by Melissa Hill
Joshua smiled fondly. ‘Like I keep telling you, if you tried making an effort now and again – maybe some eyeliner and a touch of lipstick – you could almost pass for Megan Fox’s older, chunkier sister. Oh, and lose the spinster glasses, for tonight at least?’
Darcy was well used to his teasing. ‘Not all of us are lucky enough to possess your rather . . . unique eye for style,’ she said wickedly, eyeing his drainpipe trousers. ‘The literati will just have to take me as I am.’
It was true that she had no fashion sense whatsoever. Also, there was barely enough room to move in her tiny apartment, and for Darcy the choice was simple. She’d happily sacrifice anything, even food, if it meant she could fit in more books.
While her wardrobe consisted mostly of functional work clothes (in a bookstore, paper dust clung to everything), she did possess a few items for special occasions – a seventies-style wrap dress she’d found in a cute little vintage store down in Greenwich, and incongruously a pair of unworn Jimmy Choo heels that her aunt had bought her a couple of Christmases ago.
Still, now that Joshua had openly pointed out her sartorial shortcomings, she guessed she was due for a similar earful from Katherine on arrival at the party, which was being held in fashionable Chelsea.
While Darcy loved her aunt and was massively grateful for everything she had done for her, Katherine’s outspoken and no-holds-barred personality had also caused a certain level of heartache, because not only was she focused on an eternal attempt for Darcy to improve her career but also to improve herself in general. Not to mention a seemingly endless quest to matchmake her niece with reputable New York men.
The truth was that Darcy was perfectly content on her own and had no interest in partaking of the often terrifying Manhattan dating scene. It was a million miles from the romantic rituals outlined in her favourite novels, and while it might be wishful thinking, she wasn’t willing to settle for anything less than being swept off her feet.
While she’d had relationships with guys over the years – mostly quiet, bookish types like herself – none of them had been especially serious, rarely lasting longer than a couple of months.
‘No flesh and blood man could ever live up to those fictional heroes you’re so crazy about,’ Joshua often teased her, and Darcy supposed there was some truth in that.
There was certainly no denying that she’d always been taken with the idea of true love and proper passionate romance like that between Romeo and Juliet, Lancelot and Queen Guinevere, Scarlett and Rhett, and her favourites, Elizabeth and Darcy, her namesake.
Later, saying goodbye to Joshua, she wrapped up warm in her purple North Face ski jacket and woollen scarf, and prepared for what was for her, unlike most New Yorkers, one of the most pleasurable parts of her working day: the commute.
Navigating Manhattan’s Upper West Side was something tourists paid good money to do on a regular basis, and Darcy did it twice a day, five days a week for free.
Going into the tiny yard behind the store, she unlocked her bike and put on her safety helmet, fastening it tightly beneath her chin. She was proud of her knowledge of New York’s streets – like the nifty shortcut via the Meatpacking District she relied upon to avoid the traffic on Sixth, or how a simple hidden passageway near Chelsea whisked her away from the worst of the Forty-Second Street hordes.
She particularly loved riding around town this time of year, with all the festive shop displays, cosy cafés and trattorias lit up for the season, white and coloured fairy lights blinking, candles aglow, early-evening diners holding hands in window seats, or braving the al fresco tables that sat mere inches from the kerb, bundled up in thick woollen coats and gloves as they smoked a crafty cigarette.
Darcy cruised along steadily on the bike, marvelling at the colour of the sky, that bleak city blue she loved so much in the last few hours before complete darkness fell upon the city. Manhattan’s music filled the air, a mix of honking horns and hissing pipes, vendors shouting and people chattering.
It was all a blur as she sped by, obeying traffic signals as she hugged the kerb. She was zinging now, the lights green, the air cold and crisp, her eyes open and alert, her long legs loose and limber. She felt truly alive.
She knew that cyclists in Manhattan, with their natural proclivity for speed and deft weaving through traffic, were generally considered by most New Yorkers – and taxi drivers in particular – as being only barely above sewer rats and cockroaches in the food chain, but Darcy wouldn’t swap her beloved three-speeder – and the addictive sensation of almost flying through the streets – for any amount of abuse. In truth, much of the bad reputation was derived from daredevil city couriers who defied traffic laws and sometimes gravity, as they zipped along as if on a kamikaze mission rather than a job.
