Me and Mr Darcy

by Alexandra Potter

  And with that our conversation ends and we pause for a few moments to watch them, all bundled up in stripy scarves and woollen mittens, their faces bursting with innocent excitement as they make eyes out of buttons and a nose from a carrot. And no doubt the topic would have switched to something else entirely and I would have forgotten all about it if I hadn’t happened to glance across at Maeve and see a look in her eyes that belies the smile on her face. It’s that haunted look again. And right there and then I know for sure there’s a lot more than Maeve’s telling me. I just don’t know what it is.

  But this time I’m determined to find out.

  ‘What is it, Maeve?’ I begin uncertainly.

  She doesn’t answer and continues staring resolutely ahead, but I can see the muscles in her jaw clench tightly. Regret stabs. Oh, shit. What did I do that for? I shouldn’t have said anything. What’s it got to do with me?

  ‘Look, I’m sorry,’ I’m now saying quickly. ‘It’s none of my business . . .’

  ‘I had a daughter.’

  I’m silenced.

  ‘When I was eighteen. She was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. I named her Orla,’ she continues, speaking in the past tense. ‘They only let me hold her for a few minutes and then they took her away.’

  I feel a rush of sadness. Oh, God. So that’s what it is. That’s why she always looks so terribly sad. Maeve had a baby girl and she must have died. How awful.

  ‘I think about her every day.’

  I look at Maeve. Her eyes are watering behind her thick glasses and I want to say something to comfort her, but I don’t know what. The tried-and-tested words seem so trite. There’s a whole canyon of grief that she’s kept bottled up inside. How can I even begin to imagine what she’s been through?

  ‘I wonder where she is, what she’s doing, if she has her own children now,’ continues Maeve, who’s talking quietly to herself.

  I feel a jolt of confusion.

  ‘She’s grown up?’

  Maeve nods. ‘She turned thirty-seven this year.’

  ‘But I thought, I mean, the way you were speaking—’ I break off.

  ‘That she died?’ finishes Maeve, and smiles sadly. ‘No.’ She shakes her head. ‘I gave her up for adoption. I was the one who died that day.’ She looks at my face, and seeing I don’t understand, adds quietly, ‘I died the moment I gave her away.’

  Suddenly it all makes perfect sense. That sadness that Maeve always seems to be carrying around with her. Maeve is in mourning. She lost not just a daughter, but herself.

  ‘Gave. It sounds so easy, doesn’t it,’ Maeve is now saying. Swallowing hard, she looks straight at me, her eyes shining brightly. ‘It was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. It broke my heart.’

  I place my hand on her arm and squeeze it supportively. There’s so many questions that I want to ask, but I get the feeling that Maeve has kept this secret hidden for a long, long time, and now she just wants to let it all out. So I just listen as she talks.

  ‘His name was Seamus. I met him at the fair. He had long, dark hair. Blue eyes. Cheekbones to cut you with. And the most beautiful hands – long, delicate fingers, smooth, pale skin – I’d never seen hands like that before. Men’s hands were always rough and calloused and ingrained with dirt from working on the land.’

  Without prompting she starts telling the story, staring off into the middle distance as she talks.

  ‘But he was a painter. Landscapes were his thing. Big, dark canvases that filled the tiny flat he was renting . . .’ Her voice trails off and I can see she’s back there again, with him in his flat, experiencing all those feelings she had for him all over again. ‘I’d never known anyone like him. I’d lived on a farm my whole life, I didn’t know what a hippy was. I didn’t know anything. I was so naïve.’

  She shakes her head in disbelief at her younger self.

  ‘He told me he loved me and I believed him. Everyone warned me against him, but I wouldn’t listen. What did they know? I was young and headstrong and invincible. And I was in love.’

  Knowing Maeve now, it’s hard to imagine her being a strong, vibrant, confident person.

  ‘But then I got pregnant. And suddenly he didn’t love me any more,’ she says simply.

  I’m silent for a moment, then I have to ask: ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ She shrugs. ‘He left town. Ran away. And there was I. Eighteen, unmarried and pregnant. Suddenly I wasn’t so invincible any more.’

