The Secret Diary of Lizzie Bennet (22 page)

And one of the worst, most painful decisions she could make is to live in a place where you need a key for the bathroom.

“The prices in the Valley look a little better—let’s see what we can find there,” I said, taking over the computer.

“Ugh, the Valley? Who wants to live in the Valley?” Lydia groaned as she burst into my room and flopped onto the bed.

“People who don’t want to live here,” I replied.

“OMG, Jane—you should try and find roommates who are also models. That way, you can use them as dummies when you’re designing stuff.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” Jane said kindly.

“Hot guy models preferably.”

“Yeah . . . probably best not to type ‘wanted: hot guy models’ into Craigslist,” I cautioned. “You don’t want to see what that brings up.”

“Says you,” Lydia countered, as she grabbed for my computer. “Gimme that.”

I nimbly held my computer out of Lydia’s reach, but our little game of keep-away was interrupted by Jane’s phone buzzing.

She grabbed it immediately, hopefully. She still wanted it to be Bing and jumped whenever any phone rang.

“It’s work,” she said, a little deflated, reading the caller name. “I’ll be right back.”

As Jane stepped out, Lydia came over to me.

“Okay, we have to find her the cutest, most awesome place to live, because when Bing finally shows his ugly, stinking face he does not get to see her being anything other than awesome and
happy.”

“Wow,” I replied, unable to hide my shock. “That was remarkably succinct, and actually makes a lot of sense.”

“I know, right?” Lydia leaned over my shoulder and started typing. “Let’s ditch the Valley and look at Beverly Hills.”

“She also has to be able to afford it.”

Lydia frowned, displeased with the thought of anything practical. But then she just shrugged. “Well, Bing will just have to come to her. She probably doesn’t want to be living too
close to Caroline and Darcy, anyway.”

“I suppose,” I said, a little confused.

“I never got why you liked Caroline so much—she’s a complete fake,” Lydia said as she took over my computer, typing away. “And Darcy? He totes got inside
Bing’s head—I’d bet money on it.”

That got me wondering. Had Darcy gotten into Bing’s head? I know I speculated that his judgmental ways might have rubbed off on Bing. But what if this wasn’t casual influence, but a
more direct meddling in his life . . . the way he had directly meddled in George’s?

Why would he do that? And how?

“Oh—you should buy these tickets!” Lydia jerked me out of my thoughts and my eyes to the screen.

“Wait—what page are you on?” Lydia had somehow clicked over to a page where tickets were being sold—featuring a music festival nearby, next weekend.

“George likes this band. It would be an awesome surprise for him!”

Next weekend. By next weekend, Jane would be gone to LA. I would be a week closer to school, and no doubt we would still have no idea what happened with Bing. So many changes . . . and so much
staying the same.

And I haven’t seen George in a couple of days, what with all the Jane worry. Maybe I should take a little time out for us. See where we’re going. Better that than getting my heart
handed to me with a shoe print on it like Jane did.

“Good call, Lydia,” I said.

“Oh, goody—get a ticket for me, too?”

“Get your own boyfriend,” I replied. “Come on—let’s find Jane an apartment.”

Just another dreary day. Everything is running together in boredom and loneliness. Which is not my normal state.

Jane’s gone. Left Sunday evening to drive down to our aunt’s and start her new job in LA bright and early on Monday morning. I’ve already heard from her—she loves the new
position, has a couple of decent leads on an apartment, and emailed Bing to let him know she was in town. She hadn’t heard back yet as of today. I’m beginning to worry that she
won’t hear back as of ever.

You’d think I would find solace for my sister leaving in the arms of my quasi-boyfriend/guy I’m hanging out with, but he’s up and left town, too. Yes, that’s right,
George Wickham has abandoned our little hamlet to coach a club team in Meryton. So glad I bought those music festival tickets for nothing!

On the one hand, at least he came and said good-bye. On the other, I guess I have the answer to my as yet unasked question about where our relationship is going. Oh, he says he’ll be back
in a few weeks, but I don’t foresee a lot of staying in touch in the interim. Why bother with the girl who’s far away when there are plenty of others nearby? He’s a very
out-of-sight, out-of-mind kind of guy—and it was fun while it lasted.

