Me and Mr Darcy (12 page)

Something makes me stop my internal rant. Wait a moment. It’s not just that . . . My eyes flick quickly around the room. Now I’m thinking about it, everything looks different, or should that be the same? The plastic barrier is back by the window, and the fire seems to have gone out in the grate. Puzzled, I glance out of the window and am surprised to see how dark it’s become. And it’s raining, I notice. Well, I guess that explains why the wallpaper is looking all dingy and faded again . . .

‘Like I said. Fucking hilarious,’ snaps Spike.

His voice pulls me back, and I look at him. ‘But he was here a minute ago,’ I protest in confusion.

Spike throws me a filthy glare, shakes his head and pushes past me. ‘I’ll see you back on the coach,’ he mutters, stalking back down the corridor. ‘After you’ve said goodbye to your imaginary friend,’ he adds sarcastically.

God, he really is a dick. Listening to his footsteps retreating, I flop back against the wall and stare into space. Still, that is weird about the guy disappearing. I glance across at a small doorway in the corner of the room. I wonder if that leads somewhere? Somewhere restricted to the public? I guess he must have left through there. Although
I
only left a moment ago and he was writing a letter over on the other side of the room, I recollect, glancing across at the empty chair.

Hmm, what a shame. He was really nice too.

Wandering over to the writing table, I take a look. Everything is as it was before: the desk with the letter, the feather quill and delicate, square-cut glass bottle of purpley-black ink. Only now there’s a letter.

Wow, he wrote that quickly. I take a closer look at it. Addressed to ‘Dearest sister’ and signed ‘Darcy’, the handwriting is typically old-fashioned, all swirls and loops and difficult to read, and yet . . . No, but that can’t be right. The paper’s gone all yellow and the ink is faded. It looks really old.

I rub my dry eyes and stare at it for a moment. Nope, he can’t have written that. It’s impossible. It must be one of Jane Austen’s original letters that’s been moved. It was probably displayed on the dining table or something, and I just didn’t notice it. Which isn’t surprising, seeing as I was so tired.
Am
so tired, I think, yawning. God, why do I feel so groggy?

I turn to leave and then, suddenly, a thought strikes. Why would Jane Austen write a letter pretending to be from one of her characters?

I think about it for a moment. It doesn’t make sense. I know there must be a simple explanation, but I can’t figure it out. And right now I don’t have time to, I tell myself, zoning back in and throwing my bag over my shoulder. If I don’t leave now I’m going to miss the coach and then Spike will
never
let me hear the last of it. He’ll be even more unbearable than he is already.
If that’s possible.

And you know what? From what I’ve seen so far of Spike I-think-I’m-so-great Hargreaves, I think it probably is.

 

B
y seven o’clock that evening I’m feeling so much more
with it.

God, a bath and a fresh change of clothes make all the difference, don’t they?

OK, so it’s probably got a lot more to do with this Jack Daniels and Coke, I muse, crunching on a mouthful of ice, but still, I feel loads better.

I’m downstairs in the hotel bar getting to know everyone. Stella is right, everyone on the tour is a lot older than me. But whereas I was assuming this would mean lots of cosy chats about knitting patterns and cupcake recipes with a bunch of old dears, I’m fast realising I was mistaken.

‘. . . so I joined match.com after the divorce and that’s how I met Sebastian,’ announces Hilary, a local magistrate who recently retired from her post as the partner of a top legal firm in London. ‘We’ve been together six months and he’s like a breath of fresh air.’ She smiles delightedly and takes a sip of her red wine.

Wow. Internet dating? At her age? I’m impressed.

‘Although my sons aren’t too happy.’

‘Oh, is it a protective thing?’ I ask politely. ‘I know girls are like that with their fathers.’

‘No, I think it’s because Sebastian is younger,’ she says, heaving a sigh. ‘They have a bit of a problem with it.’

‘But why? Lots of women date younger guys these days,’ I cry supportively. ‘Look at Demi and Ashton.’

Hilary throws me a puzzled look as if to say, ‘Who and who?’ and then shakes her head.

‘No, I mean younger than
my sons.
’

‘So he’s twenty-five years younger than me. So what?’ she continues. ‘Once you get to my age, you don’t care what people think any more.’

