Eligible (12 page)

Noah Trager was the current editor in chief of
Dude,
a men’s magazine; Edward van Pallandt was its publisher’s creative director, a bon vivant who had, in one of the great moments of Liz’s entire life, complimented her shoes as they were riding the elevator together. (The shoes were beige suede caged booties, and, most gloriously of all, Liz had purchased them for thirty dollars at TJ Maxx in Cincinnati.) As for the Burmese dissident, Liz didn’t know who that was.

She said, “How certain is it that Noah is being fired? Who told you?”

“I’ve heard it from a couple people.”

“I think it’s fine to go to the benefit and talk to Edward van Pallandt, to remind him who you are, but I wouldn’t mention
Dude
specifically. That seems vulturish. Is your résumé updated?”

“I’ll send it to you, and you can take a gander. You know what you should send me? A picture of you in the lingerie.”

“With or without my mom in the background?”

Jasper chuckled. “She knows you’re an adult, Nin.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure.” Liz propped her feet on her desk and leaned her chair back on two legs. “Who’s the Burmese dissident?” she asked. “An artist?”

“Hmm,” Jasper said. “Maybe I should learn the answer to that question before I go tonight.”

AUNT MARGO AND
Cousin Willie arrived at the Tudor in time for cocktails on Tuesday; also, unprecedentedly, Chip Bingley would be joining the Bennets for dinner. “I think it’s good Aunt Margo and Willie are here, because they’ll distract Mom,” Liz said to Jane in the kitchen as she poured almonds into a bowl. “Maybe she won’t get in Chip’s face as much.”

“Shouldn’t it take the pressure off that Dad and Mom both met him at the Lucases’?” Jane said. “That’s what I’ve been telling myself.”

“Oh, the question isn’t whether
they’ll
approve of
him
. But if he wasn’t scared off by Lydia and Kitty at Charades, then I bet you’re in the clear.” Liz folded over the top of the almond bag and clipped it shut. “By the way, I feel like Willie has hired a stylist. He looks a lot better.”

Jane smiled. “You don’t think he could have spruced up on his own?”

“Not to be uncharitable, but no. Those are extremely trendy pants he has on.” And yet—even more uncharitably—from the moment of their clumsy hug outside the airport terminal, where she’d picked up the visitors, Liz had also been sure that, wardrobe notwithstanding, Willie’s essential awkwardness remained intact. In her head, Liz thought of him as either the most confident awkward person she’d ever known or the awkwardest confident person. Of medium height, with a chubby build and puffy red hair, he continued to show a fondness for speaking at length about his professional pursuits that was tempered only slightly by his listeners’ inability to follow.

When Liz and Jane entered the living room where their sisters, parents, aunt, and cousin were gathered, Willie appeared to be in mid-monologue. “We get thirty million unique visitors per month,” he was saying, and as Liz made eye contact with her father, who was seated just a few feet from Willie, Mr. Bennet let his eyelids droop. Liz looked away. “If you want to compare that to the competition, it’s not even close,” Willie said. “Jig-Jig gets ten million,
maybe
twelve. Once the kinks are worked out, we’ll leave everyone else in the dust.”

“I don’t suppose you have cheese and crackers,” Aunt Margo said.

Simultaneously, Mrs. Bennet said, “Mary, put out the Vermont cheddar,” and Lydia said, “The casomorphins in cheese are as addictive as opium.”

In a peevish tone, Mrs. Bennet said, “Everyone has very strong opinions about what we eat these days.”

“Lizzy,” Willie said, “I saw in the airport that they’re still printing dead-tree issues of your magazine.”

“That’s how some people prefer to read,” Liz said. “I realize you’re not one of them.”

Mrs. Bennet said, “Willie, if there’s anything special you’d like to do in Cincinnati, Liz has the most open schedule. Jane is tied up now with her new beau, who’ll be joining us for dinner.” Mrs. Bennet turned to her sister-in-law. “His name is Chip Bingley, and he moved here to work at Christ Hospital. He went to Harvard Medical School.”

