Me and Mr. Darcy

  ‘And you’re about to be out of a job if you keep going,’ I warn grumpily.

  ‘Oh, come on, Em, it’s just what you need.’

  Stella’s enthusiasm is like a bulletproof vest. I swear it’s impenetrable.

  I swivel my stool to face her fully. ‘Stella, believe me, it’s the last thing I need.’

  ‘It’s all-inclusive,’ she adds, winking.

  I don’t even want to begin to imagine what she’s referring to. Fortunately, I don’t have to as we’re interrupted by a customer.

  ‘Excuse me, but I’d like to take this, please.’

  I look up and realise it’s the woman from the biography section. Gosh, is she still here? I thought she’d already left.

  ‘Did you find everything you were looking for?’ I ask, regarding her curiously. Wearing a fur hat, delicate drop earrings and a heavy, flowery scent, she has a quaint, slightly old-fashioned air about her. You’d think she’d just stepped off the set of a Merchant Ivory film and not the streets of Manhattan.

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ she replies in an English accent. Without looking up she slides a slim, leather-bound volume on to the glass countertop.

  I pick it up and glance at the title. ‘The Private Letters of Jane Austen’ is embossed in gold lettering. Funny, I don’t remember ever seeing this book before. I turn it over, but there’s no barcode on the back, just a handwritten sticker. It’s not my handwriting. The book must have been sitting unnoticed on the shelves for years, I ponder, ringing up the purchase.

  ‘Here. Why don’t you take a look at the resort?’ Reappearing from the back, Stella plops a glossy brochure next to the cash register. Out of the corner of my eye I see a close-up shot of busty girls in bikinis shrieking with their arms above their heads as they ride an inflatable banana. The words ‘FUN!FUN!FUN!’ are emblazoned across it in acid-yellow.

  ‘I’m afraid you’re going to have to count me out,’ I reply, without even picking it up.

  ‘But why? It’s a really good deal, it’ll be fun. Think of all that sun, sea, sand . . .’ Glancing at the customer, Stella lowers her voice, leans towards me and whispers in my ear, ‘Sex!’

  A vision of dancing around in a foam-filled nightclub in a beaded wristband with a spotty-faced eighteen-year-old and a pina colada stuffed full of brightly coloured umbrellas fills me with dread.

  ‘I am,’ I murmur, handing the English lady her receipt and brown paper bag with ‘McKenzie’s’ printed on the side. She dips her head politely, her face still hidden by her gigantic fur hat, and then turns and walks away.

  ‘I mean, look at this guy. He’s gorgeous.’

  I turn my attention back to Stella, who’s poring over the brochure.

  ‘I’m not going,’ I say firmly.

  ‘Oh, Em . . .’ she whines.

  ‘No.’ I shake my head resolutely and move back over to the computer. I resume checking emails: books on order . . . promotional offers . . .

  ‘So what are you going to do? Are your parents going to be home this year?’

  My parents live upstate but they haven’t spent Christmas and New Year at home since I graduated from college. Last year it was a safari in Botswana. The year before it was two weeks on a houseboat in India. And before that . . . God, I’ve lost track, but it was somewhere cell phones don’t work.

  ‘Spending your inheritance’ is how they laughingly describe these trips, and I’m really pleased for them. They’re born-again hippies with money. They wear Birkenstocks, drive a Prius and eat organic – Dad even took up yoga until he put his back out – and every year they disappear without so much as a Christmas card.

  ‘No, this year they’re going to Thailand on some meditation retreat.’ I shrug. ‘But I’ve been invited to my auntie Jean’s for dinner on Christmas Day.’

  Admittedly I used to get a bit upset when all my friends were going to spend the vacation at home, with the tree and turkey and everything, but I’ve got used to it now. Usually I go stay with my brother, Pete, in Brooklyn, but six months ago he met Marlena, an actress, so this year they’ve decided to visit her parents in Florida for New Year. Which is fine. I’ll probably stay home this year and curl up with a glass of wine and a good book. New Year’s Eve is always a huge anticlimax anyway, isn’t it?

  ‘But what about New Year’s Eve?’ asks Stella, not looking up from her brochure.

  Saying that, I’d prefer not to admit my plans to the girl who thinks staying in on just a regular Friday night is a fate worse than death.

  I pause, and at that moment I notice something on the counter. It’s a flyer. That’s weird. I didn’t see it before. I wonder who left it? Curious, I reach over and pick it up. It’s a photograph of stunning countryside over which, in black lettering, reads:

  SPECIALIST TOURS FOR LITERATURE LOVERS.

  Spend a week with Mr Darcy. Explore the world of Jane Austen and Pride and Prejudice in the English countryside.

  ‘I’m going to England,’ I blurt.

  As soon as the words come out of my mouth, I want to stuff them back in again. Oh, shit. Why did I go and say that?

  ‘You are?’ Stella rounds on me, her eyes wide with astonishment. ‘When?’