‘Absolutely,’ I manage to croak. ‘So what!’

By the time I’ve finished my second Jack and Coke, I’ve undergone something of a revelation. Older, I’ve discovered, certainly doesn’t mean
old.
In fact, I feel quite embarrassed. What was I thinking? I don’t know whether it’s the fault of TV, movies and magazines, but for some reason all this time I’ve been under the impression that it’s my age group that are having the fun, interesting lives. Go grey and everything stops. It’s like the menopause is some kind of biological Berlin Wall – and who wants to be on the wrong side?

Only now I’m no longer sure which
is
the wrong side.

‘I’ve been practising all my life but only started teaching when the children left home. I’m doing a retreat to Goa, in India, next year,’ beams Rupinda, a yoga instructor, who, at over twice my age, can get her body into positions that mine can only dream of. ‘You must come.’

A yoga retreat in India? How amazing.

‘Umm . . . yes, I’d love to,’ I reply distractedly.

Except of course I know I’ll never be able to take the time off work.

Unlike Enid, a sprightly seventy-year-old with salt-and-pepper hair who’s just bought a VW camper van with her husband and is planning to spend six months next year touring Europe. Or Marion, a widow, who makes all this lovely chunky silver jewellery and has her own website.

In fact, if anyone’s staying home in their bathrobe and slippers, it’s more likely to be me, I realise, taking Marion’s business card and feeling secretly disappointed nobody wants to talk about cupcake recipes.

I
love
cupcakes.

By the time dinner is served I’ve got to know everyone a bit better. Everyone apart from Spike Hargreaves, that is.
Him
, I spend all evening avoiding like the plague. I duck into the washroom when I spy him walking towards me down the hallway; I strike up a conversation about ‘women’s troubles’ with Enid and Rupinda when he tries to mingle at the bar. And now I’ve seated myself as far away as possible at the dinner table and have suddenly turned stone-deaf when he asks me to pass him the braised carrots.

Instead, I pick up the dish and calmly help myself to the last of them.

He shoots me a murderous look.

I respond by smiling innocently, piercing a braised carrot with my fork and casually taking a bite. Nobody puts Baby in the corner, I think defiantly.

Actually, that’s
Dirty Dancing,
Emily.

Well, whatever. He’s still a big bully. And if he thinks he can go around all week insulting me, he’s got another thing coming. Two can play at his game. And feeling his eyes boring into me, I finish off the carrots.

I wouldn’t mind, but I hate carrots.

After dinner we’re all pretty exhausted. It’s been a long day, and following several rounds of yummy wafer-thin mints called After Eights and more goodnights than
The Waltons
, everyone turns in.

Except I’m not tired. Not even slightly. After my earlier exhaustion I’m now wide-awake and raring to go. It’s the jet lag. Back in New York it’s only three thirty in the afternoon, so the last thing I want to do is go to bed. This is my first night in England. I want to go out, explore my surroundings, be a complete tourist. OK, so it’s eight thirty at night and I’m in the middle of the countryside, but there must be
something
to do around here.

I glance around the dining room, empty but for a tableful of black After Eight wrappers and a grandfather clock whose rhythmic ticking is the only thing breaking the silence. Then I have a brainwave. Of course. Ye olde village pub.

I feel a buzz of excitement.

It’s only, like, a ten-minute walk into the village. I can go get a drink. Meet the locals . . . Out of nowhere that scene from
American Werewolf
flicks into my head. You know the one – where he goes into a pub on the moors and all the locals ignore him.

I feel my confidence wobble.

Oh, rubbish, Emily, you’re being silly. If lone women can venture up the Amazon in dug-out canoes, you can venture down to the local pub.

Buoyed up by my idea, I start making my way towards the lobby. It’ll be fine. I’m sure everyone will be super friendly and welcoming, I tell myself firmly. Though it would be nice to go with someone.

‘It’s your auntie here, just ringing to say hello . . .’

Hearing a quiet voice coming from the far corner, I look over and see a figure hunched over the payphone. It’s Maeve.

‘. . . but you must be out again. OK, well, I’ll try you again tomorrow. Bye for now.’ Blowing kisses down the phone, she places the receiver on the cradle. For a moment she remains very still, her hand resting on the phone, her face incredibly sad. She appears deep in thought. Then, seeming to sense something, she looks up and sees me.

