Me and Mr Darcy (5 page)

Grabbing my big, fluffy, mohair scarf, I turn to face her. ‘Well, I think you’d make a great couple,’ I persist.

‘Oh, Em . . .’ Stella shakes her head pityingly. ‘Get real.’

‘I am real,’ I reply indignantly.

‘No, you’re not, you’re a romantic,’ she dismisses.

That’s the second time Stella’s called me a romantic this week, and it’s beginning to grate.

‘I’m also a realist,’ I point out righteously.

Stella throws me a look that says
purlease.

‘I am,’ I repeat feebly.

‘And this from the girl who wants to date Mr Darcy.’

Feeling my cheeks burning, I stalk over to my hand luggage to start packing that.

‘Who, might I add, you told me was fabulously wealthy,’ adds Stella, picking up my brand-new copy of
Pride and Prejudice
, which I bought to take with me on this trip. My old one has been read so many times it’s falling apart. ‘I mean, c’mon. Let’s be honest. That Elizabeth Bennet was only interested in Mr Darcy because he was an aristocrat and had that big fuck-off estate wherever it was . . .’

‘Pemberley in Derbyshire,’ I prompt. Earlier I gave Stella a little potted synopsis of the novel, though I don’t remember it sounding like this.

‘. . . trust me, she would never have even looked at him if he’d lived in a tiny apartment above a bakery.’ Sighing, she puts down my book and absently picks up my itinerary. ‘Ooh, look, you’re going to a New Year’s Eve ball,’ she says, perking up. ‘
Groovy
.’

‘I know, great, huh?’ I smile, relieved to be changing the subject. Padding into my tiny bathroom, I open my cabinet and begin haphazardly chucking stuff into a sponge bag.

‘So what are you going to wear?’

‘Wear?’ I pause mid-chuck, feeling my frisson of excitement disintegrating at the thought of being hauled in front of the fashion police.

‘Please tell me you have a dress,’ hollers Stella sternly.

I shut the door of the bathroom cabinet and look at my reflection in the mirror:
shit.

‘Of course I have a dress,’ I say defensively, emerging from the bathroom. ‘Honestly, what do you think I’m going to wear? T-shirt and jeans?’

By the look on her face that’s a yes.

She narrows her eyes. ‘Well . . . where is it?’

‘In my suit bag.’ I gesture to the black vinyl bag hanging on my closet.

‘Can I see it?’ she asks, reaching for the zipper.

‘Not really. It’s all packed,’ I say, hastily making an excuse. ‘In tissue paper,’ I add.

Good thinking. Tissue paper makes it sound as if it’s from a really expensive boutique.

Stella looks suitably impressed, but still suspicious. ‘Describe it,’ she demands, folding her arms.

‘Erm . . . well, it’s . . .’ I falter as I think about my shopping trip a couple of days ago on a mission to find something. And how I flailed around in H&M with armfuls of dresses, feeling overwhelmed and desperate, until finally I just went for the most— ‘Festive,’ I say vaguely.

‘
Festive?
’

‘And fun,’ I add hopefully.

‘
Festive and fun?
’ she gasps in disbelief. ‘Emily, are we talking about a dress here or a novelty blow-up Santa?’

I make a last-ditch attempt. ‘It has sequins,’ I venture doubtfully.

Stella’s face collapses. She looks distraught, standing there in her vintage pussybow blouse and asymmetrical skirt from a boutique that’s so intimidating I daren’t even peer in the window.

‘Festive is not fun, Emily, it’s a fashion
nightmare
,’ she’s shrieking, clutching her temples. ‘Festive has zero style. All those boring little black dresses, sequinned scarves and sparkly eyeshadow.’ She gives a little shudder and suddenly I remember.

Oh, no. Please don’t let her see my new—

‘What’s this?’

Too late.

Pouncing on my new sparkly eyeshadow that I bought in the same desperate shopping trip, Stella sweeps a shimmery stripe across her eyelid, then stands back and peers at herself.

‘Iridescent Frost?’ she accuses.

I knew I should have bought matt. I
knew
it.

‘So, back to Freddy. There’s definitely no chance of romance?’ I ask, trying to distract her before it gets worse and she discovers the sequinned scarf I bought on a whim at the weekend.

Thankfully it works.

‘Absolutely not,’ she gasps and flops down on to my white cotton comforter. ‘I may be married, but I’m very much single. And I need my best friend.’ Pouting, she rolls over on to her stomach and props herself up on her elbows. ‘Are you sure I can’t persuade you to ditch the old folks on the minibus and come have some fun in Mexico instead? There’s still one space left.’ She pretends to whimper.

