Me and Mr Darcy (22 page)

‘You know, I’ve dreamed of a moment like this,’ I whisper. ‘Of meeting you.’

There’s no reply, and as I turn my gaze away from the sky I look across at Mr Darcy. He’s staring at me intently, and even when I catch his eye, he still doesn’t feel the need to say anything. Wow. I feel a shiver all the way up my spine. Mr Darcy is so completely different from all the other guys I’ve been out with – I’m so used to the crappy jokes and easy small talk that are usual in these kind of scenarios, but he’s just so
intense.

In fact, if I were to have one
teensy-weensy
criticism about Mr Darcy, it would be that he can be a little
too
intense, I decide, feeling a little self-conscious and looking away again. I mean, all this brooding is lovely in
theory
and he looks very handsome with his brow all crinkled up like that, but in reality it’s all a bit – well –
heavy.

Not that I don’t like heavy. I’m not saying that. Heavy is good. Especially after some of the idiots I’ve been out with who laugh at their own farts and can’t be serious for a minute. Only sometimes it’s nice to have a
little
light relief. A
bit
of chit-chat about the usual stuff: you know, current events, the latest celebrity gossip, what’s on TV. Maybe even have a bitch about the contestants on
American Idol.

But of course I’m being ridiculous. This is Mr Darcy. He doesn’t do chit-chat; he broods and smoulders and strides around setting pulses racing. And that’s why I love him, right?

Afterwards he rows back to the side, chivalrously helps me out of the boat, and we walk back into town. And then, before I know it, I’m back outside my hotel again, and Mr Darcy is saying, ‘Well, I shouldn’t keep you out all night.’

No, keep me out, keep me out, pipes up a little voice in my head, but instead I just nod and smile. To tell the truth, this evening has left me in something of a trance.

‘Goodnight, Emily.’ He bows politely.

Of course. No goodnight kiss. I feel a stab of disappointment. Oh, well. What can I expect? He’s a gentleman, remember?

‘Goodnight,
Mr Darcy
,’ I add with emphasis.

He waits dutifully as I climb the step and dig my night key out of my pocket. Sliding it into the lock, I turn the key and open the door. Then falter. I can’t just walk into the hotel and close the door behind me, allow him to disappear into the dead of night without knowing what happens now. I just can’t.

‘When am I going to see you again?’ I ask, twirling round.

My voice is urgent and high. I am
so
not cool. But I have to ask.

Having begun to walk away, he stops under a street lamp and turns, and with his trademark composure, replies enigmatically, ‘Soon.’

 

I
wake up early the next morning.

What exactly does that mean?

Trying to figure it out, I lie in bed, staring up at the ceiling. It’s such a frustrating word. So vague. So ambiguous. So open to misinterpretation. It could mean ten minutes, as in ‘I’ll be ready soon.’ Or anything from a few weeks to a few days, as in ‘See you soon.’ In fact, I told my Auntie Jean I’d see her soon, and that was last Christmas.

Plunged into gloom, I roll over on to my stomach and bury my face in my pillow.

Honestly, couldn’t he have been a bit more specific? I mean, what’s wrong with
tonight
, for Godsakes?

The way I see it, words like ‘soon’ shouldn’t be allowed when it comes to love and romance and affairs of the heart. They should be outlawed. Otherwise you’re just hanging around waiting for ‘soon’ to happen.

Or lying face down on your bed obsessing about it.

Damn.

Feeing suddenly annoyed with myself that I’m doing everything I promised myself I’d never do again over a man – any man, not
even
Mr Darcy – I take a few deep breaths like we do in yoga (which is about the only thing I can
do
in yoga) and pull myself together.

Right, that’s it, I decide firmly. I’m going to put it right to the very back of my mind. It’s no big deal. I’ll see him again whenever. I take another deep inhalation. See, I’m totally chilled out already.

I hear the faint burbling of my phone.

Oh, my God, that could be him!

I flick up my head sharply, making all these little black dots suddenly appear in front of my eyes, and throw myself over the side of my bed. Furiously groping for my bag, which seems to be submerged under a pile of clothes, I drag it out, stick my hand inside and frantically scrabble around, my fingers grasping at everything but my phone.
Shit, it’s going to ring off, it’s going to ring off, it’s going to
—

Got it!

