Jane Austen Made Me Do It (40 page)

I stare blankly at the blur of outfits, unable to focus. I'm still reeling from my encounter with Mr. Darcy. Did I imagine it? Was it for real?

“What would you like to drink?” asks the barman, interrupting Stella's fashion show.

“Oh, just a mineral water,” she says with a resigned smile, and pats her belly.

The barman glances toward me.

“Make mine a large whiskey,” I say, finding my voice at last.

“Whiskey?”
Stella turns to me, her eyes wide. “Oh jeez, Em, are you all right?” she exclaims, registering my expression for the first time. “You look like you've seen a ghost.”

“You could say that …” I trail off.

Stella's forehead furrows in confusion. “What's happened?”

I hesitate. Should I tell her?

Tell her what? I think sharply. That I just saw a fictitious character come to life in the British Museum? “Oh, nothing …” I shrug.

But if I think that's going to appease Stella, I'm mistaken.

“Nothing?”
she repeats suspiciously. “Right, that's it, there's definitely something up.” Leaning closer, she fixes me with a hard stare. “OK, come on, spill the beans.”

So I tell her everything that happened—or didn't happen.

“… and now I don't know what to think,” I finish, looking at her across the table. We've decamped outside to the beer garden and are sitting in the late afternoon sunshine. “I thought I was over Mr. Darcy, that Spike was the one, but now I don't know …”

“Whoa, stop right there,” instructs Stella firmly. “Darcy
Schmarcy
. I've heard enough about this dude.” She slams down her mineral water.

It splashes me and I jump back. To be honest, Stella can be a bit scary when she wants to be.

Leaning across the table, she fixes me with a stare. “Look, Emily, I hate to say this, but you read too many books.”

I'm not sure I heard that right.
“Too many books?”
I repeat incredulously. “But—”

“But nothing,” she cuts me off. “You've got to stop dreaming. This isn't one of your romance novels, this is real life. And it's full of real people. Like Spike.” She raises her eyebrows. “Have you spoken to him yet?” she asks pointedly.

Abruptly brought back to reality, I shake my head. “Maybe this is a sign,” I murmur.

“A sign?” Stella looks puzzled.

“That me and Spike aren't right for each other.”

“Bullshit,” scoffs Stella with characteristic bluntness. “You and Spike are made for each other.”

“I don't think Spike feels like that,” I say glumly.

“He's crazy about you!”

“We had a big fight,” I continue.

“All couples have fights,” she counters.

“There was a time when he couldn't wait to get me into bed, but now he falls asleep on the sofa watching soccer.”

“Show me a guy who doesn't,” she says, smiling ruefully. “And no, before you say it, Darcy-pants doesn't count. I mean
real
guys.”

“We've been together four years and he still hasn't asked me to marry him,” I blurt without thinking. It catches me by surprise.

“Aha! So
that's
what this is all about.” Stella looks at me triumphantly.

I feel myself color. Gosh, where did that just come from? “No, it's not,” I try backtracking. “I don't care about getting married, it's an old-fashioned concept and I like to think I'm a modern woman—”

“Cut the crap, Emily,” deadpans Stella.

I feel my defiance crumble. “OK, I suppose it would be nice to be
asked
,” I confess.

“Why don't you ask him?” she suggests.

“That's not really the point,” I reply—a little sulkily, I realize.

“What difference does it make?” continues Stella. “Me and Freddy got married for a green card, then we fell in love. We did everything the wrong way around, but it doesn't matter. The most important thing is we're together.” She looks at me, and her expression softens. “Not everything in life happens the way you think it will, Em,” she says and, reaching across the table, puts her
hand on mine. “But if you love each other, that's all that matters.” She hesitates, then asks quietly, “You do still love Spike, don't you?”

“Yes,” I answer quickly. “It's just—” I break off and heave a deep sigh. “Oh, I don't know anything anymore.” I glance up at Stella. She looks worried. Changing the subject, I pin on a bright smile. “OK, it's my round. Another mineral water?”

