Me and Mr Darcy (4 page)

‘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:

 

 

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.

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

‘Next week.’

 

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.’