  She smiles ruefully.

  ‘The priest told me I’d brought shame on my family. My brother threw me out. I had nowhere to live. No job. I couldn’t support a baby.’

  I try putting myself in her shoes, but I can’t. My parents would never disown me over something like that. Times have changed. Being unmarried and pregnant is no big deal. It’s practically the norm these days. How sad to think that something that would barely raise an eyebrow today had such a devastating effect upon her. Poor Maeve. God, she must have been so scared and alone. No wonder her self-esteem has been wrecked.

  ‘I had no choice,’ she says now, wiping away a lone tear that’s slowly trickling down her cheek. I squeeze her arm tighter in support. ‘Except that’s a lie, isn’t it?’ She sniffs, suddenly angry at herself. ‘I had a choice. I could have said no. I could have run away with her. Found a place to live. A job. I was a coward.’

  ‘No, you weren’t,’ I cry indignantly. ‘Things were different back then. You mustn’t blame yourself.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because you can’t keep punishing yourself. You did the best you could.’

  ‘But did I? Did I really?’ she demands, and I suddenly get just a glimpse of the guilt she’s been carrying around with her for years. ‘All she had was me. Her father deserted her, and then I did too.’ Her lip trembles and she bites it. ‘I’m so ashamed of what I did. I don’t deserve to be happy ever again. I did a terrible thing, Emily. I deserve to be punished. She probably hates me and I don’t blame her.’

  ‘You don’t know that,’ I disagree.

  Maeve sniffs loudly, her eyes still focused on the kids building the snowman.

  ‘Have you ever thought of looking for her?’ I ask gently.

  There’s a pause. ‘Once,’ she says quietly. ‘When she would have turned eighteen, but—’ She breaks off and shakes her head, as if finding it difficult to speak. ‘I dream about her, you know. I picture her in my head, and try to imagine what she’s like. What it would be like to have a daughter, to be someone’s mother.’ Turning to face me, her pale blue eyes search mine. ‘You and your mother are very lucky. To have each other.’

  I think about Mom. We’ve never had the traditional relationship between a mother and daughter, and now, listening to Maeve, I feel cheated. I mean, look at Maeve. She’d do anything to speak to her daughter, and yet my mom rarely ever makes the effort to come and see me, or even pick up the phone.

  And yet, you’re not exactly blameless, are you, Emily? When was the last time you asked her how she was and really wanted to know? Instead of being satisfied with the obligatory ‘fine’.

  ‘You know, me and my mom aren’t really close,’ I confide to Maeve. ‘We don’t talk much.’

  ‘You don’t?’ asks Maeve. ‘But why?’

  I think about her question. It’s one I’ve asked myself hundreds of times over the years, and yet I still don’t have an answer. ‘I don’t know, really.’ I shrug. ‘When I was a lot younger I remember hanging out with her more, having fun, but then as I got older . . .’ I trail off. ‘She’s always been so busy with her career, charity work, travelling, Dad, my brother – I didn’t want to bother her with stupid things that happened at school or boyfriend troubles. Instead, I shared that personal stuff with my friends. I still do.’

  ‘But surely she would have wanted you to share those with her. She wouldn’t have thought they were stupid. If they were important to you, they would have been important to her.’

&n
bsp; I smile. ‘You don’t know my mom.’

  ‘Are you sure you do, Emily?’

  I falter.

  ‘Have you ever asked? Have you ever tried to talk to her? Share those kinds of things with her? Confide in her?’ Maeve continues. ‘You may be surprised, Emily. Perhaps she’s hurting as much as you are.’

  ‘I’m not hurting,’ I protest quickly.

  ‘Aren’t you?’ asks Maeve quietly. ‘I’ve learned people don’t always say what they feel and because of that, others make a lot of assumptions, without knowing the real truth. Sometimes people even do such a good job of covering up their feelings and acting as if they are just fine that they almost convince themselves . . .’