That’s what I’m going to keep telling myself, anyway.

So now, without Jane, George, Charlotte, Bing, Caroline, or even Darcy, it’s just me at home, staring down my last two semesters of school and no certain future beyond it. Well, me and
Lydia.

Oh, God. My entire social sphere has been reduced to Lydia. This cannot bode well.

“I can’t believe you’re leaving me, too.” Lydia pouted as we settled ourselves on the lawn at the music festival. We had just spread our blanket out and
begun to listen to the strains of . . . something. I think it was a ukulele, but we were pretty far away.

“Don’t worry—I’ll be back in a couple of weeks. I can’t miss school.”

“No, but apparently you can miss
me
,” she grumbled.

What a difference three days (and one phone call) make! To think, only seventy-two short hours ago I was lamenting my lonely existence, resigned to my fate as Keeper of the Lydia (™ me,
weeping into my keyboard) and a long, lonely year in the library or in front of a camera with nothing to say. Now, after the music festival with my rambunctious baby sister, I have to pack for my
trip.

Because tomorrow, I’m going to go pay a visit.

And not to George. No, he’s free to flirt with whatever swimmer girls he happens across in his various ports of call. I thought I would care more that he left, but beyond that first day?
Not really. But then Charlotte called me.

I couldn’t believe how much I missed the sound of her voice. It’s only been a month since she left—since we spoke—but as soon as she said, “Hi, Lizzie,” I was
flooded with homesickness. And bear in mind, I was the one still at home.

We talked for over an hour. It turns out I needed to talk to my best friend about how crazy this past month has been. And it sounds like she’s doing really well. She’s settled in at
Collins & Collins and her new apartment. Her little sister Maria was up interning for the summer. Charlotte hadn’t been watching my videos, trying to stay as mad at me as I deserved, but
Maria had a hand in getting her watching again. She called because she was worried about Jane. And worried about me.

She invited me to come visit her at Collins & Collins for a week, just before school starts. And I’m going. I need Charlotte’s perspective, and I need my friend. And as we
talked, I realized just how wrong I’d been. I was definitely the stupid one here. I should have tried to see things from her point of view and been happy for her new job.

Just a couple of days ago I didn’t know what was going to happen next, and now . . . I can’t wait until tomorrow.

“Whatever,” Lydia said, brushing off her previous petulance. “I’ll still know everything going on in your life, because one, you have nothing going on in your life, and
B, you can’t help but post that nothing on the Internet.”

“True enough,” I said dryly. I’m bringing my camera with me to Collins & Collins, of course. I have a thesis to do, after all.

“And your loyal viewers will not lack for adorbs if I do my own videos!” Lydia crowed triumphantly. “Don’t worry, I got your back, sis.”

“Thanks ever so much,” I replied. Yes, Lydia is planning on resuming her own
interesting
entries into the docudrama of our lives lived on the Internet. One can only imagine
the trouble she’ll get into with her iPhone this time. I just hope she doesn’t end up vandalizing someone’s car. Again.

I do worry about leaving Lydia to her own devices. But again, it’s only a week or so. I’ll be back in time for school. Lydia’s classes at the community college are keeping her
busy this year, in that she has actually been going to class so far this semester. And I really want to see Charlotte. Besides, what’s the worst that could happen?

I am here at Charlotte’s place, one bottle of wine split between the two of us, and I have not felt this happy in a very, very long time.

The minute I arrived at the apartment complex, I was so giddy to get out of the car and see Char that I accidentally left my car unlocked and the keys in the ignition. Luckily, she lives in a
pretty decent building, and no one stole it. Perhaps the fact that it’s a ten-year-old Honda Civic with windows you have to manually roll down disguised its value. (Actually, I am lucky. I
did have my camera in there.)

Charlotte and I just ran into each other’s arms (if there was a field of flowers behind us I didn’t notice) and did not stop talking until she sacked out for the night. And I turned
in to
my
bedroom, with my journal.

Yes, that’s right, it’s a two-bedroom.

“New construction!” Charlotte said to me, showing me around the place. “New carpets—new appliances, and the pièce de résistance . . .” She opened up a
pair of shuttered doors off the kitchen.

