Me and Mr Darcy (9 page)

‘That’s for you to find out, Mr Hargreaves,’ she replies curtly.

‘Please call me Spike,’ he replies in deference, but she’s already addressing the dining room.

‘Now, just to remind everyone, we’ll be departing
promptly
after lunch.’ Turning to leave, she glances at Spike and nods her head. ‘Mr Hargreaves,’ she says politely but firmly, and strides off across the swirly carpet.

Watching from across the other side of the room, I’m absorbing this information. So Spike’s here to write a story about us, huh?

‘Your soup’s going cold.’ Abruptly I turn to see Rose gesturing to my bowl and grumbling, ‘Best eat that up, my dear. The main course is bound to be even
more
dreadful.’

Well, if he thinks I’m going to answer his stupid questions, he can think again. And turning my attention back to my soup, I take a hungry mouthful.

Thirty minutes later lunch is over and we’re back on the tourbus driving through country lanes on our way to the first stop on our itinerary. I, however, am engrossed in the world of Elizabeth Bennet and Mr Darcy. With my book open on my lap, I’m at the bit where they first meet and Mr Darcy sees Elizabeth.

God, imagine being described as ‘tolerable’. How insulting. I’d die.

I turn the page and suddenly my bladder twinges. I try ignoring it. I love this part.

Crossing my legs tightly, I focus back on the page.

Like an insistent child, my bladder twinges again.

It’s no good, I’m going to have to go for a pee.

Turning over the corner of my page, I tuck the book down the side of my seat and stand up.

‘The first stop on our tour is Chawton Manor,’ announces our tour guide, standing at the front of the coach, microphone in one hand, clipboard in the other. ‘Home to Jane Austen in the latter part of her life . . .’

The microphone fizzes and whines with interference, making it difficult for us to hear, but instead of abandoning her speech, Miss Steane simply ups the vocal ante and firmly proceeds. I have a feeling that nothing would stop our tour guide, short of a ten-ton truck, and then she would probably emerge victorious with only a few hairs out of place, and perhaps a small snag in her thick woollen tights.

‘. . . where she wrote and revised many of her novels, including everybody’s favourite,
Pride and Prejudice.
’

Making my way down the aisle, I head towards the bathroom. Out of the corner of my eye I can see the top of Spike What’s-his-name’s head looming, as he’s sitting right at the back. Tufts of blond hair are popping up over the tartan upholstery, and as I near him, his arm rises upwards in a stretch, then begins scratching his scalp in a lazy, absent-minded way. Classic telephone behaviour, I note. It’s the same with every man I know. It’s either the scalp, the belly or the you-know-whats.

‘Yeah . . . yeah . . . Absolutely . . .’

Told you.

Reaching for the handle on the bathroom door, I glance sideways and there he is. Head turned towards the window, cell phone wedged up against his ear, chatting away. Fortunately, he doesn’t see me, so we don’t have to go through the pretence of that awkward silent hi-nod-wave-of-recognition thingy, and I quickly close the door behind me.

Now, then.

Once inside, I’m pleased to find it all looks pretty clean. I take a cautious inhalation. And it smells fine, too. I’m relieved. Stella calls me a hygiene freak, but I don’t know why. OK, so I carry a little bottle of sanitiser in my bag, but that doesn’t make me Howard Hughes. Plus, I admit I wash bags of pre-washed salad, but I’m just being careful. And yes, it’s true, I won’t eat those little mints they have in a bowl in restaurants, but that’s because I once read an article about how they’d put one under a microscope. Do you have any idea how many traces of urine they found on a single mint?

Hundreds –
thousands even
– of tiny little bits of pee.

Ugghh.

I look down at the toilet and that’s when I notice someone has dribbled on the seat. Oh, God. Yuk. I reach for a piece of toilet paper, but that’s when I notice something else – there isn’t any, just an empty cardboard tube rattling on the holder.

Damn.

