Me and Mr Darcy (8 page)

Apart from your friend, who he wants to sleep with.

‘Aww, go on, he’s right here . . .’

‘No, honestly—’

It’s too late. I can hear the phone being passed over. My heart plummets. Oh, no.
Please no.

‘Yo,’ demands a male voice on the other end of the line.

‘Oh, hi.’ I wince. ‘I’m Emily.’

‘Scott,’ grunts the reply.

There’s an awkward pause. I grope around for something to say.

‘Um, so what do you do, Scott?’ I ask stiffly. God, I sound like Stella’s mother.

‘I party,’ he laughs raucously.

I wince and persevere.

‘So, are you having a good time?’

Honestly, why don’t I just add ‘
dear
’ and go the whole hog?

‘Yeah, it’s totally wicked, and your friend Stella is rockin’.’

OK, I’m not going to judge. ‘Wicked’ and ‘rocking’ are perfectly good adjectives.

‘Boy, does she lurve to
par-taayyyy
,’ he whoops.

I take it all back. I’m judging. And Scott is guilty of being a total moron.

‘Um . . . will you pass me back to Stella?’ I say, only I have to shout loudly as he’s now pretending to howl like a dog.

Thankfully I hear the rustle of the phone and then, ‘Em?’

It’s Stella, back on the phone. Part of me is relieved, but the other part knows what’s coming next: the appraisal.

‘So what did you think?’ she whispers.

‘It’s difficult to tell, on the phone,’ I say, trying to be tactful.

‘He’s really successful. He owns an advertising agency,’ she confides. ‘And he’s really handsome.’

‘I’m sure he is,’ I agree. Who isn’t after a night of margaritas? I once kissed my own reflection in the mirror of the ladies.

‘He’s such great fun, Emily. He’s really crazy and he makes me laugh. I’ve only known him a couple of hours. I feel like we’re really connecting.’

Oh, shit. This sounds dangerous. I try jolting her back to reality. ‘So, have you heard from Freddy?’ I ask hopefully.

‘Yeah, he’s already sent me about ten text messages asking if I arrived safely, how’s the hotel, if I was OK . . .’

‘Aw, he’s so sweet,’ I say fondly. ‘You’re lucky. Freddy really cares about you.’

‘Well, I wish he didn’t, he drives me crazy,’ grumbles Stella. ‘I wish he’d leave me alone to enjoy my vacation.’

‘You say that, but I bet you’d really miss him if he did.’

‘I bet I wouldn’t.’

‘OK, have it your way,’ I surrender. ‘But you want to be careful what you wish for . . .’

My warning is drowned out by drunken giggling. I feel a wave of irritation. Has she heard a word I just said? I listen for a few moments. God, no. That’s not the sound of her and Scott kissing, is it?

‘Erm, Stella . . . ?’ I say tentatively.

‘Umm, yeah?’ she says distractedly.

Oh, hell. That
is
the sound of them kissing.

‘You know, perhaps I should talk to you later.’

‘Sure,’ she replies, not protesting. ‘Have fun at your museum.’

God, that makes me sound like a total dork, doesn’t it?

‘It’s not actually a museum, it’s where Jane Austen . . .’ I begin, but my voice trails off as I hear what sounds like Stella groaning on the end of the line. Oh, Lord. I feel as if I’ve rung some kind of adult sex line. ‘OK, well . . . um . . . take care.’

‘Mmmm, yeah . . . bye.’

Hanging up with relief, I glance at my watch. I’m running late as usual, and rubbing on some lip gloss, I grab my coat and sling my old tote bag over my shoulder. Bobbing my head so as not to bang it on the low doorframe, I twist the little brass key in the lock and head down the darkened hallway. Catching sight of my reflection in the mirror at the top of the stairs, I pause. My hair’s gone all limp and the front bits are all static-electric from my mohair scarf. I blow them off my face, only for them to cling straight back on again.

I grimace. Sometimes I hate having long hair. All that hassle of combing out tangles in the shower and blocking up the plughole and having to scoop it out with your fingers. Not to mention the expense of all the leave-in conditioners, serums and hot-oil treatments. I swear I have a cupboard full of them and my hair still looks exactly the same: shoulder-length, darkish brown and with enough split-ends to start a stylist tutting like a metronome. To be quite honest, I don’t know why I don’t just cut it all off. Actually, now I think about it, I do.

