Me and Mr Darcy (25 page)

Or a gorgeous slinky dress made from chocolate-brown satin and embroidered with tiny crystals.

I gasp as it spills out on to the eiderdown. Oh, my God. Looping my fingers through the delicate spaghetti straps, I hold it up and gaze at it in stunned amazement. Who would send me a dress? And not just
any
old dress, but a dazzling, exquisitely made, figure-hugging dress. Jumping up from the bed, I rush over to the full-length-mirror and, pressing it up against my body, angle the mirror’s brass stand to see my reflection.

I catch my breath as I snap into view.

Holy shit. I can’t quite believe it. It’s the kind of dress I’d look at in shop windows but would never have the balls to wear.

Excitement thumps.

Stella.
It has to be. I remember now, her sitting on the sofa bed in my New York apartment, watching me pack. She was reading the itinerary and kept asking me what clothes I was taking. She must have sent me this as a surprise, a sort of secret Santa. God knows how she got the address, but she has been a little detective of late, just look how she got Mr McKenzie to come in and cover for us over the vacation . . .

A thought thuds.

Oh, hell. I only got her a scented candle.

Snatching up my cell phone, I speed-dial her number. I glance at my watch. I’ve got just over five minutes. If I quickly wash my face, squirt on a bit of deodorant, pin up my hair and do my make-up on the coach . . . My mind racing, I start dashing around the room, my phone wedged in the crick of my neck as I dig out my one pair of stilettos. Stella insisted I bring them, just in case. Now I know why.

‘Hey, you’ve reached Stella. I can’t come to the phone right now, but if you’d like to leave a message . . .’

‘Hi, it’s me, Em,’ I gasp, turning on the taps in the bathroom and splashing my face with icy-cold water. ‘I just got your present and I wanted to say thank you. It’s beautiful, Stella, really beautiful.’ My voice is muffled as I roughly dry my face on a towel. ‘And I’m sorry I only got you a scented candle, but it’s wild fig and made of soy wax and the woman in the store told me it was supposed to bring you serenity and joy, or something. Look, I gotta go, but I’ll call you later. And thanks again, honey. I love it!’

Hanging up, I unzip my jeans, hop back into the bedroom and, chucking my phone on to the cluttered eiderdown, begin stripping off my clothes. I pull off my sweatshirt, unhook my bra and wriggle out of my comfy undies. I’m breathless with excitement. Oh, my God, I’ve never been brave enough to even
try
on a dress like this. I mean, look at it, it’s just so
va-va-va-voom.

For a moment my excitement stalls. Do I really dare wear this? I mean, can I pull this off? Don’t you have to have a figure like a supermodel to wear this?

Yeah, probably, I decide, my eyes gliding longingly over the folds of chocolate satin fabric. But I don’t have one. So I have two choices: (1) Stay in with a good book. (2) Put on a sexy dress and breathe in.

Scooping up the dress, I slip it over my head, and as it cascades to the floor I suck in my stomach for all I’m worth. Forget staying in with a good book.
This
Cinderella is going to the ball.

 

Sitting on the back seat of an old silver Mercedes, I drum my fingers against the velour armrest and peer impatiently out of the window.

Despite getting ready in record-breaking time, I rushed downstairs only to discover the coach had left without me. Which meant I had to catch a cab. Easier said than done. Bath is not Manhattan. Not even close. There’s no stepping outside and hailing one off the bustling streets.

Trust me, all you’ll catch on these streets will be a cold, Emily, I’d told myself, as I shivered on the sidewalk and peered into the silent emptiness.

In the end I went back inside and found the number of a local firm, but it was well over an hour before the creaky old Mercedes pulled up outside the hotel, its body sunk so low on the suspension it nearly scraped the cobblestones. Plenty of time to panic, reapply my make-up too many times, try out a new hairstyle and drink two Smirnoff miniatures from the minibar in my room.

‘So, you’re not from round these parts, are you?’

Above the noise of Band Aid’s ‘Do They Know It’s Christmas?’ playing loudly on the radio, I hear a gruff voice. Turning away from the window, I see my driver peering enquiringly at me in his rear-view mirror. He’s looking at me in the way people from town look at people from out of town. As a stranger, a foreign tourist, an object of curiosity. Quite amusing, really, considering he’s wearing a fake red Santa hat wrapped in tinsel and, with his almost-white beard and matching cotton-candy eyebrows, looks like a real-life Santa Claus.

