5. Lizzy #2
Darcy also perked up and asked a million questions about the rules of the brunch competition.
It was one of the few times in the evening he’d taken his eyes off William and Jane, whom he was sitting next to.
To Darcy’s credit, he seemed fond of his brother, and I supposed that was endearing.
But there was something unnerving about the way he’d been so intently watching not only William, but more obviously, his interactions with Jane.
Darcy was protective of his brother. Yes, that was the emotion he seemed to radiate. What on earth was he checking for?
William was incredibly sweet and made clear he was interested in Jane, who was shy toward him, as she was with everyone.
But tiny indicators, a small leaning of her head, a slight smile, a blush, hinted she was taken with William.
I had to get rid of Mum, who was still hovering over them, murmuring about Jane’s beauty.
I was protective of my sibling too. Jane’s past boyfriend, a fashion photographer, had seemed at first a charming bloke, but he’d turned out to be horribly emotionally manipulative and eventually tried to cut her off from her friends and family.
Because Jane was so trusting, he was almost successful before we’d joined forces and staged an intervention.
Since then, she’d needed a lot of therapy.
She’d stayed away from men and didn’t have much confidence in her judgment of them.
So it was lovely to see her warming to William in these small ways.
When we sat down to dinner, William took a seat next to Jane, and Darcy moved swiftly in beside his brother.
I maneuvered Mum to the opposite end of the table from them, with a combo of quick-stepping, blocking, and hip-jutting that would have made an NBA basketballer proud.
Mum, having been a former chorus dancer in the West End, was no slouch, and we ended up doing a ludicrous little shuffle and bob that didn’t conceal my intent—or hers to micromanage her daughters—from anyone.
Finally, fed up and again thoroughly flustered, I grabbed her hand and pulled her to the end of the table, getting my way less elegantly.
From the other end, Darcy rolled his eyes and shook his head. Typical. He continued to scowl as conversation and laughter flowed around him. What a dislikable man.
Even though I sat close to Mum, and hissed in her ear a few times, she did not refrain from extolling Jane’s virtues to anyone who would listen.
Look, she even eats so delicately. Look, she’s made him laugh again.
Look, how beautifully she glows in this light.
She has my profile, of course. And maybe even worse, pointing out what a prize William was.
“Never a handsomer man have I seen. Look now!” she cried out. “He is making her laugh. They are quite the match, though I dare not say it aloud.”
And yet, she had said it aloud. I hushed her.
Undeterred, her eyes lit up. Shit. Not good.
“Could you conceive of that splendid red hair on a tiny baby?” She gazed at Wills. “Why, adorable does not convey my delight.”
I wanted to slide down the chair and under the table.
Darcy raised his head and muttered, “Oh my God.”
Jane blushed bright red.
Wills smiled. “Thank you, because most people tease me about being a ginger.”
“So they should,” Darcy murmured quietly, but I caught it.
Wills elbowed him, not taking offense, and Darcy’s lips quirked.
The worst thing about being at the end of the table was getting a bird’s-eye view of Darcy, who seemed to be hovering over Wills.
Or Jane. Both of them. He darted his attention back and forth between them, not saying much, but watchful.
What was that all about? He was a man who had an opinion, so why was he not talking?
He wasn’t shy, was he? No. Probably had a superiority complex and thought their chat beneath him.
Finally, the dinner was over. Trystan removed our plates, and everyone nibbled on platters of chocolates and cheese and grapes. I checked that Jane seemed safe and happy in Wills’s company. With her settled, now was the time to head to my room, and Mum had to leave this table with me.
I placed both palms on the table and stood up. “Goodnight, everyone. Trystan, thank you for dinner. It was incredible.” I gave him a little wave. “Mum, I’ll see you to your car,” I said firmly.
“Little longer.” She gazed dreamily at the magical couple.
She was leaving if I had to carry her.
“You have a gig in the morning,” I reminded her. Gig. Her word. Besides running her own dance school, Mum led the dancing at a variety of parties and gatherings. “You need to be fresh.”
Reluctantly, she got to her feet. I led her away from the budding couple and safely to her car. She huffed her annoyance about having to get up so early in the morning. I was curious about why people were dancing at that ungodly hour, but I didn’t want to delay her any further.
She opened her car door. “If only your father could get his bum out of his study where he’s been writing that book for the past three decades and make some money, I wouldn’t have to do all these bloody gigs.”
I sighed too and felt a bit sorry for her. I loved my dad and we had a special relationship, but he was never going to change.
“I know you think I’m a jolly nuisance.” She clipped into her seat belt with a wounded look, and my heart twinged with guilt about hurting her feelings again.
This was the constant push and pull between us—her embarrassing us, and me having to take action, like how I’d hauled her out of the Amor Inn before she did any more damage.
“But with your hopeless father mentally and emotionally AWOL for decades,” she went on, “and me scraping together what I can with my dance teaching and my gigs, you two girls do not have a financial backup. I’ve learned my lesson too late.
My brother married money, and now he’s living large in a magnificent old mansion, and dearest Emma is set for life. Take a leaf out of your uncle’s book.”
This was a conversation we had often, and I understood her behavior sprang from her deep worry about us, but it didn’t make her shenanigans any less cringeworthy in the moment.
“I know, Mum. But living in that enormous old house hasn’t made Uncle Henry any happier. He’s a terrible old hypochondriac. And he’s on his own.”
That perked her up a little.
“And Dad is still with us,” I said.
She scowled, and without a backward glance, she zoomed out of the driveway at speed. Her bright-pink Mini was emblazoned across the bonnet with a photo of her doing the splits, dressed in feathers and sequins, as though still in her glory days in London.
As usual, the sight of that image made me laugh and wince a little.
Mum was embarrassing, but she was also, in her own way, a fighter.
None of us had much money now, and Dad, though gentle and funny, had never contributed, always holed up in his study, writing the endless esoteric novel that never got finished, seemingly unable to hold down a paying job.
A terrible thought crawled through me, making the hair on my neck stand on end. Was that my future if I couldn’t break through my writer’s block?