‘Oooh, the Big Apple?’ There’s a lot of murmuring and several curly grey heads appear in the aisle to look at me.
‘So you’re an American?’ asks one.
‘Yes, that’s right.’ I nod.
‘How exciting,’ smiles another. ‘An American.’ She says it as if I’m a species from outer space.
Lots of knowing glances fly around me.
‘Overpaid, oversexed and over here,’ booms a large, striking woman, her head popping above the parapet of the headrest in front of me. Unlike the others, she has dyed black hair, cut into a strikingly severe Cleopatra bob and is wearing a lot of dark-red lipstick. It suits her, despite her seventy-something years.
‘Excuse me?’
‘That’s what they used to say about the Yanks during the war,’ she remarks, her dark, inquisitive eyes shining brightly beneath her fake eyelashes and painted-on eyebrows. ‘And I should know, I married one.’
Hoots of laughter fly around the coach.
She extends a plump hand laden down with diamonds the size of knuckle-dusters. ‘Rose Bierman.’
‘Emily Albright.’
Her handshake is firm and unwavering, and I get the distinct impression she’s sizing me up. How funny, and there was I thinking I was the one sizing her up.
Ten minutes later we still haven’t moved. There’s one empty seat left and we’re waiting for the last person to arrive. Apparently, they’re travelling from Central London so they should be here any minute.
A hum of chatter fills the air, which is already heavy with a cloying cocktail of perfumes. Impatiently I glance at my watch – how much longer? I glance around me, expecting a coach full of discontent, but everyone else seems happy sharing packets of cookies called, strangely, ‘custard creams’, whatever they are, swapping photos of grandchildren and comparing wardrobes from some place called M&S. A couple of passengers have even nodded off, I notice, looking at them now, heads rolled back, mouths open, snoring quietly.
‘Um . . . would you care for a midget gem?’ asks Maeve shyly, shaking a bag at me.
‘No, I’m fine, thank you.’ I smile, not having a clue what a midget gem actually is but refusing anyway. I turn to gaze out of the window. Where on earth is this person? What are they doing? I’ve come all the way from New York and I’ve managed to be on time. What’s taking them so long?
Agitatedly I press my cheek against the glass to see further across the parking lot, my eyes desperately scanning back and forth for signs of a woman of pensionable age. But it’s empty. No short, curly, grey perms. No lilac sweaters from this strange place called M&S. Nothing. Just puddles from where it’s started to rain.
I flop back into my seat. Normally it wouldn’t bother me so much, but I’ve just flown across the Atlantic and I’m exhausted. All I want to do is get to the hotel and freshen up. However, knowing there’s not much I can do, I dig out my copy of Pride and Prejudice. Yawning, I turn back the earmarked corner of my page and continue reading where I left off. It’s the bit about Mr Darcy at the ball . . .
He was looked at with great admiration for about half the evening, till his manners gave a disgust which turned the tide of his popularity; for he was discovered to be proud, to be above his company, and above being pleased; and not all his large estate in Derbyshire could then save him from having a most forbidding, disagreeable countenance, and being unworthy to be compared with his friend.
A male voice talking loudly on the other side of my window distracts me. I glance outside to see a man clambering out of a tiny red Renault with a briefcase, laptop bag and a large holdall. He’s a big guy, unshaven and unkempt, with his shirt tails sticking out of baggy chinos, exposing a little bit of a belly as he leans back into the car.
The driver, meanwhile, is an immaculate blonde in a tight black turtle neck and red lipstick. She’s staring blankly through the windshield, ignoring him while he yells something I can’t quite hear. Hmm, I wonder what they’re rowing about. Intrigued, I watch them for a moment, before remembering it’s rude to stare and turning back to my book.
His character was decided. He was the proudest, most disagreeable man in the world, and every body hoped that he would never come there again.
Outside, there’s the sound of a car door slamming with enough force to take it off its hinges. I’m half tempted to look up, but I ignore it. I can hear the woman now, but I can’t tell what she’s saying as she’s screaming in French.
And I’m reading the same line over and over again.