Albeit in thick prescription glasses and a navy-blue parka.

‘No, I’m from New York,’ I yell to make myself heard over the rousing chorus.

‘So good they named it twice, huh?’ My driver laughs and I smile politely. ‘Me and the wife went to Florida once. Ever been to Florida?’

‘No, never,’ I reply.

Only I don’t think he can hear for Boy George singing the descant, as he begins telling me all about his trip to Fort Lauderdale to see his brother who has angina. After a few minutes I feel myself zoning out.

Out of the corner of my eye I notice a tiny, fake Christmas tree glued to his dashboard. Illuminated, it’s flashing on and off in different sequences and my gaze is drawn to it. I haven’t eaten yet and the alcohol is giving me a warm, slightly woozy feeling – the type of feeling that makes a miniature plastic Christmas tree fascinating to watch as it blinks on and off, on and off, on and off—

I’m broken from my hypnotic trance by the shrill warbling of my phone. I quickly dig it out of my bag.

‘Hello?’

‘So, how’s England treating you?’ asks a faint and crackly voice on the other end of the line.

I don’t immediately recognise who it is as it’s difficult to hear – not helped by my driver, who’s in the middle of his monologue: ‘. . . and we went to Disneyland. Ever been to Disneyland? You don’t know what you’re missing. They’ve got some cracking rides, you know . . .’

Then it registers: ‘Freddy!’ I cry, partly for the benefit of the cab driver, but mostly because I’m so pleased to hear from him. ‘How are you?’

‘Good, good,’ he replies brightly.
Too
brightly.

‘Great,’ I enthuse, playing along. Freddy and I are friends, but we’re not the kind of friends to call each other for cosy chats. There’s obviously something up. And I’ve got a pretty good idea what – or who – that is.

‘Actually, to be honest I’m pretty terrible. I miss Stella,’ he confesses dolefully.

‘Oh, Freddy,’ I sigh quietly.

‘I know, I know,’ he acknowledges. ‘I’m a lost cause.’

‘You’re not a lost cause, you’re a great guy,’ I protest, trying to lift his spirits. He sounds really down. New Year’s Eve sucks for unrequited lovers. ‘Stella’s just an idiot,’ I tut.

Forget the loyalty. I love my friend, but sometimes I want to shake her.

‘Do you think I should just give up and move on?’ asks Freddy resignedly.

‘God, I’m hardly qualified to give relationship advice, am I? Me. The girl who’s spent the last year going on one disastrous date after another . . .’

‘Sometimes you’ve gotta kiss a lot of frogs—’

‘What? Before I meet Prince Charming?’ I finish, smiling ruefully. ‘I didn’t know you were such an old romantic, Freddy.’

‘For my sins,’ he quips.

‘Hey, me too,’ I console.

‘Maybe you and I should have got together, Em,’ he suggests teasingly.

‘Maybe.’ I smile, playing along. ‘But you’re forgetting one thing . . .’

‘Oh, yeah?’

‘You’re in love with Stella, Freddy.’

It’s the first time it’s ever been said out loud and as soon as I say it I wonder if I’ve overstepped the mark. For a moment there’s silence on the other end of the line.

‘I know,’ he says finally, his easy demeanour gone.

Regret bites. ‘Oh, Freddy, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—’

‘Hey, Em, don’t be sorry, you’re right,’ he cuts in wearily. ‘But you wanna know something?’

‘Sure,’ I say quietly.

‘This being-in-love business frigging sucks.’

I so much want to talk more to Freddy, but I become aware of the Mercedes slowing down and, as we shudder to a standstill, am forced to cut our conversation short. Apologising, I promise to call him the moment I get back to New York, and we quickly say our goodbyes. I really feel for him. He sounds so down, but what can I do?

Troubled, I turn to look out of the window and suddenly everything else slips from my mind as my attention is grabbed by a stunning row of Regency houses. Shaped into a crescent and artistically lit by a row of wrought-iron lamp posts, they look too perfect to be real, as if we’ve happened upon a movie set and any minute I’m going to hear ‘Action’ and see Keira Knightley appear in a corset.

