Chapter Seven
“Tell me about this guy,” Elizabeth demanded.
“I don’t know much.” The phone muffled Jane’s voice. “His name is Bill Collins. He’s got brown hair…not very tall…I only spoke with him a little after the auction. Since then we’ve been emailing.”
“What does he do?” Her high heels weren’t designed for pacing, but Elizabeth had to burn off her nervous energy.
“I don’t remember…” Jane sounded thoughtful. “Something in marketing maybe?”
“You will owe me big time.” Elizabeth’s sofa beckoned to her enticingly—soft and comfy, perfect for a night of sweat pants and binge watching. Hell, she’d even take a night of organizing the embarrassingly tall piles of paper on her desk. Instead she was trying not to breathe too deeply, or she’d risk popping a seam on her floor-length gown.
“You’re not doing it for me,” Jane reminded her sweetly. “You’re doing it for the children, remember?”
Elizabeth sighed. Jane had her there. Months ago, Jane had participated in a “dream date” auction to benefit Help Our Children Eat. Of course, being beautiful and sweet, Jane’s dream date had raised a lot of money. The winning bidder, Bill Collins, now wanted his date.
But Jane had a boyfriend.
Fearing the charity might have to refund the money, Jane had cast about for an alternative and asked Elizabeth to take her place. Elizabeth felt compelled to agree and had done her best to forget about it. After Jane sent Elizabeth’s picture to Bill, he accepted the substitution. To sweeten the deal, Jane—through Bing—had acquired tickets to the very exclusive Carlisle Ball, an event that Bill was quite excited to attend. As a result, this evening would combine three of Elizabeth’s least favorite things: a fancy, high-society event, high heels, and a blind date.
“I’m sure Bill won’t be that bad,” Jane reassured her.
Elizabeth ground her back teeth together. “He had to buy a date.”
Jane switched tactics. “Bing and I will be there. Elizabeth was grateful for that. Jane’s back trouble had fortunately proven less serious than before, and she had recovered after missing only a week of work.
“The rest of the family will be there too—they all received invitations,” Jane continued brightly. Doesn’t she understand they’re part of the problem?
There was a knock at Elizabeth’s door. “I think he’s here.”
“No matter what, it’s just one short night,” Jane said quickly before Elizabeth hung up.
Trudging across her hardwood floors, she noticed that they were dirty. Maybe she could stay home and clean them tonight instead.
Biting her lip, Elizabeth pulled the door open—and was momentarily struck dumb. No doubt Jane had instructed Bill to wear a tuxedo. However, Jane obviously hadn’t specified that he should avoid wearing a plaid, crushed velvet tux. In retrospect, it was an unfortunate omission. Bill’s ensemble made him look like a waiter crossed with a bagpipe player.
A short waiter. Elizabeth bested him by a couple of inches; she could have foregone the heels. A bad comb-over was his other most noticeable feature.
“Elizabeth?” He scrutinized her from head to foot until a reptilian smile bloomed on his lips. “Well, your picture didn’t do you justice. I’m quite satisfied by the substitution.”
It’s for the children. It’s for the children.
Puffing out his chest, he offered a hand. “I’m Bill.” She shook it, resisting the urge to pull out of his warm, moist grip.
“Your chariot awaits, madam!” he announced with a grand sweeping gesture his arm. Lowering his voice, he added, “I’m joking. It’s just a car, not a chariot.”
“Um…okay.”
“But it’s a nice car. A really nice car.” He held up his hand and whispered in her ear for some reason. “A BMW.” Then he awaited her reaction.
When she gave none, he offered his arm. “Shall we go?”
After locking her apartment door, she congratulated herself for taking his arm without flinching. As they strolled down the hallway, they passed one of Elizabeth’s neighbors. Bill nodded grandly as if to say, “Look who’s on my arm!” Elizabeth considered whether she might die of embarrassment before they even reached the ball.
Waiting for the elevator, Bill asked, “What line of work are you in, Elizabeth?”
“International aid. I work for the Red Cross.”
He sniffed. “I don’t imagine there’s much money in that.” Without giving Elizabeth a chance to reply, he continued, “I’m in the staple industry.”