‘Um . . . good morning,’ I say, lowering my voice a couple of octaves and trying to sound all cool and seductive into the mouthpiece.

Instead I sound like my brother.

‘Emily, is that you?’

‘Oh, Stella, hi,’ I say over-brightly, flopping back on my pillows.

God, I am an idiot. What am I thinking? Of course it’s not going to be him.

‘How’s it going?’ I ask, hiding my disappointment.

‘Can I just say something?’

Suddenly I get a heavy, weary feeling. I know what this means.

‘Men suck!’

Stella has called up to vent. Not because she wants to have a conversation. Or find out how I am and how my trip is going. Or even to ask my advice.

No, Stella’s just annoyed about something. (In this case it’s men, though in the past we’ve had subjects ranging from her neighbours’ ‘frigging yapping chihuahua that kept me awake all night’ to ‘Why does it cost three dollars for a cup of tea at a café when a tea bag only costs ten cents?’)

‘I was supposed to see Scott tonight and he totally blew me out . . .’

I don’t actually have to
say
anything. I just have to listen, quietly and without interruption, apart from the occasional ‘Uh-huh’ or ‘Seriously?’ interjected at relevant points.

Like, for example, now.

‘
Seriously?
’

‘Yeah. Can you believe it? We arranged to go out for dinner tonight – he was taking me to this fancy restaurant over in Playa del Carmen – but he never called . . .’

Sitting upright, I swing my legs out from underneath the blankets and sit there for a moment trying to come round. I’ve never been one of those people who can just leap out of bed on a morning all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.

‘. . . and I thought, There’s no way I’m going to stay in, mooning over some guy . . .’

‘Uh-huh.’

Silencing a yawn, I glance at my watch. Yet again I’ve managed to wake up with just ten minutes to spare before breakfast finishes. I need to get ready.

Stumbling into the bathroom and resting my fleecy elbows on the basin, I peer at my reflection in the mirror. Ugh. It’s not pretty. I’d like to blame it on the unflattering overhead lighting (which makes me think every electrician in the world must be a man, as no woman would
ever
install overhead lighting), but I have a sneaky feeling I really do look this rough. Though it’s not surprising: I hardly slept.

Well, you shouldn’t have been such a dirty stop-out, should you? Gallivanting around Bath in the early hours with Mr Darcy.

At the memory I feel a buzz of something warm and gloopy inside.

‘. . . so I went clubbing with Beatrice to Amigos . . .’

I zone back in with a ‘
Seriously?
’

‘You’re damned right I did!’ she exclaims.

Careful only to turn on the cold tap a trickle, I dampen my facecloth. One of the rules when listening to Stella’s rants is that I am required to give her my full concentration. No matter that she might have called me up in the middle of something crucial – I have to drop everything. I am not allowed to be caught – heaven forbid –
multi-tasking.

‘. . . and I wore my new hotpants, the ones with the silver stripe down the side, and tied one of those sarongs I bought from Chinatown round my boobs. It made this adorable little tube top . . .’

Finishing washing my face, I grab my toothbrush. Hmm, now this could be tricky.

I squeeze on a squiggle of toothpaste and attempt to brush my teeth with my mouth closed. It’s surprisingly effective. Although toothpaste does froth up pretty quickly.

‘Uh-huh . . . uh-huh . . .’ I mumble, my mouth full.

‘Anyway, so Bea and I were in the club sharing a pitcher of margarita . . .’

Spitting it silently in the basin, I forgo rinsing in the name of friendship and wipe my mouth on a towel. So far so good. And at this rate I’ll make breakfast.

‘. . . and guess who I saw?’

But first I need to pee.

‘Scott!’ she shrieks down the handset.

‘Um . . . seriously?’ Honestly, why is it that I always need to go at the most inconvenient of moments? I think, having a flashback to that day on the coach and Spike. Maybe I should start drinking cranberry juice or pomegranate or whatever it is that’s good for your bladder.

Quietly I lift up the toilet lid. I might have pelvic-floor muscles of steel, but there’s no way I can hold this. I’ve gone from wanting to go to desperate to go in under five seconds. I have the Ferrari of bladders.

‘And he was there with a whole bunch of girls. Right there! In the middle of the dance floor!’

