Me and Mr. Darcy

by Alexandra Potter

  ‘In my suit bag.’ I gesture to the black vinyl bag hanging on my closet.

  ‘Can I see it?’ she asks, reaching for the zipper.

  ‘Not really. It’s all packed,’ I say, hastily making an excuse. ‘In tissue paper,’ I add.

  Good thinking. Tissue paper makes it sound as if it’s from a really expensive boutique.

  Stella looks suitably impressed, but still suspicious. ‘Describe it,’ she demands, folding her arms.

  ‘Erm . . . well, it’s . . .’ I falter as I think about my shopping trip a couple of days ago on a mission to find something. And how I flailed around in H&M with armfuls of dresses, feeling overwhelmed and desperate, until finally I just went for the most— ‘Festive,’ I say vaguely.

  ‘Festive?’

  ‘And fun,’ I add hopefully.

  ‘Festive and fun?’ she gasps in disbelief. ‘Emily, are we talking about a dress here or a novelty blow-up Santa?’

  I make a last-ditch attempt. ‘It has sequins,’ I venture doubtfully.

  Stella’s face collapses. She looks distraught, standing there in her vintage pussybow blouse and asymmetrical skirt from a boutique that’s so intimidating I daren’t even peer in the window.

  ‘Festive is not fun, Emily, it’s a fashion nightmare,’ she’s shrieking, clutching her temples. ‘Festive has zero style. All those boring little black dresses, sequinned scarves and sparkly eyeshadow.’ She gives a little shudder and suddenly I remember.

  Oh, no. Please don’t let her see my new—

  ‘What’s this?’

  Too late.

  Pouncing on my new sparkly eyeshadow that I bought in the same desperate shopping trip, Stella sweeps a shimmery stripe across her eyelid, then stands back and peers at herself.

  ‘Iridescent Frost?’ she accuses.

  I knew I should have bought matt. I knew it.

  ‘So, back to Freddy. There’s definitely no chance of romance?’ I ask, trying to distract her before it gets worse and she discovers the sequinned scarf I bought on a whim at the weekend.

  Thankfully it works.

  ‘Absolutely not,’ she gasps and flops down on to my white cotton comforter. ‘I may be married, but I’m very much single. And I need my best friend.’ Pouting, she rolls over on to her stomach and props herself up on her elbows. ‘Are you sure I can’t persuade you to ditch the old folks on the minibus and come have some fun in Mexico instead? There’s still one space left.’ She pretends to whimper.

  ‘It’s a luxury tourbus,’ I correct her. ‘And no thanks.’ I shake my head. ‘I know you find this hard to believe, Stella, but I want to go on this tour.’ It’s true. Now I’ve had the chance to think about it, I’m really looking forward to it. ‘I’ve always wanted to go to England, ever since I read Jane Austen, and now’s my opportunity.’

  ‘Well, the British men can be pretty cute,’ concedes Stella, completely missing my point. ‘Just look at Daniel Craig.’

  ‘I’m not going for the men,’ I gasp impatiently, attempting to stuff The Time Traveller’s Wife through a tiny gap in the zipper of my suitcase.

  ‘Not even James Bond?’ she sighs dreamily. Then seeing me struggling, snaps, ‘Jesus, Em. Haven’t you got enough books already?’

  ‘Some people pack too many clothes, with me it’s books,’ I say coolly, in an attempt to justify myself.

  Hoisting herself up from my bed, Stella shoots me a look that says she’s not buying it.

  ‘I never know what I’m going to want to curl up in bed with.’ I shrug.

  ‘How about trying a man?’ she retorts, tugging on her scarf and mittens.

  Now it’s my turn to shoot her a look.

  ‘Seriously, Em, how long has it been since you actually . . . ?’

  ‘I’ve told you. The only men I’m interested in are in here . . .’ I grab my copy of Pride and Prejudice and slap it on the top of my suitcase.

  ‘OK, OK, I won’t say another word.’ She holds up her mittened hands in surrender. ‘Anyway, I’d better go. I’ve got a plane to catch?’

  I nod. ‘Shame we’re flying from different airports or we could have shared a cab.’

  We both look at each and I realise it’s time to say goodbye.

  ‘Well, toodle-pops,’ trills Stella in an appalling attempt at a British accent.

  ‘I think it’s toodle-pip,’ I grimace, laughing.

