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  At the speech’s conclusion, Liz waited in her chair in the ballroom, as directed to do via a text that morning from Kathy de Bourgh’s publicist, Valerie. After eight minutes, Valerie texted to say Kathy de Bourgh was on a call but Liz would be escorted to the greenroom imminently.

  And then, as they had many times already in the last thirty hours, Darcy’s remarks outside her sisters’ apartment came back to her. I’m in love with you. I can’t stop thinking about you. Yes, his confession had contained multiple slights, but those words had flanked them. To recall such declarations was marvelously bothersome, it was vexing and delectable. I’m in love with you. I can’t stop thinking about you. They made her feel as if her heart were releasing lava.

  She had planned to blithely leave Darcy behind, but it seemed now that matters between them were unresolved. What it was that needed to be settled, however—what she might convey to him—continued to elude her. Surely it was related to the indifference to his feelings, the defiance even, that she’d demonstrated during their final conversation. If on certain topics he’d shown insensitivity, she’d concluded that his misbehavior had been of a less egregious variety than her own. She also couldn’t help wondering: Was he still in love with her? Had her hostile response immediately nullified his desire? Really, how could it not have?

  “Liz?” Approaching from a door near the stage was a young woman in a charcoal pantsuit. “I’m Valerie Wright. Kathy de Bourgh is ready to see you.”

  IN THE GREENROOM, Kathy de Bourgh was eating an arugula salad. She stood to firmly shake Liz’s hand and said, “I apologize for keeping you waiting, but my dog has keratitis and I was touching base with the vet.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Liz said. She knew that Kathy de Bourgh was the owner of a Pekingese named Button, though Liz did not mention this knowledge because of the fine line between due diligence and creepiness.

  As they sat, Kathy de Bourgh smiled and said, “Now that we’ve both apologized within the first thirty seconds of our conversation about women and power, shall we begin?” While Liz set her two digital recorders on the glass tabletop and turned them on, Kathy de Bourgh added, “You might not know this, but I myself was once a writer for Mascara.”

  “Oh, it’s one of our claims to fame,” Liz said. She was reassured that Kathy de Bourgh knew what publication she was being interviewed for; regularly, very famous people didn’t.

  “That was roughly fifteen thousand years ago,” Kathy de Bourgh said. “During the Pleistocene epoch.”

  Liz said, “Knowing you’d worked for the magazine was the main reason I was excited to get a job there.”

  Kathy de Bourgh laughed. “Liz, flattery will get you everywhere.”

  As Valerie Wright and two other women whose identities never became clear to Liz sat in chairs against the wall and typed on their smartphones, Liz asked Kathy de Bourgh about feminism’s present and past, about whether its current prominence in popular culture struck her as meaningful or fleeting, about reproductive freedom and equal compensation, race and gender, mentoring, ambition, likability, and whether having it all was a realistic possibility or a phrase that ought to be expurgated from the English language. Usually in interviews, every few minutes the subject would say something articulate or insightful enough that Liz knew she could use it in her article, and she’d feel a little lift, or maybe relief; with Kathy de Bourgh, every sentence of every answer was usable. And the responses weren’t all ones Liz had heard before.

  As they reached the end of the allotted twenty minutes, which Liz had high hopes of exceeding, she said, “You didn’t marry until you were sixty-seven years old. Was that due to the difficulty of finding a spouse who would treat you as an equal partner?”

  Kathy de Bourgh smiled again. “Are you married?” she asked.

  Et tu, Kathy de Bourgh? Liz thought and shook her head. She knew that Kathy de Bourgh’s husband, a renowned architect, had died of an aneurysm only three years after their wedding.

