Page 45 of Love ad Lib
Henry rubbed the back of his neck. ‘Because the female lead is called Elizabeth Bennet.’
‘Yes, and can I just say again that I can’t believe you haven’t read it.’
‘Is that important?’
‘Kind of. I have, I meanElizabethhas a Jane Austen obsession and thinks you’re her Mr Darcy.’
‘He’s the hero?’
‘Mostly.’
‘What do you mean, mostly?’
‘Just read the book. It’ll all become clear.’
‘Can I watch the film instead?’
Libby glanced across at Henry. Everything about his face was taut with tension. Her stomach may have been in knots, but at least she could hide it.
‘Yes, but the 1995 TV series is the best adaptation. Honestly, Henry, it's all fine.Elizabethjust fantasises that you’re like Mr Darcy. A bit aloof and standoffish.’
‘I can do that alright.’
‘But inside you’re soft and gooey. You’re a cinnamon roll.’
‘I’m awhatnow?’
‘You’re a hero who is sweet inside even though you might have a gruff exterior.’
‘Sounds like my friend, Finn. He spends his whole life acting like a bear with a sore head.’
‘But his insides are honey?’
The corner of his mouth turned up. ‘If we get a chance to meet him you’ve got to tell him that.’
‘Will he growl if I do? Bite a piece of furniture?’
‘Probably. If he does, just remember he’s harmless.’
‘When did you last see him?’
‘Last year. We managed one evening in the pub.’ Henry shook his head. ‘I can’t believe it’s been that long.’
‘What about Jack, your other best friend?’
The smile disappeared and the frown retook residence on his face. ‘We keep in touch sporadically by phone, but I haven’t seen him in years. He’s got a flat in London but spends most of his time abroad in France. He never comes back to Foxbrooke.’
They settled into silence as the busy road turned into a busier motorway. Last night, Libby had told Claire about the job. Her friend responded as if she’d won the lottery. ‘It’s just an improv gig,’ she’d replied. Claire, however, had acted as if they’d just discovered Libby was the heir to a small European principality.
And now she was here, trying to imagine being Henry’s real girlfriend. But each time she pictured the two of them together, a stone wall appeared between them, and a sign appeared on her side informing her that peasants would be shot on sight if caught trespassing. It felt like being back with Giles.
Henry’s car was a perfect example of how different his life was from hers. He drove a smart, navy BMW. The seats were leather and the interior was immaculate. Every one of her friends’ cars had dust over the dash, dirt and grit in the footwells and rubbish stashed in the door recesses. Henry’s car was like its owner—far too nice to touch.
‘I’m sorry,’ he began. ‘I haven’t asked you more about Lucas’s opening night.’
‘Oh, yes.’
The memory of his show sat in Libby’s guts like a bad meal that reminded you of its presence days later. Her emotions had been bouncing between anger, embarrassment and grief. Why had she been so stupid?
