Or lying face down on your bed obsessing about it.
Damn.
Feeing suddenly annoyed with myself that I’m doing everything I promised myself I’d never do again over a man – any man, not even Mr Darcy – I take a few deep breaths like we do in yoga (which is about the only thing I can do in yoga) and pull myself together.
Right, that’s it, I decide firmly. I’m going to put it right to the very back of my mind. It’s no big deal. I’ll see him again whenever. I take another deep inhalation. See, I’m totally chilled out already.
I hear the faint burbling of my phone.
Oh, my God, that could be him!
I flick up my head sharply, making all these little black dots suddenly appear in front of my eyes, and throw myself over the side of my bed. Furiously groping for my bag, which seems to be submerged under a pile of clothes, I drag it out, stick my hand inside and frantically scrabble around, my fingers grasping at everything but my phone. Shit, it’s going to ring off, it’s going to ring off, it’s going to—
Got it!
‘Um . . . good morning,’ I say, lowering my voice a couple of octaves and trying to sound all cool and seductive into the mouthpiece.
Instead I sound like my brother.
‘Emily, is that you?’
‘Oh, Stella, hi,’ I say over-brightly, flopping back on my pillows.
God, I am an idiot. What am I thinking? Of course it’s not going to be him.
‘How’s it going?’ I ask, hiding my disappointment.
‘Can I just say something?’
Suddenly I get a heavy, weary feeling. I know what this means.
‘Men suck!’
Stella has called up to vent. Not because she wants to have a conversation. Or find out how I am and how my trip is going. Or even to ask my advice.
No, Stella’s just annoyed about something. (In this case it’s men, though in the past we’ve had subjects ranging from her neighbours’ ‘frigging yapping chihuahua that kept me awake all night’ to ‘Why does it cost three dollars for a cup of tea at a café when a tea bag only costs ten cents?’)
‘I was supposed to see Scott tonight and he totally blew me out . . .’
I don’t actually have to say anything. I just have to listen, quietly and without interruption, apart from the occasional ‘Uh-huh’ or ‘Seriously?’ interjected at relevant points.
Like, for example, now.
‘Seriously?’
‘Yeah. Can you believe it? We arranged to go out for dinner tonight – he was taking me to this fancy restaurant over in Playa del Carmen – but he never called . . .’
Sitting upright, I swing my legs out from underneath the blankets and sit there for a moment trying to come round. I’ve never been one of those people who can just leap out of bed on a morning all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.
‘. . . and I thought, There’s no way I’m going to stay in, mooning over some guy . . .’
‘Uh-huh.’
Silencing a yawn, I glance at my watch. Yet again I’ve managed to wake up with just ten minutes to spare before breakfast finishes. I need to get ready.
Stumbling into the bathroom and resting my fleecy elbows on the basin, I peer at my reflection in the mirror. Ugh. It’s not pretty. I’d like to blame it on the unflattering overhead lighting (which makes me think every electrician in the world must be a man, as no woman would ever install overhead lighting), but I have a sneaky feeling I really do look this rough. Though it’s not surprising: I hardly slept.
Well, you shouldn’t have been such a dirty stop-out, should you? Gallivanting around Bath in the early hours with Mr Darcy.
At the memory I feel a buzz of something warm and gloopy inside.
‘. . . so I went clubbing with Beatrice to Amigos . . .’
I zone back in with a ‘Seriously?’
‘You’re damned right I did!’ she exclaims.
Careful only to turn on the cold tap a trickle, I dampen my facecloth. One of the rules when listening to Stella’s rants is that I am required to give her my full concentration. No matter that she might have called me up in the middle of something crucial – I have to drop everything. I am not allowed to be caught – heaven forbid – multi-tasking.
‘. . . and I wore my new hotpants, the ones with the silver stripe down the side, and tied one of those sarongs I bought from Chinatown round my boobs. It made this adorable little tube top . . .’
Finishing washing my face, I grab my toothbrush. Hmm, now this could be tricky.
I squeeze on a squiggle of toothpaste and attempt to brush my teeth with my mouth closed. It’s surprisingly effective. Although toothpaste does froth up pretty quickly.
‘Uh-huh . . . uh-huh . . .’ I mumble, my mouth full.
