Me and Mr Darcy (44 page)

Unless there’s another explanation – a weird, wonderful, suspend-your-disbelief explanation – that maybe,
just maybe
, this
is
my original copy. You see, I have this theory . . .

There’s this bit in the book when Mr Darcy leaves Netherfield in November and goes to London with the Bingleys for the winter. It’s at the end of Volume I, well, actually, it’s the first few lines of Volume II if I remember rightly, just after the ball. Elizabeth doesn’t see him again until Easter. That’s months. During that time nobody knew what he got up to, where he went, who he met. He could have done anything. Met anyone. Dated anybody.

Like, for example, a girl from New York called Emily.

Is that why the rest of the pages were blank? Because he met me? Because that day at Chawton Manor, when we were both visitors from completely different places, our two worlds collided and we somehow managed to bump into each other? I don’t know how it happened, or why it happened,
but it happened.
And as a result of that trigger, a whole set of changes were set in motion . . .

At the time I didn’t stop to think about what the consequences might be of me and Mr Darcy. I was too busy being swept off my feet by a man I’ve been dreaming about since I was twelve years old. Too caught up with living out my fantasy, and that of every other woman like me. But now, in hindsight, I have thought about it, about what would have happened if I really had fallen in love with him, if we’d somehow stayed together.

My mind begins unravelling the story at a rate of knots. Mr Darcy would never have returned to Netherfield, made the trip back to his aunt’s in the hope he’d see Elizabeth, declared his undying love, been refused and written her that letter. And Elizabeth wouldn’t have had Mr Darcy coming to the rescue when her sister Lydia eloped with Wickham, she wouldn’t have been able to come to her senses and realise she was wrong, and she wouldn’t have been able to say yes when he asked her to marry him.

And therefore the rest of the story would never have happened. The pages would have remained for ever blank. There would have been no greatest love story of all time. No Elizabeth and Mr Darcy. No
Pride and Prejudice
as we know it. It would have ceased to exist. And it would have been all my fault. And, like the ripples produced by a stone hitting the water, the effects would have been far-reaching. The implications staggering.

Just imagine. There’d be no Colin Firth in the lake scene, no Matthew Macfadyen striding through the mist, no Mark Darcy for Bridget Jones.

At the thought of all those millions of irate Bridget Jones fans, I feel slightly sick.

But Mr Darcy did go back. Which explains why the pages aren’t blank any more. He returned to his life, forgot about me and by doing so created one of the best love stories there’ll ever be.

Sounds incredible?

Hell, it does. But perhaps we all need to believe something incredible once in a while. Just like I’d like to believe that the silk scarf I found outside Winchester Cathedral really
is
Mr Darcy’s and not some random stranger’s. I still have it. I keep it in my underwear drawer. Unfortunately it doesn’t smell of that sexy cologne any more. I had to wash it after blowing my snotty nose on it and now it smells of Bounce fabric conditioner. But still, sometimes I like to take it and tie it around my neck and fantasise a little . . .

But only a little of course, and then I put it straight back in the drawer.

‘Hey, Em, can you sign these delivery forms?’

Stella’s holler grabs my attention and I zone back to see her standing in the store doorway, wearing her raspberry-pink cape and waving a bunch of forms at me. I smile. She hasn’t taken that cape off since I gave her it. That’s three weeks straight in a raspberry-pink cape. Her neighbours have taken to calling her Red Riding Hood. Not that she cares. She’s in seventh heaven – or should I say Topshop heaven?

‘Sure,’ I yell back, and draining the last of my coffee, I run across the cobbles towards her. ‘So,’ I smile, reaching her and following her inside the store, ‘spill the beans.’

‘What beans?’ she asks innocently, guilt written all over her face.

‘About you and Freddy,’ I prompt, leaning against the section of the trestle table that’s right in the path of sunlight streaming through the doorway. It feels warm on my back.

‘There’s nothing to spill,’ she continues, and thrusts the forms at me. ‘Here, you need to sign these, boss.’

I take them from her. ‘Don’t try to butter me up by calling me boss. That’s two nothings. One from you and one from Freddy.’ Grabbing a pen, I scribble my signature. ‘And two nothings make a something – it’s like a double negative.’

Stella purses her mouth and surveys me thoughtfully. I can tell I’ve really got her with the double-negative thing.

