Me and Mr. Darcy

by Alexandra Potter

  ‘So have you enjoyed your literature lover’s trip, Miss Albright?’ She suddenly turns and catches me looking at her.

  ‘Oh, yeah.’ I nod, quickly looking away again. ‘It’s been . . .’ I search for the word. Well, what word sums up this roller coaster of a week? I can’t think of one. Does one even exist? ‘. . . Interesting,’ I manage.

  Miss Steane looks satisfied by my reply.

  ‘Which has been your favourite part?’

  I hesitate. Before, I would have definitely said Mr Darcy. Well, I wouldn’t have said it, but I would have thought it. But now? Now, I’m not so sure. Everything is so jumbled up and messy and confused. I don’t really know what to think.

  ‘Um . . . all of it,’ I say finally. ‘It’s all been great.’

  ‘And did you read Mr Hargreaves’s email?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I reply, before it registers what she’s just asked me. I look at her sharply. Miss Steane is looking at me, her hazel eyes bright in the winter sunshine. ‘How did you . . . ?’

  ‘Know he’d written to you?’ she finishes, and smiles. ‘I gave him your email address.’ There’s a beat. ‘I hope you don’t mind.’

  I pause for a moment, allowing this to register. ‘No, of course not.’ I shake my head. And then, looking back at her, ask quickly, ‘Did he tell you what happened? What he was going to put in the email?’

  ‘No. I didn’t ask and he didn’t tell me.’ She stares at me for a few moments, as if deep in thought, before finally speaking. ‘Prejudice can be a terrible thing, Emily. As can pride,’ she says quietly, and looks at me soberly. ‘You know, Jane Austen always made her heroines feisty. They stuck by their principles, went after what they wanted, were not afraid to admit when they were wrong.’ She looks at me, her eyes flashing. ‘Not doing anything can be worse than doing the wrong thing.’

  I absorb her words. They resonate within me. I turn them over in my mind and am about to say something when I’m distracted by what looks to be someone swimming in the lake. Surely not – it’s January. I crinkle up my forehead and squint to see better. The swimmer is pulling himself out of the water. Christ, he’s still in his clothes. He must be freezing. You can see his nipples from here, right through his white shirt that’s wet through and clinging to his chest . . .

  Holy shit. It’s the famous lake scene. Except it’s not Colin Firth . . .

  ‘It’s Mr Darcy,’ I gasp, before I can help myself.

  As soon as I’ve said it I clamp my mitten over my mouth, wishing I could stuff the words right back in again. Fuck. Me and my big mouth. Why did I have to go and say that? My tour guide’s going to think I’m totally nuts.

  I glance at Miss Steane, but she hasn’t flinched. Instead she’s still standing there, perfectly poised. She turns to me, a faint smile of amusement playing on her lips. ‘I hate to say it, but he’s not a patch on Colin Firth, is he?’

  ‘No, he’s not,’ I laugh – and then freeze.

  What the . . . ?

  Did she just . . . ?

  I open my mouth but no words come out. Which is weird as there are a million of the things whirling round in my head right now, forming a million different questions.

  But I don’t have time to ask any of them. I need to talk to Mr Darcy before he disappears again. I look sharply back down at the lake. Shit, he’s already striding away across manicured lawns.

  ‘I gotta go,’ is all I can manage to stammer. And without even a backwards glance, I begin hurtling down the hill after him.

  By the time I get to the bottom, he’s gone.

  I scan left and right, hoping to catch sight of him, but seeing nothing I slow down and come to a standstill by a large hedge. I bend double and drop my hands to my knees to catch my breath. My heart is thumping like a piston, so hard it feels as if it might burst right out of my chest. Jesus, I had no idea I was so unfit.

  I stay like that for a few moments, waiting until my breathing returns to normal, staring at my grassy, mud-splattered boots and wondering what I’m going to do next. Heaving a sigh, I push my hair out of my eyes and focus. I might not be an Olympic athlete, but it didn’t take me long to run down that hill. He’s got to be around here somewhere. But where?

  I take a gamble and head towards the gardens. Now, I don’t know the first thing about gardens. Living in New York, the most green-fingered I’ve ever got is growing some chili peppers on my windowsill. I used to have the most beautiful shocking-pink orchid Stella bought me, but when all the flowers fell off I thought I’d killed it and threw it away. Only to learn that, apparently, that’s what’s supposed to happen, and new flowers grow. Suffice to say, Stella killed me.