“Staples?” Did he mean household staples like bread and milk?
He gazed into the distance and intoned portentously, “I am employed by De Bourgh Staplers and Office Supplies.” For a moment he appeared about to salute. “The finest in the world.”
They stepped into the elevator. “Oh.” Elizabeth couldn’t think of anything else to say.
However, it turned out that her input was not necessary for the conversation. “I always wanted to get into staplers,” Bill continued. “I worked in erasers for a while, which was fine. And then hole punches, which I didn’t like; it’s not really a growing industry. But then I scored an interview at De Bourgh—the crème de la crème of the stapler world.” He paused dramatically, awaiting her reaction.
“Um…how fortunate.”
“Fortune had nothing to do with it,” he asserted with a lift of his chin. “It was hard work and determination—and a dose of good luck.”
Isn’t that the same thing as fortune?
He gestured expansively as they exited the elevator. “Do you know how many kinds of staplers De Bourgh Staplers makes?”
“No.”
“Take a guess,” he said with a wink.
Ugh. “Twenty-three.”
“You’re way off,” he chuckled. “Forty-nine. Forty-nine different kinds of staplers. I bet you didn’t know that.”
Didn’t we just establish that? “No.”
“And I’m vice president in charge of staples. It’s a heavy responsibility. You wouldn’t believe how many companies make inferior staples that don’t close properly when they hit the strike plate…” After escorting her out of the building, he led her to his BMW. “The problem is they don’t start with the proper materials…”
Jane was wrong. It would be a very long night.
***
Bill’s soliloquy was still going strong by the time the car pulled up in front of Carlisle House. “Mrs. de Bourgh is such an excellent CEO. She frequently strolls among the cubicles and greets the employees, commenting on their work projects…or anything really. No detail is beneath her notice. Just Thursday she visited David Horvat for the sole purpose of relaying some child-rearing tips. How many other CEOs would be that involved in their employees’ lives?
Hopefully none.
They emerged from the car, and Bill handed the keys to the valet parking attendant. Elizabeth settled her lightweight shawl around her shoulders, grateful for the mild May weather.
Jane—perhaps suffering from a guilty conscience—and Bing stood near the entrance, awaiting their arrival. Some of the tension drained from Elizabeth’s shoulders; the right company could brighten the evening. After exchanging introductions, the two couples continued up a stone pathway that led to the house. Elizabeth stuck to Jane’s side as they preceded the men. Falling in beside Bill, Bing inquired what he did for a living. The ensuing staple-filled monologue kept both men occupied for several minutes.
“On a scale of one to ten, how horrified are you?” Jane murmured from the side of her mouth.
“Thirty-eight.”
Jane winced. “I’ll help make it better. I can dance with him.”
Elizabeth rolled her eyes. “Not nearly enough groveling. I’m planning to demand that you wash my car once a month—with a toothbrush.” She grinned to show she was joking.
Jane squeezed Elizabeth’s hand sympathetically. “Maybe you can leave early.”
“I’ll survive. Whoa!”
As they rounded a curve, Carlisle House finally came into view. “Palatial” was an inadequate word to describe it. French Château in style, the house’s proportions would be better suited to a high school than a private residence. The front was ornamented with stone tracery and elaborately carved arches above the windows. A large stone arch soared over the double set of front doors.
Both women marveled at the house. “According to Bing, the Carlisles have the biggest private residence in the D.C. area,” Jane said. “I guess it would have to be. How many houses have a ballroom anymore?”
As they approached the house, Bill broke off his office-supplies monologue to exclaim over the flowers, the chimney, the windows, and the staff—and loudly estimate the costs for each. The two couples entered the house through the ornately carved arch, which spilled them into a two-story front hallway decorated with a parade of six-foot-high floral arrangements. Here they were greeted by a phalanx of metal detectors and security guards. There must be some bigwigs attending.
Staff directed them to the ballroom at the back of the house. It was a baroque masterpiece, with shiny, gilded curlicues and an actual fresco on the ceiling that depicted a mythological scene.
