The Secret Diary of Lizzie Bennet (31 page)

Jane was right: I did need to go out into the world, and not be afraid. Besides, what do I have to stay home for? More of Mom’s passive-aggressive comments about my love life and
Lydia’s silent treatment?

“I’ll make a few calls, see if it’s still possible,” Dr. Gardiner finally said.

“Thank you!” I admit, I might have bounced a little bit.

“I’ll let you know early next week if it’s a go, but Lizzie—if it happens, it will happen fast. So make sure you have everything else cleared out of the way,
okay?”

“Yes, of course,” I said, knowing she was talking about having my second prospectus done. Which shouldn’t be a problem. I’ll just . . . not sleep until I finish.
“Thank you again. And happy holidays!”

“Merry Christmas, Lizzie,” Dr. Gardiner called after me, as I practically skipped down the hallway.

San Francisco, here I come.

Merry Christmas! Right now, we have reached my favorite part of Christmas Day: that pleasant lull after the presents are opened, the festivities done, and everyone goes to
separate corners to play with their new toys. While I wait for my new four-terabyte hard drive to sync up (thanks, Bestie!), I thought I’d jot down my impressions of this year.

As Christmases go, it’s been an above-average one, I think. Certainly better than when I was eight and I decided to help Mom make Christmas breakfast and ended up making the omelets with
what I thought was blue cheese. But it turns out, this cheese wasn’t supposed to be blue. We all ended up spending the holiday in line for our one bathroom, doubled over in pain.

This holiday was the first one where I felt like gathering together as a family was a special occasion. With Jane in LA and Charlotte at Collins & Collins, seeing them again (and yes, I know
I saw them a month ago) filled me with all those warm holiday feelings the commercials preach.

Cousin Mary, Aunt Martha, and Uncle Randy came over last night. Uncle Randy isn’t Martha’s husband, but he’s been her not-living-together boyfriend for so long we’ve
always just called him Uncle Randy. (Dad claims he has long since stopped judging his hippie sister, but he still only shakes Randy’s hand instead of hugging him. Although that might just be
the overwhelming patchouli.) Mary brought her bass guitar as always and picked out “Jingle Bells,” which is a true sign that it’s Christmas, according to Jane. My mom took Martha
for a last-minute whirlwind at the mall, and I would have thought that Lydia and Mary would have been thick as thieves, considering how much time they’ve spent together this past year (what
with Lydia staying at Mary’s all through August, and Mary tutoring Lydia in math), but no. Lydia pretty much stayed in her room, talking on the phone with her friends from school, whoever
they might be.

Jane said I should give it time. Charlotte doesn’t say anything, but I can tell she’s concerned.

Unfortunately, Jane and Charlotte’s visit is going to be shorter this time around—I guess extended Thanksgivings lead to truncated Christmas breaks, but I’ll take what I can
get. Especially with Lydia still giving me the cold shoulder.

I have decided that I can’t care about Lydia’s current snit. I just can’t. I have my own life to focus on, and she shouldn’t get what she wants simply because she’s
stubborn enough to hold her breath until she passes out.

So, yes, I can’t care about it right now. Especially if Mom can’t be bothered to care, either.

“Lizzie, I don’t know why you’re so hard on the girl.”

“Because no one else is,” I muttered beneath my breath.

“Her grades are up, and everyone deserves a little fun.” She sighed wistfully. “I had fun in Vegas when I was a girl.”

There’s no need to get deeper into that, so I just shot my dad a look and continued cleaning up the discarded wrapping paper from our usual Christmas carnage (which didn’t decrease
at all this year, even given my parents’ brush with foreclosure over the summer—maybe I really should have gotten Dad a book on how to manage finances).

“Your sister is just getting it out of her system,” my Dad whispered to me. “I have a feeling that once she comes back from Las Vegas, everything will go back to our warped
version of normal.”

You’re probably right, Dad. The problem is, I don’t think our warped version of normal is very good for Lydia. Or for us.

Right now, she’s in her room, packing for Las Vegas. Funded by her advertising revenue from her own videos and with Mom’s permission to use their shared car, she’s taking off
in the morning. I doubt I’ll get a good-bye out of her.

