The Secret Diary of Lizzie Bennet (23 page)

“Well . . . okay. I mean, sure, I’d love to see the offices, but I don’t want to be in anybody’s way . . .”

“You won’t be!” Charlotte replied, flinging her arms around me. “You’ll love it, I promise. I hope you brought your one suit jacket. This is gonna be so much
fun!”

So, I had a phone call with Dr. Gardiner a little while ago. It went . . . surprisingly okay.

“Hi, Dr. Gardiner? It’s Lizzie Bennet. I’m calling from Charlotte Lu’s new offices! . . . Yes, she’s doing great, and we are having a wonderful time. Actually, she
had an idea that I thought . . .

“See, that’s the thing. What if I
didn’t
come back for classes next week? . . . No! No, absolutely not, I am not dropping out. But what if instead of taking my last
four lecture classes, I turn those into four independent studies? . . . Well, they would focus on shadowing four separate new media companies, learning about their initial goals and then what the
company evolved into, as well as analyzing their business practices. . . . Of course, I’ll still be doing my videos for my thesis at the same time.

“In fact, Charlotte graciously offered up Collins & Collins to be the first new media company I shadow. . . . Yes, that is remarkably convenient. But I don’t think
it’s—

“No, it’s not just a ploy to stay with Charlotte. Although I would be staying with Charlotte . . . Dr. Gardiner . . . Dr. Gardiner, listen. I think it would be really good for me.
On-the-ground experience before I actually get on the ground, as well as providing an in-depth study of the business side of new media theory. If you think that I am better served coming back to
campus and taking those last four lecture classes, then that’s what I’ll do, but I think you know I’m right. This could be a great opportunity. . . .

“You will? I can? Thank you, Dr. Gardiner! Thank you so much! I promise, I won’t let you down.”

* * *

Since everything’s squared away at school, looks like I get to have a new adventure! Now, to the other phone call.

“Hi, Mom, it’s Lizzie. . . . No, everything’s fine. Charlotte sends her love. . . . No, she’s not married yet. . . . Because she’s working very hard and
doesn’t need a man to define her? . . . Mom, could you please drop it with the Option C stuff? I actually wanted to talk to you about something. About maybe visiting with Charlotte a little
longer than planned . . .”

I’m enjoying it here at Collins & Collins a lot more than I thought I would. Charlotte is the power behind the throne and Ricky Collins is proving to be a bit more
tolerable when on his home turf. So much more tolerable, in fact, that when he suggested I stay longer than my allotted week, and when Charlotte pitched an idea that took me out of the classroom
for my last year of grad school, I actually did it.

Honestly, I thought that Charlotte’s idea would be nixed on all sides, but Dr. Gardiner actually went for it. And my mom—once Dad took the phone away and I presume talked her
down—was fine with it, too. So now, it’s actually happening. My last year at school will not be spent safely on campus; instead, I’m going to be shadowing four different companies
and writing up a prospectus (prospecti?) for each—the first of which is Charlotte’s. And I have no idea what the other three will be. But I am researching like crazy, using those
contacts I gained at VidCon, and Dr. Gardiner said she would pull a few strings if needed. Not to mention, I am yet
again
thankful for the fact that I’ve been keeping this journal.
No doubt it will come in handy for my independent studies as well as my thesis, as well as helping me to stay sane.

Four independent studies. And a thesis. All on my own.

Oh, Lord.

And the truth is, looking back through these pages, I can now see that I wasn’t really looking forward to going back to school this year. Part of it is because it’s the last
year—oh, dear, I’m going to have to grow up soon, let’s delay that as long as possible—but the bigger part is that it wouldn’t be the same. Not with the videos
becoming such a big thing and everyone at school knowing about them. (Recording your life and putting it on the Internet invites scrutiny from people, you know, whodathunk?) And certainly it
wasn’t going to be the same without Jane at home, and without Charlotte at my side in school. Either I’m changing very quickly, and everything is standing still, or I’m the one
standing still and everything is changing around me. Either way, I’m out of joint with the world.