  However, you don’t have to be an expert to see that these gardens are something else. Even in winter there are all these amazing-looking shrubs and plants, hedges displaying some incredible – and very steady-handed – topiary, manicured borders, ornate trellises, formal nurseries and a maze of pathways winding round. On any other occasion I would love to take my time and wander along them, like when I was little and I used to go to nurseries with my dad and wander around the greenhouses, looking at all the different plants, inhaling the humid scent of soil and flowers. But right now there’s something I need to do, a conversation I need to have: I owe it to Mr Darcy.

  And sticking my childhood memories firmly in my pocket, I hurry off down one of the paths.

  After a while of zigzagging backwards and forwards and weaving left and right, on the lookout for a flash of his tailcoat, a whiff of his cologne or the sound of gravel crunching under his footsteps, I’m beginning to lose hope. It’s getting late, we’ll be leaving soon and there’s still no sight of him. I’m totally at a loss.

  I’m also, I abruptly realise, totally lost.

  Shit.

  Slowing down my pace, I glance around me, trying to find my bearings. OK, no problem, I just have to find the sun as that will tell me— Actually, I’m not exactly sure what that will tell me – but anyhow I can’t find the sun as the sky is now heavy with a dark wadding of clouds and it looks like it’s going to rain any minute. Double shit.

  I try looking for other clues. Only I’ve been looking ahead for Mr Darcy the whole time and haven’t been paying attention to anything else. I can’t remember any clues. In fact, I can’t even remember if I just turned left by that fountain or right. Or did I go straight?

  I gaze doubtfully at the myriad of paths. It’s like a maze with all these tall hedges on either side. Gut instinct is telling me that I came from that direction, but then gut instinct once told me that gate 20 at JFK Airport was ‘that way’ and I ended up going completely the wrong way, nearly missing my flight and being whooshed through the airport on an electric cart with a flashing light and a siren blaring in order to make it. The word ‘embarrassing’ doesn’t even come close.

  Spotting an old stone bench, I abandon my attempts at orientation and wander over to it. It’s tucked away under an even older-looking tree and covered in lichen and moss, but I sit down anyway. Instantly I can feel the cold seeping through the denim of my jeans. I try tugging my coat underneath myself, but it’s not long enough and won’t stretch. Defeat stabs.

  Ever get that feeling that nothing’s going right? That you’ve totally messed up? That whatever you do, you’re not going to be able to make it right again? That it’s too late?

  Pressure thumps against my temples and I feel a flash of weariness. I’m tired. I’ve had enough. I can’t go chasing around the countryside for a man who’s not supposed to exist. Just so I can break up with him. Just so I can say goodbye.

  Unexpectedly, I feel a wetness on my cheek and a big fat tear rolls down my face. Furiously I brush it away with the sleeve of my coat. But another one appears, and another, and another, until my sleeve is all wet and the tears are coming thick and fast.

  I give up. I totally and utterly give up on everything. I give up trying to find Mr Darcy, I give up hoping Spike will forgive me, and I give up believing that somehow I’m goi
ng to fix things and there’s going to be a happy ending.

  And hugging my knees to my chest, I bury my face in my scarf and sob my foolish heart out.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  I don’t know how long I stay like that. Curled up tight into a ball, my shoulders shaking. Or how long I would have stayed like that if I hadn’t felt a hand on my arm.

  Even before I look up, I know who it is.

  ‘Emily, dear, whatever is the matter?’

  Mr Darcy is peering down at me, his sharp features etched with surprise. I sniff frantically, rubbing away the strands of damp hair that are sticking to my clammy face. I want to feel relieved that he’s here, I should feel relieved, but I don’t. Everything’s such a mess. I’m such a mess, I think miserably, sniffing again, as my nose won’t stop running. God, I must look terrible.

  Without saying anything Mr Darcy offers me a white handkerchief. I take it gratefully and wipe my puffy eyes, streaking the cotton with big black smudges of eyeliner and mascara, and then blow my snotty nose. Oh, what the hell. Forget the feminine mystique, I don’t care any more. Screwing the handkerchief into a ball in my fist, I finally raise my swollen eyes to look at him.

  As usual, he’s standing there, immaculately groomed and completely stoic. Stoic to the point of impassive.

  ‘Emily, please. Why are you crying?’

  There’s a faint air of impatience in his voice and I notice his hand is still resting on my arm. Now more than ever do I want someone to just put their arms round me and give me a hug, instead of being all repressed and brooding.

  ‘I was looking for you, I saw you swimming, but I couldn’t find you . . .’ I sniff, my voice coming out a bit trembly.

  ‘Oh, Emily, do not distress yourself further. I was never far – I simply put on some fresh clothes and took a walk.’