Suddenly a long-ago story of my mom visiting France comes flashing back to me. Forget stories of Parisian style, St Tropez sunshine and sophisticated sidewalk cafés. All my mother could talk about was the hole in the floor and how she’d had to squat over it. Seriously. And in her stilettos. She’s never been the same since. She blames it on the menopause, but I reckon it was that trip. She was so traumatised she’s been having hot flushes ever since.

Thankfully I am made of stronger stuff than my mother and so I peel down my jeans and sort of hover. Actually, this is a really good workout for my outer thighs, I realise, as I start peeing. They should put it in
Allure
or
Shape
, or one of those health and fitness magazines as a top tip:

 

 

‘. . . believe me I want to bloody kill my editor . . .’

Outside, I can hear someone talking.

‘. . . all the other journalists are married with children, which left muggins here . . .’

Muggins?
Who the hell is Muggins? Intrigued, I try listening closer. It’s definitely a male voice, so I guess that can only mean—

Shit.

Suddenly, in mid-flow, I realise two things:

Cue pelvic-floor muscles.

I stop mid-pee.

Impressive.

Silently I thank God for
Cosmo
and all those articles about doing your Kegel exercises.

Now I can hear much better.

‘. . . right now I should be spending Christmas and New Year in the Alps with my hot French girlfriend . . .’

My interest is sparked. So that’s who the blonde was in the car? Well, that would explain the Renault and the
terrible
driving.

‘. . . I’m so pissed off. I can’t believe it. It was all arranged. Two weeks of sex and snowboarding . . .’

He snowboards? Admiration stirs. I never had him down as the sporty type, all those cigarettes and his beer gut made me presume he was unathletic. I adjust my position. My thighs are beginning to ache. Though, I’m proud to admit, my pelvic floor is holding up pretty damn well.

‘. . . I tell you, right at this moment there’s no one I hate more than Mr bloody Darcy . . .’

What?
Hearing him insult Mr Darcy, indignation bites. How dare he? Darcy’s much more of a man than he’ll ever be, I think protectively.

‘. . . it’s all his bloody fault. If it wasn’t for him, I wouldn’t be on a coach full of old women. I swear, forget 18–30, this is like Club 60–80 . . .’

My ears prick up. He’s talking about the tour. And not very favourably either, I muse, absently wondering if he’s going to mention me.

‘. . . there’s just one girl my age . . .’

Oh, wow, he
is
talking about me. Feeling a curious surge of anticipation, I try leaning a little closer. Not so easy when you’re hovering over a toilet with your G-string stretched round your knees. I steady myself on the door handle. I wonder what he’s going to say?

There’s a pause. I can hear him laughing at something the other person just said, and holding my breath, I wait expectantly. Every second is beginning to feel like an eternity. Not only are my thigh muscles burning but my pelvic floor feels like a dam about to burst. Hold on, just hold on. I grit my teeth, and clench.

‘. . . no way. She’s not my type . . . She seems pretty dull . . . average-looking . . .’

Reality slaps me cold in the face. I wasn’t expecting that. I was sort of presuming he was going to say something nice, though I don’t know why – it’s not as if
I
like
him
, it’s just . . . My thoughts trail off lamely. God, I feel like a bit of an idiot now. Trust me to get it totally wrong. I mean, not that it matters – he’s an asshole anyway – I just wasn’t expecting him to be so, well,
hurtful . . .

Suddenly, much to my astonishment, my nose goes all tingly and I feel my eyes start welling up. Horrified, I sniff the tears back at once. Gosh, I’m being ridiculous. What on earth am I getting all emotional about? I’m not upset, I’m— OK, so I’m upset.

For like a second.

‘. . . and even worse . . . she’s
American
. . .’

Then I’m furious.

Right, that does it. Plonking myself down on the seat, I finish with not a care for who hears me, or for the fact I’m sitting in someone else’s dribble. I’m not going to have some snotty-nosed Brit think he’s better than me because he’s got a cute accent, a country full of old buildings and Ricky Gervais. We’ve got Madonna, the city of Manhattan and Abercrombie & Fitch, I think defiantly, as I wash my hands and emerge from the bathroom.

