Chapter Text
Mary Bennet, aged twenty-six, had developed a system for dealing with her family.
Rule one: ignore the family group chat for as long as humanly possible.
Rule two: answer Jane’s messages immediately, Elizabeth’s eventually, and everyone else’s only when guilt became overwhelming.
Rule three: never, under any circumstances, answer the phone when her mother called.
The system has worked admirably for nearly three years, ever since she had moved to London for her masters program in geophysics, and then when she had continued onto doctoral work. Unfortunately, Lydia Bennet’s wedding appeared immune to it.
Mary stared at the latest barrage of messages lighting up her phone screen.
Lydia: Need final numbers for welcome dinner ASAP!!!
Lydia: Everyone bring white for the yacht!
Lydia: And don't forget the cocktail dinner is "Old Hollywood Glamour" themed
Lydia: After party theme has been changed to Disco Riviera
Lydia: Love u all 💕💕💕
Mary blinked.
“What,” she asked her empty flat, “is a Disco Riviera?”
Her phone buzzed again.
Kitty: What’s Disco Riviera?
Jane: I’m sure she’ll explain.
Lizzie: She absolutely will not
Mary dropped her head against the sofa. There were one hundred and seventy-three unread messages in the wedding group. Each message from the bride-to-be, it seems, garnered five additional questions.
The wedding was in Sardinia. Or maybe Ibiza. Possibly both. Nobody seemed entirely sure.
The date had changed twice.
There was apparently a yacht involved.
An itinerary had arrived in the form of a Pinterest board two days ago, prompting their mother to hire a wedding planner in self-defence.
Across the room, Mary’s laptop displayed a half baked thermochemical convection model simulation that was due on her research supervisor’s desk in the morning.
She should have been working. Instead she was trying to determine whether ‘Old Hollywood Glamour’ required a floor-length gown, the likes of which were absent in her carefully curated, gaily coloured and very modest wardrobe.
Her phone rang.
Mum.
Mary considered several options. Throwing the phone out the window. Pretending she was dead. Moving to another country. Letting it go to voicemail. Then she remembered the last five calls that had already gone to voicemail this week.
“Hello, mum.”
“Mary!”
She winced. Conversations with Mrs Bennet always started at maximum volume.
“Have you bought your dresses?”
“Not yet, mum.”
“Well, you must. The wedding is only six weeks away.”
“I know, mum.”
“And you’ll need something flattering.”
There it was. Not even ten seconds, a new record. Mary pinched the bridge of her nose.
“I have dresses, mum.”
“Something that softens your frame,” her mother continued. “You do dress so severely, Mary.”
Mrs Bennet launched into a detailed explanation of why destination weddings required extensive planning and the catastrophic consequences of being under-dressed for the Mediterranean. Mary made the appropriate noises.
“And Jane says she’s bringing Charlie and the children.”
Of course she was. Jane had been married for nearly eight years now. Her and Charlie somehow managed to combine successful careers, two children, and what happened to be genuine happiness. It was frankly suspicious.
“And Lizzie’s husband confirmed this morning. They’re bringing the twins.”
The twins were chaos incarnate. Mary adored them.
“Even Kitty’s bringing the doctor boyfriend of hers.”
Mrs Bennet lowered her voice dramatically.
“What about you, Mary?”
Mary stared at the ceiling, there it was, the reason she was calling.
“I’m coming to celebrate Lydia’s wedding, mum.”
“That’s not what I mean, Mary. You ought to bring someone.”
Ever since Mary’s older sisters had both married millionaires, Lydia had been proposed to by a startup founder three months after meeting on Tinder, and Kitty had moved in with her doctor boyfriend who was barely home, Mrs Bennet had directed all her ambitions towards Mary. Meanwhile Mary spent most of her time staring at planetary mantle composition charts and calculating their thermodynamic equations. Her social circle entirely consisted of two neighbours and her research group.
“I don’t have someone, mum.”
A pause. Then, in the careful tone usually reserved for discussing terminal illnesses, “Perhaps one of the nice young men from your lab?”
Mary barked out a laugh. “Mum, half the people in my department haven’t seen sunlight since the start of the year. And the other half is married.”
“You never know.” Mrs Bennet sighed the sigh of a woman personally burdened by fate.
“I worry about you, Mary.”
Mary’s jaw tightened.
The doorbell rang, followed by a knock.
“I have to go mum, there’s someone at the door.”
“Mary-“
“I love you. Goodbye mum.”
She hung up and fell back against the sofa.