  “I considered getting married many times,” Kathy de Bourgh said. “I certainly had my share of suitors. But—” She paused. “How can I describe this?” Liz remained quiet—remaining quiet was the most reliable tool in her interviewing kit—and Kathy de Bourgh said, “With all the men I dated before Benjamin, there was some degree of performance involved. Even when those men and I had a lot of chemistry, or maybe especially then, it was like we were performing our chemistry either for an audience or just for each other. I was engaged once to a very good-looking man”—Indeed, Liz thought, to the attorney general of New York—“but eventually I realized that when I was with him, I was always trying to present the most cheerful, entertaining, attractive version of myself, instead of just being myself. It was a lot of effort, especially over time. Whereas with Benjamin, it never felt like people saw us as a golden couple, and it wasn’t how we saw ourselves. We knew each other for ten years before we became involved. During that time, I gradually realized he was easy to be around and easy to talk to. We once traveled together to China as part of a delegation—not just us, but about twenty people—and even when the bus was late or our luggage got lost, he was very unflappable, very considerate of others. That probably doesn’t sound romantic, does it? It was real, though—we got a clear view of each other. Whereas when I dated other men, whether it was leading protests or attending parties at the White House, there was a fantasy aspect to our time together that I don’t think prepared us for some of the mundane daily struggles life has in store.”

  As Kathy de Bourgh took a sip of water, Liz said, “So the lesson is—?”

  Kathy de Bourgh set her glass down. “Benjamin was very nurturing, by which I don’t mean that he talked extensively about his feelings. He didn’t. But he looked out for me in a steady, ongoing way, and I hope I did the same for him.”

  “Kathy, you have a three o’clock with George Schiff,” Valerie Wright said, standing. “Liz, we need to wrap it up. So glad we could make this happen.”

  Ignoring Valerie, Kathy de Bourgh said, “There’s a belief that to take care of someone else, or to let someone else take care of you—that both are inherently unfeminist. I don’t agree. There’s no shame in devoting yourself to another person, as long as he devotes himself to you in return.”

  Within thirty seconds, Liz knew, she’d be back on the other side of the greenroom door. She reached for her recorders but didn’t turn them off, in case Kathy de Bourgh was about to share any final pearls of wisdom. Instead, Kathy de Bourgh hugged her, and Liz tried to think who in her life liked her enough that Liz could later make them listen to the barely audible rustle of being embraced by the leader of second-wave feminism. Jane would listen to humor Liz, though she wouldn’t really be interested.

  “Be well,” Kathy de Bourgh said.

  “WOW,” JASPER SAID when Liz answered her cellphone. “I’m pleasantly surprised you picked up.”

  It was evening, and Liz was lying in her hotel room bed in Houston, watching a mediocre movie she’d seen in the theater in high school and thinking, I’m in love with you. I can’t stop thinking about you.

  She said to Jasper, “Did you pee on your writing professor’s desk?”

  The silence that followed—it lasted for more time than would have been necessary to express reflexive bewilderment. At last, Jasper said, “I assume Darcy has been putting poison in your ear again.”

  “I have a right to know what really happened.”

  “If I could go back in time, are there things I’d do differently? Without question.”

  “What made you think that was okay?”

  “Besides ten beers?” Jasper seemed to be waiting for her to laugh, and when she didn’t, he said, “It was stupid and juvenile. There’s no denying that. But I swear it wasn’t racist. Tricia Randolph could have been blue, green, or polka-dotted, and I would have disliked her just the same.”

  Jasper was reminding her of someone, Liz thought, and after a second, she realized it was her mother. She said, “Did you
ruin the professor’s computer? You must have.” Jasper said nothing, and Liz added, “I can’t believe you peed on a writer’s computer.”

  “Don’t tell me you never did anything dumb when you were twenty-two.”

  “I loved you so much.” Liz didn’t raise her voice; she felt more sad than outraged. “From the time we met—I would have done anything for you. I thought you were so smart and cute and funny, and I was so flattered that you respected me and wanted to be friends. But how could you have strung me along all these years? If my excuse is a misguided crush, what’s yours?”