OK, so Madonna might be
masquerading
as a Brit, but she’s still American.

As I slam the door loudly behind me Mr Spike-arrogant-Hargreaves looks up. He’s still on the phone and I throw him my scary face before stomping back to my seat and snatching up my book. Now, where was I? Oh, yeah, the bit where Elizabeth Bennet is being described as ‘tolerable’ by Mr Darcy.

In my mind I hear Spike’s voice again: ‘
pretty dull . . . average-looking
’. Now I know how Elizabeth Bennet feels, I realise, feeling a new and powerful identification with Jane Austen’s heroine.

Honestly, I couldn’t have put it better myself. Who cares what Spike thinks? He’s so conceited and full of himself I’m glad he doesn’t like me. If he did he’d only be trying to hang out with me the whole time. How horrible would that be?

And feeling completely self-righteous, I throw myself back in my seat and turn the page.

Quite frankly, as far as I’m concerned, I’ve had a lucky escape.

 

I
t’s like stepping back in time.

‘Jane Austen lived here during the last eight years of her life and this is regarded by many to be her literary home . . .’

Our tour guide is chuntering away as she leads us through the seventeenth-century red-brick house which has been turned into a museum, and although I’m trying to focus, my attention keeps drifting.

Gazing around the tastefully decorated rooms of Chawton Manor, filled with original Regency furniture, the twenty-first century seems to have slipped away. Gone is the noise, bustle and frantic pace of modern-day life where you have to run just to keep up. It’s as if someone hit ‘Mute’ and everything’s slowed right down. I’ve entered this peaceful, contemplative world of writing letters with feather quills and Indian ink, reading quietly in button-back chairs and playing the harpsichord after dinner.

I stare at the harpsichord now, picturing myself sitting upright in my corset, tinkling on the keys. Actually, I can only play ‘Chopsticks’, despite years of piano lessons, so I’d probably be reading instead. Poetry maybe, or something romantic in Latin. Not that I can read Latin, but I’m sure it would be different if I’d lived then.

I mean, everything would be so different, wouldn’t it? There’d be no listening to the new Killers album on my iPod, no surfing the Internet and Googling that new man I’ve just met, no ordering Indian takeout and eating spicy shrimp bhuna while watching the first series of
Lost
on DVD . . .

OK, now that might be tough. I pause for a moment to reflect on a world without Matthew Fox. But you can’t miss what you’ve never had, and think how wonderful it would be to spend your evenings doing something mentally stimulating, instead of slobbing in front of the TV. Like writing a letter to a distant cousin, or discussing the merits of Shakespeare, or doing some needlepoint.

Oh all right – so perhaps the needlepoint might get a
little
boring after a while. I mean, sewing ‘Home Sweet Home’ probably isn’t
that
stimulating, but I’m sure you can embroider whatever you want. Like, for example, Coldplay lyrics on to a pillowcase, or a picture of Frida Kahlo on to a dish towel . . . Actually, you know what? That’s probably really hard. Especially if, like me, you’re not that good at art, and you can’t even sew on a button without pricking your finger and making it bleed, but I’m sure you could think of something.

I’m only drawing a blank at the moment because of the jet lag.

‘. . . and ahead of us we have the dining parlour, where she would spend her mornings writing, and the “creaking door”, which would alert her to visitors . . .’

Zoning back in to our tour guide’s commentary, I see she’s now moving through the vestibule and into a room at the front of the house. Gathered loosely into a group, we obediently shuffle along behind her, our footsteps echoing on the polished honey-coloured floorboards. I glance down at them now, at the thick, battle-scarred varnish beneath the crêpe soles of my boots. Gosh, it’s so amazing to think that Jane Austen once walked around this house, and on these very floorboards. She probably stood in this very spot, I tell myself, pausing by one of the many windows to gaze out across the neatly planted garden, which is being slowly drenched. It’s raining pretty hard now and it’s getting dark. It almost looks like there’s going to be a storm.