Which is unfortunate, because by the time she comes back, I’ll be gone myself. And I have to admit, I’m surprisingly eager to say good-bye to this drama-filled year and move on to
the next thing.

In fact, I just got an email yesterday about the next thing! I’m very excited, because come the first week of January, I’m going to San Francisco! I’ll be apartment-sitting in
the city (yay!) for a friend of Dr. Gardiner’s, while I shadow a company called Pemberley Digital.

Hm. That name is vaguely familiar to me. I’ll have to look it up.

Nothing like starting off the year with a desperate phone call to your faculty advisor hoping to get you out of something you really don’t want to do. Although this time,
it doesn’t seem like I was as convincing as I was with my bid to stay at Collins & Collins.

* * *

“Hi, Dr. Gardiner! I’m so glad I finally got through to you! . . . Yes, I realize that you’re on vacation. . . . In Australia! Wow, that must be fun. . . . So
it’s about four in the morning there, isn’t it? Okay, then, let me get right to the point—this company in San Francisco—that you have been so gracious as to set me up
with—it’s called Pemberley Digital, right? . . . Well, interestingly, and I’m sure you’re going to laugh, that’s the name of William Darcy’s company, too. . . .
William Darcy? The, uh . . . stuck-up hipster who I’ve mentioned in my videos? . . . True, I’ve more than mentioned him, and that’s actually kind of my point. How am I supposed to
shadow the company of a person that I haven’t exactly been the biggest fan of—or treated very nicely—on the Internet?

“. . . No, I don’t have a backup company for my independent study, but I’m sure I could find one. . . . Yes, I understand that this is my last term, and that the independent
studies are extremely truncated. . . . Yes, I understand that, but . . . No, of course not. . . . So, if I didn’t go, I wouldn’t be able to graduate on time? . . . Yes. . . . Yes. . . .
No, I get it. You’re absolutely right. . . . Actually, I’m headed up there in a few hours—I’ll be in San Francisco tomorrow. Okay. . . . Happy New Year to you, too, Dr.
Gardiner.”

* * *

Well. Looks like there’s no getting out of it without jeopardizing my graduation schedule. So, I don’t really have a choice.

To Pemberley Digital, therefore, I shall go.

I’ve been in San Francisco for four days now and I am already in love. With the city.

And, I have to admit, with my new independent study.

After I got off the phone with Dr. Gardiner, I accepted my fate. No, that’s not true—I moped and worried and bit my nails raw the entire ride up to Charlotte’s. My bestie
offered to drive me to San Francisco so I could leave my car for Mom, who is without one while Lydia flits off to Vegas. (One could say that it’s Mom’s own fault for letting her go, but
whatever. I’m the good daughter.) Plus, I won’t have to worry about parking, and the apartment I’m house-sitting is within an easy mile of the Pemberley Digital offices. Besides,
I like to walk.

We stayed over at Charlotte’s place on Tuesday, and she dropped me off at the apartment the next morning.

“It will be okay,” she told me, as we drove over the bridge into San Francisco proper. “Think about it—you were at Collins & Collins for two months and how often did
you see the CEO?”

“Ricky?” I replied. “Almost every day that he wasn’t in Winnipeg, Manitoba.”

“Yeah, well . . . we’re a much smaller company. Besides, you said that Darcy was in Los Angeles right now—even you, with your luck, would have difficulty running into him if
he’s in a different city.”

That was true, and it was the only thing calming me down. Darcy’s tweets place him squarely in Los Angeles for the foreseeable future (what good is social media if it can’t help you
avoid awkward run-ins with the guy who told you he loved you, who you then shut down?) and therefore I shouldn’t worry about seeing him. Heck, he might not even know that I’m here.

Although I have to sort of assume that he does know I’m here. Especially if he’s still watching my videos. Plus, wouldn’t he have to have approved me shadowing his company?

“Not necessarily,” Charlotte said, as we pulled up to the corner of Hayes and Octavia, in front of a sandy-colored three-story apartment building that was to be my home for the next
couple of months. “Like I said, his company is bigger than Collins & Collins. Do you think the President of the United States approves all of the interns at the White House?”

Again, Charlotte knows exactly what to say to make me feel better.