“Wow!” Elizabeth exclaimed. “This is like a real English country house owned by Duke and Duchess So-and-So.” And I’m the poor relation. “Just you wait. Any second now liveried servants will glide forward to inquire if we’d like to take tea with the lady of the house.”
Jane giggled, as Elizabeth had intended, but Bill regarded her with an intense and somber expression. “Buying an English country house is on my bucket list. Yet another sign of our compatibility.”
Elizabeth wondered how she had missed the others.
At one end of the enormous room, a big band played old standards for a crowd of enthusiastic dancers. The walls were lined with bars and tables groaning under the weight of a myriad of hors d’oeuvres.
Elizabeth was cataloging the emergency exits—in case of excessive groping—when Bill’s arm snaked around her waist and pulled her against his body. The warm moisture of his hand radiated through the silk of her dress; Elizabeth imagined a damp handprint being left behind.
It’s for the children. Still, there were limits. She glared at his lascivious smile and spoke with an even tone she didn’t feel. “Bill, I don’t think we know each other well enough for this.”
He waggled his eyebrows at her. “I’d like to know you well enough.”
Ugh. Shoot me now.
Rather than disappearing, his hand shifted to splay over her back. She smiled apologetically at him. “Sorry,” she whispered, “I have an itchy rash there.” The hand evaporated.
She put some distance between them, only then glimpsing a knot of people—socialites dressed to the nines, businessmen, and Secret Service agents—standing a few yards away. A man in the center of the group was staring at her. After a moment of disorientation, she recognized him. President Darcy.
Hundreds of people at the ball, and yet somehow his eyes had found her the instant she entered the room. Her stomach did a slow, sickening flip, and she could almost feel her sweat glands gearing up to work overtime. “You didn’t tell me the president would be here!” Elizabeth hissed to her sister.
“You didn’t know? I thought everyone knew the president attends the Carlisle Ball. It’s the primary draw.”
Panic urged her toward the nearest exit. The only thing worse than a blind date with Bill the stapler guy was a blind date with Bill the stapler guy while President Darcy watched. The last time she had encountered the commander in chief, he had labeled the Bennets nouveau riche, implied that she visited the White House for bragging rights, and eagerly agreed with Caroline Bingley that Elizabeth needed to be “extracted.” His politics might be in the right place, but his heart certainly wasn’t. Not that Elizabeth cared what he thought of her.
Still, it would have been nice to arrive at the soirée with a David Gandy lookalike. Instead she got a plaid tux, greasy comb-over, and smarmy smile—all of which had undoubtedly been catalogued by the president. The man himself was conversing with others in his group, but his eyes flickered back to her again and again.
His expression was unreadable, but no doubt he was laughing inside at her plight. Elizabeth’s face was so hot that she wondered if she might spontaneously combust. Is it too late to pretend I don’t know Bill? Maybe I could slap him.
Draped over Bing, Jane gave them both a sunshiny smile. “Would you two like to go dance—?”
Bill’s eyes went wide. “OMG!” Elizabeth spun around, expecting to see a celebrity. “Open bar!” he crowed, throwing a fist in the air. “Score!”
Bing gave the other man a skeptical glance, but Bill only had eyes for the bar. “C’mon!” Grabbing Elizabeth’s hand, he yanked her in that direction. Her eyes pleaded with Jane for a rescue, but her sister shrugged helplessly.
Bill dragged her toward the nearest bar like a kid pulling his mom toward a roller coaster. Oh, God! Was the president watching this farce?
At the bar, Bill shamelessly demanded the most expensive alcohol (a kind of scotch) and asked for a double shot. He ordered one for her, thrusting the glass into her hand as he sipped his appreciatively. “Ah, that’s good stuff!”
Elizabeth happened to hate scotch. Discreetly faking a coughing fit, she turned around and poured most of her glass into the large fern behind her. Her date smacked his lips and was ready for a refill.
The conversation returned to the fascinating topic of Mrs. de Bourgh’s genius in the stapler industry. Nodding absently at the appropriate moments, Elizabeth wondered whether appendicitis or gallstones would be more plausible for a woman her age. The scotch must have been top-notch; Bill was compelled to order another double.
