know what? I occasionally like going to see the latest cheesy blockbuster with a big bucket of popcorn. So sue me!

Darcy’s list is preposterous. Unachievable by human standards—male or female. Though apparently he was raised to expect no less than Wonder Woman as his potential life mate.

But the scary thing is he’ll probably end up with a reasonable facsimile. There is a bubble of delusional privilege that people like Darcy live in, so he’s likely to find someone who
wants the status he has to offer so much, she’ll bend herself into a pretzel trying to hit every check box on his List.

That’s what his money will buy him. Someone perfect, but empty.

All last night did was solidify my opinion of Darcy, and make me glad that our two weeks of house-guesting will be up any minute.

I cannot wait to get out of here.

We’re still here.

The remodel has been extended. According to Mom, and every single home repair show I’ve ever watched, this is normal. It always takes longer than the time quoted by the contractor.

But I can’t help but be frustrated by the fact that we are
still here
. We still have to wear a bra under our pajamas when we leave our rooms. We still are not allowed to pour
ourselves a bowl of raisin bran for breakfast on the way out the door, lest the chef think we don’t prefer his morning quinoa-and-cranberries mix. And we are still forced into group
activities, to foster . . . I don’t know. A higher tolerance for a certain douchebag?

Don’t get me wrong, Bing and Caroline have been great, but there is only so long a person can be on her absolute best behavior without psychosis setting in.

I’ve resolved to spend as little time as possible at Netherfield, and for the past two days, I certainly managed it. I have my comfy chair in the library for thesis work and tutoring
students. I roped Charlotte into yet another twenty minutes of coffee and catch-up. And I even went to the movies by myself, enjoying a vat of popcorn and gratuitous explosions (followed by a
British costume-drama palate cleanser).

But weekends are harder. I do occasionally need a day to recharge my brain. Plus, Jane has weekends off, and she wants me to join in with everyone at Netherfield—and it’s hard to say
no to her.

But of course, on weekends, Darcy doesn’t have anyplace to go, either.