I give in to my curiosity and look out of the window, just in time to see the Renault reversing at full pelt, its gears whining painfully. With a sharp twist it swerves, brakes, then shoots forward and races out of the parking lot.
Jesus. What happened there? I wonder.
I glance back at the guy. He’s just standing there, leather holdall and briefcase on the ground, laptop bag slung over his slouched shoulder, battered old corduroy jacket flapping in the wind. Raking his fingers through his messy blond hair, he stares after the Renault as if he can’t quite believe he’s been dumped in the middle of the parking lot – and in the rain. He cuts a sorry-looking figure and I feel a pang of sympathy for him.
Though he was shouting at a woman, I remind myself. He catches me staring at him and I glance away sharply. He probably deserves it.
Drama over, I turn back to my book, but no sooner have I found my place on the page than I hear the automatic doors of the tourbus swish open and then there’s a round of applause. Hallelujah. The last person must have arrived.
I hear Maeve clicking her tongue. ‘Nosy things. What’s all the fuss about?’ she tuts quietly.
And this from a woman who’s got her head stuck out at a right angle into the aisle.
I continue reading. Maeve’s obviously from some sleepy little country village in Ireland where nothing happens. This is probably the most exciting thing to happen to her in a long time. Unlike me, living in the daily hustle and bustle of New York, the city that never sleeps. I see way more exciting stuff than this every day so it’s really no big deal for me.
Oh, who are you kidding, Emily? City that never sleeps? Hustle and bustle? You’re as curious as Maeve.
Grabbing the headrest in front of me, I hoist myself up from my seat to get a good look at the little old lady. Except it’s not a little old lady.
It’s him. The guy from the Renault.
Something stirs and if I didn’t know better I’d think it was excitement. Surely he’s not . . . ? I mean, he can’t be . . . There’s no way he’s the person we’re waiting for, right?
Wrong. Engaged in a conversation with Miss Steane, our tour guide, who’s tapping her watch and frowning, he’s talking nineteen to the dozen, gesticulating widely, while trying to tuck in his shirt, which refuses to stay in his chinos.
Then all at once he seems to notice Ernie, our driver, and stops mid-sentence to throw him a furious glower. Jeez, Louise, this guy is in a bad mood. And now he’s turning and thundering down the aisle, bashing people left and right with his laptop bag and briefcase as he heads towards the back of the coach. Suddenly he looks right at me and I smile politely.
He responds with a filthy scowl.
What the . . . ?
I feel a slap of indignation. What an asshole! And there was me just trying to be nice to him. Infuriated, I respond by glaring right back. Then he strides past me to the back of the tourbus and flings himself into the empty seat. Bristling, I sit back down. The driver starts up the engine and, as we begin to pull out of the parking lot, I make up my mind to ignore him.
Even if he is a handsome stranger, pipes up a voice inside me.
For a millisecond I waver; but it’s just a millisecond. So what if he is? That doesn’t change anything. He’s still an asshole, and I’m still going to ignore him. Completely and utterly. For the whole week. Just you watch me.
Chapter Five
I must have dozed off because the next thing I know I’m waking up to discove
r we’ve pulled off the freeway – sorry, correction: motorway – and are now winding our way through the Hampshire countryside on some of the narrowest roads I’ve ever seen. Outside, a blur of hedges fly past, a vivid band of green against the blank, grey expanse of sky. It’s still drizzling and raindrops are weaving their way down the windowpanes, making everything look like a watercolour painting that’s gone all streaky.
‘This is the countryside that Jane Austen would have known growing up . . .’ our tour guide’s voice is chatting away over the microphone ‘. . . and which featured in many of her novels.’
There’s a buzz as people stop what they’re doing to look out of the windows. We’re entering a small village now. Rows of skinny red-brick houses line the tiny streets, their crisscross leaded windows glittering as we pass by. I stare at them, feeling a tingle of excitement. It’s just like I imagined. Over there, there’s even a village green with a duck pond and real ducks and everything.
I watch them bobbing contentedly, dipping their beaks into the water and raising their feathered bottoms comically into the air. I smile to myself, reminded of the ones in Central Park. Ducks, it would appear, like to stick their butts in the air whether they’re English or American.
