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Elizabeth nearly choked on a laugh. “Oh, Jane, you always want to see the best in everyone. I don’t think it’s possible for both Will and George to be telling the truth. This isn’t a matter of interpretation.”
“Who do you believe?”
Elizabeth tilted her head back and stared at the ceiling. “One of them has been lying, and I’m afraid it’s been George.”
“Will’s story certainly has a ring of truth.”
“And it’s hard to believe he’d make something like that up about his own sister.”
“But George seems like such a nice guy. So caring and sincere. When he talks about being an EMT…”
“I know.” Elizabeth closed her eyes. She didn’t want to think that it was all an act.
“What about Lydia? She seems to like George.”
Elizabeth brushed hair from her eyes. “I thought of that…and I don’t know. I’d like to think she’s too smart to take drugs.”
Jane sighed. “I’d like to think that, too, but this is Lydia...”
“I suggested she go slow with Wickham…and it just fell on deaf ears.”
“I haven’t seen them together recently. Maybe she wised up and moved on to someone else.”
Both sisters were silent for a moment. “What do you think the odds are of that?” Elizabeth finally asked.
“Not good,” Jane admitted.
“Yeah.” Elizabeth retreated further into the corner of the sofa. “I guess I’ll have to talk to her about him tomorrow.”
Late that night when Elizabeth had trouble sleeping, the words in Will’s email ran through her mind. Only then did she realize that he had never really apologized.
Chapter Eleven
The final scene had been shot, and the caterers had assembled long tables of hors d’oeuvres for the wrap party on what was left of the set: only the bare walls of Thorne’s office. Elizabeth’s father gave a rambling speech and then popped the cork on the first bottle of champagne. The mood was convivial, and the space was crowded—not only with actors but also crew, additional producers, studio personnel, and just about anyone else who had a hand in creating the movie.
The prospect of a party had even enticed Catherine de Bourgh; she held court in one corner of the set, complaining about the quality of the food while feeding stuffed mushroom caps to Cecil B. DeMille. Bill Collins flirted with Charlotte when he wasn’t keeping Mrs. de Bourgh cool with a giant palm-frond fan.
Elizabeth expected to feel relief at the end of filming. At least she wouldn’t have to continued avoiding William Darcy. But she was surprised by a vague sense of nostalgia. The rhythm of Hollywood was a familiar part of her life, and she had difficulty imagining her life without it.
&
nbsp; Elizabeth and Jane had invited Ricky to the event, so she checked for him at the entrance every few minutes. Most screenwriters were eager to see their screenplays being filmed, but Ricky had refused multiple invitations. Perhaps he feared he would have “creative differences” with Roberta, or maybe it was some kind of social anxiety issue.
On the other side of the set, Darcy laughed at something Caroline said, and Elizabeth’s eyes automatically darted in his direction. It’s like I’m tuned to his exact wavelength. But she deliberately turned her back on the sight. There were a lot of handsome guys at the party; this was Hollywood after all. Why couldn’t my hormones have targeted someone else for an obsession?
Still, his email had altered her perspective. You are one of the prettiest and most interesting people I have ever met, and I find myself more intrigued every time I see you. It wasn’t every woman who heard those words from a Hollywood icon.
I need a distraction. And there was Lydia, crossing the room toward the hors d’oeuvres table, her single-minded focus on a chafing dish of Swedish meatballs. Fortunately, George Wickham didn’t seem to be in attendance, making now an excellent time to warn Lydia about him.
Her sister had scooped some meatballs onto a plate but was just staring at them. “Lydia?”
“Every time I see meatballs, I think of George’s movie.”
Elizabeth had forgotten about the movie. “Er…right.”
Her sister stuck a toothpick in a meatball and held it up to the light to examine. “I’m trying to picture the scene where the Martian meatballs float through the streets of San Francisco. Can you just imagine it?”
“No.”