‘Seriously?’ I begin quietly unravelling the toilet roll, careful that the holder doesn’t rattle and give me away.

‘
Seriously!
’ she cries. ‘They were all over him and he was all over them. I nearly didn’t see him because of all that foam.’

I dip the sheets of toilet paper into the bowl, crisscrossing them backwards and forwards across the U-bend to form – how shall I put it? –
a soft landing.

As you can probably tell, this is not the first time I’ve peed while on the phone.

‘So I marched right up to him and threw my margarita in his face. And I know what you’re going to say, Em . . .’

Really? ’Cos I don’t, I muse, sitting down on the ‘loo’, a word I’ve picked up from Maeve.

‘“What a waste of good tequila” – but I was so goddamn angry . . .’

I chime in with a sympathetic ‘Uh-huh.’

‘The slimeball!’

This time I go for an enthusiastic ‘Uh-huh.’

‘Bastard!’

Followed by a wearily resigned ‘Uh-huh.’

‘Fuck-face!’

Building to a you-go-girl ‘Uhuh!’

God, it’s amazing what you can convey through intonation, isn’t it?

‘Loser!’ she gasps, then corrects herself. ‘Well, actually he’s not a loser, is he?’ she says dryly. ‘He’s rich, handsome and successful and probably having an orgy right now.’

I finish peeing and go to flush the toilet. Then remember . . .

‘God, I feel like such a fool,’ she adds quietly and, if I’m not mistaken, I’m sure I can hear a tremble in her voice. ‘I was totally taken in. I thought he really liked me.’

There’s a pause, and then I hear it: a sniff.

It’s my cue to speak.

‘But did you really like him?’ I ask gently.

‘Yeah.’ She sniffs, only louder this time and I can imagine her sitting on her bed in her hotel room, dabbing her eyes with her Chinese sarong. ‘Well, he could be a bit arrogant . . .’ she trails off doubtfully.

It’s her first admission that Scott might not be the god she thought he was, and I seize the opportunity: ‘Just a bit?’ I coax. I feel like Harvey Keitel in that film with Kate Winslet – you know, the one where she’s in a cult and he has to de-indoctrinate her.

‘Mmmm,’ she murmurs, still sniffing into her sarong, but I can tell she’s starting to think about it. There’s a slight hesitation and then, ‘He did go on about his bonus a lot and how this year he’d made his company a fortune so he was expecting a really huge one . . .’

‘Really?’ I ask, trying to sound surprised.

‘Yeah, all the time,’ she replies, as if she’s surprised too. ‘Plus, he was always flashing his platinum Amex about . . .’

‘Tacky,’ I chime in. All she needs now is a bit of encouragement and she’ll be on a roll. ‘And what about his clothes?’ I prompt, fingers crossed.

‘Oh, my God, didn’t I tell you about his jeans?’ she cries.

Bingo!
That’s it. She’s criticising his fashion sense. The spell’s definitely broken.

‘They were
hemmed
!’

I don’t know quite what’s wrong with wearing hemmed jeans, but it’s obviously worse than being a serial killer in Stella’s eyes.

‘And he wore a belt with a big silver buckle,’ she’s now shrieking. ‘Oh, Em, it was hideous. It was like something David Hasselhoff would wear.’ She bursts into a fit of howls. ‘Jesus, what was I thinking? I was so impressed by everything—’ she breaks off, and sighs. ‘He was such good fun, though,’ she confesses.

‘So are roller coasters, but after a while they make you nauseous.’

Stella laughs. ‘Thanks, Em.’

‘What for?’

‘For listening to me.’

‘Hey, any time.’ I stifle a yawn.

‘Shit, I have no idea what time it is over there. Did I wake you up?’

‘Um, yeah . . . sort of . . . I was out late.’ Scooping my glittery pink mohair sweater off the floor from where I dropped it when I got in last night, I drag it over my head. It still smells of nighttime, and chimney smoke, and him.

‘Let me guess. Playing dominoes,’ she teases.

‘No, actually. I was with a man.’

There’s a stunned silence. It turns out to be a delayed reaction.

‘Holy shit!’ she shrieks, then repeats
ohmyGodIcan’tbelieveit
over and over (I take this opportunity to flush the toilet and wash my hands), until finally drawing breath, she gasps, ‘You were on a date?’