So apparently, to get myself back in joint with the world, I’m going to have to take part in it—at least on a temporary basis. Out of the nest. Wild and free.

No, it’s not scary at all.

But I have to say, seeing my bestie handle herself in the corporate climate of Collins & Collins has been inspiring. And from what I’ve seen of the division of labor between her and
Ricky, Charlotte pretty much runs the place.

Ricky considers himself more of an “ideas” man. However, I haven’t heard him say one idea yet that didn’t come from his primary investor, Catherine De Bourgh, who got it
from a corporate culture platitude book. I haven’t met the infamous Catherine De Bourgh yet, but Ricky keeps threatening—er, I mean promising—to take me along on one of his and
Charlotte’s business dinners at the De Bourgh estate. I don’t think she actually lives around here—this far-out corner of the tech valley is not very swanky yet. (Hence why Ricky
can afford office space and Char can afford a two-bedroom.) But she sure keeps a close eye on her investment. Considering that I’m shadowing this company, I doubt I can say no. Besides, it
will make for a good paragraph in my Collins & Collins prospectus:
How One Secures Funding, and What Asses They Must Kiss to Keep It.

But who knows, maybe I’m wrong—I’ve been wrong about a lot of people recently. Maybe Catherine De Bourgh is a pleasant yet shrewd businesswoman who will take me under her wing
and teach me about this business.

See? I’m learning to be less judgmental already.

I have dined with De Bourgh. I have been blessed by the Holy Venture Capitalist on High by being permitted into her presence while she masticates and imbibes. I was warned in
advance not to think too lowly of myself, since she would not expect me as a poor grad student to have anything stamped in designer labels to my name, but that as long as I put together a neat
appearance and was duly humble, I would be fine.

I was so warned by one Mr. Ricky Collins during the entire hour’s car ride to her house.

I was not warned, however, that Catherine De Bourgh would have other guests as well.

But let me back up. Let me indulge in reliving the entire night, from tempestuous beginning to bizarre middle to the relief of it having ended.

It was an hour drive to Catherine De Bourgh’s place, as she lives in the more established side of Silicon Valley. Not that where Collins & Collins is isn’t nice, but the area is
what Ms. De Bourgh would term “developing”—which apparently involves a lot of chain restaurants and reasonably priced office space.

Apparently, Ms. De Bourgh’s neighborhood is the ritziest of the ritziest and boasts some notable neighbors. Ricky said that when Mark Zuckerberg moved in down the street from her, he tried
to buy up all the other houses on the block. But—again, according to Ricky—the request was “quickly withdrawn, when he realized the estate in question belonged to the venerable
Catherine De Bourgh!”

I’m not going to lie: When we turned onto her street, I kept my eyes peeled for a curly-haired guy in a hoodie.

And when Ricky called her home an “estate,” he wasn’t kidding. You know how Netherfield was the biggest house in the nicest housing development in our small town? The De Bourgh
residence is twice as large, with fences three times as high. She has a guard at the gate. His whole job is to sit there and let people in. And honestly, who’s going to try and break into the
house? It’s half a mile away from the road! I doubt Mark Zuckerberg is going to make that trek.

But anyway, we arrived, we were admitted (we were told, however, to park in the visitors’ lot, a hundred yards from the house), and Ricky, practically bowing, pulled me forward to be
introduced to Catherine De Bourgh.

“Do you go by Lizzie or Liz?” she asked.

“Well, usually it’s—”

“Of course it’s Liz. No grown woman would
ever
go by such a juvenile name as Lizzie. Liz, I’ve heard so much about you. Mostly because you were Collins’s first
choice for a partner but you decided against accepting a rather generous offer to come work for me, I understand. Must be nice to have such freedom of choice in your future prospects. Or are you
one of those that simply don’t want to work?”