  ‘Oh, well, whatever it is those crazy Brits say.’ She shrugs, and then her face softens. ‘You look after yourself and have a good time, OK?’ Throwing her arms round me, she gives me a hug. ‘Promise?’ she asks, uncharacteristically emotional.

  I squeeze her tightly. ‘Promise.’

  For a brief moment I feel a twinge of doubt about spending New Year’s alone and not with Stella and her friends, but just as briefly I dismiss it. I’m a big girl. I’ll be fine. ‘Now, make sure you call me from Mexico, let me know how the margaritas are, won’t you?’

  ‘Definitely.’ She nods, throwing me that famous Stella grin. Releasing the latch, she tugs open the door. ‘Oh, and by the way . . .’ she pauses in the doorway ‘. . . this eyeshadow is awesome.’ And winking at me, she disappears into the hallway.

  Chapter Four

  Fast-forward eleven hours and I’m standing in the immigration line at Heathrow Airport, jet-lagged but excited. I feel a whoosh of exhilaration. Even now I can’t believe it’s actually happening, that I’m actually here in England. England!

  ‘Next!’

  Stifling a hippo-sized yawn, I look up to see I’m being waved forward by one of the officials, a grim-faced, middle-aged woman with short, frizzy hair and glasses.

  ‘How long do you intend to spend in the United Kingdom?’ she demands in a clipped voice as I approach the counter.

  ‘A week,’ I reply, giving her a friendly smile.

  It has absolutely zero effect. Taking my passport, she studies it gravely and begins tapping furiously into her keyboard.

  ‘And what is your purpose for visiting?’

  ‘I’m here on a tour,’ I reply eagerly.

  Without looking up, the immigration officer pushes up her glasses and continues tap-tapping, her lips tightly pursed.

  My excitement wobbles. Her silence is beginning to make me a bit nervous. As if I’ve done something wrong somehow. A flashback of being caught shoplifting pops into my head and I feel a beat of worry. Oh, God, don’t say I’ve got some kind of criminal record and they’ve found it on an international database. OK, so I was only eleven and it was Barbie clothes, but still. I have a history.

  With my front teeth I begin chewing the flaky bits off my lips, which I only ever do when I’m nervous, and which I shouldn’t do as they always start bleeding.

  They start bleeding.

  ‘What kind of tour?’ asks the officer, breaking off momentarily to flick through my passport. She grimaces at my picture – which isn’t that bad – then resumes her work at the keyboard. What on earth is she typing? An essay? A police report?

  My stomach nosedives.

  ‘It’s a specialist tour for literature lovers,’ I croak, my voice coming out all funny and high-pitched. Clearing my throat, I swallow a few times. ‘A week in the English countryside to explore the world of Jane Austen and Pride and Prejudice,’ I add weakly.

  As if she cares, I think anxiously.

  ‘Pride and Prejudice?’ she repeats sharply, without looking up. Her fingers freeze on the keys. ‘Did you just say Pride and Prejudice?’

  My immigration officer seems galvanised by this news.

  ‘Um, yes.’ I nod, uncertainly.

  She looks up, her face flushed with excitement. ‘Oh, my giddy aunt, I can’t believe it! I love Pride and Prejudice!’ she shrieks loudly. Clutching at her polyester chest, she throws me a dazzling smile. ‘I just saw the film adaptation with Keira Knightley on DVD. Wasn’t it wonderful?’

  I’m completely taken aback by her transformation. ‘Erm, yes . . .’ I stammer.

  Leaning back in
her chair, she loosens the top button of her blouse and begins fanning herself with my passport. ‘And that Mr Darcy.’ Rolling her eyes, she shoots me a lustful look. ‘Sex on a stick!’ Leaning forwards, she winks conspiratorially. ‘I tell you what, I wouldn’t kick him out of bed,’ she whispers, and giggles girlishly.

  I stare, dumbfounded. I know Mr Darcy has an effect on women, but this is incredible.

  Several minutes later we’re on first-name terms and Beryl is telling me all about her recent divorce from her husband, Len, her decision to work over the Christmas period and how much she wished she’d heard about the tour . . .

  ‘. . . because it sounds marvellous, love.’ She smiles warmly, handing back my passport. ‘I’d rather be spending the festive season with Mr Darcy than a load of asylum seekers, I can tell you. Maybe next year, eh?’

  ‘If you want, I’ll let you know how it is,’ I offer pleasantly.