The band struck up a rollicking song with a thudding bass line. “I love this song!” Bill exclaimed, now slurring his words slightly. “C’mon!” He tugged her arm, and Elizabeth soon found herself on the moderately packed dance floor.
The scotches did not improve Bill’s coordination; his moves were less “getting down” than “having a seizure.” Flailing his arms wildly, he threw his head back to howl out the lyrics, drawing both stares and a few discreetly raised phone cameras. Elizabeth gritted her teeth. Hungry children. Remember the hungry children, she reminded herself. At the same time, she contemplated how to fake an ankle injury; compassion could only trump humiliation for so long.
When the song finished, Elizabeth did an about-face and marched off the dance floor without looking back. Bill caught up to her at one of the bars, where she had just ordered a glass of white wine. She took several gulps before even glancing at the red, sweaty man; one strand of his comb-over drooped over his forehead. What the hell could she say to get out of this situation gracefully?
“Elizabeth?” Raising her head, she found Charlotte Lucas standing opposite. Tall, with a statuesque figure, Charlotte never took much time with her appearance. Tonight she wore a blindingly bright turquoise gown with orange shoes. The effect was…striking. But Charlotte had been a friend since childhood and Elizabeth was accustomed to her quirks. Elizabeth introduced Bill, relieved at the reprieve.
Charlotte repeated his name thoughtfully. “By any chance do you work for De Bourgh Staplers?”
Bill preened as if such recognition was his due. “As a matter of fact, I do.”
“You’ve heard of him?” Elizabeth asked, not quite keeping the incredulity out of her voice.
Charlotte’s eyes lit up with an excitement that couldn’t possibly be feigned. “Of course! Haven’t you?” She gestured deferentially to Bill. “He’s like the crown prince of staplers! He’ll probably take over when Catherine de Bourgh retires.”
Bill smiled with false modesty. “That hasn’t been decided.”
Charlotte continued, “At Lucas and Lucas we’ve been following the office supplies industry avidly. It’s going through so many upheavals, and it’s so cutthroat.”
“It does require a certain level of ruthlessness to survive, that’s true.” Now Bill’s smile was smug.
Charlotte leaned closer and spoke in a lower voice as if corporate spies lurked in every corner. “What do you think about the merger between United Erasers and Best Pencils? Will it be good for the industry?”
That was all the encouragement Bill required. Soon the two were engrossed in a conversation about the market share for protractors and the best ways to advertise scotch tape.
“Maybe I’ll go to the ladies’ room,” Elizabeth interjected during a break in the conversation. The others failed to react before launching into a spirited debate about number two pencils. As she made her getaway, Elizabeth wondered how long her reprieve could possibly last. Could Charlotte keep him talking all night?
A short search revealed Jane departing from the bar with a martini. “You sooo owe me!” she hissed in her sister’s ear.
Jane’s sympathetic expression confirmed that she had seen Bill dance. “Bing would be happy to dance with you,” Jane offered.
Elizabeth choked back the sour taste in her mouth. “I’m not planning to dance again. I may need brain bleach to erase those memories.”
“I’m sure someone decent would like to dance with you.” Jane glanced meaningfully across the room. Following her eyes, Elizabeth discovered President Darcy watching them intently.
“Oh God!” Elizabeth blushed and turned her back to him. “Why is he always staring at me?”
“Maybe he likes you,” Jane suggested.
“Yeah,” Elizabeth scoffed. “He likes watching me suffer with a terrible date.”
“Bing says he likes you.”
“Sure, he can be friendly and charming.” Elizabeth pursed her lips. “He’s a politician. But he was eager to get rid of us that morning at the Residence.”
“It was just awkward with Caroline there and everything. He has to be careful about the press.”
Elizabeth gave her sister a level gaze. “You’re suggesting the man who said I was ugly and stupid now likes me?”
Jane opened her mouth and closed it again.
“Precisely,” Elizabeth said. “If he’s watching me, it’s to catalogue my faults.”
Jane’s brows drew down as if the thought saddened her. “He’s been a very loyal friend to Bing.”