‘It’s a luxury tourbus,’ I correct her. ‘And no thanks.’ I shake my head. ‘I know you find this hard to believe, Stella, but I
want
to go on this tour.’ It’s true. Now I’ve had the chance to think about it, I’m really looking forward to it. ‘I’ve always wanted to go to England, ever since I read Jane Austen, and now’s my opportunity.’

‘Well, the British men can be pretty cute,’ concedes Stella, completely missing my point. ‘Just look at Daniel Craig.’

‘I’m not going for the men,’ I gasp impatiently, attempting to stuff
The Time Traveller’s Wife
through a tiny gap in the zipper of my suitcase.

‘Not even James Bond?’ she sighs dreamily. Then seeing me struggling, snaps, ‘Jesus, Em. Haven’t you got enough books already?’

‘Some people pack too many clothes, with me it’s books,’ I say coolly, in an attempt to justify myself.

Hoisting herself up from my bed, Stella shoots me a look that says she’s not buying it.

‘I never know what I’m going to want to curl up in bed with.’ I shrug.

‘How about trying a man?’ she retorts, tugging on her scarf and mittens.

Now it’s my turn to shoot her a look.

‘Seriously, Em, how long has it been since you actually . . . ?’

‘I’ve told you. The only men I’m interested in are in here . . .’ I grab my copy of
Pride and Prejudice
and slap it on the top of my suitcase.

‘OK, OK, I won’t say another word.’ She holds up her mittened hands in surrender. ‘Anyway, I’d better go. I’ve got a plane to catch?’

I nod. ‘Shame we’re flying from different airports or we could have shared a cab.’

We both look at each and I realise it’s time to say goodbye.

‘Well, toodle-pops,’ trills Stella in an appalling attempt at a British accent.

‘I think it’s toodle-
pip
,’ I grimace, laughing.

‘Oh, well, whatever it is those crazy Brits say.’ She shrugs, and then her face softens. ‘You look after yourself and have a good time, OK?’ Throwing her arms round me, she gives me a hug. ‘Promise?’ she asks, uncharacteristically emotional.

I squeeze her tightly. ‘Promise.’

For a brief moment I feel a twinge of doubt about spending New Year’s alone and not with Stella and her friends, but just as briefly I dismiss it. I’m a big girl. I’ll be fine. ‘Now, make sure you call me from Mexico, let me know how the margaritas are, won’t you?’

‘Definitely.’ She nods, throwing me that famous Stella grin. Releasing the latch, she tugs open the door. ‘Oh, and by the way . . .’ she pauses in the doorway ‘. . . this eyeshadow is awesome.’ And winking at me, she disappears into the hallway.

 

F
ast-forward eleven hours and I’m standing in the immigration line at Heathrow Airport, jet-lagged but excited. I feel a whoosh of exhilaration. Even now I can’t believe it’s actually happening, that I’m actually here in England.
England!

‘Next!’

Stifling a hippo-sized yawn, I look up to see I’m being waved forward by one of the officials, a grim-faced, middle-aged woman with short, frizzy hair and glasses.

‘How long do you intend to spend in the United Kingdom?’ she demands in a clipped voice as I approach the counter.

‘A week,’ I reply, giving her a friendly smile.

It has absolutely zero effect. Taking my passport, she studies it gravely and begins tapping furiously into her keyboard.

‘And what is your purpose for visiting?’

‘I’m here on a tour,’ I reply eagerly.

Without looking up, the immigration officer pushes up her glasses and continues tap-tapping, her lips tightly pursed.

My excitement wobbles. Her silence is beginning to make me a bit nervous. As if I’ve done something wrong somehow. A flashback of being caught shoplifting pops into my head and I feel a beat of worry. Oh, God, don’t say I’ve got some kind of criminal record and they’ve found it on an international database. OK, so I was only eleven and it was Barbie clothes, but still.
I have a history.

With my front teeth I begin chewing the flaky bits off my lips, which I only ever do when I’m nervous, and which I shouldn’t do as they always start bleeding.

They start bleeding.

‘What kind of tour?’ asks the officer, breaking off momentarily to flick through my passport. She grimaces at my picture – which isn’t
that
bad – then resumes her work at the keyboard. What on earth is she typing? An essay?
A police report?

My stomach nosedives.