  ‘Ooh, would you do that?’ Beryl smiles, and scribbles something on a piece of paper. ‘Here’s my email address.’

  As I take it from her she squeezes my hand earnestly. ‘Have a great trip.’

  ‘Thanks, Beryl’ I smile, slipping my passport into my pocket.

  Waving goodbye, I grab my wheelie suitcase and pass through immigration with ease, then pause at the exit to look back. Just in time to hear Beryl bark, ‘Next,’ and see her smile morph into that scarily grim expression as she summons another nervous passenger. ‘How long do you intend to spend in the United Kingdom?’

  I smile to myself. Thanks a lot, Mr D.

  Walking through the arrivals gate, I’m greeted by crowds of people leaning over the barriers waiting for their loved ones to appear off their flights. The place reeks of festive excitement. Strung with Christmas decorations, carols are being piped over the speakers and tinsel and lights are everywhere. A buzz of English accents hums around me, and my ears home in on pieces of conversation, like a radio being tuned in, picking up the different stations.

  ‘Oooh, sweetheart, you look smashing with that suntan. Doesn’t she look smashing with that suntan, David? It’s been brass monkeys here . . .’

  ‘. . . you snogged how many blokes in Bali . . . ?’

  ‘. . . what on earth do you mean, his plane’s delayed, darling? Crikey! We’re supposed to be at the registry office in less than an hour . . .’

  ‘. . . so what was Goa like? Did you go to any of those beach raves . . . ?’

  ‘. . . we’re taping Coronation Street, so as soon as we get home I’ll put the kettle on. I bet you’re gagging for a nice cup of tea after all that foreign muck . . .’

  Snogged? Blokes? Crikey? Gagging? Brass monkeys? What on earth are they talking about? Marvelling at all these weird and wonderful words, I weave my way through the crowds. Apparently, someone is going to be here to meet me, but I don’t know how I’m supposed to recognise them . . .

  ‘Emily Albright?’

  In the middle of the scrum of people, I spot a tiny, bird-like figure in a tweed suit holding up a sign with my name on it. I rush over, wheeling my trolley with my luggage behind me.

  ‘Hi,’ I say politely. ‘Nice to meet you.’

  The woman with the sign throws me a lively smile and extends her hand. ‘Miss Steane. Your tour guide. A pleasure to meet you, too,’ she replies jovially, her hazel eyes twinkling.

  Something about her makes me falter. She seems really familiar. Have I met her before? For a moment I try to place her. Her face is freshly scrubbed and her hair is pinned up in a no-nonsense fashion. Yet, despite her frumpy appearance, she’s probably only the same age as the forty-something women I see on the streets of Manhattan, groomed to within an inch of their expensive honey-blonde highlights.

  I smile, giving up on wracking my memory. Nope, it’s impossible. She probably just reminds me of someone off TV or something, I decide, going to shake hands.

  ‘We’re delighted to have you onboard our Jane Austen tour.’

  ‘Why, thank you.’ I nod as she grips my hand and pumps it vigorously up and down.

  For such a petite woman, Miss Steane has an unexpectedly firm handshake.

  ‘I’m sure you’re going to find the next few days truly fascinating,’ she continues.

  ‘Great, thanks.’

  ‘You’ll discover a whole new world.’

  ‘Um . . . wow . . . thanks,’ I say, trying to sound casual.

  She still hasn’t let go of my hand.

  ‘And as your guide I’m here to make sure it’s an experience you’ll never forget,’ she intones earnestly, fixing me with her bright hazel eyes.

  Wow, she’s certainly very enthusiastic about her job, isn’t she?

  ‘Fab.’ I nod, smiling harder.

  She beams broadly. ‘Splendid!’

  Finally releasing my fingers, she deftly snaps the sign to her clipboard and tucks it under her arm. ‘Now, if you’d like to follow me . . .’ And I’ve barely had time to register before she’s taken off across the airport and is disappearing in a blur of tweed into the automatic twirling doors.

  For a moment I watch her. Seriously, she really does look very familiar. I wonder if— Oh, God, Emily, you’re being ridiculous. You’ve never met this woman in your life. And pushing it from my mind, I grab my wayward trolley and race after her.

  I’m loving England.