‘Oh OK,’ she sighs, throwing her hands up in the air like a Jewish mother. ‘I give in. We’re dating.’

I look at her, a mixture of delight and disbelief. ‘Stella! That’s fantastic! Why didn’t you tell me earlier? You know I think Freddy’s great. Jeez, when did this all happen?’

‘When I got back from Mexico,’ she says, allowing herself a small smile as she remembers. ‘He was waiting for me when I got back and he’d made me this great cheesecake, as he knows it’s my favourite, and we just stayed in, and ate too much, and chatted and—’ She breaks off and shakes her hair, the tips of which she’s recently dyed black. ‘It made me realise just how much I’d missed him while I was away. Even before Scott turned out to be such a loser, I missed him. I thought it was just ’cos we lived together, we’d gotten used to each other, but it was more than that.’

Joining me in the little patch of sunlight, she turns to me. ‘You know, we’re pretty good together,’ she confesses.

‘Er, hello,’ I say indignantly. ‘Who’s been telling you this for
months
?’

She grins sheepishly. ‘I know, I know, I didn’t listen . . .’

‘So what’s it like, having sex with your husband?’ I ask, elbowing her.

She blushes. ‘Well, at least I know he’s going to respect me in the morning,’ she quips, and we both laugh.

We’re interrupted by the phone ringing, and Stella jumps up to get it. After a moment she calls out, ‘It’s Spike –
your boyfriend.
’

Now it’s my turn to blush. ‘Stop it,’ I hiss, as I rush over and snatch the receiver from her.

But I’m not really miffed, I’m only pretending. I
love
people calling Spike my boyfriend.
I
love calling him my boyfriend. I love everything
about
him being my boyfriend. Like, for example, sending him funny cards that I find in these little boutiques in SoHo, exchanging funny emails, chatting on the phone for hours as I lie in bed with my hot-water bottle imagining it’s him and counting down the days until he’s flying out to New York to visit me (it’s four, I’ve already counted, well, actually, it’s three days and twenty-two hours and about forty-five minutes), making silly doodles on the pad at work that involve writing our names, writing the word ‘love’ and then doing that thing where you count up how many Ls, Os, Vs, Es there are and then add them together and—

OK, I’ll stop now. I know that’s a load of old rubbish, but I can’t help it. I don’t
want
to help it. Because finally, after a litany of disastrous dates, I’ve finally met a guy I’m crazy about and who’s crazy about me. Well,
he’s
definitely crazy, anyway. And it took a long time to find him, and I went a long way to find him, and it even took me dating Mr Darcy to find him, but like Jane Austen said, ‘
Don’t be in a hurry. The right man will come at last
,’ and he did.

Albeit I wasn’t imagining him to be wearing a toothpaste-stained Smiths T-shirt, but then love has a habit of surprising you. Saying that, I think I’ve had enough surprises for one lifetime.

‘Hey, you,’ I say, pressing the phone to my ear. ‘How’s it going?’

‘I miss you,’ replies Spike matter-of-factly on the other end of the line.

I get that lovely warm feeing inside. ‘Miss you too,’ I say happily, and then mouth, ‘Ouch,’ as Stella grins and elbows me in the ribs. Trust me, she has very bony elbows.

‘OK, now we’ve got all that slushy stuff out of the way, how’s the sign looking?’

‘Amazing,’ I say proudly, using Freddy’s adjective. ‘You’ll see it soon.’

‘I know, I can’t wait. Two whole weeks with you in New York.’

My smile gets even wider. ‘Hey, by the way, will you manage to finish all your articles in time?’ I ask him.

‘Yeah, should do – I’ve just got a few loose ends to tie up on a couple of pieces . . .’

‘What about the Mr Darcy piece?’

‘Oh, didn’t I tell you?’

‘You finished it and the editor loved it?’

‘Well, yeah, there’s that,’ he says modestly, ‘and the fact that now he wants to hold it back for the Valentine’s Day issue . . .’

We both groan.

‘. . . but, no, there was something else. When I came to do all the name-checks, I called up the tour company and asked to be put through to Miss Steane, and they said there was no Miss Steane at that company. That in fact they’d never heard of her. I checked the number a couple of times, but I’d definitely got the right company. Isn’t that just the weirdest thing?’

