I turn the page and suddenly my bladder twinges. I try ignoring it. I love this part.
Crossing my legs tightly, I focus back on the page.
Like an insistent child, my bladder twinges again.
It’s no good, I’m going to have to go for a pee.
Turning over the corner of my page, I tuck the book down the side of my seat and stand up.
‘The first stop on our tour is Chawton Manor,’ announces our tour guide, standing at the front of the coach, microphone in one hand, clipboard in the other. ‘Home to Jane Austen in the latter part of her life . . .’
The microphone fizzes and whines with interference, making it difficult for us to hear, but instead of abandoning her speech, Miss Steane simply ups the vocal ante and firmly proceeds. I have a feeling that nothing would stop our tour guide, short of a ten-ton truck, and then she would probably emerge victorious with only a few hairs out of place, and perhaps a small snag in her thick woollen tights.
‘. . . where she wrote and revised many of her novels, including everybody’s favourite, Pride and Prejudice.’
Making my way down the aisle, I head towards the bathroom. Out of the corner of my eye I can see the top of Spike What’s-his-name’s head looming, as he’s sitting right at the back. Tufts of blond hair are popping up over the tartan upholstery, and as I near him, his arm rises upwards in a stretch, then begins scratching his scalp in a lazy, absent-minded way. Classic telephone behaviour, I note. It’s the same with every man I know. It’s either the scalp, the belly or the you-know-whats.
‘Yeah . . . yeah . . . Absolutely . . .’
Told you.
Reaching for the handle on the bathroom door, I glance sideways and there he is. Head turned towards the window, cell phone wedged up against his ear, chatting away. Fortunately, he doesn’t see me, so we don’t have to go through the pretence of that awkward silent hi-nod-wave-of-recognition thingy, and I quickly close the door behind me.
Now, then.
Once inside, I’m pleased to find it all looks pretty clean. I take a cautious inhalation. And it smells fine, too. I’m relieved. Stella calls me a hygiene freak, but I don’t know why. OK, so I carry a little bottle of sanitiser in my bag, but that doesn’t make me Howard Hughes. Plus, I admit I wash bags of pre-washed salad, but I’m just being careful. And yes, it’s true, I won’t eat those little mints they have in a bowl in restaurants, but that’s because I once read an article about how they’d put one under a microscope. Do you have any idea how many traces of urine they found on a single mint?
Hundreds – thousands even – of tiny little bits of pee.
Ugghh.
I look down at the toilet and that’s when I notice someone has dribbled on the seat. Oh, God. Yuk. I reach for a piece of toilet paper, but that’s when I notice something else – there isn’t any, just an empty cardboard tube rattling on the holder.
Damn.
Suddenly a long-ago story of my mom visiting France comes flashing back to me. Forget stories of Parisian style, St Tropez sunshine and sophisticated sidewalk cafés. All my mother could talk about was the hole in the floor and how she’d had to squat over it. Seriously. And in her stilettos. She’s never been the same since. She blames it on the menopause, but I reckon it was that trip. She was so traumatised she’s been having hot flushes ever since.
Thankfully I am made of stronger stuff than my mother and so I peel down my jeans and sort of hover. Actually, this is a really good workout for my outer thighs, I realise, as I start peeing. They should put it in Allure or Shape, or one of those health and fitness magazines as a top tip:
For buns of steel, forget lunges at the gym. Instead, go to a public washroom and squat over the seat for a count of 10. Repeat three times daily.
‘. . . believe me I want to bloody kill my editor . . .’
Outside, I can hear someone talking.
‘. . . all the other journalists are married with children, which left muggins here . . .’
Muggins? Who the hell is Muggins? Intrigued, I try listening closer. It’s definitely a male voice, so I guess that can only mean—
Shit.
Suddenly, in mid-flow, I realise two things:
It’s Spike who I can hear on the phone.
If I can hear him, he can hear me.
Cue pelvic-floor muscles.
I stop mid-pee.
Impressive.
Silently I thank God for Cosmo and all those articles about doing your Kegel exercises.
Now I can hear much better.
‘. . . right now I should be spending Christmas and New Year in the Alps with my hot French girlfriend . . .’