  OK, so I’ve only been here an hour, and we’re still only in the parking lot, but I’m already won over. For a start, everyone’s just so polite. They keep saying sorry, even when it’s me who bangs my trolley into their legs. Plus, there are all these orderly lines – sorry, I should say ‘queues’ – for cabs, tickets, the washrooms, you name it, and everyone is waiting quietly and patiently. Which would never happen back in the States, they’d be kicking up a fuss and loudly complaining.

  Plus, everything just seems so cool. Stella’s always telling me that New York is the fashion capital of the world, but everyone looks so stylish here. Everything does. Like, for example, the money. I just love how it’s all different sizes and has the Queen’s head on it. Dollars are so boring and green, and just so samey in comparison.

  And what about the black cabs? Our yellow ones barely fit two people in the back, and my knees are always banging up against the driver’s seat, but I just saw a whole family climb inside one of the black ones a moment ago. And with all their luggage. It was incredible.

  Stepping on to a pedestrian crossing, I look the wrong way and nearly get myself run over by the aforementioned cab. (Repeat after me, Emily: look right, not left; look right, not left.)

  ‘Watch where you’re going, luv,’ yells the burly cab driver as he screeches to a halt.

  My God, did you hear his accent? Is that real Cockney? Throwing him an apologetic smile, I scoot to the other side. Because I love it. It’s like something out of Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels. Which is kind of apt, as I would kill for that accent.

  ‘We’re parked over there,’ Miss Steane is trilling as we hurry across the parking lot. ‘It’s the blue-and-white one at the end.’ She gestures over to a large tourbus and I feel a beat of pleasure. It looks really swanky. The type that has air-conditioning and a luxury bathroom.

  See, I knew it wasn’t going to be a battered old minibus or anything, I think righteously, remembering back to Stella’s negative comments last night.

  With a whoosh of air pressure the automatic doors swing open and Miss Steane hops up the steps.

  ‘Leave your luggage right there, dear,’ she instructs, turning from the top step and peering down at me. ‘Ernie will take care of it and pop it in the hold.’ She gestures to the driver, who’s sitting behind the steering wheel, his peaked cap resting on the dash, a newspaper spread out in front of him. He pauses from eating his breakfast, which, by the delicious smell of things, is a fried bacon sandwich, and looks up.

  ‘Be careful, it’s rather heavy . . .’ I begin guiltily. Perhaps I shouldn’t have brought quite so many books.

  ‘Don’t worry.’ He w
inks and pretends to flex a bicep.

  I laugh and, pushing down the little handle on the suitcase, leave it on the asphalt and clamber eagerly up the stairs.

  ‘It’s a full house, so I’m afraid there’s only a couple of seats left,’ chimes my tour guide. ‘There seems to be a space next to Maeve.’

  I smile happily. I am so pleased I didn’t listen to Stella. I knew this would be a great trip.

  I turn to head down the bus.

  Which is when my smile freezes.

  In front of me is a sea of curly grey heads. A whole vista of them. Stretching out as far as the eye can see, all the way to the horizon that is the luxury bathroom. It’s like being on a senior citizens’ outing.

  All of a sudden someone presses ‘play’ on my cerebral tape recorder and Stella’s voice begins replaying in my head: Kooks and old people. Kooks and old people . . .

  ‘Over here . . .’

  An Irish accent interrupts my thoughts and I look up to see an arm near the back of the bus waving at me above the headrests. Still reeling, I smile dazedly and walk the plank to my seat.

  ‘Excuse the ploughman’s . . .’

  Almost hidden behind the seat is a small woman with short, grey hair and oversized reading glasses. Tucking her pleated polyester skirt underneath her legs, she pauses from eating a hunk of cheese and smiles up at me timidly. ‘They didn’t have anything to eat on the flight over from Dublin,’ she adds apologetically, trying to cover her mouth with her napkin while standing up at the same time and spilling crumbs everywhere. ‘Oh, now look what I’ve done . . . Look at the mess I’m making . . . Sorry . . .’

  I stare at her blankly. I’m experiencing a moment of sheer panic. Oh, shit. What have I done? What am I going to do? For a whole week. With a bunch of senior citizens?

  As she fusses around me I shuffle past her and into my seat.

  ‘What about you? Where did you fly in from?’

  ‘New York,’ I reply, trying not to think of the buzzing metropolis I’ve left behind in favour of this.

  I catch myself. Oh, for Godsakes, Emily, pull yourself together. It’s going to be just fine. You’re not going clubbing with them, you’re going on a book tour.