It wasn’t snowing, not yet, but Darcy could feel it teasing her in the crystal sky. Slowing at the corner of Broadway and Columbus Avenue, she passed by a fancy bistro full of equally fancy patrons sitting at tables with white cloths and big glasses of rich, red wine and plates of delectable pasta in front of them. Her mouth watered. The air felt clear as she cycled on through streets lined with people heading home from the market, their upmarket bags brimming with organic carrots and loaves of Cuban bread or carefully boxed truffles: another night of opulence in America’s favourite city.
Darcy felt like an impostor here sometimes, particularly on the Upper West Side, amongst the galleries and restaurants and bistros, cafés and high-rises and appointment-only vintage stores and photography studios. She was an ordinary person in an extraordinary place, one who ate Ramen noodles three nights a week and half-price specials from Luigi’s the other four, who didn’t own a car and took care of what few clothes she had so she wouldn’t need to spend her hard-earned wages on new ones. And her entertainment of choice generally took place in her own apartment between the pages of great books rather than in the nightspots of New York.
But still it was all worth it, to live in the most magical city on earth. She smiled. Maybe one day she’d find someone to share in the fairytale.
Chapter 2
Her heart was a secret garden and the walls were very high. William Goldman
A little while later, Darcy pulled her bike up to the hip Chelsea bistro hosting the science fiction author’s book-launch party. Parking it next to a lamp post, she took her bike lock out of her messenger bag and clipped it around both. Despite the media’s harping on about New York crime statistics, in all the years she’d lived in the city she’d never had one stolen. Satisfied, she turned towards the entrance and inside by the door, immediately locked eyes with the only person she was likely to recognise here tonight: her aunt.
A statuesque blonde in her mid-fifties, dressed in head-to-toe Chanel, Katherine Armstrong was holding a martini glass in one manicured hand, and critically assessing every inch of Darcy’s windblown appearance.
Feeling under examination, Darcy shook out her flattened hair, straightened her coat and adjusted her bag on her shoulder, just as light snowflakes began to descend from the sky, melting on contact with her increasingly flushed cheeks. She turned her face upwards, briefly revelling in the sensation. Then, steeling herself for the inevitable assassination, she walked towards the front door, all too late noticing the salt stains on the back of her trousers.
Well, there was nothing she could do about that now, she thought as she opened the door to the restaurant and hastily brushed down the legs of her pants, hoping that her aunt wouldn’t notice.
Before Darcy made it two steps inside the entrance, had a chance to scope out the room or even take off her coat, Katherine accosted her.
‘Darling, why on earth are you still riding that dreadful thing in December, in the middle of winter, when it is starting to snow.’ Darcy took careful note that this was a statement, not a question. ‘Do you have some kind of death wish?’ This was a question, though.
She smiled tiredly. ‘No, Katherine, I don’t have a death wish, and you already know why
I ride my bike.’ Over the years they’d had countless ‘discussions’ about Darcy’s preference for the bike over any form of public transport, something which according to Katherine thumbed its nose at reason and indeed personal safety. But riding on public transport was actually detrimental for Darcy. Such journeys afforded her the opportunity to immerse herself in reading, and she’d lost count of the number of times she’d gone miles past her stop and ended up late for work.
Her aunt sighed. ‘You know, your parents are probably spinning in their graves, may they rest in peace. They entrusted you to me all those years ago, and what do you do to honour their wishes for your personal welfare? You pedal a bike around the streets of Manhattan, just asking to be mown down. Why can’t you be like any other self-respecting New Yorker and just take the subway or a damn cab?’ Darcy opened her mouth to protest, but Katherine held up one heavily bejewelled hand to silence her. ‘I mean, thirty-three is a little old to be clinging on to the hippie thing, isn’t it? Which leads me to my next point: what successful man these days would be interested in some sort of tree-hugger when they would have to walk her and a bicycle home from a date? It’s like something that happens in the schoolyard. Men in this city want women as sophisticated as they are, and how would you even ride a bike to a date anyway? Those Jimmy Choos I gave you would be completely destroyed if you tried to pedal in them. Then of course there’s your job . . .’