My interest is sparked. So that’s who the blonde was in the car? Well, that would explain the Renault and the terrible driving.
‘. . . I’m so pissed off. I can’t believe it. It was all arranged. Two weeks of sex and snowboarding . . .’
He snowboards? Admiration stirs. I never had him down as the sporty type, all those cigarettes and his beer gut made me presume he was unathletic. I adjust my position. My thighs are beginning to ache. Though, I’m proud to admit, my pelvic floor is holding up pretty damn well.
‘. . . I tell you, right at this moment there’s no one I hate more than Mr bloody Darcy . . .’
What? Hearing him insult Mr Darcy, indignation bites. How dare he? Darcy’s much more of a man than he’ll ever be, I think protectively.
‘. . . it’s all his bloody fault. If it wasn’t for him, I wouldn’t be on a coach full of old women. I swear, forget 18–30, this is like Club 60–80 . . .’
My ears prick up. He’s talking about the tour. And not very favourably either, I muse, absently wondering if he’s going to mention me.
‘. . . there’s just one girl my age . . .’
Oh, wow, he is talking about me. Feeling a curious surge of anticipation, I try leaning a little closer. Not so easy when you’re hovering over a toilet with your G-string stretched round your knees. I steady myself on the door handle. I wonder what he’s going to say?
There’s a pause. I can hear him laughing at something the other person just said, and holding my breath, I wait expectantly. Every second is beginning to feel like an eternity. Not only are my thigh muscles burning but my pelvic floor feels like a dam about to burst. Hold on, just hold on. I grit my teeth, and clench.
‘. . . no way. She’s not my type . . . She seems pretty dull . . . average-looking . . .’
Oh.
Reality slaps me cold in the face. I wasn’t expecting that. I was sort of presuming he was going to say something nice, though I don’t know why – it’s not as if I like him, it’s just . . . My thoughts trail off lamely. God, I feel like a bit of an idiot now. Trust me to get it totally wrong. I mean, not that it matters – he’s an asshole anyway – I just wasn’t expecting him to be so, well, hurtful . . .
Suddenly, much to my astonishment, my nose goes all tingly and I feel my eyes start welling up. Horrified, I sniff the tears back at once. Gosh, I’m being ridiculous. What on earth am I getting all emotional about? I’m not upset, I’m— OK, so I’m upset.
For like a second.
‘. . . and even worse . . . she’s American . . .’
Then I’m furious.
Right, that does it. Plonking myself down on the seat, I finish with not a care for who hears me, or for the fact I’m sitting in someone else’s dribble. I’m not going to have some snotty-nosed Brit think he’s better than me because he’s got a cute accent, a country full of old buildings and Ricky Gervais. We’ve got Madonna, the city of Manhattan and Abercrombie & Fitch, I think defiantly, as I wash my hands and emerge from the bathroom.
OK, so Madonna might be masquerading as a Brit, but she’s still American.
As I slam the door loudly behind me Mr Spike-arrogant-Hargreaves looks up. He’s still on the phone and I throw him my scary face before stomping back to my seat and snatching up my book. Now, where was I? Oh, yeah, the bit where Elizabeth Bennet is
being described as ‘tolerable’ by Mr Darcy.
In my mind I hear Spike’s voice again: ‘pretty dull . . . average-looking’. Now I know how Elizabeth Bennet feels, I realise, feeling a new and powerful identification with Jane Austen’s heroine.
‘But I can assure you,’ she [Mrs Bennet] added,’that Lizzy does not lose much by not suiting his fancy; for he is a most disagreeable, horrid man, not at all worth pleasing. So high and so conceited that there was no enduring him! He walked here, and he walked there, fancying himself so very great!’
Honestly, I couldn’t have put it better myself. Who cares what Spike thinks? He’s so conceited and full of himself I’m glad he doesn’t like me. If he did he’d only be trying to hang out with me the whole time. How horrible would that be?
And feeling completely self-righteous, I throw myself back in my seat and turn the page.
Quite frankly, as far as I’m concerned, I’ve had a lucky escape.
Chapter Seven
It’s like stepping back in time.
‘Jane Austen lived here during the last eight years of her life and this is regarded by many to be her literary home . . .’