I heard a sound. It was the sound of any hope I had for finding a welcoming-yet-powerful businesswoman to learn from dying. Also, it was the sound of the thing Ms. De Bourgh was holding in her
arms gasping for breath.

“Oh, poochie, you want your din-din, don’t you? Don’t you, my little Annie-kins?”

The thing—a decrepit, one-eyed rat-sized dog of some indeterminate but probably overly pure-blood breed—growled and shivered in response.

“Anakin?” I asked Charlotte in a whisper. “Like Darth Vader?”

“No, like Annie-kins,” she clarified. “Like she’s Daddy Warbucks and that’s her orphan.”

“It’s so heartening to see you rejoicing in the love only a canine companion can bring,” Ricky piped up, mostly to cover my unfortunately timed snort.

“Annie-kins is not a pet, Collins. She’s practically my business partner. Just like Miss Lu here is yours.”

“Uh, of course!” Ricky said hastily, ignoring the look of alarm from Charlotte.

While Ms. De Bourgh was busy air-kissing her dog, Ricky was busy rhapsodizing about the virtues of pet ownership, and I was wondering if she was being hyperbolic or if Annie-kins was on the CDB
Venture Capitalist board, a door opened behind us.

“Aunt Catherine, the chef says dinner is ready. Oh.”

I turned. And saw one Mr. William Darcy.

Seriously. Talk about being blindsided.

If it was any consolation, he seemed to be as surprised as I was. I’m taking it as a given that his displeasure was equal to mine.

“What are you doing here?” I couldn’t help but blurt out.

“I . . . I’m having dinner with my aunt,” he replied. Then he coughed and cleared his throat. “I’m passing through, on my way back to San Francisco. . . . And
you?”

“I’m . . . visiting Charlotte.”

“Mr. Darcy!” Ricky Collins cried and rushed forward to pump the unsuspecting man’s hand. “I am Mr. Collins, of Collins & Collins, your aunt’s latest investment!
I have heard so much about you, especially from Miss Elizabeth’s many wonderful—”

“Mr. Collins!” Charlotte stepped forward, rushing to my aid. God help me—God help us all—if Ricky accidentally told Darcy about my videos. “Um, you have to give
Darcy here a chance to, um . . . greet us first?”

“As always in matters of proper corporate decorum, you are correct,” Ricky said, deferring to Charlotte.

Darcy seemed to take this as his cue and nodded to Charlotte. “Good to see you again, Charlotte. And you, Lizzie.”

“Gracious, does everyone here already know each other?” Ms. De Bourgh piped up. “How disturbing. And how very fortuitous for you, Liz. Knowing important people like my nephew.
One would not expect it of someone whom I’m assuming went to public school.”

Darcy took his eyes off mine for long enough to spare his aunt a glance. “We met this past summer, while I was staying with my friends the Lees.”

“Oh, the Lees! You must tell me how Bing is doing back at medical school in Los Angeles—and that darling Caroline, have you snapped that one up yet? She’s almost too good for
you, what with her accomplishments and beauty—and she knows absolutely everyone worth knowing . . .”

It might have been a hunger-induced hallucination, but I think I saw Darcy blush.

“Aunt Catherine,” he said, a little warning in his voice. “The food must be getting cold.”

“All right, all right—we’ll go in now.” Ms. De Bourgh sighed. “Come on, Annie-kins, my sweetie pie. Let’s see if chef made our favorite nibbles.”

I’m going to assume that the food was delicious. I barely got to eat. I was so busy answering Ms. De Bourgh’s questions that by the time the meal was over, Annie-kins had eaten more
than I had.

Sometimes Charlotte sent me sympathetic looks, but she’d already been through an invasive questioning like this before. She knew the only way for me to get through it was to lie back and
think of England.

“Liz, do you play polo?”

“No.”

“Dressage?”

“No.”

“Anything horse-based at all?”

“No.”

“Goodness, what are they teaching young women these days?”

“I . . . used to play tennis.”

“And then gave up on it, one assumes—so typical.” She sighed.