Two words:
Sienna
and
Miller.

Not that it matters what my hair looks like, of course. Nobody knows me here so it’s not as if I need to make an effort or anything. But I suppose it wouldn’t do any harm to tip my head upside down and do a bit of volumising with my fingers like this, and then throw my hair back and—

‘Erm, excuse me.’

I hear a voice behind me at exactly the same moment I catch sight of myself in the mirror. Which is when I see three things:

Jesus. How long has he been standing there?

Embarrassed at being caught doing my hair-commercial head-toss, I feel two spots of colour burning on my cheeks. I turn round and, with as much nonchalance as I can muster, rub the lip gloss off my cheeks while saying casually, ‘Yes? Can I help you with something?’

He has one eye squeezed shut and is rubbing the corner of it with his forefinger. ‘You could start by not flicking your hair in my face,’ he complains.

‘Oh, sorry—’ I begin, but he interrupts.

‘Yeah, well, you need to look what you’re bloody well doing. You nearly took my eye out,’ he snaps.

I feel a flash of annoyance.

‘Only nearly? Damn. I’m usually a good aim,’ I reply before I can stop myself. Well, honestly, he’s so patronising – he needs a taste of his own medicine.

‘In that case, I’m glad you’re only in possession of your hair and not a firearm,’ he retorts dryly and strides off down the stairs, shoelaces flapping.

Right. OK. Well, that told him, didn’t it?

For a moment I watch his retreating figure, trying to think of a suitable comeback, then give up. And feeling disgruntled, I follow him downstairs.

 

‘
H
e’s a journalist?’

‘From the
Daily Times
?’

‘And he wants to interview
us
?’

As I walk into the wood-panelled dining room a commotion greets me. A medley of voices, each one rising higher and higher up the scale as they shout questions over one another. I pick out Rose’s distinctive tones, but the loudest voice is coming from a tiny Indian lady called Rupinda. Wearing a turquoise-blue sari embroidered with silver peacocks, she’s sitting at the table waving a soup spoon like a conductor’s baton and demanding, ‘What he want to ask me, hey? What he want to ask me?’ over and over like a cockatoo.

Curious as to what’s going on, I look for a place to sit, but as I’m late they all seem to be taken already. I hover awkwardly, feeling like a child on her first day at school, when Rose rescues me.

‘
Em-i-lee
, darling, over here,’ she booms, waving me over to the table nearest the fireplace with those huge glittering rocks of hers on her fingers.

I smile gratefully and, squeezing myself in between the tables, plop myself down next to her. Immediately a waiter swoops on me with a silver tureen of soup and begins ladling it into my bowl.

‘Cream of cauliflower. Lukewarm and rather hideous,’ Rose criticises, seemingly unaware of the waiter at her elbow as she takes a large slurp from her own bowl.

She’s applied even more make-up, and despite it being only lunchtime, I notice she’s changed into a black chiffon top, the beaded sleeves of which are trailing in the aforementioned soup. However, she seems not to notice and so I don’t mention anything. To be honest, I’m rather afraid to. Despite her seventy-something years, Rose is more than a little intimidating.

‘So, what do you think of all this interview nonsense?’ she asks, breaking off to butter a bread roll.

‘I don’t know anything about it,’ I reply, watching with fascination as she cuts thick, creamy slices of butter, lays them on top of the bread as if they’re pieces of cheese and then, picking up the silver salt-shaker, sprinkles them with a dusting of salt. ‘Why, what’s going on?’

‘They’re writing an article about us,’ whispers Maeve, looking worried. ‘Apparently, we have to give interviews.’

‘When I was in the theatre, I was always having articles written about me,’ says Rose. ‘I have scrapbooks filled with press cuttings.’

‘You were an actress?’ I ask interestedly.

‘Not just an actress. A leading lady,’ she corrects mindfully. ‘I played opposite them all, Gielgud, Olivier, McKellen . . .’ Taking a mouthful of bread, she waves her arm flamboyantly. ‘I had the pick of the crop.’

‘So you’re famous?’ gasps Maeve in a hushed voice, visibly impressed.

