Definitely Not Mr. Darcy (49 page)

“I don't like cats.”

Chloe looked around. “How about another cabbie, then?”

Near the curb a couple kissed good-bye. The woman started crying. She stood alone for a minute to watch her man run through the automatic doors to catch his plane.

The cabbie handed the crate to Chloe. “Thank you very much. I've got a pickup.” He left her there on the curb, loaded with baggage, meowing crate in hand. And he didn't even bow.

Alistair turned in his crate and scratched on the door. She lumbered over to a line of cabs. She knocked on every window, but nobody wanted to drive out to the country at this hour. Did these people want to make money or what?

Finally, she gave up. It was time to check in. The overhead announcements, flashing computer screens, ads, and throngs of people dashing around made her queasy. She leaned on the metal stand that marked the end of the long, mazelike check-in line for economy class. Crying children clung to their parents. Some people carried suitcases and cardboard boxes wrapped in duct tape. She glanced over to the business-class check-in. Two men in suits and a woman with a laptop floated to their respective check-in desks.

Her check-in guy didn't even smile. He just handed the crate back to her. “All animals need to be brought to the international cargo desk.” He did say this with a charming, posh English accent, though. “Four hours ahead of departure.”

Chloe's passport shook in her hands. “What? But my flight leaves in an hour!”

He gave her a blank stare. The man behind her bumped into her with his rolling carry-on and didn't even apologize—or stop.

“Can the cat go on the next flight, then?”

No response.

“Without me?”

“I do believe that's possible.”

An hour later she was in the boarding line, half expecting Henry to burst through the crowd and give it one more shot. But he didn't.

If she weren't so hungry, she might've thought the empty feeling inside was something like regret. She was so hungry she might've even eaten a rabbit with head and furry ears still intact.

“Second row from the back, middle seat,” said the flight attendant on board. She had an American accent.

The person behind Chloe pushed into her. Chloe took her ticket from the flight attendant.

“Um. Just a question. If I've changed my mind, can I go back now?”

The flight attendant smiled. “No.” She nudged Chloe along. “Second row from the back, middle seat.”

Chloe wedged herself between a sprawling teenager playing video games on his phone and a pregnant woman breathing heavily and spilling over two seats. A child behind her kicked her seat incessantly. Nobody taught manners anymore. Mental note: buy iPad with earbuds as soon as possible.

She covered herself up in a blanket up to her chin, and decided to rid herself of all vestiges of her English fantasy world. It was over. So over. Still, she hoped Alistair was okay. And Abigail. She couldn't wait to see her!

T
en minutes with Abigail and it was as if Chloe had never left.

They quickly settled back into the strong mother-daughter They quickly settled back into the strong mother-daughter team they'd always been and Chloe served up pasta for nights on end. But it took weeks to deprogram Abigail out of the princess mode that Grandma and Grandpa had gotten her into, despite their current lack of cash. Chloe packed away the pink dress-up trunk full of shiny gowns, magic wands, and plastic tiaras for good. She donated the books of fairy tales to Goodwill and put Abigail on a strict diet of nonfiction because she didn't want to perpetuate the myth of charming princes on horses and happily-ever-after.

“Grandpa still calls me his princess,” Abigail said days later as Chloe brushed her long brown hair for school. “And he said he's the king.”

Chloe looked at the two of them in the bathroom mirror and pointed with the pink brush for emphasis. “Have I taught you nothing? Remember? They're not royalty of any kind. And neither are we.”

Abigail frowned and looked down at her new cowboy boots.

“You're not a princess. You're a very smart girl who's going to go to college and live in an apartment and work in a big city. It's so much better than being a princess.”

Abigail looked up with her long lashes. “So—after I work I'll meet the prince?”

Chloe sighed. This could take a while. “You might meet a smart man, and if you love him a lot, you might just ask
him
to marry
you
. Now come on, it's time to go to your sleepover.”

Abigail went to a party that happened to have a princess theme and Chloe was having Emma over to watch the grand finale of what ultimately became
How to Date Mr. Darcy
on cable. Emma said she was bringing “a friend,” which usually meant a blind date for Chloe, and they arrived before she could pour the appletinis and mojitos.

