Me and Mr Darcy (3 page)

She says it with such pity it’s as if I’m suffering from a terminal illness.

‘What’s wrong with being a hopeless romantic?’ I demand defensively.

‘Nothing.’ She shrugs, plopping herself down at the top of the stepladder and hugging her bony knees to her chest. ‘But I’m afraid you’re going to have to face facts. You need to live in the real world. This is New York in the noughties, not the pages of –’ breaking off, she glances at the blurb on the back of the book ‘– a nineteenth-century novel set in the English countryside.’

Then Stella descends the ladder, grabs the rest of the pile of
Pride and Prejudice
and stuffs them unceremoniously on the shelf behind her. ‘Repeat after me, Em:
Mr Darcy does not exist.
’

 

T
he rest of the morning slips away in a frenzy of Christmas shoppers. Most of the bookstores these days are the large generic ones with in-house coffee chains, more interested in 3-for-2 promotions, sales figures and attracting people to buy overpriced non-fat lattes, but McKenzie’s is different.

Small and owned by the same family for three generations, we’re tucked down a side street and squashed in between a milliner’s and an Italian bakery. Most people walk straight past us, too busy looking at all the weird and wonderful hats in the neighbouring window or dashing next door to order a toasted ciabatta sandwich. They don’t notice the old mahogany door with the original stencilled glass, through which the sun shines of a late afternoon, creating patterns of light on the polished wooden floor. But for those passers-by who do happen upon us, either by chance or through recommendation, their first time is never their last.

I always think stepping through that door is a bit like stepping through the wardrobe and into Narnia. Outside is the hectic buzz of everyday New York, but as the bell chimes to greet your arrival, you leave reality behind and enter a world of your imagination.

McKenzie’s is only a small shop but it’s brimming with an eclectic mix of reading material. The walls are lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves where bestselling paperbacks rub spines with first editions, specialist titles and rare publications, while in the middle of the floor is a large trestle table laden with sumptuously photographed coffee-table books.

My favourite spot is over by the window. There, next to magazine racks filled with publications from all around the world, is an old leather button-back sofa. Worn and sagging in the middle, over the years it’s where thousands of customers have escaped their everyday lives for the few moments it takes to read the first chapter of the latest suspense thriller or be moved by a single verse of beautiful poetry.

I’ve worked here ever since college, and for someone who loves nothing more than curling up with a good book, it’s my dream job. My parents joke that I was predestined from birth to end up here, that books are in my blood. My parents are academics – my mom teaches English, and my dad art history – and they’re both total bookworms.

Growing up, there was no TV in our house. Instead, my brother and I were told to use our imaginations and were given books. According to my parents, I learned to read when I was only two and half years old. When all the other toddlers were going to the park to play on the swings, my mom and dad were taking me on trips to the public library.

Apparently, my first words were ‘Please be quiet.’

However, Mr McKenzie is getting old, and with his only son a doctor and not interested in taking over the business, there’s been talk of him selling up. Six months ago he had an offer from one of the big coffee chains, who wanted to replace the stencilled glass with their logo, lay a cement floor and put fake books on the mahogany bookshelves. He turned it down, said over his dead body. But even so, I’ve got a feeling my days here are numbered. Not that I’m bothered about myself – I can always get another job – but there’ll never be another bookstore like McKenzie’s. Once it’s gone, it’s gone for ever.

Handing a customer his change, I turn to the person next in line and see there isn’t anyone. I heave a sigh of relief. Thank God. Stella’s still out at lunch and the run-up to Christmas is always manic. Everyone’s on the hunt for the perfect gift. This is the time of year that most people head to the table first, under the illusion that bigger is always better and only a large, expensive coffee-table book will suffice. True, they make an impact, but invariably these volumes of glossy photographs are flicked through once and then left to gather dust, whereas a much-loved paperback will be enjoyed on the subway, in the bathtub and under the bedcovers, and loaned to friends and family to be read time and time again.

Nobody will ever forget
Wuthering Heights
, but who’s going to remember
The History of the Romanian Trapeze Artists
? I muse, noticing a figure over by the trestle table. Short and stocky with hair almost a whitish-grey, he’s leafing through the large hardback book. I walk up to him. He’s deep in concentration.

‘Is that for Stella?’ I ask, peering over his shoulder.

He jumps. ‘Hey, Em, how are you?’ he gasps, his boyish face breaking into a grin.

‘Oh, you know.’ I smile as he gives me a kiss on each cheek, sprinkling me with the flour that has coated his jet-black hair, making it appear white. ‘How are you, Freddy?’

Freddy is Stella’s husband, but theirs is only a green-card marriage. They met two years ago when she went into the bakery next door to buy sandwiches for lunch and they’ve been great friends ever since. Freddy’s Italian, and when his visa ran out, Stella offered to marry him. In return she gets to live cheaply in his little apartment above the bakery. It sounds like the perfect arrangement, and it is. Apart from one little fact: Freddy’s obviously hopelessly in love with her – and the only person who doesn’t notice is Stella.

‘So, what do you think?’ he’s asking, gesturing to the book. ‘For Christmas.’

I wrinkle up my nose. ‘Stella might work in a bookstore, but I don’t think I’ve ever actually seen her read a book.’

‘Hmmm, I guess you’re right . . .’ He nods, frowning. ‘But she could look at the photos,’ he suggests brightly.

‘Have you ever seen her look at a photo that wasn’t fashion photography?’ I ask, raising my eyebrows.

Freddy slumps and lets out a deep sigh. ‘I give up. I’m useless. I can’t even buy her a gift.’