‘Well, I wouldn’t say that,’ refutes Rose, lowering her eyelashes and batting them in an attempt at a modicum of modesty. ‘But in my youth the stage door would be crowded with autograph-hunters.’ She pauses for effect, puffed up by Maeve’s wide-eyed admiration. ‘But time passes, and I’m afraid the public have a terrible memory,’ she adds. ‘I doubt anyone remembers me now.
C’est la vie.
’ She laughs carelessly and dives for another bread roll, but I get the distinct impression that although Rose might no longer be on the stage, she’s still very much acting.

‘So who’s writing an article about us?’ I ask, changing the subject.

Taking a hungry bite, Rose gestures with the piece of leftover crust. ‘Ask that young chap, he knows.’

As soon as she says ‘young chap’ I feel a clunk of inevitability. In fact, to tell the truth, as soon as I walked in and heard the word ‘he’ I had a feeling who they meant. My eyes flick towards the end of the table, where Rose is pointing.

‘So he’s a journalist, huh?’ I shrug, disinterested. Whoopy-doo. Like I care.

I continue eating my soup. I can hear him talking, feel everyone’s eyes upon him, but I’m just going to ignore him. He can’t exactly be here to report anything very interesting anyway, can he?

OK, so I can hear snippets of what he’s saying and it does sound
vaguely
interesting, but I’m not going to listen. He’s so arrogant I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. Besides, I’m too busy focusing on my soup. My lovely cauliflower soup. Despite what Rose thinks, it’s actually rather delicious, sort of spicy with a hint of—

Oh, for Godsakes, Emily, talk about my lady doth protest too much. Quit the excuses and listen.

‘. . . and so I think our readers will be interested in hearing what you’ve got to say.’ Sleeves rolled up to reveal his hairy forearms, he’s dragging heavily on a cigarette as he fields questions from the women clustering round him.

‘But why us?’ exclaims one in a lilac turtle neck, clutching her ribbed woollen chest and looking at him beseechingly. If she was thirty years younger I’d swear she was flirting. On second thoughts, she
is
flirting, I realise, feeling vaguely shocked.

‘Who better equipped to answer my questions?’ he fires back unwaveringly. Folding one leg across the other, he hugs his ankle and eyes his captive audience. ‘Recently a poll by the Orange Prize for Fiction asked nearly two thousand women over three generations who their dream date would be . . .’ taking a breath, he drags on his cigarette ‘. . . and one man got more votes than any other . . .’

Well, I know who gets my vote, I think dreamily.

‘. . . Mr Darcy.’

I feel a jolt of surprise. Did he just say what I think he said? I lean forward in my seat to try to hear better. Just curious of course.

‘And so my paper thought it would make a great idea for a story if I came along on this tour and spent a week with die-hard fans to discover just why this fictional hero has such a hold over women today. What is it about Mr Darcy that women love so much?’

‘He’s enigmatic,’ calls out a smartly dressed woman with a Hermès silk scarf knotted round her neck.

‘And noble,’ announces another, pausing from sipping her soup to stare wistfully into the middle distance.

‘He’s honourable,’ adds Maeve timidly, seeming almost scared of her own voice. ‘In those days men knew how to treat a woman.’

There’s a lot of murmuring and nodding of heads.

‘Enigmatic? Noble? Honourable?’ mocks Rose, throwing down her napkin. ‘Ladies, please! I can appreciate his finer qualities, but did nobody
see
the BBC adaptation?’ Her dark eyes are flashing and her shiny black bob swings backwards and forwards. ‘The one when he came out of the lake in that white shirt looking devastatingly handsome,’ she continues pointedly, looking around the room for a reaction.

Immediately there’s a rowdy response of agreement and a lecherous cry of ‘
Phwoar
’, which, when I turn round, I am taken aback to see came from Rupinda.
Jeez.
And she looks the picture of elegance in her embroidered sari.

‘Mmm, I love Colin Firth,’ yells out someone.

‘Oooh, me too,’ agrees another.

‘But he was just playing Mr Darcy, ladies,’ interrupts Miss Steane, entering the room, clipboard in hand. ‘Remember, Mr Firth was just an actor, he is not the real Mr Darcy.’

‘And who is the
real
Mr Darcy?’

All eyes turn to the journalist. He’s looking at Miss Steane, his thick blond eyebrows pitched with interest. He stubs out his cigarette on the side plate he’s been using as an ashtray, leans back in his chair and folds his arms behind his head.