  Listening to Maeve, I don’t know whether she’s talking about me, my mom or herself. Maybe, in fact, she’s talking about all three of us, I realise. And she would be right. Until now I’ve always maintained that I’m fine with the relationship I have with my parents, my mom especially, but that’s because I wanted to be fine with it. If I’m honest with myself, I want to be able to talk to her like I can talk to Maeve. To have this kind of close relationship. In fact, if anything, this conversation has made me realise how I barely really know my mom. How she barely knows me. Our phone calls and emails involve book recommendations and reminders for dad’s birthday. We never talk about the stuff that matters, we never talk about us.

  ‘You know, your mother is very lucky to have you as a daughter, Emily,’ reassures Maeve, and I zone back to see her looking at me, her face filled with genuine concern.

  ‘And your daughter would be very proud if she knew you,’ I say quietly.

  ‘You really think so?’ she asks as if too afraid to hope.

  ‘Absolutely,’ I say without a moment’s hesitation.

  She squeezes my hand tightly and I smile.

  ‘It’s getting late. We should head back.’

  ‘Aye.’ She nods, pulling her coat tightly round her. She pauses to take one last look at the children playing with the snowman, and for the first time I see a real smile break across her face. Then linking her arm through mine, we set off across the cobbles.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Letting myself into my room, I flop down on to my bed and dig out my crumpled itinerary. I’m still reeling from my conversation with Maeve and the news of her secret adoption, but with only a few hours to go until the ball, I force my mind to turn to the evening ahead.

  Included in the tour are tickets for a charity ball. Entitled ‘A New Year’s Eve Extravaganza’, it’s being held tonight at the town’s ballroom, famous for housing the actual balls that Jane Austen attended as a young woman, and which were subsequently the inspiration for those described in her novels.

  . . . so put on your finest and enjoy a Regency ball, just as if you’re a character in one of Jane Austen’s novels.

  I feel a flutter of anticipation as I think about Mr Darcy. I wonder if he’s going to show up again tonight at the ball? The way he appeared outside my window. It was like something from Romeo and Juliet. Feeling all warm and gooey inside, I wonder where he is, what he’s doing, when I’m going to see him again. If only he’d call me.

  But of course he won’t. And I can’t call him either. Neither can I text him, email him or instant-message him, I realise, thinking about all the staples of modern-day dating I’ve taken for granted. The flirty text messages, funny emails, hours spent lying in bed at night giggling on the phone . . .

  Gosh, I’d forgotten how much fun that can be, I think, feeling a teensy bit disappointed that there won’t be any of that.

  But never mind, there’s always letters and they’re a lot more personal and romantic, aren’t they? I tell myself encouragingly. Although saying that, I can’t remember the last time I wrote a letter, apart from to my bank manager, and trust me, there was nothing romantic about that. But still, I adore the idea of writing a proper letter. There’s all that gorgeous textured writing paper you can buy, and I can use real ink and a fountain pen, and maybe even a little wax seal with a stamp with my initial on it. And I could tie up the replies in a bundle with a faded pink ribbon and keep them in the attic, where I’ll find them when I’m an old lady in years to come and reread them and—

  Er, hello? Before you get completely carried away, Emily, where exactly are you going to send these love letters? Seriously. What are you going to do? Address them to Mr Darcy, c/o Pride and Prejudice, England?

  Suddenly the whole thing strikes me as even more ridiculous and impossible than it was before – if that’s possible – and even more complicated. It’s like trying to figure out a really difficult math problem: the more you think about it, the more confusing it becomes.

  So I’m not going to, I tell myself firmly.

  But there is one thing for sure: this time I’m going to make certain I make more of an effort than I did last night. Just in case . . .

  Glancing up from the itinerary, I hoist myself off the quilted eiderdown and tug open the pine closet that’s stuffed under the eaves. Alrighty, so where’s my dress? I peer inside the closet for my black nylon garment-holder. It must just be at the back somewhere. I rattle through the coat-hangers. Huh, that’s weird, it’s not there. I could have sworn I hung it up in the closet, but now I come to think of it . . .

  Screwing up my forehead, I glance around the room. Maybe it’s behind the door under the coat. Or chucked on the floor along with my suitcase. Or for some strange reason in the bathroom.