‘Oh, hello . . .’ she says, pulling together the edges of her cardigan and smiling self-consciously. ‘I didn’t see you there.’

‘I was just going to grab my coat,’ I explain, gesturing upstairs. ‘I thought I’d take a walk. Check out the village pub.’

‘Oh, I see.’ She nods.

There’s a pause, and I wonder if I should invite her. I don’t really want to, but it seems only polite. I mean, she seems nice and everything; I just wouldn’t really know what to say to her as we don’t have anything in common. Well, apart from the fact we’re both single, I think, noticing her empty ring finger. Earlier, at the meet and greet, I tried to talk to her, but she barely said two words before going to sit by herself on the sofa. Saying that, it’s mean-spirited not to ask. And I’m sure she won’t want to come, anyway.

‘Would you like to join me for a drink?’

There. At least now I’ve asked.

‘Oh, no,’ she answers hurriedly, recoiling back into her turtle-neck sweater. ‘No, I don’t think so . . . But thank you.’

See.

‘Well, goodnight, then.’ I nod, and continue on to the staircase.

I’m halfway up when I hear: ‘It’s Emily, isn’t it?’

I turn and see Maeve standing at the bottom wringing her hands. ‘I was just wondering . . .’ she says nervously, ‘. . . about that drink.’

For a split second I feel a clunk of regret, but quickly squash it.

‘You’ve changed your mind?’ I smile warmly.

Immediately her face relaxes. ‘Well, a sherry would be nice.’

‘Cool,’ I reply.

So this is how I’m going to spend my first night in England. Me and Maeve, grabbing a sherry or two at the local pub. Talk about girls gone wild, I think glumly.

And then, quite unexpectedly, a giggle rises in my throat. If Stella could see me now, she’d pee her pants. There she is living it up in a bikini on a tequila-soaked beach in Mexico, and here’s me in my old sweater hanging out with a bunch of senior citizens in the middle of the English countryside.

Covering my mouth, I try to smother another giggle. God, it’s just too funny. Even more so because, given the choice, I’d
still
rather be going to the pub with Maeve than doing the conga with a bunch of drunk college boys.

Maeve’s looking at me with a puzzled expression, and I throw her a big grin. ‘I’ll just go grab my coat.’

Maybe Stella is right. Maybe I am a kook.

Outside, the temperature has dropped dramatically and despite my layers of thick coat, woolly hat and mohair scarf, there’s an icy wind blowing that cuts right to the bone. We set off at a brisk pace to try to keep warm. The ground is covered in a layer of white frost and the gravel makes a satisfying crunching noise as we head off down the driveway.

For a while we don’t say anything and it’s just the noise of our footsteps, first on the gravel, then the asphalt of the sidewalk and finally the cobbles of the street. We walk side by side, clouds of white breath punctuating the darkness of the night. Thankfully, I had the foresight to borrow a flashlight from the front desk as it’s dark dark. Not city dark, like in New York, where the night-time skies glow marshmallow pink. Instead, overhead is an inky blackness, dotted only with millions of glittering pinpricks.

‘So what’s New York like?’ asks Maeve, after we’ve been walking in silence for at least five minutes.

I turn to look at her but it’s so black I can’t see her face. ‘Have you never been?’

‘No, I’ve never been to America,’ she sighs. ‘I’ve not been anywhere, really. Apart from a couple of trips to London when I was a lot younger. And I went to Paris once.’ She gives an embarrassed laugh. ‘I’m afraid I’m very boring.’

‘You’re doing this book tour,’ I point out. ‘That’s not boring.’

Having reached the edge of the village, we’re under the street lamps now and I see her absorb this. ‘Aye, I guess you’re right.’ She nods and gives a small smile.

‘And we’re going to the pub, and that’s not going to be boring,’ I continue, trying to buoy her up. Despite my initial reservations, I’m really beginning to like Maeve. There’s something about her, something more than you see on first impressions, a silent appreciation for things, a quiet dignity.

‘I’m afraid I must warn you, I’m not very good company—’ she begins apologising, but I cut her off.