“No doubt he’s a terrific friend to his fellow old-money brats, but he’s only been difficult and proud to me,” Elizabeth spat. “He may expect everyone to defer to him, but that’s not the way I’m built.”
Jane frowned. “What if he’s changed his mind—?”
Enough with this conversation. First a disastrous date with Bill, and now she should humor the jerk-in-chief? “It doesn’t matter. I’ll probably never see him again after tonight.”
“Really? But you make such a cute couple!” The sound of her mother’s voice ringing out from behind Elizabeth transformed her insides to ice. If Fanny thought the president liked Elizabeth, nothing would stop her, short of Elizabeth’s joining a convent.
Elizabeth whirled around to find her mother, stuffed into a bright yellow dress with a hoop skirt, regarding her with a sorrowful expression. “Is it true that he’s a bigwig in the stapler industry?” her mother asked. Elizabeth allowed her shoulders to sag with relief. Her mother meant Bill, not the president.
Fanny glared at Charlotte, who was laughing at one of Bill’s jokes. Charlotte’s turquoise dress contrasted garishly with his plaid tux. “He’s going places, Lizzy! Don’t let Charlotte monopolize him.”
“I just met the guy,” Elizabeth pointed out. “Why don’t you ask Jane about how things are going with Bing? They’ve been together for months now.” Elizabeth met Jane’s poisonous glare with an innocent smile.
Before she could reply, Fanny’s attention was caught by Betty Lucas, Charlotte’s mother. She was one of Fanny’s “best friends”; they weren’t capable of a conversation without attempting to outdo each other.
“Betty!” They exchanged air kisses. Fanny presented Jane grandly. “Did you know that Jane is dating Charles Bingley, the president’s chief of staff?”
“No!” Betty Lucas faked enthusiasm well. “How exciting.”
Fanny leaned toward Betty as if imparting a great secret. “We hope to be hearing wedding bells soon.”
“Mom!” Jane exclaimed. “We’ve been dating for three months!”
Betty made the appropriate noises of excitement but then tilted her head toward Charlotte and Bill. “Did you see Charlotte talking to the crown prince of staplers?”
“Jane met the president!” Fanny announced hurriedly.
“Bill works for Catherine de Bourgh,” Betty parried.
“Bing’s family is rich!”
“There’s a lot of money in office supplies!”
“Jane visited the White House!” Fanny countered rather desperately.
When Betty failed to produce an adequate comeback, Fanny’s head swiveled toward Jane expectantly.
Jane shrugged uncomfortably. “Just a dinner party.”
“Kitty said you stayed overnight!” her mother sing-songed.
Jane’s face suggested that she was thinking of ways to strangle Kitty. “Well…I did end up having to spend the night…” With an air of resignation, Jane described her back injury to Betty and how Bing had taken care of her at the White House, carefully leaving Elizabeth out of the story.
By the end of the tale, Mrs. Bennet was practically bursting with pride. “You didn’t tell me the back injury happened at the White House! That was a very ‘fortunate’ turn of events!” She winked knowingly at Jane.
Jane rolled her eyes. “I was on painkillers for two weeks and missed five days of work.”
Fanny Bennet waved away her eldest daughter’s suffering. “You spent the night at the White House!” She clasped her hands together over her heart.
“Drugged and in pain,” Jane objected.
“You are so clever!” Fanny eyed Elizabeth. “This is the kind of foresight you should exercise when you meet a good…prospect.” Elizabeth closed her eyes and prayed for patience.
“Mom,” Jane said through gritted teeth, “I didn’t injure my back deliberately.
Fanny patted her daughter’s hand with an understanding smile. “Of course you didn’t, dear.”
“I didn’t—”
Jane’s protest was interrupted by a loud exclamation from Betty. “Look at that! Charlotte is dancing with the stapler king.” All eyes turned to the dance floor, where Bill was drunkenly grinding his pelvis up against Charlotte’s, although she didn’t appear to mind. “How sweet!” Betty cooed, then turned to Elizabeth. “Isn’t Bill Collins your date?”
