4. Darcy
Darcy
Iknew already Monty and Penny were old-school posh and, too often, that went with adolescent toilet humor like fart cushions, dirty ditties embroidered on wall hangings, and singing fish in the loo—all of which I was sure they’d done before their daughter Tabitha remodeled this place.
And so, this toilet roll being the key to our meet-and-greet should not have been a surprise.
But I was not excited to see where this would lead.
Penny took the roll of toilet paper from her husband and held it aloft as the chef, wearing an apron embroidered with the words “Trystan’s Good Tuck,” so I assumed he was the eponymous Trystan, entered the area with a plate of tiny appetizers, followed by Lizzy offering glasses of champagne on a tray.
I took a glass and gave her what I hoped was a friendly nod.
I did feel guilty about her storming off after my unfortunate comment.
Also, I now had a large camera zooming in on me.
But she pointedly concentrated on the roll of toilet paper. Shit.
I guess a small nod didn’t undo my rudeness.
“Come up and take as many squares as you need.” Penny gave an innocent, wide-eyed look.
“For what?” Nala asked, appalled.
“You’ll find out. But don’t worry, it’s not for the usual purpose.”
“I certainly hope not,” Colin Vicar huffed, and for once, I was in agreement.
Somewhat placated, everyone filed up, being good sports, I supposed, and laughing about the assignment. Still, that didn’t make me want to join in, and I stayed glowering in my corner.
“Darcy?” Monty pointed to the toilet roll.
“We can’t tempt you?” Penny said. I was sure she was playing on my previous turn of phrase about not being tempted, which made me feel even guiltier.
I shook my head.
Annoyed, Lizzy’s mother ripped off one square and thrust it in front of me. “For goodness’ sake.”
Reluctantly, I took the paper from her. “You do need to let us know the rules.”
“Here are the rules,” Lizzy’s mother said, agitated. “For every square you’ve taken, you share something important about yourself. Who you are, what you do, and, most importantly, what you want from love.”
Thank God I only had one square. Everyone buzzed about what they were going to say, and I felt even more appalled, if that were possible.
“Lizzy, would you start?” Penny asked.
Lizzy looked as though there were nothing she wanted to do less. I sat on a corner chair and sipped my drink, surprising myself with how interested I was to hear what she had to say.
“I have five squares,” she said, holding the first one. “My name is Lizzy. And my dog, Oodles, is resting upstairs after our huge runaround in the forest.”
A big, “Aww,” went up.
She held up the second square. “And I’m a romance author.”
A strangled sound choked from the back of my throat.
“Did your wine go down the wrong way?” Lizzy’s mother asked me with a flash of anger. “Would you like a clap on the back?”
“Were you…scoffing at me?” Lizzy’s cheeks blushed red.
The atmosphere turned tense again—again the arched eyebrows, the curled lips, and wide eyes. Raising everyone’s hackles twice in a night, a record even for me.
“Certainly not,” I said. “I’ve never read such literature. I know nothing of it, and as such, I have no opinion on that genre.”
“He doesn’t know anything about romance novels.” Her mother rolled her eyes, shoving her hands angrily into the backs of her sparkly jeans. “You’re being obluse.”
“Obtuse?” I corrected her.
“That’s what I said. Everyone knows about romance novels. Girl meets boy or girl. Or boy meets boy. They like each other. One of them stuffs it up—let’s face it, usually the boy, if there are boys involved—boy grovels, and they live happily ever after. Lizzy writes two peppers. That’s out of five.”
What did peppers have to do with it? How could they be part of the rating scale? What genre used garden produce? Wait… Did this have anything to do with aubergines? I suddenly felt prematurely old.
“Mum, he doesn’t care,” Lizzy said.
Her mother cleared her throat. “I say, Lizzy darling—commit to five peppers, and you’d make more money. A inserts into B, give the people what they want. She still insists on the mistier version. But does anyone listen to me?”
Lizzy slapped her hand over her face. “Mum. Please.”
“Muuuum,” Jane said, clearly mortified as well. “Lizzy is a wonderful writer. She’s a best seller.”
The women in the group nodded and murmured their appreciation.
“I love your books, Lizzy.”
“You’re my fave.”
“So funny and so much emotion.”
“You’re my fave too,” Trystan chorused while he poured more champagne. “You give us all the tropes, microtropes, with a good slathering of universal butter.”
The women all laughed appreciatively.
Now we were talking about butter? I was completely lost. Romance writers and readers were another world.
“No wonder you’re a best seller,” Trystan added, pouring another glass.
Lizzy blushed a delighted pink. “Thanks, Trystan. Was a best seller.” She hung her head. “I have writer’s block, and I suppose that’s why I’m here. I haven’t written anything in six months. I need inspo for my next book.” She looked a bit exhausted. “So, that’s my story.”
Her head slumped, and she went to sit down.
“Why do you have writer’s block?” I asked. “You don’t believe in romance anymore?”
Her head snapped up. Everyone’s horrified expression reminded me I didn’t have the gene that stopped you when something was too awkward to ask, but again, I wasn’t trying to be an arse.
I was genuinely interested. Also, not to be a pedantic CFO, which I was, but she had three more paper squares of things to talk about.
Maybe I was looking forward to hearing more about her.
Lizzy jerked back to standing, genuinely upset. “Of course I still believe in love, the real kind that lasts forever, but I can’t find the right couple and the right scenario to write about. Nothing seems to spark.”
Her mother snorted. “No wonder, if your heroes were all modeled on Dry Jake, the dullest man in the universe. As ever, I’m being decorous. Dull is a euphemor for—”
What the hell? This woman got decorous right, but not euphemism? There was no logic to her malapropisms. And what was “dull” a euphemism for? Surely dull was bad enough. And why was I even thinking about this? The woman made my head spin.
“Mum,” Lizzy interrupted sharply. She closed her eyes and shook her head. “And now some of you might have guessed I’ve split with my fiancé. No big arguments, no bust-ups, no hard feelings—it all faded away. He didn’t want to fight for me.”
Irrational anger struck me. Probably irritation for how long this silly game was lasting.
The group cooed with sorrys.
Lizzy ran a hand through her tangled mane. “Thank you. There was no real passion there. It’s a relief to be out of it, but still I wonder why it hasn’t happened for me.”
Everyone nodded in understanding.
“You now, Darcy,” Lizzy’s mother said.
Lizzy sat, settling into her chair with some satisfaction. She seemed a bit happier, though, probably at the prospect of me being in the hot seat.