“Hi. I'm Dan.” Dan didn't bow when he met her. He wore a Cubs hat and brought his own nachos with microwavable orange cheese. “It's so cool to meet a reality star.”

Chloe shot a look at Emma as soon as she could, but Emma just shrugged. “He's supernice,” she whispered. “Just give him a chance.”

“What's for dinner?” Dan asked.

“Salad,” Chloe said.

Every episode of
How to Date Mr. Darcy
was like nails on a chalkboard for Chloe. She didn't like seeing and hearing herself on TV, especially her little freak-out over the confiscation of her cell phone that George had allowed to be plastered all over YouTube, the program's website, everything.

Worse, she saw now how Sebastian charmed his way into every woman's heart on the show—not just hers. He even seduced one of the chaperones, fifteen years his senior, in the weeks before Chloe joined. If anyone was “accomplished,” it was him.

“You kick ass, Chloe.” Dan ate with his mouth open, and talked with it open, too, so she could see the neon-orange cheese and tortilla chips mashed together in his mouth. “You're number one!” He'd brought an oversized foam finger and brandished it every time Chloe did something “cool” like leave Sebastian at the altar, dumbfounded.

In this final episode, after Chloe left in the taxicab, George announced that the tallied Accomplishment Points were deemed irrelevant due to unforeseen circumstances. He'd done exit interviews with Grace, Fiona, Mrs. Crescent, and Sebastian. After each interview, the screen went black and a little update paragraph about each person appeared. Grace was back to work at her trading firm and dating a British politician. Fiona had set her wedding date with her fiancé, who had come back ahead of schedule from his tour of duty in Afghanistan. Mrs. Crescent's William had a successful operation and the lump was benign. Sebastian, thanks to the reality show, had accepted the leading role in a show called
The Libertine
set to be filmed by England's Independent Television, and, it turned out, was dating one of the milkmaids from
How to Date Mr. Darcy
. He shouldn't have even been talking to the milkmaids. Then a photo of Chloe appeared on-screen and dissolved. The white type on the black screen read:

The show ended with a short clip about Henry. Chloe sucked down her drink.

“Miss Parker, I know you're out there watching,” he said into the camera.

Chloe, in her faded blue jeans, propped up her knees and hid her head.

“It was a great pleasure to get to know you and I do hope that you and your daughter consider visiting Dartworth Hall sometime very soon. I quite miss you. You pierce my soul—and all that.”

“Aww,” Emma said.

Dan took a slug of beer and burped. “What was that supposed to mean?”

It seemed forever until they left. Chloe stood looking out the third-floor window of her brownstone. It was Saturday night and fireworks were going off at Navy Pier. Red, white, and blue lit up the night sky.

She'd been thinking about Henry a lot lately. About England. The fireworks dripped in front of her like falling petals, or tears.

Alistair sat on his haunches in the living room with his back to her, surrounded by the white, brown, and black feathers from a down pillow he had just shredded. He was a mouser cat, and unless Abigail was home, he was bored.

“Alistair!”

He didn't flinch; she clenched her fists.

“Alistair Cooke!”

He slowly turned around and his green cat eyes stared at her as if he knew all. He had a long white feather in his mouth.

Chloe's heart pounded. At first she actually thought it was a quill pen. She released her clenched fingers and he dropped the feather at her lime-green painted toenails. She stepped on it with her stiletto heel, then sank down into her once shabby-chic couch that she had since reupholstered in black leather. The leather wasn't as comfortable. Neither were the stilettos. And lime green was never her color.

“Meow.”

She slipped off her sandals and tiptoed to her desk. The embossed letters on the spine of her Volume I first-edition of
Sense and Sensibility
gleamed in the moonlight. She pulled out a sheet of thick writing paper, then put it away and turned on her laptop instead. She clicked on her e-mail and adjusted her horn-rimmed glasses.

Maybe you could mix e-mail and etiquette. Business and bird-watching. Nineteenth-century courtship and modern-day feminism. The best of Austen and the worst of our reality.

Maybe she and Abigail could find a way to live in both worlds.

Her cursor lingered over the send button for a long time, but finally she clicked the mouse. And once you hit send, there's no going back.