But now they’re behind us, and as we manoeuvre round a tight corner I see a traditional English pub up ahead. Oh, my God, is that a real thatched roof? And does that sign actually read ‘Ye Olde’ something or other?
I squash my nose against the window in disbelief. I feel as if I’ve fallen asleep and woken up two hundred years ago. There’s not a Hummer or a Mac store, or even a Starbucks in sight. Just cobbled streets, a village church and real fires, I marvel, watching the smoke spiralling up from the chimney pots. It really is like being on a movie set. It’s hard to believe it’s not just a façade for tourists and as soon as we drive through it will be taken down and flat-packed until the next tourbus runs through.
‘And now ladies and gentleman . . .’ Miss Steane’s voice interrupts my daydream and I turn away from the window.
Gentleman? Hardly, I think dryly, remembering the obscenities this ‘gentleman’ yelled earlier. I flick my eyes back over my shoulder at the culprit in question. Mid-yawn, he catches me staring and sticks out his tongue.
How old is he? Five?
Irritated, I pretend to be looking at something behind him, but seeing as he’s on the back row and behind him it’s the washroom, I’m pretty much busted. Still, I’m way too proud to let him think he’s caught me, so I continue to gaze at the green ‘VACANT’ sign as if it’s the most interesting thing I’ve ever seen until Miss Steane rescues me by chiming,
‘This is the Old Priory, where we’ll be staying for two nights, before continuing our journey to Bath.’
Gratefully I turn back to the view out of the window and—
Holy shit.
Turning left into a pair of impressive wrought-iron gates, there’s the delicious sound of gravel crunching under the tyres as we slowly make our way up the broad, sweeping driveway. Just this is enough to set the wings of my anticipation fluttering. I’ve always thought you can tell instantly, just by the driveway alone, whether or not you’re going to love a place. And I’m going to love this place.
Big, bold and beautiful, it stands at the top of the driveway to greet us like something torn from the pages of Pride and Prejudice – the kind of place I always imagined Netherfield Park, home of Mr Bingley, to be. I gaze at it in awe. Set in beautiful grounds, with ivy-covered walls, an imposing entrance and rambling outbuildings, it’s everything I dreamed it was going to be and more.
The tourbus pulls up outside the hotel and the next half-hour is spent disembarking, collecting luggage and checking in, while our tour guide flaps around us with her clipboard like a tweed butterfly. The hotel is even more spectacular from the inside: wood-panelled hallway, sweeping staircase, hunting pictures, portraits of bygone ancestors, stone-flagged floors . . . Everything reeks of history.
‘You’re in room twenty-eight,’ instructs Miss Steane, standing behind the front desk a few minutes later. Behind her is a large board filled with differently numbered keys, and handing me a small brass one, she ticks me off her list, seemingly oblivious to George, the general manager, who is standing next to her looking rather redundant.
‘It’s on the second floor,’ George is now adding timorously. ‘Turn right and it’s all the way to the end of the corridor.’
‘Great. Thanks.’ I nod, reaching for the retracting handle on my wheelie suitcase. ‘Which way’s the elevator?’
There’s a pause.
‘The elevator?’ repeats George, twiddling his cufflinks uncertainly. I notice a few glances flying around me and I twig.
Oh, God, Emily, don’t be so stupid. Of course there isn’t a goddamn elevator. This place is hundreds of years old.
But just as I’m about to correct myself, I hear a derisive snort behind me and someone mutters, ‘Americans, huh?’
I stiffen. I know immediately who that someone is, even before I twirl round and see him leaning up against the desk, arms folded, picking his teeth with a matchstick: Mr Asshole. I glare at him challengingly.
‘Have you got a problem?’ I demand, trying to appear ballsy and confident and not like the complete idiot I really feel. Unfortunately, my voice doesn’t play along and betrays me by coming out all shrill and nasal. I sound petulant, rather than nonchalant. I feel my face burning up, and curling my hand tightly round the handle of my suitcase, I dig my nails into my palm.
