Darcy in Hollywood

Lydia’s shoulders slumped. “Neither can I, but I guess that’s why we have the miracle of special effects.” She popped the meatball into her mouth and chewed. “I hope the movie’s meatballs aren’t so bland.”

“I didn’t see George here tonight,” Elizabeth said neutrally.

“No, he’s at a meeting of his cult,” Lydia said through a mouthful of meatball.

“His cult?”

“Yeah.” Lydia waved airily. “They worship eggplants or giraffes or something. He said they spend a lot of time cleaning windows.”

Elizabeth decided she didn’t need to know. “I don’t think it’s such a good idea to get involved with him.” She pulled her sister into an empty corner of the set. “I, um, recently learned that George used to deal drugs—opioids.” No way was she revealing anything about Will’s family to the gossip queen of Hollywood.

“No way!” Wide-eyed, Lydia wiped away meatball sauce with the back of her hand.

“I’m afraid so.”

“Lizzy, he’s too smart for that shit.”

“I have it on pretty good authority. But it was a couple of years ago; I don’t know if he’s doing it now.”

Lydia set down her plate. “It was probably just a phase, like sucking your thumb.”

“Maybe, but please be careful.”

Lydia snorted. “Only losers use drugs. I don’t need them. I’m high on life!” She punctuated this statement with jazz hands.

Elizabeth sighed. Lydia was not taking this seriously. “The smartest thing would be to stop hanging out with him at all. Opioids are serious stuff.”

Lydia rolled her eyes. “Yeah, I didn’t learn that the first seventy-two times they told us in health class. Take a chill pill; you worry too much.”

Maybe Lydia’s right. I’m probably making this into a bigger deal than it needs to be.

Her sister slid her plate into a nearby trashcan. “Lord, it is so easy to wind you up! I don’t know how you’re going to survive med school.” Lydia pulled out her phone. “If you’re done lecturing me, I need to call Kitty.”

Elizabeth watched her sister walk away with a vague sense of dissatisfaction, but she didn’t know how to fix it.

I should focus on avoiding Darcy. She had slept little the night before, wondering how she should respond to his email. Obviously she regretted believing Wickham, but Elizabeth still didn’t want to date Darcy. The briefest glimpses of the man conjured up a toxic mixture of anger, guilt, and awkwardness—not a promising recipe for a happy relationship.

On one hand, he seemed to genuinely like her; nothing else would explain his behavior. He’d made himself vulnerable by asking her on a date and thought she was pretty and intriguing. On the other hand, he seemed to believe all finer feelings were self-serving and implied that she wasn’t attractive enough to become his girlfriend. Also there was the galling assumption that she had a crush on him.

If only she could simply write him off. If only she could manage to ignore that deep, visceral pull when he was near—that tractor beam that kept her in his orbit. She could have watched him for hours: smiling, laughing, brushing hair from his forehead, drinking champagne.

Just because he was tall, dark, handsome, and rich, she had this automatic, involuntary attraction to him. It was a reflex, like when the doctor hits your knee with the little hammer. That was all. A knee-jerk reaction after a lifetime of being told that someone like Will represented the perfect guy. I might as well face it: I’m as programmed as a television remote.

Despite everything, she couldn’t help sneaking another peek at him. He has dark circles under his eyes and lines of tension around his mouth. I hope he’s feeling all right. Filming a movie had to be exhausting for the star; did I add to his burdens? Is he unhappy because I rejected him?

Gah! I’m doing it again. In search of distraction, she went to collect a champagne flute.

I bet he hasn’t given me another thought. Flirting is probably just a reflex for him—part of his cultural programming. As automatic as breathing, it’s something he does whenever he’s in the presence of a marginally attractive woman. He tells them all that they’re pretty and intriguing. That thought depressed her for some reason. Although she couldn’t remember his flirting with any women on the set.

Jane appeared at her side, grabbing a champagne flute as well. “Talk to me.”

“Sure.” Anything would be a welcome distraction.

“Charlie keeps trying to buttonhole me and apologize—again.” Jane’s expression was wistful. “I’ve told him that I forgive him, but I don’t want to get back together.”

“You don’t want to give him a second chance? It’s pretty clear Caroline intended to break you up.”

Jane took a long swallow of champagne. “Yeah, Caroline set him up, but he’s not a toddler. He knew what he was doing; I don’t think he can change his ways.”