“Should I have watched his season of Eligible ? Are there things everyone else knows about him that I don’t?”
Liz sat at her desk, where she planned to spend the next few hours working—her parents were having dinner at the country club with neighbors, Lydia and Kitty were headed out, Mary was in her own room with the door closed—although already, both quite accidentally and quite horribly, Liz had found herself on a webpage featuring cannibal lemurs. Given that she was researching an upcoming Mascara feature on how to ask for a raise, it was difficult to say exactly how this had happened.
Liz pushed her chair back and set her feet on the edge of her desk in a way her mother had been objecting to for three decades. “Did you tell him at the Lucases’ you’ve never seen the show?” she asked.
Jane nodded.
“Then that might be part of your charm,” Liz said. “He came off like a good guy, I promise. He did his share of on-air smooching, but he wasn’t sleazy.”
“He told me that patients sometimes ask for his autograph.” Jane appeared troubled rather than gratified. “Can you imagine?”
“Here’s my one hesitation about him,” Liz said. “And it’s not huge, but for what it’s worth—there’s this idea that he didn’t want to be on Eligible and his sister talked him into it. I call bullshit on that. People only do reality TV because they want to. I read somewhere that everyone on those shows is trying to make it in Hollywood.”
Jane set down her blush container and turned to face Liz. “You think?”
Liz shrugged. “He wouldn’t be the first.”
“Aren’t you the one who encouraged me to go out with him tonight?”
“It could be that he saw Eligible as a lark and thought, Why not? I didn’t get an egomaniacal vibe when I talked to him. I just don’t totally buy his backstory.”
“I’m almost afraid to tell you this now,” Jane said, “but you know how his sister Caroline is here for a few weeks from L.A.?”
“I saw her at the Lucases’, but we hardly talked.”
“She’s his manager,” Jane said.
Liz squinted. “Meaning what?”
“I guess ever since Eligible, he gets approached about product endorsements or doing charity events. She handles all of that for him.”
Liz struggled not to form an expression of distaste; Caroline Bingley had on the Fourth of July revealed herself to Liz to be almost as unappealing as Fitzwilliam Darcy. As Caroline, her brother, and Darcy had been about to depart together, Caroline had first told Liz that she kept forgetting whether she was in Cleveland, Cincinnati, or Columbus, then she’d lamented the local dearth of decent sushi or yoga. Liz had considered recommending Modo Yoga, which was the studio Jane frequented, but decided instead to withhold the kindness.
Liz had by that point in the party shared Darcy’s remarks with other attendees, animated as she did so by a giddy and outraged fervor. Charlotte Lucas had laughed, Mrs. Bennet had been deeply insulted, and Jane had speculated that Darcy had known she was eavesdropping and had been joking, which Liz thought gave Darcy far too much credit.
In her bedroom, Liz said to Jane, “Maybe you and Chip can get paid to show up together at nightclubs. That would be funny.”
“You’re sending very mixed messages right now, Lizzy.”
Liz grinned. “I contain multitudes.” She added, “Sorry. Just enjoy yourself tonight, and forget I said anything.”
LIZ WAS STILL at her desk, though actually doing work—she was reading a commencement speech delivered by Kathy de Bourgh, a famous feminist whom she hoped to interview for her pay-raise article—when Lydia entered the room and said, “Have you seen my phone?”
Liz shook her head.
“Fuck,” Lydia said. “I need to text Ham to see what time we’re meeting, but my phone is the only place I have his number.”
“Who’s Ham?”
“Ham Ryan.”
“Am I supposed to know who that is?” Liz asked.
“He owns the box
Liz sat at her desk, where she planned to spend the next few hours working—her parents were having dinner at the country club with neighbors, Lydia and Kitty were headed out, Mary was in her own room with the door closed—although already, both quite accidentally and quite horribly, Liz had found herself on a webpage featuring cannibal lemurs. Given that she was researching an upcoming Mascara feature on how to ask for a raise, it was difficult to say exactly how this had happened.
Liz pushed her chair back and set her feet on the edge of her desk in a way her mother had been objecting to for three decades. “Did you tell him at the Lucases’ you’ve never seen the show?” she asked.
Jane nodded.
“Then that might be part of your charm,” Liz said. “He came off like a good guy, I promise. He did his share of on-air smooching, but he wasn’t sleazy.”
“He told me that patients sometimes ask for his autograph.” Jane appeared troubled rather than gratified. “Can you imagine?”
“Here’s my one hesitation about him,” Liz said. “And it’s not huge, but for what it’s worth—there’s this idea that he didn’t want to be on Eligible and his sister talked him into it. I call bullshit on that. People only do reality TV because they want to. I read somewhere that everyone on those shows is trying to make it in Hollywood.”
Jane set down her blush container and turned to face Liz. “You think?”
Liz shrugged. “He wouldn’t be the first.”
“Aren’t you the one who encouraged me to go out with him tonight?”
“It could be that he saw Eligible as a lark and thought, Why not? I didn’t get an egomaniacal vibe when I talked to him. I just don’t totally buy his backstory.”
“I’m almost afraid to tell you this now,” Jane said, “but you know how his sister Caroline is here for a few weeks from L.A.?”
“I saw her at the Lucases’, but we hardly talked.”
“She’s his manager,” Jane said.
Liz squinted. “Meaning what?”
“I guess ever since Eligible, he gets approached about product endorsements or doing charity events. She handles all of that for him.”
Liz struggled not to form an expression of distaste; Caroline Bingley had on the Fourth of July revealed herself to Liz to be almost as unappealing as Fitzwilliam Darcy. As Caroline, her brother, and Darcy had been about to depart together, Caroline had first told Liz that she kept forgetting whether she was in Cleveland, Cincinnati, or Columbus, then she’d lamented the local dearth of decent sushi or yoga. Liz had considered recommending Modo Yoga, which was the studio Jane frequented, but decided instead to withhold the kindness.
Liz had by that point in the party shared Darcy’s remarks with other attendees, animated as she did so by a giddy and outraged fervor. Charlotte Lucas had laughed, Mrs. Bennet had been deeply insulted, and Jane had speculated that Darcy had known she was eavesdropping and had been joking, which Liz thought gave Darcy far too much credit.
In her bedroom, Liz said to Jane, “Maybe you and Chip can get paid to show up together at nightclubs. That would be funny.”
“You’re sending very mixed messages right now, Lizzy.”
Liz grinned. “I contain multitudes.” She added, “Sorry. Just enjoy yourself tonight, and forget I said anything.”
LIZ WAS STILL at her desk, though actually doing work—she was reading a commencement speech delivered by Kathy de Bourgh, a famous feminist whom she hoped to interview for her pay-raise article—when Lydia entered the room and said, “Have you seen my phone?”
Liz shook her head.
“Fuck,” Lydia said. “I need to text Ham to see what time we’re meeting, but my phone is the only place I have his number.”
“Who’s Ham?”
“Ham Ryan.”
“Am I supposed to know who that is?” Liz asked.
“He owns the box
Similar Books
