Eligible (13 page)

“No more so than our dinners usually do. Carry on.”

Chip grinned. “The other reason things could get dramatic was that the alcohol was flowing, and not just at night. They’d serve booze from lunch on, and if there was a justifiable way of offering it earlier, like a Bloody Mary at brunch, they’d do that.”

“Now it’s actually starting to sound civilized,” Mr. Bennet said.

“Too bad you’re married, huh, Dad?” Kitty said.

“You’re being filmed, and you’re mic’d, from the time you wake up in the morning until you go to sleep at night.” Chip was still holding his fork above his plate, not biting. “They’ve taken away your cellphone and forbidden computers, music, even books and magazines—partly to avoid copyright issues, but also because none of that makes for good television. Who wants to watch people read? Or if you were listening to music, it’d be hard for the editor to cut the scene. But that means you’re bored, you have no privacy, and you’re separated from your normal support system. It’s a perfect storm for acting out. I guess I’d say people
are
themselves, but they’re also not themselves, if that makes sense.”

“Are you mic’d when you’re taking a dump?” Lydia asked.

“Lydia,” Jane said.

Chip seemed unfazed. “That’s the one place you do get privacy.”

“What’s Rick Price like?” The question came from, of all people, Aunt Margo. For the past eleven years, which in TV math was somehow the equivalent of eighteen seasons, Rick Price had been the host: an affable-seeming fellow from Phoenix, Arizona, who had gotten his start as a meteorologist.

“He was a good guy,” Chip said. “The same off-camera as on. It must be a strange job, because on a typical day, I’d guess he was on-set four or five hours, but then some of the challenges and ceremonies would literally last all night. Or he’d travel with us to Barcelona. One thing I had to remind myself was that even though he was nice, part of his job description was to stir the pot. He and the producers were like town gossips. They’d tell me, ‘Such-and-such girl told so-and-so that you said this to her.’ ”

“It’s your sister who convinced you to do the show, isn’t it?” Mrs. Bennet said. “It wasn’t your idea.” From their separate ends of the table, Liz and Jane made eye contact.

“I hadn’t seen
Eligible
when Caroline suggested I apply. She shot a video of me, just chatting for a few minutes. But I filled out the forms. I thought it was silly, but I did it to humor her.”

“I knew it!” Mrs. Bennet said.

“Now, I must admit,” Chip added, “that before you’re selected, they subject you to a very intense background check. There’s a battery of psychological and physical exams that must be as thorough as what a vice-presidential candidate goes through. The producers aren’t messing around. So it would be disingenuous to pretend I just woke up one day and found myself on TV. I could have opted out along the way.”

In a warm voice, Cousin Willie asked, “Any skeletons in your closet they uncovered?”

Chip shook his head. “For better or worse, I’m a pretty dull fellow. But they called my college roommates, my former employers, my parents—who were, by the way, none too thrilled to hear about my plans. Mr. and Mrs. Bennet, I suspect they felt the way you would if any of your lovely daughters announced they were appearing on reality TV.”

“Being on
Eligible
just sounds annoying,” Liz said. “As a journalist, I’ve seen how the sausage gets made in the entertainment world, and it’s actually not glamorous.”

“I’ve interviewed
so
many famous people,” Lydia said in what was apparently her Liz imitation, and Kitty, following suit, added, “Did you guys know I’ve been on TV three times?”

To Chip, Liz explained, “I interviewed Jillian Northcutt after she and Hudson Blaise split up. I certainly hope that’s not the crowning achievement of my career, but I did go on some shows to talk about her, and my impression of the producers I dealt with was that they were smart, friendly, and completely ruthless about getting you to say what they want you to on-camera.”

“No argument here,” Chip said.

Liz hoped she didn’t sound confrontational as she said, “So why’d you do it?”

Chip’s expression was strange, or perhaps it seemed so only because Liz didn’t know him well; she wasn’t sure if he was embarrassed or proud, but when he spoke, it was clear he was utterly sincere. He looked at Jane before saying, “I did it to find love.”

AFTER DINNER, JANE
returned with Chip to his apartment, and he dropped her off back at the Tudor just before six in the morning, when he was due at the hospital. Though Liz could tell Jane was trying to be quiet as she entered the bathroom on the third floor, Liz was glad for the opportunity to talk with her sister. They decided to set out early for their run—the temperature was expected to reach the mid-nineties by noon—and they descended through the quiet and semi-dark house, where the rest of their family slept.

In the driveway, they stretched. “You don’t think Mom’s trying to pimp me to Cousin Willie, do you?” Liz asked as she extended her left leg, her heel balanced against the asphalt. “Even as desperate as she is on my behalf, I hope she’d draw the line at incest.”

“Since he’s our step-cousin, it’s not technically incest.”

“No,” Liz said. “But it’s still technically gross.” She pointed toward the street. “Ready?”

As they jogged out of the driveway, Jane said, “If you don’t want people to treat you like you’re single, whether it’s Mom or anyone else, you could tell them you’re not.” This wasn’t a new conversation; Jane thought that at least their parents should know about Jasper, especially since it was possible that Mrs. Bennet might feel sympathy for the delicate circumstances surrounding Jasper’s wealthy grandmother-in-law.

Liz said, “You mean the way you’ve been so open about your IUI?” When she glanced at her sister, Jane’s expression was somber. “You know I’m kidding, right?” Liz said. “So I thought last night with Chip went really well.”