‘Anyway, so Bea and I were in the club sharing a pitcher of margarita . . .’
Spitting it silently in the basin, I forgo rinsing in the name of friendship and wipe my mouth on a towel. So far so good. And at this rate I’ll make breakfast.
‘. . . and guess who I saw?’
But first I need to pee.
‘Scott!’ she shrieks down the handset.
‘Um . . . seriously?’ Honestly, why is it that I always need to go at the most inconvenient of moments? I think, having a flashback to that day on the coach and Spike. Maybe I should start drinking cranberry juice or pomegranate or whatever it is that’s good for your bladder.
Quietly I lift up the toilet lid. I might have pelvic-floor muscles of steel, but there’s no way I can hold this. I’ve gone from wanting to go to desperate to go in under five seconds. I have the Ferrari of bladders.
‘And he was there with a whole bunch of girls. Right there! In the middle of the dance floor!’
‘Seriously?’ I begin quietly unravelling the toilet roll, careful that the holder doesn’t rattle and give me away.
‘Seriously!’ she cries. ‘They were all over him and he was all over them. I nearly didn’t see him because of all that foam.’
I dip the sheets of toilet paper into the bowl, crisscrossing them backwards and forwards across the U-bend to form – how shall I put it? – a soft landing.
As you can probably tell, this is not the first time I’ve peed while on the phone.
‘So I marched right up to him and threw my margarita in his face. And I know what you’re going to say, Em . . .’
Really? ’Cos I don’t, I muse, sitting down on the ‘loo’, a word I’ve picked up from Maeve.
‘“What a waste of good tequila” – but I was so goddamn angry . . .’
I chime in with a sympathetic ‘Uh-huh.’
‘The slimeball!’
This time I go for an enthusiastic ‘Uh-huh.’
‘Bastard!’
Followed by a wearily resigned ‘Uh-huh.’
‘Fuck-face!’
Building to a you-go-girl ‘Uhuh!’
God, it’s amazing what you can convey through intonation, isn’t it?
‘Loser!’ she gasps, then corrects herself. ‘Well, actually he’s not a loser, is he?’ she says dryly. ‘He’s rich, handsome and successful and probably having an orgy right now.’
I finish peeing and go to flush the toilet. Then remember . . .
‘God, I feel like such a fool,’ she adds quietly and, if I’m not mistaken, I’m sure I can hear a tremble in her voice. ‘I was totally taken in. I thought he really liked me.’
There’s a pause, and then I hear it: a sniff.
It’s my cue to speak.
‘But did you really like him?’ I ask gently.
‘Yeah.’ She sniffs, only louder this time and I can imagine her sitting on her bed in her hotel room, dabbing her eyes with her Chinese sarong. ‘Well, he could be a bit arrogant . . .’ she trails off doubtfully.
It’s her first admission that Scott might not be the god she thought he was, and I seize the opportunity: ‘Just a bit?’ I coax. I feel like Harvey Keitel in that film with Kate Winslet – you know, the one where she’s
in a cult and he has to de-indoctrinate her.
‘Mmmm,’ she murmurs, still sniffing into her sarong, but I can tell she’s starting to think about it. There’s a slight hesitation and then, ‘He did go on about his bonus a lot and how this year he’d made his company a fortune so he was expecting a really huge one . . .’
‘Really?’ I ask, trying to sound surprised.
‘Yeah, all the time,’ she replies, as if she’s surprised too. ‘Plus, he was always flashing his platinum Amex about . . .’
‘Tacky,’ I chime in. All she needs now is a bit of encouragement and she’ll be on a roll. ‘And what about his clothes?’ I prompt, fingers crossed.
‘Oh, my God, didn’t I tell you about his jeans?’ she cries.
Bingo! That’s it. She’s criticising his fashion sense. The spell’s definitely broken.
‘They were hemmed!’
I don’t know quite what’s wrong with wearing hemmed jeans, but it’s obviously worse than being a serial killer in Stella’s eyes.
‘And he wore a belt with a big silver buckle,’ she’s now shrieking. ‘Oh, Em, it was hideous. It was like something David Hasselhoff would wear.’ She bursts into a fit of howls. ‘Jesus, what was I thinking? I was so impressed by everything—’ she breaks off, and sighs. ‘He was such good fun, though,’ she confesses.