  “Nin—” Jasper said, and his pained tone was a reminder that, however he had transgressed, he hadn’t done so entirely callously. His affection for her was not fake; it just was partial. Or perhaps it was fake, he was faking emotion now, and he had a personality disorder; but between these possibilities, she preferred to see him as inadequate rather than clinically diagnosable. “I’m going to do better,” he said. “Starting now, I’m getting my act together. Don’t give up on me.”

  “Oh, Jasper,” Liz said. “I already have.”

  SHE HAD BEEN asleep for less than an hour when her cellphone rang again, and the sound of it in the dark, in a hotel room, late at night, was sufficiently unsettling that she answered before even looking at the caller ID to make sure it wasn’t Jasper again.

  “I woke you up,” said a female voice. “Sorry. I’ll call back tomorrow.”

  It wasn’t Jane; that was the fact Liz was certain of first, but several additional seconds passed before her brain determined who it was.

  “Charlotte,” she said. “Hi. It’s fine. I’m awake.”

  And then Charlotte Lucas began to sob, and between gulps, she said, “You told me so. You told me, but I moved here anyway, like an idiot.”

  “Hold on,” Liz said. “Slow down. Where are you?”

  “I’m at the house. His house.”

  “You’re not—he isn’t, like, abusive, is he?”

  Charlotte sniffled lavishly. “No, he’s not abusive. Willie’s a sweet, self-centered dork.”

  “Is he with you right now?”

  “He’s at work, where he always is.” Liz could hear Charlotte swallow, and she sounded slightly calmer when she next spoke. “I’m so dumb.”

  “Did something happen?”

  “I moved to a state where I don’t know anyone,” Charlotte said. “Including my own boyfriend. That’s what happened.”

  “But did something specific happen? Have you been feeling this way all along?”

  “I got a job offer,” Charlotte said, and Liz said, “That’s great!”

  “You’d think. It’s a good job, too, with a data analytics company that expects to triple in size in the next year. I’d had a bunch of interviews, but nothing panned out until I got the offer this afternoon. And somehow it made it all real. I’ve been taking it easy, like going to the gym for an hour and a half in the middle of the day and cooking fancy recipes that we eat at ten o’clock at night. But if I take this job, it means I’m no longer playing house, impersonating a good little 1950s homemaker. I’ll really live out here, long-term, with Willie.”

  “Do you not want that?”

  “I don’t know what I want!” Charlotte wailed. “Maybe instead of taking the job, I should get pregnant now, and that way, even if Willie and I break up, I’ll still be a mom.”

  “I can see how this feels overwhelming,” Liz said, “but I think you’re conflating separate issues.”

  “Have I mentioned that Willie snores like a freight train? And I lie there, thinking, Okay, if I’d dated him for two years before we moved in together, like normal people do—or even for six months—I’d have gotten used to this. Or I’d be deeply in love with him and be like, Oh, the endearing foibles of my darling boyfriend. Instead, I feel like I’m a mail-order bride, and he’s an annoying stranger robbing me of sleep.”

  “Nobody thinks snoring is endearing,” Liz said. “Does he know he does it?”

  “I have no idea!”

  “Ask him. If he doesn’t know, he should see a doctor in case he has breathing problems. And aren’t there special pillows you can buy? But the bigger question is whether you want to make it work. If you’d rather get on a plane and go back to Cincinnati, you’re allowed to. I’ll bet Procter would hire you again in a heartbeat.”

  “If I pay for your ticket, will you come out here and tell me what to do with my life?”

  “Now?”

  “Do you have plans for Labor Day weekend? You’re still in Cincinnati, right?”

  “I’m in Houston. I interviewed Kathy de Bourgh, who was giving a speech here today, and I was planning to go back to New York in the morning.”

  “Kathy de Bourgh—oh my God! Was she awesome?”

  “Yes,” Liz said. “She actually was.”