“Mary,” came Ann Baxter’s insistent voice. “I know you’re in there. Your journal paper deadline isn’t for another three weeks, so you can’t use that excuse.”
Mary abandoned her laptop and crossed her tiny flat to open the door. Ann beamed at her, bright red lipstick and perfectly coiffed hair notwithstanding, a plate of slightly burnt chocolate chip cookies and bottle of wine in hand. Ann pushed the plate into her hands and swept into the flat, beelining for the wine glasses.
Three years ago, a newly graduated Mary eager to get out of Hertfordshire, had taken the first flat she could find near campus, armed with the small inheritance after her father’s passing. The building was located on a quiet well-lit street in North London and well maintained despite its age. She realised upon moving in that her neighbours were all retirees whose highlight of the day was discussing weather patterns and recycling schedules.
Mary had spent her first month avoiding everyone. Ann Baxter had adopted her during the second month when they both got caught in the elevator during a power outage lasting forty minutes and had swapped life stories. Ann worked at a major luxury fashion house, had a great sense of humour and a knack for seeing though Mary’s public facade. She was fun sober and even more fun (if not a little too horny) when drunk, going home with a different guy every weekend, and complaining about said guy’s skill in bed the next day.
Then six months later Thomas Hayward had moved into the flat across Ann’s and had rung her doorbell when his grocery had mistakenly been delivered to hers. Ann had dragged Tom into their little support group shortly afterwards, and as far as Mary could tell, she, Ann and Tom were the only residents in the building aged under fifty. Now, two years later, the three of them shared weekly dinners, exchanged spare keys and maintained an ongoing group chat devoted primarily to complaining. There was a standing rule that any of them could appear at another’s door with wine at any time of the night. They were the healthiest friendships she had ever had.
“How was work?” Mary asked.
Ann was currently preparing a new runway collection for her boss. For the past two weeks she’d been surviving on righteous fury alone. “The creative director changed his mind again.”
Both their phones lit up with a text before she could commiserate.
Tom: Escaped the office.
Tom: I’m experiencing sunlight after five days.
Ann: We’re at Mary’s
Tom: I’m bringing Thai.
Tom: Tell her I’m still waiting for my book back.
Mary: You lent it to me literally five days ago?
Three dancing dots appeared.
Tom: An eternity.
Despite herself, Mary smiled.
Ann would have caught it if Mary’s phone hadn’t buzzed again. This time it wasn’t Tom.
The smile vanished into a grimace. “Good Lord.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Lydia’s finally hired a planner. The invite is twenty two pages long.”
Ann winced. Mary dropped the phone onto the coffee table. “I'm going to trapped on the Mediterranean coast with my family for a week, Ann. Seven whole days.”
Ann’s expression turned sympathetic. “That is rough.”
“It gets worse.”
“Oh?”
“My mother.”
Ann immediately understood. Mrs Bennet had many admirable qualities, but discretion and patience were not amongst them. According to her, Mary was intelligent, accomplished, respectable, and in urgent need of a husband. Mary considered all but the last description accurate.
“She’ll spend the entire week pushing me onto random men.”
Ann cackled, thinking of the Bennet family Christmas she’d tagged along to the previous year.
A knock sounded, as Tom stepped inside, suit jacket slung over one shoulder. His hair was slightly dishevelled, dark curls springing out, and there were faint shadows beneath his eyes.
Mary took the takeout off his hands. “Long day?”
Tom made a noise that sounded suspiciously like pain.
“Thirteen hours.”
“That’s not healthy.”
“My managing partner disagrees.”
“He’d be wrong.”
Tom pointed vaguely at her. “See, that’s why I like you.”
And promptly walked into the bookcase.
Ann rolled her eyes. “You look terrible,” she said in lieu of hello.
Tom collapsed into an armchair and accepted the proffered wine with gratitude. He took a long sip and then looked at Ann.
“Why did I hear cackling through the door?”
Ann threw a cushion at him.
“My family,” Mary explained, passing him her phone.
“My condolences,” Tom offered as he scanned the group chat, eyebrows steadily climbing upwards. “What’s a Disco Riviera?”
Ann snorted as Mary sprawled deeper into the sofa.
“My mother wants me to bring a date.”
Tom winced sympathetically as he dug into his noodles.
“We were talking about Christmas eve,” said Ann, “and the inevitable parade of thoroughly unsuitable men.”
“What happened on Christmas eve?” Tom mumbled through a forkful.
Ann grinned like a Cheshire cat. “Mrs Bennet introduced Mary to eight men in one evening. It was positively hilarious seeing her attempt conversation with a hedge fund manager.”