‘Wow, yeah,’ I say, puzzled.

Just then I hear someone asking Spike a question in the background, and he comes back on the line: ‘Hey, Em, I’m going to have to go – work stuff. Can I call you later?’

‘Yeah, of course. Bye.’

‘Bye.’

I hang up and stare at the phone for a moment, deep in thought.

‘Something up?’

Stella reappears from the back carrying two mugs of fresh coffee and passes me one.

‘Thanks,’ I murmur absently, staring at the handset a little longer, before putting it down on the counter. ‘He’s right. That
is
really weird,’ I say, thinking out loud.

‘What? What? Tell me what?’ demands Stella, her interest now fully piqued.

‘The tour guide on my trip,’ I explain. ‘Apparently no one at the company’s ever heard of her.’

‘
Oooh
,’ says Stella, her eyes wide. ‘An imposter.’

I roll my eyes sardonically. ‘Honestly, Stella, you watch too many crime shows.’

She tuts and takes a gulp. ‘So who did she say she was? This tour guide?’

‘Her name’s Miss Steane. Hang on, I think I’ve got her card here somewhere.’ Putting down my mug, I grab my purse and rifle through my wallet. Sure enough, there’s the small rectangle of cream parchment. I hand it to Stella.

‘That’s it? Those are her details? Just her name, no number or anything?’

To be honest, I haven’t looked at it before, I just put it in my billfold, but now, looking at it, I see Stella’s right.

‘Huh, I guess so.’ I nod.

‘Una J. Steane,’ reads Stella, tracing her finger across the black embossed calligraphy. ‘Well, that’s obvious.’ She shrugs.

‘Is it?’ I ask. It’s not being very obvious to me.

‘Yeah, it’s an anagram of Jane Austen.’

I look at her dazedly. ‘What?’ I whisper, my voice not seeming to work properly. ‘No, it can’t be . . .’

‘You mean you didn’t work it out? Honestly, Em, you of all people . . .’

Stella continues talking but her voice fades into the background as I dive over to the bookshelves and snatch up a copy of
Persuasion.
I flick to the back cover. No, nothing. I grab
Emma.
Again nothing. What about a different publisher . . . ? Spotting a hardback volume of
Pride and Prejudice
, I seize it and turn straight to the back.

Holy shit.

I’m staring at a portrait of Miss Steane, only it’s Jane Austen, circa 1811. No wonder I kept thinking she looked familiar. Apart from the clothes, they’re identical. Same nose, same eyes, same amused smile. Out of nowhere I suddenly remember the woman in the biography section before Christmas, the lady who bought the book about Jane Austen that I’d never seen before, who left the flyer for the tour on the counter – the resemblance is uncanny . . . My mind starts whirling. And yet they can’t all be the same person – it’s obviously just a coincidence with the anagram and the likeness . . .

But already I’m thinking about all the advice Miss Steane gave me about men and relationships, that strange comment she made at the lake when I saw Mr Darcy swimming and outside Winchester Cathedral when I found his scarf. Could she see him, too? And what about the balldress? Was it from her? I suddenly remember Stella’s comment. Was she some kind of fairy godmother, a matchmaker, bringing Spike and me together?

I catch myself. Oh, c’mon, Emily. No way! That’s crazy!

Yeah, right, I’ve heard
that
before.

‘Is it something I said?’

I glance up from the picture to see Stella looking at me expectantly, clutching her coffee mug to her chest. Oh, shit. I have no idea what she was just saying. I didn’t hear a word.

‘Oh, no . . . no,’ I manage composing myself. ‘Just noticed a few books weren’t in order.’

Stella relaxes her shoulders and smiles in admiration. ‘Jeez, you really do love this place, don’t you?’

I smile as I start putting the books back on the shelves.

‘So when’s your boyfriend arriving? I can’t wait to meet him.’

‘Friday,’ I say, feeling that familiar beat of excitement.

‘So what’s he like, this Spike?’ She grins. ‘Is he like Mr Darcy?’

I pause to glance down at the copy of
Pride and Prejudice
in my hands, at the picture of Jane Austen, and it’s as if Miss Steane is smiling right at me.

‘No,’ I say, shaking my head.

And as I think about Spike, with his sloppy clothes, hot temper and crazy sense of humour, a huge smile breaks across my face.