“No way!” I exclaimed. “You have
your own washer and dryer
?”

I had done enough research online for Jane last weekend to know that this was a big deal in the modern apartment landscape.

“I know!” she said with glee. “I haven’t had a washer/dryer in-house . . . since my family moved out of the house and into the apartment! Lizzie, you have no idea how
incredible it is to have my own stuff, my own place, with enough room for guests and to not worry about the money, and . . .”

Charlotte smiled, relaxed. And I realized I hadn’t seen Charlotte fully and completely relaxed since . . . before high school? Before hormones, the pressures of daily life, and the
difficulty with her family’s finances set in. As hard as it was for me to accept Char’s giving up on her documentary dreams and degree, the fact that she didn’t have to hold on so
tightly to the tethers that were pulling her in opposite directions was amazing.

Soon enough, the wine was opened and we were on Charlotte’s couch. And we
really
started talking. All about how she’d felt marginalized by the videos’ success, how I
didn’t think of her as a sidekick, and how much she’s enjoying life outside of higher education.

Then I told her all about George, and my disappointment that I had been dropped—I mean really, a girl can take a hint—and she just looked at me like I was an idiot. “Well, he
wasn’t really your type, was he?”

“I know he was a little out of my league, but . . .”

“Out of your league?” Charlotte scoffed. “Why, because he spent four hours a day at the gym? Please, you were so outside of
his
league I consider your foray into
dating him slumming, caused by temporary insanity.”

“Temporary insanity?” I cried. “He was hot and charming.”

“He was also full of it,” Charlotte replied. “I watched your videos. I mean, you
know
that he didn’t come to Bing’s party because of his beef with
Darcy.”

True, I had come to that conclusion.

“Yeah, but—”

“So why let him get away with a stupid lie?”

“Well, maybe it wasn’t totally a lie . . .”

“If his phone was stolen, how did he call you?”

“He . . . got a new one?” Except he hadn’t. I had seen him, and I saw his phone. Same “Ryan Lochte is my Spirit Guide” phone case. Which I used to think was meant
to be ironic, but now . . .

“Maybe they found the guy who stole it and he got it back,” I tried again, but it was weak. I was tired of defending him, and there was no need, anyway. Not my boyfriend, never was
exclusive, and he’s off enjoying other young women who are having momentary bouts of insanity.

“Let’s talk about you!” I said cheerfully instead. “How’s Collins & Collins? What’s it like to work for . . .” I couldn’t keep the dread out
of my voice. “Mr. Ricky Collins?”

“First of all, I work
with
Ricky Collins, not
for
,” Charlotte corrected me. “And it’s going really well. It’s a lot of work, but
I’m—dare I say it—enjoying myself.”

“Enjoying yourself?” I was skeptical. “Making Better Living videos where you teach people how to screw in a lightbulb?”

“The Better Living videos were commissioned by Catherine De Bourgh. They pay the bills,” Charlotte remonstrated. “Which allow us to start creating our original
content.”

“Which is?”

“Game of Gourds!” she cried, and grabbed her computer. “Come on, let me show you what we’ve been working on.”

“Well,” I said, after viewing the rough cut of the first few installments. “That is a very emotionally wrought competitive cooking program.”

“I know,” Charlotte replied. “At least it’s cooked butternut squash they’re flinging. If it were raw, it would cause a concussion. I need to tweak these episodes
tomorrow, before we present them to Catherine De Bourgh for funding approval.”

“Wait, tomorrow?” I said. “But tomorrow’s Sunday.”

“We’re a start-up, Lizzie.” Charlotte smirked at me. “We work eight days a week. I took this afternoon off to be here when you arrived, but I basically live at my
office.”

“But then when are we going to see each other?” This sucked. I had only a week with Charlotte before I had to go back for school. I knew she would have to spend Monday through Friday
at Collins & Collins, but I thought we’d at least have the weekends, and after work.

“I was hoping you’d be interested in seeing the offices,” Charlotte replied, twisting her fingers in front of her. “I think you’ll find it enlightening. I have an
empty office where we can put a desk in for you.”