‘So are roller coasters, but after a while they make you nauseous.’
Stella laughs. ‘Thanks, Em.’
‘What for?’
‘For listening to me.’
‘Hey, any time.’ I stifle a yawn.
‘Shit, I have no idea what time it is over there. Did I wake you up?’
‘Um, yeah . . . sort of . . . I was out late.’ Scooping my glittery pink mohair sweater off the floor from where I dropped it when I got in last night, I drag it over my head. It still smells of nighttime, and chimney smoke, and him.
‘Let me guess. Playing dominoes,’ she teases.
‘No, actually. I was with a man.’
So there.
There’s a stunned silence. It turns out to be a delayed reaction.
‘Holy shit!’ she shrieks, then repeats ohmyGodIcan’tbelieveit over and over (I take this opportunity to flush the toilet and wash my hands), until finally drawing breath, she gasps, ‘You were on a date?’
I think about it for a moment. I hadn’t thought of it like that until now, but—
‘Yeah . . . I guess so.’
‘I don’t believe it!’ she says again.
Neither do I, I think, brushing out my hair and staring at my reflection. Memories of last night come wafting back to me: walking arm in arm, skimming stones, rowing on the lake, looking at the stars . . . At the time it was amazing, but I guess it does all seem a bit cheesy now I’m thinking about it.
‘I can’t believe you’ve waited until now to tell me!’
I wouldn’t call being pinned to the earpiece listening to her ranting ‘waiting’, but I’m not going to split hairs.
‘Tell me all about him,’ Stella’s demanding.
Oh, hell, of course. She’s going to want details. I hadn’t thought of that. Suddenly I’m fast regretting telling her.
‘Well, um, it’s a bit complicated—’
‘Don’t tell me. He’s married,’ she cuts in.
‘No, of course not,’ I snap crossly.
‘Oh, silly me, it’s me that’s married,’ she laughs self-deprecatingly. ‘So what’s the problem?’
Shit. Where do I start? He’s a fictional character and yet he’s also real. We’ve met a couple of times, but he has this habit of vanishing into thin air and I never know when or if he’s going to show up again. Oh, and he’s also incredibly famous and every woman wants to date him. And let’s not forget, whereas I live in New York, he lives in England – but probably about two hundred years ago.
Confused?
So am I.
‘Well, it’s kind of a long-distance relationship,’ I say, choosing my words carefully.
‘A relationship? Wow, that sounds serious,’ says Stella, impressed. ‘How long have you known this guy?’
‘He was my first love.’
Well, if I’m being honest.
‘Whoah, you’re kidding me!’ she exclaims, then laughs. ‘Wait a minute. Not Arnold Bateman. The guy you used to tell me about who would pull your pigtails?’
‘No, not him!’ I gasp, then hesitate. Shall I tell her? Part of me wants to, but the other part of me is remembering our conversation back in New York. The bit where she insisted Mr Darcy didn’t exist. But maybe if I explain, about the quill, the mysterious blank pages in the book, the newspaper, Mr Darcy himself . . .
Oh, come on, Emily. Listen to yourself. She’s never going to believe you. And do you blame her? You still can’t quite believe it and you’ve seen it all with your own eyes.
‘So, who is it?’ Stella is persisting, somewhat suspiciously. ‘What’s his name?’
But if I don’t tell her the truth, what do I say? My mind draws a blank. I don’t want to lie to her, but—
‘Um . . .’ Walking back into the bedroom, I notice the postcard Spike chose for me resting on top of my dresser. I haven’t written that one yet. Absently I pick it up and turn it over. On the back is written ‘Matthew Macfadyen as Fitzwil-liam Darcy.’
‘Fitzwilliam,’ I blurt.
‘No, what’s his first name?’ she asks.
‘That is his first name.’
‘Wow, what a crazy name,’ she replies. ‘But cool, I like it,’ she adds decisively.
I feel oddly relieved. He’s been given the Stella seal of approval.
‘Well, look, hon, I’m dying to hear more, but I should go to bed. It’s nearly 3 a.m. here and I need to get some beauty sleep. Plus, T-mobile is gonna bankrupt me. Do you know what they charge per minute international?’