  Oh, double shit. I have no frigging idea.

  Anxiously I glance at the flyer. There’s a website address and so, pretending to be still busy checking emails, I quickly type it into the computer. Thank God for DSL. A box immediately opens.

  ‘Um . . .’ I try to act all casual while quickly scrolling down through the information surrounding the tour. I’m just going to have to bluff it. ‘Soon . . .’ I hedge, playing for time. Oh, sweet Jesus, where are the damn dates? They must be here somewhere. Trying to stay cool, calm and collected, I smooth back my hair and keep scrolling, my eyes scanning furiously. I can feel Stella’s eyes burning a hole in the side of my head.

  OK. No need to panic, Emily.

  An image of the inflatable banana pops into my head.

  I panic.

  Then I see them. Written in fine type at the bottom are all the various dates for tours. At last! Spotting one that coincides with the vacation to Cancún, I click on it. Well, you never know, they might have a cancellation over New Year. Surreptitiously I cross the fingers of my left hand underneath the counter. And anyway, it’s not as if I’m actually going, I’m just pretending.

  I do a double-take as ‘ONE SEAT LEFT’ pops up on the screen and stare at the words in astonishment.

  ‘How soon?’ challenges Stella.

  Then again, it might be rather fun. England for New Year. I can just imagine it now. All those cute little villages, cosy British pubs with open fires and bursting with history.

  And not an inflatable banana in sight.

  I move the mouse to ‘BOOK NOW’ and click.

  ‘Next week.’

  Chapter Three

  A week later, having spent a quiet Christmas Day at my auntie Jean’s, I’m back at my flat packing for my trip. It’s December 27 and my flight leaves in a few hours. Stella’s sitting on my sofa bed eating her way through a tub of hummus and watching me trying to squeeze more books into my holdall. No matter that I’m only going for a week, I have to be prepared. Obviously I’ve had to pack all six of the Austen novels, which takes up a fair amount of room, although I’ve left out Pride and Prejudice to take in my hand luggage as I want to read it again.

  Then of course there’s the contemporary stuff, like this book by a new writer that’s been number one on the New York Times bestseller list for the last six weeks that I’ve been dying to read.

  ‘You’re going to spend the holidays in England. In the freezing cold. With some Jane Austen book club?’ asks Stella, interrupting my thought process.

  ‘It’s not a book club, it’s a specialist tour. And it’s for literature lovers,’ I correct primly, quoting the flyer.

  Scooping up a blob of hummus on the end of a baby carrot, Stella looks at me with undisguised despair. She’s come over with the excuse of borrowing my
flat-irons, which I’ve never used and are still in their box, to take to Mexico. But now, nearly a whole tub of hummus later, I realise it’s all been a ruse – she’s here to try and get me to change my mind.

  And she’ll stop at nothing.

  ‘You know what that means, don’t you?’ she continues, munching loudly, her chin resting on her black Lycra-clad knees.

  Reluctantly turning away from a pile of paperbacks on my bedside table, I make a start on my sock drawer. ‘No, but I’m sure you’re going to tell me,’ I say stiffly, bundling socks into little balls.

  ‘Kooks,’ she says matter-of-factly, throwing me a look.

  I pause mid-sock-ball. ‘What do you mean, kooks?’

  ‘You know. Weirdos. Misfits. Old people.’

  Aghast, I stare at Stella. ‘I can’t believe you just said that.’

  Oh, OK, so I’m not really shocked, but being her boss I have to at least appear to take the moral high ground here.

  ‘Well, think about it. What kind of people want to spend the vacations with a bunch of strangers, talking about books?’

  ‘I do,’ I gasp, offended.

  Stella throws me a look of pity.

  ‘I happen to like books. I’m the manager of a bookstore, remember? Does that make me a kook?’ I ask haughtily.

  Stella scrapes another baby carrot round the sides of the plastic tub to get the last of the hummus. ‘No. You were a kook anyway.’ She smiles, licking off the excess.

  Throwing a velvet cushion at her, I turn back to my bookshelves to make sure I haven’t forgotten anything.

  ‘Forgive me if I’m being stupid, but are you actually going to take any clothes on this trip?’ asks Stella after a moment.

  ‘Of course,’ I reply indignantly. ‘I just haven’t gotten round to that bit yet.’

  Actually, to tell the truth, I haven’t really given the clothes bit much thought. After all, I’m only away for a week.

  ‘And it’s not as if I’m going to need that much,’ I point out in my defence.

  ‘But you’re going to need some.’

  I turn round to see Stella eyeing my little holdall with suspicion.

  ‘I don’t see any in here yet, and it’s already quite full,’ she continues doubtfully, before suddenly flashing me a smile, ‘Don’t tell me! You’re planning a trip to Topshop the moment you arrive.’

  ‘What’s Topshop?

  Stella looks at me in disbelief. ‘What’s Top shop!’ she cries. ‘Topshop is my holy land.’

  I look at her blankly.