Darcy shook her head good-naturedly, the litany of her aunt’s complaints sailing right over her head. She had heard all of this before, and knew there was no point in trying to argue her case. If she allowed Katherine to get a foothold with the cycling thing, the lack of relationship or gather speed with the job criticism, she knew she wouldn’t be able to get past the entry of the restaurant for the rest of the night.
So much for a catch-up. More like an ambush!
‘Anyway, sweetheart,’ Katherine continued, as she took Darcy’s elbow and led her into the restaurant, steering her forward until they were in front of the bar, ‘I invited you here because there are some people I want you to meet. Actually, one person I want you to meet in particular. He’s the author being celebrated tonight. Oliver Martin,’ she said triumphantly, as if she was personally responsible for his success, looking at her niece for a reaction. When Darcy seemed unmoved, she said resignedly. ‘You know, given that you work in a bookstore, I would have thought you would know who Oliver Martin is.’ She turned to the bartender. ‘My niece will have a dirty martini, three olives, blue cheese stuffed, with Belvedere vodka.’
Darcy quickly interrupted with: ‘No, actually, I’ll just have a glass of Cabernet. Whatever the house is – no big deal.’
Katherine’s eyes widened. ‘House?’ she said, horrified. ‘She doesn’t want the house. Give her the Clos du Bois. Or the Fourteen Hands.’
‘Really, the house is fine,’ Darcy insisted to the bartender who was uncertainly juggling bottles, trying to determine who was in charge. He gave a small smile as Darcy mouthed, ‘Seriously.’ Even so, he must have figured that Katherine was the more redoubtable of the two, because he duly uncorked the Clos du Bois.
Well, at least it isn’t a dirty martini, Darcy thought, feeling a small measure of triumph. She didn’t like vodka, but no matter how many times she said it, Katherine seemed to believe that eventually it would grow on her. It wouldn’t.
‘So,’ her aunt continued, eyeing the crowd and seeing who was nearby and worthy enough to talk to, ‘seems Oliver Martin is going to be huge.’
‘Isn’t he a sci-fi writer?’ Darcy asked as the bartender passed her a wine glass. ‘I haven’t read anything of his because I’m not interested in that genre. Not my thing.’ It was one of the few genres that she didn’t read, as Darcy would gladly read the back of a milk carton if there was nothing else available. However, possibly down to being a self-confessed Luddite, she found it difficult to immerse herself in futuristic technologically-based worlds.
Katherine waved a hand airily. ‘It doesn’t matter whether or not you are interested in sci-fi. The point is, he has recently become a New York Times bestselling author so I want you to meet him. Word is, he is in talks with Spielberg about something too.’ She once again grabbed Darcy’s arm and directed her through the bodies towards a corner of the room where a large crowd was gathered. Darcy did her best to manoeuvre her glass so as not to slop red wine all over someone’s Prada shoes.
‘Excuse me, excuse me,’ Katherine ordered, elbowing through people as Darcy smiled apologetically and tried in vain to put on the brakes as her aunt dragged her forward.
Finally, they reached the edge of the crowd to where the man of the moment, Oliver Martin, was holding court.
Darcy blinked. The guy standing in front of them might have been a celebrated bestselling sci-fi author, but his wardrobe choices evidently stopped at the door of his teenage closet. Not that she could talk, but at least her choice of clothing bore some resemblance to twenty-first-century fashion. She turned to Katherine with a pleading look, trying to convey the message that this short, greasy-haired man-child, outfitted in a Marvel Comics T-shirt and chequered blazer belonging firmly in the 1980s was a million miles from her type. While he might have been presentable enough if he decided on a shave, a haircut, a change into some adult clothes and a departure from the wide-frame glasses popular amongst the laboratory set, he was definitely no oil painting.
Not that Darcy required a man to have movie star good looks, of course, but what on earth did her aunt think that she would see in Oliver Martin? Other than they were both book geeks, they were likely to have absolutely nothing else in common.