He looks so woebegone my heart goes out to him. ‘Look, can I make a suggestion?’

‘Sure.’ He nods dolefully.

‘Let me do a bit of detective work for you, find out what she’d really like.’ I squeeze his arm. ‘And I promise it won’t be
Romanian Trapeze Artists.
’ I smile, gently easing the book out of his hands. ‘Not that I’m saying it’s not a great book,’ I add, in loyalty to the store. ‘But just not for Stella.’

Freddy shoots me a grateful look, and after saying our goodbyes he leaves the store. On his way out he nearly collides with Stella, who appears back from lunch, her face flushed with excitement.

‘Hey, Freddy,’ she says distractedly. Sweeping right past him and over to me, she announces, ‘Have I got a surprise for you!’

Over her shoulder I can see Freddy. Pausing momentarily in the doorway, he’s looking at Stella. His expression says it all.

‘You are going to
love
this.’

As he disappears into the street, I turn back to Stella.

‘Love what?’ I murmur. Plonking myself down on to the little wheelie stool behind the counter, I slide over to the computer. I know Stella well enough by now to know that whenever she thinks I’m going to love something, I invariably don’t.

I begin checking work emails. The shop has finally emptied, apart from the woman still over in the biography section, and it’s a good opportunity to make a start on all the last-minute Christmas orders.

‘I know what you’re going to do!’ Stella continues, oblivious in her enthusiasm. Unknotting her stripy scarf, she skips round the counter and stands next to me, panting breathlessly at my side, not unlike my parents’ Labrador when there’s food around.

‘About what?’ I continue typing.

‘About all these
terrible
dates you keep going on,’ she gushes.

‘Thanks for reminding me, but I’m not dating any more.’

Stella waves her fingerless-gloved hand dismissively. ‘You’re going to cheer yourself up and come with me and a bunch of girlies,’ she continues excitedly.

There’s a pregnant pause as she waits for me to ask where exactly it is I’m supposed to be going with her and a bunch of girlies – no doubt with an equal sum of excitement to hers – but I can only manage a half-hearted ‘Hmmm.’

Which isn’t enough for Stella, who whoops, ‘Em, you’re going to Mexico!’ in the kind of voice quiz-show hosts use on their poor, unsuspecting contestants.

I turn away from the monitor to stare at her. ‘Stella, what in God’s name are you talking about?’

‘For New Year!’ she gasps, plonking herself down on the counter. I throw her an authoritative look, but as usual she ignores me. Crossing her legs, she yanks up her fishnets and continues: ‘My friend Beatrice who lives in London just called. She’s booked this trip to Cancün in Mexico. Two people have dropped out at the last minute, which means there’s two spaces left.’ She grins excitedly. ‘
Me
,’ she announces, pressing her thumb against her chest. ‘And
you.
’ With a flourish, she points her finger at me. ‘We just have to buy our own flights from New York.’

‘And who’s going to be working here while we’re both swanning off to Mexico?’ I mutter dismissively. Honestly, Stella has no clue what it’s like to be a manager. She thinks a store runs itself.

‘It’s all sorted,’ she says triumphantly. ‘Mr McKenzie’s already offered.’

‘As in Mr McKenzie the owner?’ I look up with surprise. ‘You mean you’ve already asked him?’

‘I called him earlier. He said he’d be only too happy to look after things while we’re away. To be honest, he seemed rather delighted to be asked,’ she confides happily. ‘Says it will do him good to get out from under his wife’s feet for a change.’ Stella pops some bubblegum into her mouth and starts chewing.

Taken aback, I stare at her. I don’t know whether to be happy that, for the first time in five years, I don’t have to work the week between Christmas and New Year, or annoyed that Stella’s gone right over my head. I go for the first option.

‘Oh, OK.’ I nod, for want of something to say.

‘Awesome,’ whoops Stella, blowing out a big purple bubble and popping it with her tongue. ‘It’s gonna be fab. Apparently, it’s one of these package holidays for adult singles – it’s called Club 18–30.’

Oh, no.

I get a sudden sinking dread. I’m always flicking through the British mags we sell in the store, so I know all about these types of vacation. Enough to know they’re my idea of hell.

‘Club 18–30?’ I repeat, surprised just the words themselves don’t create a gag reflex.

‘Uh-huh.’ She beams proudly. ‘Great, huh?’

Now wait just one moment. Did she actually say the word
great
?

‘Well, the thing is—’ I begin, quickly trying to think of an excuse.

But she doesn’t let me finish. ‘Oh, fuck!’ she gasps, clamping her hand over her mouth. ‘I didn’t think.’

Now what?

‘I’m so tactless.’ Laying a consoling hand on my shoulder, she says in a hushed voice, ‘I didn’t think about the age issue.’ There’s a pause and then she whispers consolingly, ‘You’re not under thirty, are you?’

I pull away crossly. ‘Excuse me, but I’m twenty-nine!’ I admonish, putting my hands to my face as if suddenly expecting it to have sagged down by my knees since I last looked in the mirror.

Honestly. I love Stella and I know she means well, but sometimes I wonder what’s going on in that (currently) platinum-blonde head of hers. First she tries fixing me up with an alcoholic, and now she’s telling me I’m old.

‘I’m only two years older than you,’ I add defensively.

Stella winces. ‘Oops, sorry, I didn’t mean . . . I just meant . . . Well, you know what I’m like with numbers and shit and . . . you’re ageless, Em,’ she finishes brightly, smiling at me with that pink-cheeked, perky-eyed, twenty-seven-year-old face of hers.

‘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.