Doing The Creep at 34,308 Words

After a great writing sesh with Heather, Sam and Jill, the plot of my novel has really taken flight. Andrew revealed to Olivia what happened with Bigsley and Ellie:

“I heard that Darcy was concerned that Bigsley might do something foolish, like propose.”

“Why would that be so foolish?”

“Darcy was apparently concerned about the lady,” he began. “He was concerned that perhaps her feelings for Bigsley were more motivated by his money and status than anything else.”

“What was the basis for these accusations?” Olivia demanded. “Did he have any reason to think that?”

The smile faded from Andrew’s face, and was replaced by a look of confusion.

“Do you… know more about this than you’re letting on?” he inquired.

Olivia tried to shake the look of deranged fury from her features that had crept up on her a lot quicker than she would have liked. She was hoping that her new look conveyed casual indifference.

“No,” she said, sounding like an eight year-old who had just been accused of being stupid. “I’m just curious.”

“Alright,” he seemed satisfied with her answer. “I suppose it was because she was because she is a lot less wealthy than Bigsley.”

“Everyone is a lot less wealthy than Bigsley.”

“Not to the degree that they need to drink American booze-laden energy drinks for breakfast.”

“I suppose not. But I heard, and this is just speculation, that it wasn’t her, but it was her roommate who drank that… American booze-laden energy drink for breakfast. And perhaps they just hadn’t gone shopping for a few days.”

“Well, either way, he was also concerned because she didn’t seem to feel the same way about Bigsley as Bigsley felt about her. It further contributed to the impression that the woman was more in love with his money than she was with him. He really had fallen hard for her, and Darcy encouraged him to stay away for a few months, probably to clear his head. He won’t run into her in the New York office, and it will be a lot easier for him to forget about her when there is an ocean between them.”

“How could he…” she began, but she was unable to complete the sentence without a series of expletives. “I’m very sorry to be so rude, but I’m not feeling well. I’m afraid that I have to go.” She added a cough and a stomach clutch for good measure. As she got up, she tried to act a little lightheaded and disoriented. She quickly stopped, however, since she felt it would not be prudent to convince Andrew that she was dying and needed to go to the hospital.

“Is there anything that I can do for you? Do you want me to call a taxi for you?”

“No, my house is just down the street,” she lied. This was in a much nicer part of town than her flats; there was no strip club in sight, and none of the cars parked next to the bakery had any duct tape on them. No one was writing his or her phone numbers on someone’s arm with a muddy stick, either. It was a far cry from Studley Road in Clapham, that was for sure.

He watched her walk quickly down the road, and when she walked into a nice looking townhouse, he called a taxi and left. Little did he know that she had in fact walked into a home that she did not live in, and that a group of people that she did not know was just sitting down to dinner. Perhaps it was some kind of family reunion, where people that you don’t know particularly well are welcomed into your home since they are “family.” They cautiously said hello, handed her a plate, and encouraged her to sit in one of the empty chairs. She contemplated staying—the food did look delicious—but thought better of it, since not only did she not feel like making up an elaborate lie to explain why she was there, but she was also fuming and had no desire to be around anybody.


Then as she is angrily walking around, she comes across this scene:

"I want to tell you about the man that I was before I met you,” a smarmy voice said; the same voice that she had heard so many times, in life and in her mind. She looked around the park frantically, simultaneously horrified and heartbroken. She did not want to see him. Not now, not ever.

Of course it was Fernando. Of course he still erroneously believed that he had the right to exist, even though she had long ago decided that he did not have that right. Of course he was sitting on a park bench with his back to her, beside a blonde who was beautiful, at least from behind.

“It’s hard for me to think about, and even harder for me to share with you. I wish that I could say that I have always been the man that you know—the man that you make me want to be,” Fernando continued in what must have been the fakest performance that she had ever seen. How had she ever believed him? How had she been so stupid?

Time had all but stopped; it felt to her that she was watching him in slow motion, with every syllable that he said to her feeling like a punch to her stomach. She couldn’t choose between running away or slapping him in the face; both seemed so fucking attractive to her. Instead, she did what any desperate and poorly adjusted person does: she hid. There are a lot of places to hide in parks (as many lurkists are well aware) and the tree a few meters away from their bench seemed just as good a place as any. It did not make her feel very good about herself to think that just two weeks ago she was dancing with Fernando in paradise, and now she was hiding behind a tree in a park, doing her best not to sob and give away her location. A guy hiding behind a nearby tree with a waistband so high that it was clear that he was expecting a flood, hair so slick that it seemed to be covered in mud, a trimmed pencil moustache and popped peepers—a certified creeper, one might have said—gave her the thumbs up. She did not return it.

He spoke to the blonde of his broken promises, his desire to be a better man, and the bright future that he felt he had with her. All of the things that he had said to Olivia just weeks before, now repeated to someone else. It broke her heart to realize that nothing he had ever said was genuine; he had been pretending all along. It made her even angrier—or was it sad? She wasn’t sure—that this woman, who he referred to as Chelsea, would probably believe it this time.

“I want to promise everything to you, and I want to be the kind of man who follows through. Until the end.” Fernando seemed to have finished his soliloquy, and was now walking away hand in hand with that “Chelsea” character.

Olivia got a glimpse of her, and quickly recognized her as socialite Chelsea Bridge, the daughter of Roman Bridge, some kind of shady Russian businessman. Olivia had seen Chelsea in the Daily Mail’s back pages, interacting with celebrities and having wardrobe malfunctions at all the right places. Close up, she looked almost like she was made of plastic; her appearance was about as real as Fernando’s words. But no matter how upset or jealous Olivia felt when she saw Chelsea, tearing her down in her mind wouldn’t bring Fernando back. It wouldn’t magically turn him into a good person. Chelsea wasn’t a deserving target; Fernando was.


Oh, and this is for Manta, addressing a question that you asked on yesterday's post. You probably recall that Colonel Fitzwilliam in P&P alludes to the fact that he couldn't seriously consider marrying Lizzie because she is poor, and as a younger son he cannot marry whoever he wants. I thought that if I were to make him overly concerned with the opinions of others, it would also serve as an indicator that he would not seriously consider being with Olivia because of what other people would think about it. I mentioned on their date that he picked an unpopular cafe, and that he had a hat pulled low over his face, so that no one would recognize him when he is out with Olivia.