"If your photographs aren't good enough, you're not close enough" – Robert Capa

A/N 19/07/18 I'm adding a friendly warning for new readers, especially those who have come from reading Love With No Place To Go: my writing at the beginning of this story is pretty rubbish (compared with my standard now). While not absolutely awful, Close Enough was the first novel length story I ever started, and as such has some problems with characterisation, plot and general writing style. Basically, it reads like it was written by a new author.

If you are not sure this is your cup of tea, try my other novel Love With No Place To Go. It's better than this one. Trust me.

If you think you can brave out the rocky start, it does get somewhat better the further in you get.

Thanks for giving this a go if you've decided to take the plunge x

A/N This is the story of Will Darcy and Elizabeth Bennet at university - and in a few other locations - based on, but not exactly following, the tumultuous series of events Jane Austin gave us. I don't know how long this is going to be… I am in for as much of a ride as you are! As usual, there are footnotes if you are interested, but ignore them if you are not (they are a couple of explanations, some clarification, and a bit of extra info). Hope you enjoy, let me know what you think. I would love to hear the direction in which you think the story could go, it may inspire me x

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Will Darcy was a photographer. First and foremost, he was a biology student at the University of Meryton, but in his heart, he was a photographer. This meant that his trusty camera never left his side – even during classes – and it was usually out it's bag, held up to his face. It was through the lens of his camera that he first glimpsed her. What caught his attention was the way her eyes shined in the light. It was an unusually bright day for Hertfordshire; a cloud was spotted, at most, once in two hours. For the last three days, the breeze had clung valiantly to the warmth which held over from the summer. And the university campus was packed, as though the students could feel the good weather slipping away, and had congregated in packs to savour it.

Will was in his third year of his Biology Masters, but had few close friends to show for it. He was simply not a social person. If he was with someone, it was most likely to be Charlie Bingley, a Social Sciences student whom he met during their freshers' week. [1] Charlie was amiable and engaging – Will likened him to a spaniel puppy. He got excited at the opportunity to meet new people, and his wide smile was as good as a wagging tail at conveying his delight. All in all, Charlie was the polar opposite to Will in every way. While Will had dark hair and piercing blue eyes, Charlie was ginger with soft, brown eyes. Will was, to quote his friend, 'ridiculously tall', while Charlie was on the shorter side of average – although no less handsome for it.

He was with Charlie when it happened. They were wondering about the campus with no particular direction – 'hanging out', Charlie called it – and Will had spotted the frame of an old bench against the backdrop of a crumbling fountain. "The shapes, Charlie," was the only explanation he gave before his camera was out. Then his lens caught her eyes.

It was pure coincidence. If he hadn't turned in a certain way to catch a certain angle of the bench against the softness of the fountain, and she hadn't turned slightly from where she was seated on the grass, surrounded by friends, his camera would not have been interested in her. But he had, and she did, and suddenly his roll was filled with photos of her eyes, and her hair and her elegant form. That was where the trouble started.

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Will has seen the advert for the amateur photography competition on a board in the university library, then again in a local newspaper. Immediately he thought of the photos he had taken in the park on campus. There was one photo in particular he had developed that he knew was special the moment it came out of the fixer. It was a photo of the woman – her head was turned slightly over her shoulder, her chin was tilted up, her luscious chestnut hair was full and moving and framed her delicate features, the sun highlighting streaks of red and gold. The star of the photo was her eyes. They were wide open and illuminated from within; the bright day had only added to their brilliance. They were round, framed by thick, dark lashes, and the deepest colour he had ever seen – neither grey nor blue, but the colour of the ocean, with flecks of green, hazel and brown.

He entered this photograph into the local competition. It won.

It was then entered into a regional competition. It won.

By February, it had been entered into the prestigious Amateur Photographer of the Year Awards. [2] It didn't win.

Nevertheless, it received a very impressive second place, and gained national recognition in photography circles. As it had been taken by one of their students, Meryton University made quite a big deal out of it. He assumed it was this fuss which had led to his current predicament.

The gorgeous woman from his photograph was stood at his door, a scowl transforming her face. What looked like a printout of his photo was clutched with a talon-like grip in her hand.

"You are William Darcy, are you not? You are the one who took this photo of me? And then shared it around without my permission, and did not deign to inform me you had been stalking me before you went and exploited my image? How long have you been following me?" [3] She demanded, gesticulating wildly, the printout flapping noisily in his face.

Will had opened the door unprepared for this woman's barrage of accusations, and was unable to form any words. In his silence, the woman's anger grew, and she stepped towards him threateningly. "Have you got any more of these? I want the memory card they are on, and you are going to delete any copies while I watch, okay? Get a move on."

"Are you stupid?" In hindsight, this was perhaps not the best question that could have come out of his mouth at that moment. "A photo of that quality? You have to be out of your mind. And I wasn't stalking you, I was just out that day with my camera, and caught you at a good angle. Obviously, despite your good looks, you're not smart. I suppose you were just visiting friends, weren't you? With your brain, I doubt you could get into university." The frustration that had built up in Will as he grappled with words during her speech came pouring out in a vitriolic fountain of venom.

"F*ck you," she had snarled back at him. "Not that I need to justify myself to you in any way, but I am here studying Chemical Engineering. Not only did I reach the two A*s and two As needed to get in, I surpassed them. So you can shove that camera up your backside, and get me the originals of that photo, and any other photo you took of me. Now." She had flushed a deep rose-pink, and her spectacular eyes where glistening. Her chest was heaving with the exertion of her anger; her arms moved erratically in the air in front of her.

"You are not getting anything. You can't come into my home and speak to me like that. The photos are my property and the negatives are staying right where they are, so if you would kindly remove yourself… I don't want to have to call the police." After his initial burst of passion, Will's face had become impassive. He drew himself up to his full – impressive – height, and stood directly in front of her. "Leave."

The woman threw the printout of his photo onto the floor, punched him squarely on the jaw, and left. [4]

TBC…

[1] Freshers' week is the week at the beginning of a British university year, usually with a programme of events intended to welcome the new first-year students – and often quite a bit of drinking (legal age in UK is 18)

[2] The various categories of Amateur Photographer of the Year are actually awarded between May and November. And I am pretending there is an overall Amateur Photographer of the Year – as far as I can tell, there isn't, there is just a winner for each round: portraiture, landscapes and cityscapes, black and white etc.

[3] Will had not been stalking her, but the reader can understand why she may make this assumption. However, most stalking is not done by a stranger, but by someone with a relationship with the victim eg. an ex-partner. It is characterised by obsessive behaviour, when the stalker takes great time and effort to make contact with their target. It is essential that at the first sign of stalking, the police are involved, because it will usually end after the first intervention, and it only ever gets worse if left alone. A greater awareness is now being raised in the UK to educate people in the difference between 'they think the break up was a mistake, and still love me', and 'they are so obsessed with me, they are spending hours out of their day attempting to contact me'.

[4] I don't think a man should EVER hit a woman, I equally believe a woman should NEVER hit a man. That said, I am not Elizabeth, so do I think a modern Elizabeth might hit Darcy? Yeah.