Our tour guide is chuntering away as she leads us through the seventeenth-century red-brick house which has been turned into a museum, and although I’m trying to focus, my attention keeps drifting.
Gazing around the tastefully decorated rooms of Chawton Manor, filled with original Regency furniture, the twenty-first century seems to have slipped away. Gone is the noise, bustle and frantic pace of modern-day life where you have to run just to keep up. It’s as if someone hit ‘Mute’ and everything’s slowed right down. I’ve entered this peaceful, contemplative world of writing letters with feather quills and Indian ink, reading quietly in button-back chairs and playing the harpsichord after dinner.
I stare at the harpsichord now, picturing myself sitting upright in my corset, tinkling on the keys. Actually, I can only play ‘Chopsticks’, despite years of piano lessons, so I’d probably be reading instead. Poetry maybe, or something romantic in Latin. Not that I can read Latin, but I’m sure it would be different if I’d lived then.
I mean, everything would be so different, wouldn’t it? There’d be no listening to the new Killers album on my iPod, no surfing the Internet and Googling that new man I’ve just met, no ordering Indian takeout and eating spicy shrimp bhuna while watching the first series of Lost on DVD . . .
OK, now that might be tough. I pause for a moment to reflect on a world without Matthew Fox. But you can’t miss what you’ve never had, and think how wonderful it would be to spend your evenings doing something mentally stimulating, instead of slobbing in front of the TV. Like writing a letter to a distant cousin, or discussing the merits of Shakespeare, or doing some needlepoint.
Oh all right – so perhaps the needlepoint might get a little boring after a while. I mean, sewing ‘Home Sweet Home’ probably isn’t that stimulating, but I’m sure you can embroider whatever you want. Like, for example, Coldplay lyrics on to a pillowcase, or a picture of Frida Kahlo on to a dish towel . . . Actually, you know what? That’s probably really hard. Especially if, like me, you’re not that good at art, and you can’t even sew on a button without pricking your finger and making it bleed, but I’m sure you could think of something.
I’m only drawing a blank at the moment because of the jet lag.
‘. . . and ahead of us we have the dining parlour, where she would spend her mornings writing, and the “creaking door”, which would alert her to visitors . . .’
Zoning back in to our tour guide’s commentary, I see she’s now moving through the vestibule and into a room at the front of the house. Gathered loosely into a group, we obediently shuffle along behind her, our footsteps echoing on the polished honey-coloured floorboards. I glance down at them now, at the thick, battle-scarred varnish beneath the crêpe soles of my boots. Gosh, it’s so amazing to think that Jane Austen once walked around this house, and on these very floorboards. She probably stood in this very spot, I tell myself, pausing by one of the many windows to gaze out across the neatly planted garden, which is being slowly drenched. It’s raining pretty hard now and it’s getting dark. It almost looks like there’s going to be a storm.
‘. . . and as you can see, we have photocopies of some of Jane’s letters displayed on the walls, and a copy of Cassandra’s portrait of Jane in 1810 hangs over the fireplace . . .’
Turning away from the window, I follow the group into the parlour and stand on tiptoe to see over everyone’s shoulders. Despite being quite tall, it’s difficult to see. Older women, I’m discovering, don’t swap their high heels for comfy flats and crêpe-soled Hush Puppies once they hit sixty – something that I’ve been led to believe. On the contrary, Rose is wearing a pair of killer black stiletto boots with three-inch heels, and Maeve’s tramping around in a pair of vintage brown leather boots, not unlike the ones Lindsay Lohan was wearing in Stella’s copy of Elle.
In fact, the only person wearing comfy flats with crêpe soles is me.
Dismissing the worrying thought that I’ve been out-fashioned by women old enough to be my grandmother, while simultaneously wishing I’d taken more style advice from Stella rather than hooting with laughter every time she came to work in a wacky new outfit, I peer over the roped area to where Miss Steane is pointing.
‘. . . by the window is the original table where she revised Pride and Prejudice and created the Mr Darcy we know and love today,’ she declares, getting rather carried away. ‘And we also have an example of the type of feather quill she would have used to bring him to life. Or could it be, perhaps, the very one!’
Wow. I stare at the little round wooden table for a moment, absorbing its significance. Just think, that’s where it all happened. Pretty incredible.