  “I know I’m asking a lot,” Charlotte said. “But I just need someone else’s perspective, someone who knows me well. We have a guest room.”

  The thought of staying in Willie’s house after their last interaction was not enticing to Liz. But she said, “I’ll look at flights after we get off the phone, but promise me one thing: Go to a drugstore right now and get earplugs. Or sleep in a different room tonight.”

  “Earplugs aren’t a bad idea,” Charlotte said.

  “Sleep deprivation makes other problems so much worse.”

  “You’re right. See how crazy I’ve become? I can’t even manage basic self-care.”

  “You’re being too hard on yourself. Just buy some earplugs, relax, and I’ll be there tomorrow.”

  “Thank you, Lizzy,” Charlotte said. “I really appreciate this. By the way, if you’re worried about things being awkward with Willie, awkwardness doesn’t register with him.”

  “That almost makes me jealous,” Liz said.

  “I know,” Charlotte said. “No kidding.”

  WAITING IN THE security line back at Houston’s George Bush Intercontinental Airport, Liz found herself indulging in a pointless and perhaps even masochistic imaginative exercise about what it would be like if Darcy were her boyfriend. Given his job, she would need to move to Cincinnati—a possibility that in theory would have seemed distinctly unappealing if not outright prohibitive but, for the reason in question, struck her as potentially manageable. Indeed, the proximity to her family, were she to establish her own life rather than simply facilitate theirs, might be a boon. She could help her parents settle into a new dwelling, keep a closer eye on their finances, and perhaps develop adult relationships with Mary, Kitty, and Lydia (or maybe that was delusional no matter the circumstances). Convincing Talia to allow her to work permanently from Cincinnati would be a challenge, but presumably a juicy profile of Kathy de Bourgh would put Liz’s editor in a magnanimous mood.

  Then, of course, there was the matter of Darcy himself—of sharing his bed not just for fifteen sweaty minutes at a time but for entire nights, of enjoying the confidence that he was glad she was there, which was such an oddly luxurious notion that it made her feel both swoony and heartbroken. The thought of him as the person with whom she partook of ordinary daily activities—eating soup and grilled cheese together for lunch on a winter Saturday, watching TV dramas or political talk shows at night, holding a palm to each other’s forehead or picking up cold medicine when one of them wondered if they were sick—seemed almost inconceivably bizarre. And yet it also filled her with a tender sort of yearning.

  If they lived together, she decided as she handed her ticket to the agent at the gate and boarded a plane not to New York but to San Francisco, they’d need to move to a bigger apartment or even a house, so that she could have an office. Though her interest in décor was limited, certainly in comparison to her mother’s, she didn’t think it would hurt to hang a print or two on the walls and acquire a plant.

  Except, of course, that none of this would come to pass. Surely she had destroyed any such eventualities by treating him with rash and unrepentant rudeness; surely his attractio
n to her had been rescinded.

  As it happened, she still possessed neither his phone number nor his email nor even his street address; on all the occasions on which she’d visited his apartment, she’d been more preoccupied with impending events than with the numerals by which his building was identified. But in this day and age, it couldn’t be difficult to track him down electronically. She could probably find his email on the University of Cincinnati website. And yet there remained the question of what Liz would say. I’m sorry seemed the most obvious option, but perhaps Hey, how’s it going? was a more casual opener.

  Out Liz’s plane window, the mountains of northwest Utah were snow-peaked and lunar, even in August. Too preoccupied to read, Liz scrutinized them at length, but they offered no sagacity. At last, she leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes.

  UPON LANDING IN San Francisco, Liz called Ken Weinrich to find out if the fumigation had concluded successfully, and he confirmed that the sulfuryl fluoride levels inside the house had measured at below five parts per million, he had seen no spiders, and his team had removed the tent and fans. Liz then called Mary’s cellphone, though it was difficult to hear Mary over the sound of their mother shouting in the background; apparently, they were back at the Tudor, in the kitchen.