“Bingley, did you say?” Willie squinted. “That name sounds familiar.”

With pleasure, Mrs. Bennet said, “It was his great-great-grandfather who started Bingley Manufacturing, which of course has made sinks and such for years and years.”

“And by sinks, Mom means toilets,” Lydia said. “We’re all crossing our fingers that Jane becomes the crapper queen.”

Mildly, Jane said, “Chip and I have only gone out a few times.”

“He’s very serious about you,” Mrs. Bennet said. “Now, does his family still own Bingley Manufacturing or did they sell it?”

“That hasn’t come up,” Jane said.

“If only there were a global computer network where you could find that kind of information,” Willie said, and he chuckled as he pulled out his phone.

Liz said, “Willie, do you watch
Eligible
? Because Chip was on it a couple years ago.”

“That was just a little silliness,” Mrs. Bennet said. “Just blowing off steam after his residency.”

But Willie looked up from his phone with recognition. “He was the one who cried in the finale!” Willie said. “I knew I’d heard his name.”

“I didn’t know you watch
Eligible,
” Aunt Margo said to Willie, and Liz said, “Don’t we all? Besides Jane.”

“He was under a lot of pressure.” Jane cleared her throat, then spoke more loudly. “The crying thing—a producer had told him that one of the women was suicidal because he didn’t propose to her, and he felt awful. It’s not like he cries more than the average man.”

It wasn’t so much the content of Jane’s comments as their knowing and protective tone that caught Liz’s attention. Maybe, as improbable as it seemed, Chip Bingley really was Jane’s happy ending. How wonderful this would be, and how deserving Jane was.

Cousin Willie scrolled down the screen of his phone. “In 1986, the Bingley family sold Bingley Manufacturing to multinational industrial company L. M. Clarkson. Doesn’t say for how much, but, Jane, it’s safe to assume your guy has a nice cushion under him if he ever gets sued for malpractice.” Willie glanced up. “Lizzy, I’d love a tour of the city. Margo and I figured out on the plane that I haven’t been here since I was fourteen. All these years, Dad and I were planning to come back when one of you got married.” He spoke warmly, without apparent awareness of the topic’s sensitivity, then added, “According to the Twitter hive, the zoo and the Underground Railroad museum are Cincinnati’s must-see destinations.”

Mr. Bennet said, “Or if you’d like a recommendation, you could ask someone who’s lived here for sixty-four years.”

“Dad,
you’ve
never been to the Freedom Center,” Kitty said.

“No, but I did used to date Harriet Tubman.”

Liz said, “Dad, I’m taking you to physical therapy tomorrow at nine, right? Then I have to do a phone interview at eleven. But, Willie, I could give you a tour after that. Or, I don’t know, Mary, would you want to?”

“I have too much work.” As Mary shook her head without even feigning regret, Liz was reminded of her theory that, because Mary wasn’t very pretty, she received credit for being intelligent or virtuous in ways that, as far as Liz could discern, her sister was not. In fact, Liz disliked Mary more than she disliked Lydia, and certainly more than Kitty, all of whom, of course, out of obligation and habit, she loved. But if you assumed that accompanying Mary’s supposedly scholarly interests was an open-minded acceptance of others, or that accompanying her homeliness was compassion, you’d be wrong; Mary was proof, Liz had concluded, of how easy it was to be unattractive
and
unpleasant.

“I have loads of meetings tomorrow for my Women’s League luncheon,” Mrs. Bennet was saying to Aunt Margo and Willie. “The girls will tell you I’ve been working myself to the bone. But we’ll all have dinner at the country club.” She leaned forward, as if to divulge a bit of confidential information, and whispered, “Margo, I’m sure you remember how delicious their Caesar salad is.”

“Is that water damage on the wall?” Aunt Margo stood and crossed the living room. “My God, Fred, you’re lucky the house hasn’t crumbled around you.”