‘Amazing, huh?’ mutters a voice close to my ear.
I jump. Spike, the journalist, is standing next to me. Seeing him again is like a trigger.
‘pretty dull . . . average-looking’.
The effect of his words hasn’t dulled. They sting just as hard as when I heard them. I throw him the most withering look I can summon up. I call it my ‘shit-on-my-shoe’ look, and I have to say, it’s pretty effective. I once did it to myself in the bathroom mirror, just to see, and boy, it even made me feel like shit.
Satisfied, I turn away. Well, that’s the last you’re going to be hearing from him, Emily Albright.
‘To think she wrote all her stuff longhand, and with a feather quill. It’s bloody unbelievable, isn’t it? I mean, crikey, I write all my articles on my laptop and it still takes me for ever,’ he chuckles to himself.
Er, hello, is that dumb-ass still talking to me? Doesn’t he realise I’m blanking him? The group is shuffling around the parlour, looking at the various objects of historical interest and reading the plastic-covered information that goes with them. Moving sideways, I stare determinedly ahead. I will not make eye contact. I will not make eye contact.
‘Just imagine not being able to hit the delete key.’
I wish I could hit the frigging delete key. That way, I could delete you, I curse silently.
Anger now, Emily, warns a little voice.
I quickly compose myself. I’m not angry. I’m not angry at all. I really couldn’t care less what he said about me.
‘So, you’re a big Jane Austen fan, huh?’ he persists obliviously.
Right, that’s it. I’ve had enough.
‘Listen, buddy, I couldn’t care less about you, your laptop or your stupid newspaper article,’ I snap, rounding on him. ‘So why don’t you go hassle someone else with your questions and leave me alone?’
OK, I take it back. I’m angry. And I’ve made eye contact. Fuck.
‘Whoah.’ He throws up his hands in mock surrender. ‘Who rattled your cage?’
He pretends to back off, his hands still up in the air, a sardonic look on his face. God, that man is so unbearable, I fume.
Finally he turns away and b
egins excusing his way through the group, his spiral notebook in one hand, a Dictaphone in the other. I stare after him for a moment and notice how the hem of his corduroy jacket is coming unstitched and the way his jeans are so old they’ve worn away by the back pocket and you can see a flash of boxer-short material beneath.
Huh. And I thought British men were supposed to be all smart and stylish. Or at least foppish like Hugh Grant. I mean, just look at him. This guy is such a mess.
Feeling irritated, I turn and focus on a pair of Victorian buckled shoes in a glass case.
Cute, though, I think begrudgingly.
Forty minutes later we’re still slowly making our way around the house. So far we’ve seen the drawing room, the dining parlour, where Jane wrote on the small round table, and been upstairs to the bedrooms to look at the patchwork quilt she made with her mother. Hers was obviously not the life of disastrous dates, vodka martinis and Sunday mornings spent in bed with a hangover, I reflect, thinking about how different my own life is. But at least we do have one thing in common – books.
Entering one of the rooms, I see a showcase that houses an interesting collection of books. My eyes flit across the embossed spines, reading the various titles. Like myself, Jane was obviously a huge fan of reading, I reflect happily, feeling a bond with the author.
She also died single, reminds a little voice inside me.
Right, OK.
Turning away from the showcase, I look at the other members of the group. Absorbed in their pamphlets and brochures, they’re stopping and staring at various points of interest. Maeve is bent over a showcase of family silver, while Rose is peering at some jewellery and brooches and fanning herself with a copy of Sense and Sensibility.
I stifle a yawn. Gosh, my jet lag is really bad. I could do with a little nap.
‘And so, moving on to the admiral’s room. Here you will find memorabilia of her two sailor brothers, Francis and Charles, both of whom had distinguished careers in the Royal Navy . . .’
Hmm, that doesn’t sound very interesting. I glance at my watch. The museum is about to close, so it wouldn’t hurt if I skipped this bit. Maybe I should go for a little walkabout. Go outside and get a bit of fresh air to try and wake myself. I glance out of the window. It’s still raining, but I think I saw some umbrellas at the entrance when we came in.
Me and Mr. Darcy Page 7