‘A lot,’ I say, feeling a wave of relief. Thank God, no more awkward questions.
‘I swear, this is costing me the equivalent of a pair of Prada shoes.’
Perching myself on the edge of my bed, I tug on my socks and boots. ‘OK, go. I’ll call you next time. It’s my turn.’
‘OK. Night. Big kiss.’
‘Actually, it’s morning here.’ I stand up.
‘Whatever.’ She laughs sleepily. But then just as I think I’ve got away with it scot-free she asks, ‘Hang on a minute. How can it be long distance if you were with him last night? I don’t understand. It doesn’t make sense.’
I allow myself a small smile. ‘Like I said. It’s complicated.’
Chapter Eighteen
And things only get more complicated as the day goes on.
Fast-forward to later that afternoon and after having spent most of the day on a sightseeing tour, which included a quill-writing workshop (mockery aside, it actually turned out to be pretty good, but inky, fun), I’m walking back to the hotel with Maeve and nibbling on hot, roasted chestnuts that I’ve just bought from a fingerless-gloved teenager on the corner.
It’s grown even colder. The tip of my nose is almost frozen and I can barely feel my toes, despite two layers of woolly socks. The air is so glacial it almost hurts to breathe, and it smells of winter and woodsmoke and pubs. We pass one now, its door flung open as a group of office workers spill on to the sidewalk, intoxicated by laughter and high spirits.
And about half a dozen pints no doubt, I think, watching them stumble round, arms round shoulders, tinsel draped round their necks like silver and gold ties.
‘Don’t you just love this time of year?’ whispers Maeve. ‘New Year’s Eve always feels so magical, don’t you think?’
I feel a jolt as I remember. ‘New Year’s Eve,’ I murmur. ‘Wow, I totally forgot.’
‘You forgot,’ repeats Maeve in disbelief. She looks at me aghast. ‘But it’s the big ball tonight.’
‘God, yeah, of course,’ I gasp, suddenly thinking about it. ‘I lost track of time, what with the time difference and travelling . . .’
A
nd meeting Mr Darcy, I think, my mind flashing back to last night. Just a few hours ago I was walking with him across this very square, which had been deserted but for the two of us. It had been magical. Thinking about it now, my stomach flutters with excitement and I bury my nose in his white silk scarf, which I’ve taken to wearing, and inhale its delicious scent.
‘I understand,’ nods Maeve, not understanding at all. ‘It can be a difficult time when families are apart. Sometimes you just want to forget about it.’ Patting my arm reassuringly, she peers at me intently, her face reminiscent of an owl’s in her huge wide-framed spectacles.
I’m about to tell her she’s mistaken and I’m absolutely fine being apart from my family, when I get the sense that she’s actually talking about herself.
‘Are your family back in Ireland?’ I ask cautiously. I don’t want her to think I’m being nosy. Since the other day when she snapped at me on the bus I’ve been careful to keep our conversations very surface, which is one of the reasons why I decided not to tell her what Ernie told me. Part of me wants to set the record straight, but the other part is afraid to get involved. Shoot the messenger and all that. Plus, he did make me promise to keep it a secret. Still, it’s such a shame. I think Ernie and Maeve would have been great together.
‘Oh, there’s only my brother, Paddy, and he’s spending Christmas and New Year’s Eve at his daughter’s villa in Spain . . .’
She’s smiling brightly as she talks, but her eyes betray a certain sadness. I’ve always presumed Maeve was single, but now it strikes me that perhaps she’s a widow. That would explain the sad look she always has, as if she’s in mourning for someone, I think, glancing at Maeve’s ring finger. I’m sure I didn’t notice her wearing a ring before, but maybe—
‘I never married,’ she says, catching me looking.
‘Oh, I . . . didn’t mean . . .’
Seeing my embarrassment, Maeve quickly reassures me. ‘It’s all right, dearie, people often wonder.’
‘So you never wanted to?’ I ask curiously.
She hesitates for a moment, as if thinking about something, then says matter-of-factly, ‘It just never happened for me, that’s all.’ Stuffing her hands in the pockets of her rather drab woollen coat, she gestures across to a group of children building a snowman in the square. ‘My goodness, will you look at them. Isn’t that wonderful?’
Me and Mr Darcy Page 17