‘It’s a specialist tour for literature lovers,’ I croak, my voice coming out all funny and high-pitched. Clearing my throat, I swallow a few times. ‘A week in the English countryside to explore the world of Jane Austen and
Pride and Prejudice
,’ I add weakly.

As if she cares, I think anxiously.

‘
Pride and Prejudice
?’ she repeats sharply, without looking up. Her fingers freeze on the keys. ‘Did you just say
Pride and Prejudice
?’

My immigration officer seems galvanised by this news.

‘Um, yes.’ I nod, uncertainly.

She looks up, her face flushed with excitement. ‘Oh, my giddy aunt, I can’t believe it! I
love Pride and Prejudice
!’ she shrieks loudly. Clutching at her polyester chest, she throws me a dazzling smile. ‘I just saw the film adaptation with Keira Knightley on DVD. Wasn’t it wonderful?’

I’m completely taken aback by her transformation. ‘Erm, yes . . .’ I stammer.

Leaning back in her chair, she loosens the top button of her blouse and begins fanning herself with my passport. ‘And that Mr Darcy.’ Rolling her eyes, she shoots me a lustful look. ‘Sex on a stick!’ Leaning forwards, she winks conspiratorially. ‘I tell you what, I wouldn’t kick him out of bed,’ she whispers, and giggles girlishly.

I stare, dumbfounded. I know Mr Darcy has an effect on women, but this is incredible.

Several minutes later we’re on first-name terms and Beryl is telling me all about her recent divorce from her husband, Len, her decision to work over the Christmas period and how much she wished she’d heard about the tour . . .

‘. . . because it sounds marvellous, love.’ She smiles warmly, handing back my passport. ‘I’d rather be spending the festive season with Mr Darcy than a load of asylum seekers, I can tell you. Maybe next year, eh?’

‘If you want, I’ll let you know how it is,’ I offer pleasantly.

‘Ooh, would you do that?’ Beryl smiles, and scribbles something on a piece of paper. ‘Here’s my email address.’

As I take it from her she squeezes my hand earnestly. ‘Have a great trip.’

‘Thanks, Beryl’ I smile, slipping my passport into my pocket.

Waving goodbye, I grab my wheelie suitcase and pass through immigration with ease, then pause at the exit to look back. Just in time to hear Beryl bark, ‘Next,’ and see her smile morph into that scarily grim expression as she summons another nervous passenger. ‘How long do you intend to spend in the United Kingdom?’

I smile to myself. Thanks a lot, Mr D.

Walking through the arrivals gate, I’m greeted by crowds of people leaning over the barriers waiting for their loved ones to appear off their flights. The place reeks of festive excitement. Strung with Christmas decorations, carols are being piped over the speakers and tinsel and lights are everywhere. A buzz of English accents hums around me, and my ears home in on pieces of conversation, like a radio being tuned in, picking up the different stations.

‘Oooh, sweetheart, you look smashing with that suntan. Doesn’t she look smashing with that suntan, David? It’s been brass monkeys here . . .’

‘. . . you snogged how many blokes in Bali . . . ?’

‘. . . what on earth do you mean, his plane’s delayed, darling? Crikey! We’re supposed to be at the registry office in less than an hour . . .’

‘. . . so what was Goa like? Did you go to any of those beach raves . . . ?’

‘. . . we’re taping
Coronation Street
, so as soon as we get home I’ll put the kettle on. I bet you’re gagging for a nice cup of tea after all that foreign muck . . .’

Snogged? Blokes? Crikey? Gagging? Brass monkeys?
What on earth are they talking about? Marvelling at all these weird and wonderful words, I weave my way through the crowds. Apparently, someone is going to be here to meet me, but I don’t know how I’m supposed to recognise them . . .

‘Emily Albright?’

In the middle of the scrum of people, I spot a tiny, bird-like figure in a tweed suit holding up a sign with my name on it. I rush over, wheeling my trolley with my luggage behind me.

‘Hi,’ I say politely. ‘Nice to meet you.’

The woman with the sign throws me a lively smile and extends her hand. ‘Miss Steane. Your tour guide. A pleasure to meet you, too,’ she replies jovially, her hazel eyes twinkling.

Something about her makes me falter. She seems really familiar. Have I met her before? For a moment I try to place her. Her face is freshly scrubbed and her hair is pinned up in a no-nonsense fashion. Yet, despite her frumpy appearance, she’s probably only the same age as the forty-something women I see on the streets of Manhattan, groomed to within an inch of their expensive honey-blonde highlights.