Page 35 of Stuck

“Yeah, well, he has a chauffeur.” I tossed another Malteser into my mouth and said around it, “That doesn’t exactly scream ‘hard up’.”

“She has a point,” Jane said, looking up at her boyfriend where he leant with his elbows on the back of her chair. “Didn’t you say he was on the Times Rich List?”

Bingley laughed. “Okay, so he’s not strapped for cash, but a decent chunk of his profits is channelled into research, start-ups, charities…” He counted off each item on his fingers. “A sizeable amount goes towards Pemberley’s reparation programme.”

“Its what now?” I asked.

He nudged Jane to let him have her seat, pulling her back down into his lap and wrapping his arms around her waist as he talked to me at eye level. “Most of these big country houses have a chequered history. Pemberley’s is less heinous than a lot of them, but still, the family doesn’t shy away from the links that do exist.”

“Pemberley is a house? I thought that was just the name of the company.”

“It’s both. Darcy’s from old money. His family have owned Pemberley for hundreds of years. He and his sister live in a partitioned-off wing now, mind. The rest is used for private events and the odd bit of filming.”

“Wow. Your man Darcy is a dark horse.”

“That he is,” Bingley agreed.

“Do you feel bad for teasing him now?” Jane asked me with an accusing look I was all too familiar with. That I teased too freely was a constant admonishment of hers.

“A bit,” I admitted.

“Don’t,” Bingley said with a wave of his hand. “He won’t hold it against you. Have we got any chocolate, Jane? Sitting here watching Elizabeth stuff her face with Maltesers is making me hungry.”

With a quick kiss to his cheek, Jane got up to raid the mini bar.

Bingley focused back on me, a more sober expression on his face. “I know Darcy can come across as severe, and I’m not going to lie, he can be a miserable git sometimes—especially at his flat, when he’s got nothing to distract him. But you mustn’t take it personally. He’s a top bloke.”

My ears pricked at this second mention of Darcy not liking being in his flat. It was intriguing, but I had bigger fish to fry.

“He thinks you’re pretty special too. He spent the entire drive from Hyde Park to Battersea singing your praises.” I could see him visibly preening, so before his head got too big, I continued. “I felt really uncomfortable, Bingley. Never mind him being annoyed—isn’t he going to be offended when he finds out we’ve all been lying to him? Something tells me he won’t appreciate being made to look like a mug.”

His complacency dissipated, and he winced guiltily. “You’re right, he will hate that. I’m sorry, Elizabeth. I didn’t mean to put you in this position. I never thought it would snowball like this. You can tell him if you want.”

“Oh no! That ship has well and truly sailed, my friend. I don’t want to tell him anything. It’s your lie—you can tell him. Preferably before the gala, because trust me, lying to his face sucks.”

Bingley groaned. “That bloody gala! Darcy was only telling me this week how King’s been waxing lyrical about what a great couple you and I make. He’s going to be so annoyed I lied to the investors. But you’re right, I have to tell him. I’ll do it the moment I get back, I promise.”

“When will that be?”

“Wednesday, probably.”

The day before the gala. I let out a sigh. “Okay, I can hold out ’til then. But you owe me!”

“We both do,” Jane said, reappearing behind him with several sharing-sized bags of chocolate clutched in her hand. “Although maybe you could avoid inviting him to take part in any more team building activities between now and then?”

“Fine, I’ll go back to avoiding him. But the game is up on Wednesday, kids. Make the most of your reprieve!”

I didn’t know why I kept making the same promise when experience had already taught me that avoiding Darcy was pretty much impossible. He was just… there. All the time. I tried to keep my head down at work on Monday morning, but I still seemed to see him every time I stepped away from my desk, resorting to progressively elaborate evasion tactics as the morning wore on. It was not behaviour I was particularly proud of, especially as I’d begun to really quite like him.

His perennial grumpiness felt like a challenge; I was constantly tempted to do or say something to wipe the frown off his face. The few times I’d managed it, I’d felt victorious, and I was greedy for more. His understated kindness was a pleasant surprise too. Giving lifts to junior employees on his weekend, comforting weeping women over the coffee machine—it was all in stark contrast to the stern image he presented to the world.

In any case, all my efforts to avoid him were thrown out of the window at lunchtime. I popped down to Quick Bite for a sandwich and was oblivious to him having had the same idea until I heard him speaking in the queue behind me. I was still trying to figure out whether I should pretend not to have noticed him when I heard the cashier serving him say, “Can’t help you, mate. We don’t give credit.”

I turned around—I couldn’t help it. He was a few tills over, and the people behind him were tutting about the hold-up. He looked supremely irritated and a smidge embarrassed as he patted his pockets, obviously unable to pay. I could have walked away, because he hadn’t seen me, but I couldn’t let him go without lunch. I quickly paid for my own food, grabbed it from the counter, and edged through the other queues to reach him.

“I’ve got this,” I said to the cashier and reached to tap my phone.

Darcy looked at me in surprise. “Elizabeth! You don’t have to—” He stopped, because the payment machine beeped, indicating that I already had. He let out a chagrined chuckle. “Thank you. I’ll pay you back.”