Elizabeth fought back a smile. “He seems more compatible with Charlotte.”
Betty gave Fanny a triumphant look.
“He arrived with you!” Fanny pointed an emphatic finger. “Go out there and get him back!”
Elizabeth glared. “I am not going to interrupt them while they’re having a good time.”
“You need to do something!” her mother wailed while Betty smirked. “Go!” She pushed Elizabeth toward the dance floor.
“I’ll get a drink for Bill. He’ll be thirsty when the song’s over,” Elizabeth said. Not that Bill needed more alcohol.
Her mother clapped her hands with glee. “That’s a wonderful idea!”
Elizabeth grabbed Jane’s hand. “I need your help.”
Jane gave her a bewildered look. “What can I do?”
“Help me select a drink.”
Their mother waved them away as if they were departing for a long trip. “Pick a good one, girls!”
A few steps away from their mother, Jane asked, “Are we actually getting a drink for Bill?”
Elizabeth snorted. “We’re getting a drink for me. Bill doesn’t need any more.” Charlotte and Bill were still burning up the dance floor doing the nerds’ version of dirty dancing. “Charlotte seems to like Bill. They’re happy. I’m relieved. Mom doesn’t get a vote,” Elizabeth said.
The line to the closest bar was short, and they soon sauntered away with glasses of wine. Jane tugged on her elbow; Elizabeth looked up in time to see an entourage bearing down on them. She slid sideways to duck out of the way, but within seconds she and Jane were surrounded by Secret Service agents—and had become the objects of avid curiosity from nearby partygoers as Bing and President Darcy stepped forward to greet them. Great. I can’t wait for snarky presidential comments about my date.
“Hi, Babe.” Bing glided forward to give Jane a kiss that suggested they’d been apart for days rather than minutes. Elizabeth averted her gaze—and, naturally, wound up staring at the president.
“Ms. Bennet,” the president shook her hand. “That is a lovely dress.”
As before, the touch of his hand short-circuited her higher brain functions. He likes my dress! her brain screamed helplessly. Elizabeth struggled to reassert reason. Of course, he said nice things; being charming was one of the president’s talents.
“Thank you.” There had to be more she could say. Various possibilities flitted through her mind only to be immediately discarded. That tuxedo fits you like a second skin. That tuxedo makes you look edible. May I touch your hair? Why couldn’t she think of anything appropriate? What was suitable small talk with the President of the United States? The weather? Sports? Politics? Ugh.
“So, how was your week?” she blurted out and immediately winced. His week had been all over the media. His transportation bill was likely to be defeated in the House, there had been a terrorist attack in Paris, and he faced a possible scandal involving the Secretary of Health and Human Services.
A corner of his mouth quirked up. “I’ve had better,” he admitted. “How was yours?”
Elizabeth gulped wine, devoutly wishing her brain would come back online. Her week had been devoted to finding funding for a particular program that the federal government had declined to sponsor, but she could hardly say that to the president. “Good,” she said. “A lot of meetings.”
“I guess any week without a humanitarian disaster is good for you,” he said.
“Yes, but I also like being out in the field.” He quirked an eyebrow at her. “When I’m helping people…even under horrible circumstances, I feel…useful…alive. I don’t have any time to worry about my petty concerns; I just focus on helping others get through the day. It’s quite rewarding.” She flushed. What had possessed her to babble like that to the president? No doubt he was plotting how to escape the conversation.
But he nodded slowly as if carefully considering her words. “I can understand that. As president, I have the opportunity to help a lot of people, but there’s a special thrill when I can meet and help someone one-on-one.” Her skin was growing hotter under the intensity of his gaze. Couldn’t he turn his glare onto someone else?
Say something! “Yes…definitely…” Witty retort, Elizabeth. No doubt he’s very impressed. Immediately she felt a flicker of irritation toward herself. Why should she care what he thought of her?
The band had finished a song, and people wandered off the dance floor. Finished canoodling, Bing and Jane were poised to go dance, but Bing was regarding President Darcy expectantly. Why?
His eyes remained focused on her as he stepped closer. “Ms. Bennet, would you join me for the next dance?”