‘Oliver!’ Katherine commanded, putting a proprietary arm around his shoulders and not in the least bit mindful of interrupting the conversation he’d been having with another guest. ‘I want you to meet my niece, Darcy Archer. With you being new to the city, I thought the two of you should have the opportunity to get acquainted.’
Darcy opened her mouth to speak, unsure of how she was going to extract herself from the situation, when Oliver beat her to it.
‘Do you game?’ he asked, looking her up and down.
She blinked, unsure of the question, and looked at her aunt who quickly smiled before she sauntered off.
Darcy smiled politely at him. ‘I’m sorry, but I’m not sure what you mean.’
‘Do you game?’ Oliver asked again, as if repeating the question would help her understand it. ‘Gaming? On a computer, TV or gaming system?’
‘Oh.’ She bit her lip, and felt a fresh wave of exasperation come over her. She glanced helplessly over her shoulder towards her aunt, who had by now disappeared into the crowd. What on earth had Katherine been thinking?
‘No, I’m afraid I don’t. I’m a bit of a Luddite actually.’ The Vaio laptop she owned was so old it still ran on Windows 95, and was only used now and again for the creation of flyers for Chaucer’s. Darcy was completely bewildered by Facebook, Twitter or any of the social networking systems that seemed to be replacing face-to-face communication. And as an advocate of the written word, computers were almost an anathema to her way of life. To her, time spent online was precious time away from reading real books, and while she knew she was old-fashioned and out of touch, was there really anything so terribly wrong with that?
But upon this admission Oliver’s face immediately went blank, as if he had nothing else to say to her. Darcy took a sip of her wine and thought quickly for something to chit chat about. ‘So Katherine said you’ve just moved to New York. Where from?’
‘San Diego,’ the author replied simply.
‘Oh, California, wonderful,’ she enthused, nodding. ‘Quite a departure from this part of the world. Weatherwise, especially.’ She motioned towards the window where snow was now falling heavily outside, the gentle snowflakes illuminated by lamplight and mesmerising in their descent.
Oliver’s expression showed no recognition whatsover that the New York climate was any different to where he’d moved
from. ‘I wouldn’t know.’
Darcy swallowed. Did he not go outside then . . . ever?
‘I’m originally from Wisconsin and only lived out west for one reason: Comic-Con. Ever been?’ Again he looked at her expectantly.
‘Um, no, never,’ she said, her mind conjuring up what little she knew about the event, and she pictured a bunch of grown men dressed up as Spiderman or Thor. Not exactly her scene.
‘Oh, you should totally go,’ he said by way of a command.
She plastered on a smile, and surreptitiously glanced down at her watch. This was beyond awkward. Usually Katherine’s choices in matchmaking were a little bit closer to the mark. Was she now so desperate to get her niece paired off that any man would do?
She thought back to the last author her aunt had tried to foist on her a year or so ago – a Valentino-clad egotistical thriller writer who had more in common with the macho series character at the centre of his bestsellers than any real-life person. The guy might have been wealthy, mega-successful and movie star handsome, but he had the personality of a dishrag.
‘I’m not sure it would be my scene really,’ Darcy told Oliver Martin. ‘It’s not something I know a lot about. My taste in literature is quite differ—’
Oliver cut her off. ‘Oh? So what do you read then?’
‘Well, I’m a fan of Jane Austen, the Brontës, and most of the classic Regency romances – as well as Dickens and Shakespeare, of course. I do enjoy contemporary literature too. Really, my interests span across multiple genres and—’
Oliver cut her off again. ‘Have you read my books?’
Darcy felt her face flush. Authors almost always asked that question, and nine times out of ten the answer wasn’t the one they wanted to hear. She remembered the thriller author’s disbelief that Darcy wasn’t (like most of the female reading population, it seemed) head over heels in love with Max Bailey, hero of his bestselling series – a kickass crime-fighter styled as a modern-day James Bond. ‘It’s just . . . I don’t read all that much science fiction,’ she fudged. ‘I’ve heard it’s a wonderful book though, and the reviews have been—’