“She seated me beside a software engineer at dinner and disappeared,” Mary added.
“He spent forty-five minutes explaining NFTs and cryptocurrency,” Ann shuddered.
“There was a dentist who couldn’t stop yawning. Then the dentist’s brother, who wasn’t even invited, actually. A banker. And an accountant. The accountant seemed the most normal person in the room, actually.”
“I'm pretty sure the accountant was gay, darling. And then her mother asked Mary why none of them worked out. Best Christmas ever.” Ann wiped a fake tear from her mirthful eyes. “I wish I could come and spectate at every single Bennet family event, Mary. The drama is quite something.”
Tom was still gently chuckling as his eyelids drooped. His head dipped half an inch into the noodles.
Ann turned to him and froze, a look entering her eyes. Mary sat up at once. That was the exact expression Ann had worn before disappearing from a nightclub with a biker in leather and tattoos and returning the next morning to announce, with profound disappointment, “He had a lip chain, Mary. A lip chain. And he didn’t even let me finish.”
“Doesn’t Tom’s case close next month?”
“Uh-huh?” Mary ventured. Tom had taken to muttering the case deadline to himself like a mantra over the last few weeks.
“Take Tom with you.”
“Take Tom where?” Tom snapped awake, a forkful forgotten halfway to his mouth.
“To Mary’s sister’s wedding!” Ann exclaimed. “He should go as your boyfriend!”
Mary stared at Ann.
Tom stared at the noodles.
Ann looked delighted with herself.
“Ann-“
“Think about it, Mary! Your mother will stop trying to marry you off to strangers.” She held up a finger. “Tom gets a well earned vacation at the beach,” another finger, “and you’ll have someone sane to talk to.”
Tom was still staring into the philosophical depths of the noodles.
“Ann, I don’t think-“ started Mary again only to have three fingers shutting off her lips.
“Hayward, you’re due for a holiday, right?” Ann looked at Tom. “I know you billed ninety-three hours last week.”
That seemed to startle him out of his reverie. “Why do you know that?” he pointed accusingly.
“So that’s a yes from Tom.” Ann turned to Mary with a steely glint, her brightly painted, very pointy nails at her chin. “Surely you’re not going to deny the man his vacation, Mary.”
Tom rubbed the back of his neck. Mary noted the sliver of carrot stuck to his collar.
“Fine.” Ann paused dramatically. “Then enjoy spending an entire week explaining your relationship status to every member of your mother’s knitting club.”
Mary closed her eyes. That actually was a real threat.
Ann left twenty minutes later, looking far too pleased with herself.
“The fake boyfriend, Mary! You’re going to thank me for this!” she announced as the door clicked shut behind her.
A blessed silence settled over the flat. Tom stared at the closed door for several seconds.
“Well.”
“That’s usually how Ann looks like right before something becomes my problem,” she groaned into a cushion.
“Good,” Tom said. “I can’t believe she suggested it so casually.”
“She once got me to consider getting bangs after two glasses of wine.”
“Did you?”
“Unlike her, I experience both fear and restraint.”
That earned a grin from him.
The room fell quiet again.
“At least she’s stopped trying to set me up with strangers at the bar.”
His gaze flicked up. “That’s true. I suppose I’ve technically been promoted from stranger to preferred fake date.”
Her laugh escaped before she could stop it. The sound warmed something in Tom’s chest that he preferred not to examine too closely.
She gathered up the empty takeaway containers while Tom loosened his tie. Tom worked for one of the most prestigious law firms in London and seemed to spend ninety five percent of his waking life at the office. Not for the first time that month, Mary wondered how he remained functional.
“Still on the merger case?”
“Unfortunately.” He rubbed his eyes. “We’re finally nearing the finish line.”
“You’ve been saying that for five weeks now. Tea?” Mary offered as she rose towards the kitchen.
“Well, every time I think we’re done, someone discovers another problem.”
He rose with her and settled against the kitchen counter as she pulled out a calming blend.
“You know what’s depressing? I used to think being a lawyer involved more dramatic courtroom speeches.”
“And less spreadsheets?”
“So many spreadsheets.” He smiled at her.
Mary returned the smile immediately, it was always easy with Tom.
Easy to talk. Easy to sit in silence. Easy to exist side by side. Which is perhaps why she found herself looking forward to their evenings more than she ought to.
"How’s the book?” he asked.