  ‘Never mind, you wouldn’t understand,’ she sighs, shaking her head. ‘Clothes are obviously not a priority.’ She looks pointedly back at my holdall.

  ‘OK, OK, point taken,’ I say huffily. ‘Maybe I need to bring a bigger bag.’ Reaching under my bed, I tug out my old suitcase on wheels and flip it open. ‘See. Plenty of room.’ Hastily I decant my books into it and turn to my closet.

  I tug out a couple of sweaters. One is pink mohair with glittery bits round the cuffs and is sort of my fun sweater – you know, for having a snowball fight or something. Not that I’ve had a snowball fight since I was about ten, but it was featured in a magazine in one of those photoshoots where the models are rosy-cheeked and twinkly-eyed, and wearing mini-skirts and stripy tights. A look I’ve never managed to achieve, being a total fashion flunky. Every season I think about it – for about five minutes – and then put on my old jeans I’ve had for years.

  My other sweater’s a black cashmere turtle neck. I bought it in DKNY one January as part of my resolution to be more stylish after Stella, with typical subtlety, had pointed out that ‘Books might be your passion, but you can’t fuck a paperback.’ Even in the sale it set me back a fortune. I thought it would make me look smart and elegant, but to tell the truth I feel really boring in it. Like I’m an accountant or something.

  I hold up both sweaters for Stella’s opinion. ‘Pink or black?’

  She peers at them with a disapproving fashionista’s eye. ‘Definitely the pink,’ she says after a moment.

  ‘But the other one’s cashmere,’ I point out.

  ‘So?’ Stella shrugs.

  Being a couple of years younger than me, Stella has not yet reached the age when you read Vogue at the hairdresser’s and crave to be one of those celebrities who, when interviewed about what essentials they buy for their winter wardrobe, reply casually, ‘Cashmere in bulk.’ She’s still happy with an acrylic mix.

  ‘It’s boring.’ She yawns dismissively.

  I stuff both in my suitcase. She’s right – the pink is much nicer – but I have to bring the black with me to justify spending that much. Even if it just passes back and forth across the Atlantic without even leaving my suitcase I’ll feel better. And I might wear it.

  No, you won’t, Emily. You’ve had it for three years and you’ve never worn it. It makes you look like Auntie Jean.

  Oh, shut up.

  Turning back to my closet, I try deciding what else to take. God, I hate packing. I’m crap at it. I have no idea what to take.

  Giving up with any pretence of choosing, I chuck in lots of basic stuff – T-shirts, jeans, sweatshirts – then try to zip it up. But the zipper won’t budge. Seeing my plight, Stella untangles her legs from beneath her and joins me. Together we bump up and down on the lid, wiggling our butts and grunting a lot. Finally I zip it up. Just.

  ‘Right, that’s it. All done.’ I stand back and look at it with satisfaction. ‘What about you? Have you packed already?’ Stella’s flight to Mexico this evening too, but she’s apt to leave things to the last minute.

  ‘Yep. I did a major splurge at this really hip new store in Greenwich Village,’ she enthuses, idly looking through all the bottles of nail polish on my dresser. ‘And then I found these amazing sarongs in Chinatown. I’m taking a different one for every day that I’m going, to just throw on over my bikini and Havaianas.’ Unscrewing a lid, she paints a thumbnail, holds it to the light, then wrinkles up her nose in distaste and screws the lid back on. ‘I’ve got my whole look planned. It’s a sort of fusion between Miami Beach and the East.’

  ‘But you’re going to Mexico,’ I point out, puzzled.

  ‘Honestly, Em, it’s a fashion term,’ she gasps, shaking her head in despair. ‘Oh, and of course I’ve packed condoms,’ she adds nonchalantly, in the way people always do when they’re dying for you to ask them about it. Usually I’d ignore it, but this time I am dying to know.

  ‘Condoms?’ I repeat, slightly shocked. ‘But what about Freddy?’

  ‘What about him?’ she says innocently, picking up a copy of The Time Traveller’s Wife from my dresser and leafing through it. Trust me, if ever there was suspicious behaviour, this is it.

  ‘I thought something might be happening between you two.’

  ‘Why, because we’re married?’ she teases. ‘You know that was purely so he could get his papers. He’s adorable and I love him to bits, but he’s so not the right guy for me,’ she says decisively. ‘And I’m so not the right girl for him.’

  ‘Why not?’ I persist.

  ‘We’re complete opposites,’ she says simply. ‘I’m a vegetarian, he eats salami for breakfast. I’m untidy, he’s a neat freak. I like to stay up late, he’s in bed by nine thirty every night as he has to be at the bakery for four a.m. We’d drive each other crazy if we were really a couple.’ She fidgets with her wooden bangles, rolling them up and down her forearm in agitation. ‘Look, Freddy’s the sweetest person in the whole world, and he’ll make someone a wonderful boyfriend, but not me.’

  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.
br />   ‘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?’