Both women were quiet as three SUVs in varying hues of silver drove by, then Jane said, “Maybe Chip’s the right guy at the wrong time. Would you ever live in Cincinnati? Like, permanently.”

Liz chortled. “Wait, are you planning to break up with him or to stay here forever and become his wife?”

“There are reasons to live in Cincinnati besides Chip.”

“Name one. And don’t say Cincinnati is cheaper, because everywhere is cheaper than New York.”

Jane smiled. “Yet you were outraged that Darcy doesn’t like it here.” They were approaching the country club, and Jane continued: “Everything in New York is such an uphill battle. And even though I used to feel like I couldn’t live in Cincinnati because I wouldn’t have my own identity—I could only be Fred and Sally’s daughter, or ‘one of the Bennet sisters’—maybe I was wrong. Talking to Dad’s nurses in the hospital, or that night I went to the lecture at the Hindu temple—I can see now that there are a lot of different Cincinnatis. This sounds dumb to even say, because it’s so obvious, but most of the city has nothing to do with Seven Hills or Hyde Park or”—Jane gestured to her right—“the country club.”

“So where would you live? Over-the-Rhine?”

Jane’s expression became sheepish. “Oh, I’d definitely want to live in Hyde Park. Not next door to Mom and Dad, but maybe a bungalow around Erie Avenue.”

Had Jane been looking online at real estate? Would it be a betrayal for Liz to check the search history on her own laptop, which Jane occasionally used? Liz said, “If I moved back, I’m sure I’d find some great place to live. I wouldn’t have to make a reservation to take a spin class or wait in line just to get into the grocery store. But then I’d look up one day and be like, ‘What the fuck have I done?’ ”

“You still sound like Darcy,” Jane said. “Speaking of which, Chip is planning a dinner party, and he wants you to come. But just to warn you, Darcy will be there, and so will Caroline, of course.”

“I’d be delighted to attend. I’m willing to overlook Chip’s horrible taste in friends and sisters because of his wisdom in falling for you.”

“Caroline is actually nice when we hang out at the apartment.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet.”

“The only night Darcy’s free this week is Sunday. Can I tell Chip you’ll be there?”

“Not only will I be there,” Liz said, “but I’ll be impersonating a pleasant woman with great manners.”

“COME HERE,” KITTY
whispered. Standing in front of the open door of the second-floor guest room, she crooked her finger.

“What?” Liz said at a normal volume, and Kitty whispered, “Shh!”

As she got closer to her sister, Liz could hear a rhythmic whirring, like that of a fan. On reaching the guest room’s threshold, she was greeted with the sight of Cousin Willie sprawled on his back on one of the twin beds, the covers kicked off and Willie clad in tighty-whitey underpants and nothing else. His mouth was open, and he was snoring extremely loudly. Beside Liz, Kitty convulsed with silent laughter.

It was then that Lydia appeared behind them in the hall, apparently having gone to retrieve her smartphone. She held it in the air, its camera trained on Willie’s form, or at least this was what she did until Liz grabbed the phone away and jammed it under her left armpit. “No,” Liz said, also at a normal volume.

“Give it back,” Lydia hissed, lunging toward Liz.

“Only if you leave him alone.” Liz’s preference at this juncture in adulthood was to avoid physical fights with her sisters, yet the longer she’d been in Cincinnati, the less remote the possibility had come to seem.

“Give it to me,” Lydia said.

“He doesn’t even know,” Kitty said.

“Exactly,” Liz said. “If I catch either of you filming him again, I’ll drop both your phones in the toilet.”

“Fuck you,” Lydia said, but when she grabbed for the phone again, Liz let her take it. Lydia and Kitty strode away, and Liz glanced inside the guest room. She’d expected that the commotion would awaken Willie, but he continued to snore undisturbed. Gently, Liz shut the door.

HER ARTICLE ABOUT
asking for a raise was due by the end of the week, and Liz still hadn’t succeeded in interviewing Kathy de Bourgh, the famous feminist. To Kathy de Bourgh’s publicist, Liz had sent emails that were, in various iterations, lighthearted and casual, stern, obsequious, and desperate. She’d been rereading
Revolutions and Rebellions,
the classic work in which Kathy de Bourgh chronicled her time in the women’s movement from the early sixties on: the marches and sit-ins and arrests, her testimony before the Senate Judiciary Committee on behalf of the Equal Rights Amendment, which had occurred (this detail had titillated Liz when she’d first read the book as a college freshman) on the same day that Kathy de Bourgh called off her wedding to the smolderingly handsome attorney general of New York. However, as much as Liz was enjoying
Revolutions and Rebellions
this time around, she knew that her editor wouldn’t be pleased if she used decades-old book quotations in lieu of fresh remarks from an interview.

So cognizant of Ms. de Bourgh’s jam-packed schedule,
Liz wrote in her latest email to the publicist,
but if I could get her on the phone for even five minutes, I know our readers would be thrilled to hear her perspective. And just as a reminder, we at
Mascara
still proudly consider Ms. de Bourgh “family.”
Prior to becoming a professional activist, Kathy de Bourgh had herself been a reporter and had worked for two years at
Mascara;
it had been Liz’s employer that in 1961 published the still-legendary article about the week Kathy de Bourgh had gone undercover as a dancer at a Times Square nightclub.