“I’m still hoping it might,” Mr. Bennet replied.

“That happened during a rainstorm last week,” Mrs. Bennet said, and though Liz didn’t consider her mother a particularly faithful adherent to the truth, the fib, occurring in front of no fewer than six people who could have contradicted it, was unusually bold. “But now that you’ve reminded me, Margo,” Mrs. Bennet added cheerfully, “I’ll be sure to call the handyman.”

THEY ATE IN
the dining room instead of the kitchen. Prior to Willie and Aunt Margo’s arrival, Lydia and Kitty had been tasked with moving boxes from the front hall and the dining room table to Jane’s old room (CrossFit notwithstanding, this was the first time since Liz’s return home that she had seen her youngest sisters exert themselves), and, along with her most elegant china, Mrs. Bennet had put out place cards, presumably to ensure that Chip Bingley sat next to her. He had arrived bearing both a bottle of wine and a bouquet of flowers, and though a vase of purple hydrangea had already occupied the table’s center, Mrs. Bennet had instructed Liz to whisk them away and display Chip’s arrangement instead, as if he’d interpret the existence of another bouquet as a personal affront.

After much discussion between Jane and Mrs. Bennet, the menu consisted of cold poached salmon, roasted potatoes, a green salad, and a berry tart. Because of the supreme importance of the evening, Mrs. Bennet had set aside her Women’s League responsibilities, and mother and daughter had spent the entire day tidying the first floor and preparing the meal.

It was only a minute or two after they’d all sat down that Kitty asked, “Chip, did they pay you to be on
Eligible
?”

“I was wondering the same thing,” Cousin Willie said, and Mrs. Bennet said, “Goodness gracious, Chip doesn’t want to talk about that. Tell me, Chip, is it Philadelphia where your parents live?”

Chip, who had recently taken a bite, chewed, then patted his mouth with a white linen napkin. “They live on the Main Line,” he said. “So the suburbs, though I’ve tried to talk them into buying an apartment downtown. Center City has really experienced a renaissance in recent years.” He glanced at Kitty, who was across the table from him. “I don’t mind talking about the show.” He turned back toward Mrs. Bennet. “If you don’t mind, that is. I wouldn’t want to offend your sense of propriety.”

Had sweeter words ever been spoken to Mrs. Bennet? And by a wealthy suitor courting her eldest daughter, no less! Practically purring, Mrs. Bennet set her hand on Chip’s forearm and said, “Go right ahead.”

Looking around the table, Chip said, “I trust that this conversation is off the record. But, yes, the star of each season gets paid. I think the amount varies based on negotiations by one’s lawyer or agent—in my case, it was an entertainment lawyer, because I didn’t have an agent—but it’s a respectable amount.”

“Six figures?” Lydia asked, and Mrs. Bennet said, “Heavens, Lydia, where are your manners?”

Chip smiled gamely. “Let’s leave it at
respectable.
”

“Are you saying you got paid and the women didn’t?” Mary asked.

“I fear that might be the case,” Chip said, “though it’s not because of sexism. The same is true when the star of the cast is female and the contestants are men. Either way, I think everyone at least gets a per diem.”

“How long was the shoot?” Liz asked. She was at the far end of the table from Chip, between Cousin Willie and her father.

“Shorter than you’d think,” Chip said. “Eight weeks.”

“It’s all scripted, right?” Mary said. “Everyone knows it is.”

“Yes and no,” Chip said. “Sure, the producers nudge you in certain directions. Or something happens spontaneously, but the cameras didn’t catch it just right, or maybe somebody was sneezing in the background, so they do three more takes. And obviously the great majority of footage never makes it on the air. They have a few hundred hours to whittle down for each eighty-minute episode. But I still think people’s essential personalities come through. A lot of those girls were a bit outrageous to begin with.” He glanced around the table. “Have I put you to sleep yet, Mr. Bennet?”