That night I can't sleep. Staring into the darkness, I listen to Stella snoring softly in the other bed, a million thoughts going around and around in my head. Seeing Mr. Darcy again has stirred up a maelstrom of emotions, and I feel all churned up inside. Snippets of our conversation filter back … 
“I've always wondered about you … I looked everywhere for you …”
Tossing and turning, I bury my head under my pillow, trying to block them out.

And failing.

It's no good, I'm never going to get to sleep. Abandoning my attempts, I reach for my phone on the beside cabinet and turn it on. The screen lights up and I glance at the time: 3
A.M
. That means it's only 10
P.M
. in New York … Spike would still be awake … he said he was going to stay in tonight, finish up an article he was working on.

As I think about Spike in our apartment, sitting at his tiny desk, hunched over his laptop, surrounded by piles of papers and his usual cup of tea that's long since gone cold, I feel a wave of affection. And a good hard dose of reality. OK, this is ridiculous. Stella is right. This is real life. I love Spike, not Mr. Darcy.

Quickly I text him.

Hey it's me. First night in London and can't sleep. Miss U. XOX
.

I press Send and wait for a reply.

Ten minutes later I'm still waiting. I feel disappointed. Anxious.
Indignant
.

I can't believe he hasn't replied. He must be still sulking!

Annoyed that I've made the first conciliatory move only for it to be ignored, I slip out from under the covers and pad agitatedly into the bathroom. I'm wide awake now, and after fetching myself a glass of water, I walk over to the window and draw back the heavy curtains with one hand.

It's a full moon and ahead the park is bathed in silvery light. My eyes sweep across the empty expanse of grass, the small lake, the trees … but wait, what's that? A figure on horseback suddenly appears between the trees, then abruptly halts and gazes directly up at my window. Even from this distance, there's no mistaking who it is.

Mr. Darcy
.

My heart jolts.

Why is he here? What does he want?

I pause, then turn away from the window. There's only one way to find out.

“Miss Emily,” he says, and nods. Still on horseback, he tips his hat. “What an unexpected pleasure.”

“Mr. Darcy,” I pant, out of breath from throwing on some clothes and dashing out of the hotel and into the park. “It's nearly four o'clock in the morning, what are you doing here?”

“I'm afraid I couldn't sleep,” he replies. “I had a lot on my mind.”

A look passes between us and I feel myself blush.

“So I thought I would take a ride in the park to clear my head—” He pauses, and for a moment I think he's about to say something further, but then he seems to think better of it and continues, “Would you care to join me for a ride? There are stables close by …”

I quickly shake my head. “I think I'll pass.” I smile ruefully; the memory of my last moonlight ride with Mr. Darcy hasn't faded despite the years.

He looks puzzled.

“After last time …” I remind him, raising my eyebrows.

“Ah yes, now I remember,” he says. “It was rather eventful.”

Well, that's one way of putting it, I muse, remembering shrieking as my horse bolted. That was before I hit a tree and blacked out …

“Perhaps we should walk instead.” Dismounting, he tethers his horse to a tree, then holds out his arm so I can loop mine through his.

For a few minutes we walk arm in arm through the park. Neither of us speaks. It's a comfortable silence. Unlike the silences I've been having with Spike lately, I reflect, thinking back to the atmosphere in the apartment before I left. At the memory of Spike, I feel a sudden stab of guilt. Here I am with another man, taking a moonlight walk in the park.

But it's not like I'm doing anything wrong, is it? I tell myself quickly. And anyway, this isn't just any man. It's Mr. Darcy. He's a gentleman. Plus he's married. Nothing's going to happen.

I feel the warmth of his body next to mine.

Is it?

“So, tell me, do you have a suitor?” he asks, interrupting my thoughts.

“A suitor?” My mind snaps back to Spike. “Yes … I suppose you could call him that,” I say, looking at my feet.

“Do you have plans to marry?”

I glance up at Mr. Darcy. He blushes. “I apologize, it's very impertinent of me, but I noticed you weren't wearing a wedding ring …”

“I know,” I say, and then, to my complete astonishment, burst into tears.

“Miss Emily, what is wrong?” he exclaims.

Sobbing loudly, I bury my face in his chest to try to stifle my tears. But it's no good. It's as if someone just turned on a tap and they're flowing freely all over my cheeks.