But Mr Asshole doesn’t react. Instead, he fixes me with his heavy-lidded eyes and adopts a bemused expression. ‘No,’ he replies casually, taking the matchstick out of his mouth. For a moment he studies it as he twirls it between finger and thumb, then flicks his gaze back to me. ‘But it appears that you have.’ The corners of his mouth turn up in smug amusement.
‘Really?’ I return the smile with as much sarcasm as I can muster. ‘And what might that be?’
Apart from you, you arrogant little shit.
We eyeball each other. Which is when I’m suddenly aware that it’s all gone very quiet. Everyone has stopped what they’re doing at the front desk and are now watching us like spectators at a boxing match.
Ding, ding. Round two.
‘This isn’t Macy’s, you know.’ He smirks.
‘Now you tell me,’ I reply dryly.
‘This building happens to be over four hundred and fifty years old.’
‘I know that.’
‘And you want to take the elevator?’
My cheeks are on fire. ‘Well, no, obviously. I wasn’t thinking. I’m a bit jet-lagged, that’s all—’
‘Perhaps you’d like me to ask if there’s an escalator instead,’ he interrupts, his faded blue eyes twinkling.
‘Thank you, but that won’t be necessary,’ I say stiffly, and grabbing my suitcase, I head for the staircase and begin bumping up the stairs.
George rushes to help me. ‘Now then, miss, let me do that, I can easily—’
‘I’m fine, honestly, I can manage,’ I insist, grasping on to the handrail and tugging the suitcase up behind me, trying not to grunt. Jesus Christ, it weighs a ton. What the hell’s in here? That freaking black sweater you’re never gonna wear, I tell myself crossly. I curse the black sweater. Thump, bang, thump. Because it’s all that black sweater’s fault. Bang, thump, bang. If it wasn’t for that black sweater, I wouldn’t have even thought about taking an elevator.
Thump, bang, thump. Ouch!
Banging my legs on the corner of my suitcase, I wince with pain and bend down to rub my throbbing shin. Then catching Mr Asshole staring at me from the bottom of the staircase, I pretend I can’t feel a thing and continue climbing. Until, finally reaching the top, I hoist my suitcase on to the landing and flounce off down the corridor.
Lunch is being served in the Elizabethan dining room and so I quickly freshen up in my room. Dark and chintzy, it has a real four-poster bed, over which is hung a wate
rcolour of a hunting scene (they seem to be very popular, they’re all over the hotel) and in the corner stands a big old wooden closet.
Having lived for as long as I can remember with birch-veneer flat-pack from IKEA, it’s a bit of a shock. Real furniture! And stuff that looks like it belongs in a museum, I think in amazement, running the flat of my hand across the door of the closet and feeling the centuries-old smoothness of the wood.
I’m interrupted by the jingly chime of my cell phone ringing. Grabbing my bag from my bedspread, I flounder around inside, trying to find it before it rings off. It can only be one person.
‘Buenos dias.’
‘Stella!’ I yell, grinning. Being independent, impulsive and all those strong adjectives is all very well, but there’s nothing better than getting a call from your best friend when you’re in strange surroundings. ‘It’s great to hear from you. What are you up to?’
‘Getting drunk,’ she laughs down the crackly line. ‘It’s the early hours of the morning here, and we’ve just arrived but I’m managing to keep awake with the help of tequila.’ She breaks off to take a loud slurp, and in the background I can hear the vibrant mix of music and laughter. ‘So, how is everything?’
‘Great,’ I reply enthusiastically, trying not to think about my run-in with the English guy downstairs. ‘How about you?’
‘Fabulous. White sand, eighty degrees, lots of men and the best margaritas ever. This is my . . . Um, I’ve lost count,’ she laughs, drunkenly. ‘So, tell me. What’s happening over there?’
‘Well, we just checked into this really amazing hotel . . .’ spying the view from the window I let out a gasp ‘. . . and it’s in the middle of all this gorgeous countryside,’ I continue, looking out at the wide, flat fields dotted with nothing but sheep and crossed with stone walls. It’s like a giant chessboard.
‘Mmmm, really?’ murmurs Stella on the end of the line.
‘And they’ve got all this amazing old antique furniture.’ Flopping down on to the flowery bedspread, I prop myself up by my elbows.
Me and Mr. Darcy Page 5