  But it’s not in any of those places, and padding around my hotel room, picking up T-shirts as if a large, black nylon carryon might suddenly appear from underneath, I’m beginning to feel a tinge of alarm. Where the hell is it?

  I try retracing my steps. When did I last see it? Well, that’s easy, that would be . . . I draw a blank. Actually, for the life of me I can’t remember when I last saw it. Here in Bath? Umm . . . actually, no. At the last hotel? Um . . . no again. Panic is beginning to rise. On the coach? When I first arrived at Heathrow? At check-in at JFK?

  No. No. No.

  In the cab to the airport?

  N—

  Hang on a minute. My memory focuses in like a long lens.

  Oh, shit.

  Suddenly I can see it, lying next to me on the back seat. I hadn’t wanted to put it in the trunk as I didn’t want to crush it. I’d insisted on placing it on the other side of the armrest, folding it carefully in half. Black nylon on black leather. Easy not to see if you’re in a hurry. To forget about if you don’t have change and have to ask passing strangers if they can split a hundred. To leave on the back seat because your driver has a bad back and you’re left to struggle with your ridiculously heavy suitcase.

  My heart plummets.

  Somewhere in Manhattan my sparkly black dress is hanging around in a nylon garment-holder, missing out on the party. And I’m here in England, with a New Year’s Eve ball to go to. With absolutely nothing to wear.

  I didn’t think my heart could plummet further. But it can. And it does.

  What a bummer. I spent ages choosing that dress. And despite what Stella thought, it was a really nice dress, I tell myself, imagining myself in it now, dancing around a ballroom. Disappointment clunks. God, I’m such an idiot.

  What am I going to do now? For a split second I entertain the thought of rushing out and buying something else, but it’s late, all the shops are closed. In desperation I dive on my suitcase. I haven’t unpacked properly yet. There must be something I can wear in here instead.

  I flip it open and survey the jumbled contents. Abruptly any hope I might have had stalls. Oh, dear. Perhaps Stella was right. Perhaps I was a little heavy-handed with my reading material. Peering gloomily at the suitcase full of books, I wish I’d listened to her. I mean, I can’t exactly wear Sense and Sensibility, now, can I?

  Quickly I begin unpacking the paperbacks and stacking them up in wobbly piles on the eiderdown. I’ve always thought that you can never be truly alone if you’ve got a book to keep you compan
y. You can be stranded at an airport, alone in a strange country or stuck in a motel room on a business trip, but if you’ve got a good book with you, you’ll be OK.

  Saying that, this is slightly ridiculous.

  I tug out a large volume of North and South in the vain hope that there might be something vaguely appropriate to wear underneath. And find that, no – it’s only Emily Brontë lurking in the corner. Damn. I feel a certain inevitability.

  Didn’t I bring anything to wear as a back-up?

  A scene flashes through my mind of a chandelier-lit ballroom, guests milling around in their finest, quaffing champagne, engaging in polite conversation, staring open-mouthed at the American girl doing the two-step in pink velour pyjamas . . .

  No! Stop!

  With a screech the scene grinds to a halt and I try shaking the image free from my mind. Come on, Emily, you must have packed something suitable for Plan B. My heart racing, I push up the sleeves of my grey sweatshirt and dive back in. Please let there be something in here. For the love of God, please.

  Hang on, what’s that?

  Feeling a tentative whoosh of relief, I pounce on something black. I knew it! I knew I would have packed a little black dress. I mean, who goes anywhere at Christmas without a LBD?

  I do.

  I glare accusingly at the item in my hands. Because it’s not a dress – no siree – it’s the dreaded DKNY cashmere sweater, goddamn it. Dismay resonates so heavy inside it’s almost audible. Frigging hell. I’m supposed to be dressing up in my finest, not looking like my auntie Jean. Flinging it on to the cream carpet, I sit on the bed, fold my arms and survey the mess around me. Shit, shit, shit.

  Outside in the corridor I can hear a flurry of excitement and the sound of doors opening and closing as the ladies flit into each other’s rooms to show off their outfits. I glance at my watch. I have fifteen minutes. And no dress.