Page 2 of Stuck

“No, I mean, you should go and pretend that you are his girlfriend.”

I rolled my eyes. “Drink your water and go to sleep.”

She stretched onto her side and took a few sips from the glass I’d brought in for her, but she didn’t give up on her crazy idea, instead propping herself against the pillows to address her boyfriend. “I’m serious. No one will know any different. It’s not me specifically Mr King wants to meet, just your ‘significant other’. Give them what they want, and once you have their investment, you can tell them you broke up. If they even ask.”

“I’d never remember to answer to ‘Jane’ all night,” I objected.

“Now that you mention it, I don’t think I ever told them Jane’s name,” Bingley said. “King was interested in whether I had a wife or girlfriend, not in knowing anything about her.”

“There you are, see?” Jane said.

I looked at Bingley for support, but he didn’t look to be half as incredulous about the suggestion as I was. In fact, he looked as though he might be considering it.

“Nope! No way. I’m twenty-five. That’s too old for make-believe.”

Jane kept looking at me.

I tried again. “He’s my boss—I highly doubt that’s the sort of relationship Mr King would approve of.” Technically, he wasn’t my boss. I worked for Lucas GreenTech and was halfway through a six-month contract at Hydro Crops, helping secure the patent for their new technology. But that was not the point. “Help me out here, Bingley? This is the dumbest idea ever.”

The traitor pulled an apologetic face. “You really would be doing me a huge favour.”

In a last-ditch attempt, I declared, “I haven’t got anything suitable to wear.”

This was true, but it was also a futile argument. I might not have brought anything appropriate to London with me, but Jane worked in fashion and had a wardrobe full of designer clothes. That, in addition to another round of vomiting, which I don’t think she did on purpose but couldn’t rule out, eventually persuaded me to agree.

A brief fashion show followed, during which I proved how a height difference of four inches and a significantly different body type could render an entire wardrobe unwearable. Whereas Jane, like our youngest sister, Lydia, was tall with hourglass curves, the rest of us—Kitty, Mary, and I—were of average height with slighter builds. I liked my body and knew how to make it look good, but none of Jane’s dresses were designed to flatter my shape.

The event was a drinks reception at the Tremaine Lounge—a swanky bar where business talk was served with a side of expensive wine and obnoxiously obscure ales, all with the aim of facilitating networking. Jane insisted I could be neither too casual nor too formal, ruling out every cocktail dress she owned and labelling all my going-out clothes too conspicuous. Apparently I needed to be “appealing yet unobtrusive.” I hadn’t realised the event was being held in 1950.

The one, solitary option we could find that even vaguely fitted me was a heinous tan knitted wrap dress that probably barely reached halfway down Jane’s mile-long thighs but drowned my frame from neck to knee, concealing what slight curves I possessed with puritanical zeal.

I came back in from the hallway where our full-length mirror hung and glared at my sister on her bed. “Why do you even own this? I look like the tragic love child of a librarian and a sheep farmer.”

“You do not, you look lovely! You’ll be wearing your contacts though, right? You’ll look less like a librarian without the glasses.”

I levelled a glare at her.

Bingley knocked on the door. “Is it safe to come back in?”

“Yes, do, and tell Lizzy how lovely she looks.”

He duly did so, though I don’t think he really looked, because all his attention was immediately on Jane as he fussed and fretted about her being all right on her own. She assured him she’d be fine and chivvied us out of her room, only to call out after us.

“Bingley, whatever you do, don’t let Lizzy do shots!”

“Rude,” I called back, although as I shut the front door behind us, I admitted to Bingley, “But probably a good idea.”

2

DARCY

Baggage claim at Heathrow on a Friday evening was nothing short of a nightmare. Not dissimilar to baggage claim on any other day of the week, to be honest, except with fewer staff, more drunks, and longer waits. My flight hadn’t been particularly arduous, since I’d laid over in Helsinki yesterday, but it had been redirected to London at the last minute, meaning that Trent, my driver, was currently waiting for me at Manchester airport.

I ground my teeth and willed the moron next to me to turn the sound on his phone down. I resolutely ignored the three women in hen party sashes standing opposite, who were not very discreetly whispering about me to each other. When I did look up, one of them giggled and waved. The conveyor belt kept on circulating, still empty.

It was my sister’s first day back at sixth form tomorrow. I’d planned to spend the evening with her then drive her to school in the morning before coming to London. It was after eight p.m. now, and whilst I could hire a car and drive myself to Derbyshire, it was a long way to go only to turn around and come back again less than twelve hours later. With a resigned sigh, I took out my phone to text her.

Change of plans I’m afraid. Flight was redirected to Heathrow. Looks like I’ll miss your first day back