The driver yanks on the handbrake. ‘Here we are,’ he announces cheerily.

‘Thanks.’ Opening the car door, I step out into the glacial evening.

‘So what brings you to Bath at New Year? A fella?’

Passing the driver ten pounds for the fare, I smile. ‘No, quite the opposite,’ I reply, feeling rather proud of myself for being all cultural. ‘My love of Jane Austen.’

‘Oh, right.’ He nods.

His head disappears back into the cab to get change, but I motion for him to keep the rest as a tip. In New York we’re big tippers – twenty per cent is the norm – but I’ve heard stories about how the British simply don’t tip.

But see what a difference it makes, I note, as he looks at me as if he can’t quite believe it, then beams at me so broadly I feel like Angelina Jolie. Obviously giving a tip isn’t quite the same as being a UN ambassador, but it’s still a good deed. Infused with a virtuous glow, I smile generously and pass him an extra pound coin.

‘I saw a programme about your type on telly recently . . .’ He grins, sticking the cab into gear.

‘You did?’ See, it’s all about showing appreciation and respect. I appreciate him as a cab driver, and he respects me as the passenger. Delighted to have done my bit for American tourists everywhere, I smile graciously as he pulls away from the kerb.

‘Aye, and I tell you what, I’d never have put you down as one of them lipstick lesbians.’ He sighs, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘That Jane Austen is a very lucky woman.’

In disbelief I watch him waving at me as he drives off down the hill. Then, gathering the satin hem of my dress as I hurry up the stone-flagged steps, I start to giggle. I wouldn’t mind, but I’m not
nearly
trendy enough to be a lipstick lesbian. If Stella’s gay friends from art college had heard him, they’d have laughed their Prada pants off.

‘Good evening, madam, shall I take your coat?’

Magically the door opens and I’m greeted by a doorman in a penguin suit and white gloves.

Quickly stifling my laughter, I put on a serious face. ‘Why, thank you,’ I reply, slipping off my thick woollen coat and passing it to him. He whisks it away and I’m left standing in the marble entrance hall, feeling, I have to say, a teensy bit nervous.

The sounds of a string quartet and the popping of champagne corks waft towards me.

Actually, you know what, make that
very
nervous.

I head towards the noise. It’s coming from the other end of the hallway, and as I round the corner I suddenly catch sight of the magnificent ballroom, its doors flung open wide. I hang back, overwhelmed. I’ve never seen anything quite like it. I’ve been to some lavish parties in New York, even a fancy black-tie do at the Ritz Carlton, but this is something else.

Six dazzling chandeliers spill down from the ornate ceiling, although it seems like more than a hundred as they’re reflected over and over in the vista of mirrors. Running all the way round the walls, they create a sea of glittering diamonds, and for a few moments I just stand there, staring upwards, drinking it all in like I used to when I was a child and I’d gaze at our Christmas tree for hours. There’s something magical about all these tiny lights, I realise, feeling that same flutter of anticipation. I feel as if anything can happen.

Dragging my gaze away, I blink away the brightness, and as my eyes adjust, I take in the red silk bows, shiny green holly wreaths and impressive Christmas tree positioned directly behind the string quartet. The ball is already well under way and the room is thronging with people.

Nervously I scan the crowd for Mr Darcy – just on the off-chance – but there are so many people it’s hard to see. As women flit past I see flashes of silk and taffeta dresses, like chocolate wrappers, in amongst the monochrome dinner suits. There’s an elderly lady in electric-blue velvet, a tall, skinny brunette in scarlet ruffles, a glamorous blonde in a purple off-the-shoulder . . .

I pull at various bits of my dress. Before I got in the cab I was feeling quite confident, but now I feel all lumps and bumps. I suck in my stomach even harder, shove back my shoulders as far as they’ll go and try elongating my body to look taller. God, I’ve never worn anything like this before. Do I look ridiculous? It’s so revealing and clingy and, well,
vampish.
Plus, with all this flesh on show, I’m suddenly feeling a lot broader than usual.

Then my stomach lurches. There’s a woman wearing the same dress, standing right in front of me!
And
she looks so much better in it! Crestfallen, I sigh and slump forwards. At the same time I notice she does too. Then I fiddle with my hair. Huh, how funny. So does—

I do a little twirl, from side to side, and my face breaks into the biggest smile.