And Mr. Darcy's immaculate black tailcoat
.

Oh God, how embarrassing. Quickly I pull away. “I'm sorry,” I hiccup, wiping my snotty nose on my sleeve. He passes me an immaculate white handkerchief, and I blow my nose loudly. “No …” I shake my head tearfully, “… we've been together for four years and he hasn't asked me …” I give a little sob.

“A very long courtship then,” comments Mr. Darcy gravely.

“… and a few days ago we had a huge fight, and it was awful, and now we're not speaking …” It's as if someone just removed a cork from a bottle, and now it's all pouring out. “… and it's awful, and I feel terrible, and I miss him, and I don't know what to do.”

Mr. Darcy puts his arm around to comfort me. “Do not worry yourself about the argument,” he soothes. “My wife, Elizabeth, and I had a terrible misunderstanding before we were married.”

“I know,” I sob.

“You do?” He looks shocked.

“Um … I mean … I know most couples have arguments,” I say, quickly correcting myself.

“And he is in America?”

I nod, and blow my nose again. I know I look a mess, but I don't care. Whereas once I would have been horrified for Mr. Darcy to see me like this, now all I can think about is Spike.

Mr. Darcy heaves a deep sigh and furrows his brow, deep in thought.

“America, the New World, is very different to England,” he
continues. “They are two very different places, of that I am sure. However, love is the same all over the world. It is universal. If his heart is true, then he will come for you, Miss Emily.” He meets my gaze, and with an impassioned voice, clasps my hands in his. “Love has no bounds. And if he loves you, truly loves you, he will not let you go.”

The next morning, I'm woken by an impatient Stella.

“Come on, get up, it's Saturday, we have to go to Portobello Market.”

“Uh … what's Portobello Market?” I mumble sleepily, trying to bury my head underneath the comforter, but it's snatched away from me.

“What's Portobello Market?”
repeats Stella, with the same incredulity as if I've just asked who's Obama. “Only the most world-famous market, that's supposed to be amazing for shopping.”

Opening my eyes, I peer at her blearily. She's wearing a T-shirt that reads “Caution: Bump Ahead” and one of her new feather boas in bright fuchsia. “I thought you'd already been shopping,” I protest weakly.

She looks aghast. “Shopping isn't something you do just once,” she exclaims. “It's a daily practice. Like yoga.” She grabs my jeans and T-shirt and chucks them at me. “And trust me, girlfriend, with your wardrobe, you're in serious need of practice.”

Thankfully, Portobello Market turns out to be filled with an eclectic mix of stalls—including one selling antique books, I realize with a beat of pleasure.

“Ooh, I'm just going to look over here,” I say to Stella, who's already dived on a vintage ball gown and is cooing loudly.

“Don't you have enough books?” she tuts, breaking from her reverie.

“I thought shopping was a daily practice,” I retort. “Like yoga.”

“Humph.” Stella purses her lips, then turns back to the ball gown.

Grinning to myself, I wander across to the stall. Excitement buzzes as I see the faded piles of books, the burgundy leather hardbacks etched with gold stenciling, the lovingly worn paperbacks. Each one ready to transport me to a different world where I'll meet new and interesting characters. And it's all here, at my fingertips, I marvel as my gaze sweeps over the different titles.

Unexpectedly, I see an old edition of
Pride and Prejudice
propped up at the back. Excitement leaps.

“Hi, can I help you?”

I snap back to see the stallholder looking at me.

“What edition is that?” I ask, gesturing to the copy of
Pride and Prejudice
.

“Oh, crikey, I'm afraid I wouldn't know.” He smiles apologetically. “I'm just covering for the woman who runs the stall. She'll be back in five minutes.” He pauses, then continues. “You can have a look at it if you'd like.”

“Oh no, it's fine, I'm sure I wouldn't be able to afford it—”

“It's free to look,” he says, grinning.

“Well, in that case …” I smile as he passes it to me. Carefully I open it and look at the date. It was printed at the beginning of the last century. It's over a hundred years old, I reflect, thinking of all the people who must have held this book in their hands. As I start to turn the pages a piece of paper falls out, and I bend down to pick it up. It's probably a price ticket—actually, no, it looks like a note.