We grabbed my bags and headed up the stairs to my top-floor apartment. When I found the keys and swung the door open, both Charlotte and I stood there for a minute, mouths agape.

“Okay, I’m not usually jealous of you,” Char said, “but I’m getting a little jealous of you.”

The apartment was gorgeous. Small—but what in a major metropolitan area is spacious?—and perfect for me. There were shelves and shelves of books that lined one wall, and an open
kitchen with a huge table right before the room flowed into the living space. Big windows fed airy light to a few hanging plants. A bedroom beyond, and everything decorated with tasteful restraint.
I couldn’t have dreamed of a better apartment for me. Seriously, I don’t even think Jane could design a space better, and she’s the professional.

“The bathroom has a claw-foot tub!” Charlotte cried. “Okay, calming breath, calming breath—remember that you have a washer/dryer in unit.”

“True. But Pemberley Digital has an in-house laundry service,” I said, inspecting an antique writing desk.

The noise Charlotte made cannot be recorded by our current technology. “Who are you house-sitting for again?”

“A friend of Dr. Gardiner’s who is taking a sabbatical in South America for the semester. She just wants someone to collect the mail and water the plants.”

“And you get to live here for free?”

“Actually, I get a small stipend.”

Charlotte made another non-recordable noise. Then, taking another few calming breaths, she pasted a smile on her face. “Come on—let’s go check out that cute French café
across the street and then walk around the neighborhood. I’ll try to restrain myself from cursing your good luck in the meantime.”

The neighborhood (the tourist maps call it Hayes Valley, near SoMa, which stands for South of Market, which is not a pretentious-sounding acronym at all) was delightful. Full of young people
chatting, little stores with handmade things, and a wide breadth of boutique coffee shops. Charlotte and I wandered for a little bit, found a place to have lunch, and after one more
Don’t-worry-Pemberley-Digital-will-be-Darcy-free pep talk, Char got back in her car and drove home to her own apartment with a washer/dryer.

It felt strange being on my own for the first time . . . ever. It still does. In college I had roommates, and at home I share a bathroom with two parents and two sisters. This is the first time
in my life I’ve lived alone. On the one hand, I have complete control of the remote. On the other hand, it is eerily quiet.

But I couldn’t let myself get too weirded out by my newfound personal freedom just then, because on Friday, I had my orientation at my new independent study.

“Welcome to Pemberley Digital!” cried the very chipper tour guide, as she handed out badges to me and a group of fourth graders.

The entryway to Pemberley is a beautiful glass atrium, stretching all the way up through the center of the building, feeding natural light down to the fountain in the middle. People moved across
glass walkways, saying hi to each other or asking questions in the open atmosphere. Everyone curious, everyone energized. It reminded me of the very best of college campuses. I was five minutes
through the door and already I was in awe, stretching my neck to see all the way up.

“Lizzie Bennet,” the tour leader said to me as she handed me my badge. “We are so excited to have you shadowing Pemberley!” Then . . . she hugged me.

Belatedly, I realized that was the first clue. At the time, however, I was simply surprised that Pemberley was such a huggy place.

“Now, everyone, Pemberley Digital is a new media and entertainment company that builds technology platforms as well as content. So, what does that mean?” She smiled at the fourth
graders. “Well, our CEO, William Darcy—” She grinned wider when she said his name. And oddly, so did other employees within earshot. “—would say we are an innovative
firm dedicated to the next wave of communication innovation. But basically it means we make stuff for the Internet. And yes, that’s a real job.”

That got a laugh out of the fourth-grade teachers.

Our tour guide walked us through the atrium and into the building proper.

“Is that a slide?” one of the kids asked. “And a ball pit?”

“These are some of the offices of our creative team,” our tour guide said. “We encourage everyone to decorate their office as out-of-the-box as they want. Conformity
doesn’t often lead to creativity.”

I’d say it was out-of-the-box—it looked like a jungle gym with desk space. The next office looked like an undersea pavilion. The fourth graders ohhed and ahhed. (And they
weren’t the only ones.)

“And these are our napping pods. Anyone can climb in and take a nap for a half an hour, whenever they need it.”

I could easily imagine the noise Charlotte would make if she were here.