Eligible

“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.”

Chapter 28 (#ulink_1394de89-e39c-5467-b1f6-5c10384edab1)

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?”

“No more so than our dinners usually do. Carry on.”

Chip grinned. “The other reason things could get dramatic was that the alcohol was flowing, and not just at night. They’d serve booze from lunch on, and if there was a justifiable way of offering it earlier, like a Bloody Mary at brunch, they’d do that.”

“Now it’s actually starting to sound civilized,” Mr. Bennet said.

“Too bad you’re married, huh, Dad?” Kitty said.

“You’re being filmed, and you’re mic’d, from the time you wake up in the morning until you go to sleep at night.” Chip was still holding his fork above his plate, not biting. “They’ve taken away your cellphone and forbidden computers, music, even books and magazines—partly to avoid copyright issues, but also because none of that makes for good television. Who wants to watch people read? Or if you were listening to music, it’d be hard for the editor to cut the scene. But that means you’re bored, you have no privacy, and you’re separated from your normal support system. It’s a perfect storm for acting out. I guess I’d say people are themselves, but they’re also not themselves, if that makes sense.”

“Are you mic’d when you’re taking a dump?” Lydia asked.

“Lydia,” Jane said.

Chip seemed unfazed. “That’s the one place you do get privacy.”

“What’s Rick Price like?” The question came from, of all people, Aunt Margo. For the past eleven years, which in TV math was somehow the equivalent of eighteen seasons, Rick Price had been the host: an affable-seeming fellow from Phoenix, Arizona, who had gotten his start as a meteorologist.

“He was a good guy,” Chip said. “The same off-camera as on. It must be a strange job, because on a typical day, I’d guess he was on-set four or five hours, but then some of the challenges and ceremonies would literally last all night. Or he’d travel with us to Barcelona. One thing I had to remind myself was that even though he was nice, part of his job description was to stir the pot. He and the producers were like town gossips. They’d tell me, ‘Such-and-such girl told so-and-so that you said this to her.’”

“It’s your sister who convinced you to do the show, isn’t it?” Mrs. Bennet said. “It wasn’t your idea.” From their separate ends of the table, Liz and Jane made eye contact.

“I hadn’t seen Eligible when Caroline suggested I apply. She shot a video of me, just chatting for a few minutes. But I filled out the forms. I thought it was silly, but I did it to humor her.”

“I knew it!” Mrs. Bennet said.

“Now, I must admit,” Chip added, “that before you’re selected, they subject you to a very intense background check. There’s a battery of psychological and physical exams that must be as thorough as what a vice-presidential candidate goes through. The producers aren’t messing around. So it would be disingenuous to pretend I just woke up one day and found myself on TV. I could have opted out along the way.”

In a warm voice, Cousin Willie asked, “Any skeletons in your closet they uncovered?”