Mary brightened. Unlike most people she knew, Tom actually read the books she recommended. Even the difficult ones. Sometimes she suspected he preferred the difficult ones. Over the past two years, the pair had cultivated an unofficial book club. Each would periodically select a volume from the other's bookshelf, after which the borrower was expected - indeed, required - to provide opinions over tea, whether prepared to do so or not.
“I’m on chapter sixty-two,” he said demurely.
Her eyes widened. “You finished five hundred pages in five days?”
“I bill in six-minute increments, Mary, reading quickly is a professional skill.”
“That is not how Middlemarch works.”
He pointed at her. “And yet you're impressed.”
“I am horrified.”
Tom grinned.
“Thoughts so far?”
“Dorothea is making terrible decisions.”
“Correct.”
“Casaubon is intolerable.”
“Also correct.”
“And I have concerns about anyone who sees him as a romantic prospect.”
Mary laughed. For the next twenty minutes they dismantled the novel, jumping from character motivations to social commentary to debating whether the author secretly despised half her cast. Tom maintained that Dorothea’s mistakes were obvious. Mary maintained that people were rarely objective about their own lives. Neither noticed how late it was getting until Mary’s gaze drifted to the wedding itinerary on her phone.
Tom followed her gaze. “You really don’t want to go?”
Mary pursed her lips. “It’s Lydia. I want to be there for my little sister’s wedding.”
“But.”
Mary looked down at her teacup.
“But a week with my family is… a lot.”
Tom was quiet for a moment. He knew.
Over the years he’d seen the aftermath often enough. Her emotional exhaustion. The nights she’s returned from family gatherings and hadn’t felt up to polite company for a week after. The time she’d come back from Christmas dinner and spent twenty minutes staring at the walls of Tom’s apartment before finally admitting that being compared to her sisters had become exhausting. Tom had simply made tea and waited. Eventually she’d begun explaining. The endless comments. The comparisons. Questions about her career. Questions about marriage. About why she wasn’t more like her sisters.
“When’s the wedding?”
“In six weeks.” Mary picked up the itinerary. “There’s a welcome dinner, a sunset cruise, three cocktail parties-“
“And something called a Disco Riviera,” he chuckled.
Mary groaned. “Please don't say it out loud.”
“Disco Riviera,” he repeated thoughtfully.
“You are enjoying this far too much.”
Despite herself, she smiled. Then it faded. A week of nonstop scrutiny and being needled for every little thing. A week of introductions to men whose only personality traits were wealth and unearned confidence.
“I’ll survive,” she decided, pursing her lips.
Tom leaned forward and took her empty cup, setting it down.
“You don’t have to.”
Mary blinked. “What?”
“You know,” he said carefully, “Ann's idea wasn't entirely terrible.”
Mary blinked.
“I'm serious.”
Mary stared some more. “You can't possibly mean -”
“Why not?”
“Because that's an insane thing to ask someone.”
“You haven't asked anything, Mary.”
His words landed between them, simple and matter-of-fact. As though spending a week pretending to be her boyfriend was no greater inconvenience than carrying her groceries up three floors.
“I can't ask that of you.”
“You can.” His voice was gentle. “My case should be finished by then. I have a ton of vacation time piled up. Italy sounds considerably better than London.”
Mary narrowed her eyes. “So this is entirely selfish.”
“Completely.”
“Liar."
Tom smiled. A brief flash of something fond crossed his face. “You’ve listened to me complain about work for two years, “ he said. “Seems only fair.”
Mary looked down at her hands. Part of her wanted to refuse. Part of her felt guilty accepting. And a much quieter part - the part she preferred not to examine - could already picture him there. Someone familiar beside her. Someone who understood. Someone who would know exactly when she needed rescuing from a conversation.
“You really wouldn't mind?”
“Mary.”
His tone made her look up.
“I would happily spend a week eating Italian food, drinking things with little umbrellas in them, and pretending to enjoy something called Disco Riviera.”
She laughed. “That's not what I asked.”
His eyes met hers.
“No,” he said softly. “I wouldn't mind. Besides,” he gestured broadly towards himself, “do I not look like an absolute catch of a devoted date?”
Mary snorted so hard she horrified herself.
Then the decision seemed to arrive all at once.
“Okay.”
Tom blinked.
“Okay?”
“Okay.”
A smile broke out on his face, so genuine and bright and unguarded that Mary forgot entirely about her mother and crypto shilling bachelors and discotheques with funny names.
“Thank you.”
“Right,” he said, clearing his throat.
“Right.”
“We should probably establish a backstory.”
Mary groaned. “Oh no."
“Oh yes. Fake boyfriends require lore.”
“Please never call it lore again.”
“No promises.”