Me and Mr Darcy

Praise for Alexandra Potter

‘Nobody does it quite like Alexandra Potter’

A winning formula of chaotic heroine meeting eccentric hero, and, after misunderstandings, finding love. Sharply written, pacey and funny . . . pure self-indulgence’

‘Funny, romantic . . . tale about what might happen if all your wishes suddenly came true’

‘It’s easy-to-relate-to, curl-up-on-the-couch reading’

‘This deliriously romantic book is lots of fun’

Woman’s Day
(Australia)

‘I loved it – it’s fun, fast and feel-good – the perfect three! Positively dripping with humour and heart’

Helen Lederer

‘Always perceptive, often funny, never dull.’

‘Feel-good fiction full of unexpected twists and turns’

‘Sharp, witty dialogue’

‘Essential reading for anyone who thinks the grass is greener on the other side’

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For my dear friend Dana

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

First and foremost I’d like to say a big, big thank you to everyone at Hodder for all their support and enthusiasm for this book, especially Sara Kinsella, who’s quite simply the best editor a girl can have. Thanks also to Isobel Akenhead for all her hard work and Alice Wright for her beautiful covers. I’m also very grateful to my wonderful agent, Stephanie Cabot, for her continued belief in me as a writer and for not telling me I was crazy when I told her about this idea!

As always I couldn’t have done this without the love and support of my mum and dad. What can I say? You’ve done me proud as usual! And a big hug to my big sister, Kelly, for a wonderful Christmas in Alamos (thanks to you too, Stevie!), flying to London to put together IKEA furniture in my new flat (now that’s love for you) and for being not just a wonderful sister, but a really brilliant friend too.

Talking of friends, I’m very lucky to have such wonderful ones. None more than Dana, who spent the whole of last year patiently listening to me talking about Mr Darcy, being a constant source of kindness and encouragement and – true to her nickname of Wrong Way Schmalenberg – leading me down the wrong path, so I could find the right one! A special mention also to Kathleen for being a great roommate and brainstorming with me during our time together at Electric Avenue, Lynnette for her continued friendship and support, Beatrice for our weekend hikes and G&Ts and Jamie for always being so kind and enthusiastic about my writing. Thanks also to Melissa for being a truly special friend.

And finally to Barney, my ever loyal companion during those long hours at the keyboard. Big kiss, buddy. Here’s to the next one!

 

I
t is a truth universally acknowledged that a single girl in possession of her right mind must be in want of a decent man.

‘. . . so we had a drink each and shared a pizza, but you asked for two extra toppings on your half, which means you owe . . . Hang on a minute, I’ve got a calculator on my BlackBerry . . .’

Sitting in a little Italian restaurant in Manhattan’s Lower East Side, I stare across the checked tablecloth and watch, dumbfounded, as my date pulls out his CrackBerry and proceeds to cheerfully divvy up the bill.

. . .
where on earth do you find a decent man these days?

I’m having dinner with John, a thirty-something architect I met briefly at a friend’s birthday party last weekend. He seemed nice enough when he asked for my number – nice enough to share a pizza with on a Tuesday evening after work, anyway – but now, watching him hunched over the table, number-crunching, I’m fast realising I’ve made a mistake.

‘. . . an extra seven dollars seventy-five cents, and that includes tax and tip,’ he declares triumphantly, and shows me the screen to prove it.

A very big mistake.

To be honest, I blame Mr Darcy.

I was just twelve years old when I first read
Pride and Prejudice
and I fell for him right from the start. Forget fresh-faced Joey from New Kids on the Block or leather-clad Michael Hutchence from INXS – whose posters I had tacked to my wall – Mr Darcy was my first love. Devastatingly handsome, mysterious, smouldering and a total romantic, he set the bar for all my future boyfriends. Snuggled under the bedcovers with my flashlight, I couldn’t wait to grow up so I could find a man like him.

But now I have grown up. And here I am, still looking.

Digging out a twenty-dollar bill from my pocket, I pass it to John.

‘Have you got the seventy-five cents?’ he prompts, his hand still outstretched.

Except he’s not.

‘Oh . . . um . . . sure,’ I mutter, and begin rooting around in my change purse.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not Renée Zellweger. I don’t
need
a man to complete me. I have a career, I pay my own rent, I have a set of power tools and I know how to use them. And as for the other thing, well, that’s what battery-operated toys were invented for.

I hand John the seventy-five cents. Then watch in disbelief as he proceeds to count it.

Still, that doesn’t stop me hankering after a bit of that good-old fashioned romance I’m always reading about in books. Or daydreaming about meeting someone who could sweep me off my Uggs and set my pulse racing. A dark, handsome,
faithful
man, with impeccable manners, brooding good looks, witty conversation and one of those big, broad, manly chests you can rest your head upon . . .

Instead, in the last twelve months I’ve been on one disastrous date after another. Now, OK, I know everyone has a bad-date story to tell. It’s completely normal. Who hasn’t been out with Creepy Guy/Mr Nothing in Common With/The Forty-something Fuck-up (delete as applicable, or in my case, don’t delete any of them)? It’s just part of being single. It has to happen once. And twice is bad luck.
But a whole string of them?