  ‘. . . and I needed to see you, to tell you something . . .’ I swallow hard, twisting the handkerchief in the palms of my hands as I try to think of the right words.

  But before I get a chance to speak, Mr Darcy says, ‘I feel exactly the same way. I too have something I need to tell you, something very important, something that I cannot hide from you another minute longer . . .’

  I stop sniffling and look up with slight apprehension. He’s staring at me with that dark intensity, but whereas at first I found it sexy, now it’s making me really uncomfortable.

  ‘. . . something that will change our lives for ever . . .’

  With a thud, what he’s saying registers. Oh, sweet Jesus, please don’t tell me he’s going to do what I think he’s going to do.

  He drops to his knee in his front of me.

  ‘Holy shit,’ I gasp, thrown into a panic.

  He looks at me, startled. ‘What is wrong?’

  I falter. This is where you explain, Emily. This is where you tell him everything. About how you don’t want to see him any more, about how you’re too different, about how you want to say goodbye. About how you’re in love with Spike—

  What? Where the hell did that just come from?

  ‘Um . . . it’s all muddy,’ I manage to stammer. ‘Your breeches, they’ll get filthy.’

  He looks at me and then gets up again. ‘That is what I love so much about you, Emily, you are always so sweet and thoughtful and amusing.’

  I watch as he sits back down next to me on that little stone bench, flicking out his tailcoat, pulling at his breeches. Before, it had seemed so attractive, but now it seems stiff and fussy.

  ‘As I was saying, I have something I must tell you—’ begins Mr Darcy.

  ‘Look, I don’t think—’ I try cutting him off.

  ‘I love you, Emily,’ he declares, before I can stop him. He waits expectantly for my response.

  Oh, God. I pause, then take a deep breath. ‘No, you don’t,’ I reply firmly.

  He looks surprised and, I have to say, more than a little miffed.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Love me,’ I reply simply. And then, more determinedly, I repeat it again: ‘No, you don’t love me.’

  Mr Darcy is taken aback, but he quickly recovers. ‘Emily! What would make you say such a thing!’ he declares, his features darkening.

  I pause. And for a brief, magical moment I wonder what might happen if I were to change my mind. If I were to tell him I love him. If I were to choose the fantasy over reality. It’s so close I can almost touch it with my fingertips.

  ‘Because you love someone else,’ I blurt.

  ‘Who? I demand you tell me who?’

  ‘Elizabeth Bennet,’ I say firmly, and as the words come out of my mouth I know there’s no going back.

  ‘You know her?’ he asks, struggling to keep his composure.

  ‘Well, not exactly,’ I admit.

  ‘Well, then, let me assure you, Emily, I do not know what rumours you may have heard, but I met Miss Elizabeth Bennet for only a short time some months ago – November, I think it was – and I have not seen her since. It is you who has stolen my affections—’

  ‘No,’ I interrupt, shaking my head. ‘This is all wrong, you’ve got it all wrong.’

  ‘I thought so too,’ agrees Mr Darcy, his voice low and powerful. ‘But meeting you has caused a revelation within me, Emily. I do not want a woman like Miss Bingley, I desire someone feisty and opinionated, someone who can match me at my own game.’

  ‘Like Elizabeth Bennet,’ I persevere, partly because I feel a responsibility to the novel, and partly because I’m hoping this way he’ll get the message and I’ll be able to avoid our ‘talk’.

  Mr Darcy throws me an impatient look. ‘Why do you keep talking about Miss Bennet? I barely know her,’ he protests indignantly.

  ‘But you should get to know her. I think you’d be perfect for each other,’ I continue. ‘I heard she’s . . . um . . . really got the hots for you,’ I say, trying to appeal to his ego.

  ‘Hots?’

  ‘It’s an American saying,’ I quickly explain. ‘It means she really admires you, thinks you’re attractive and honourable and . . . um . . . a great equestrian,’ I finish, crossing my fingers behind my back. God, if Jane Austen could hear me she’d kill me. I’m completely destroying one of her finest heroines.

  Mr Darcy looks briefly impressed, and his chest seems to rise an inch or two, but he’s still not satisfied. Mr Darcy, it would seem, like most men, cannot take rejection.

  ‘Am I not making my advances clear?’ he insists, glaring at me.

  For a brief instant I’m struck by my bizarre situation. Here is Mr Darcy, the most dashing hero of all time, telling me he’s in love with me. And here I am having a panic attack.

  ‘You’re not my type,’ I bleat weakly.

  ‘Type?’ he repeats in bewilderment, obviously never having heard of such a notion.

  I make another stab. ‘It’s not you, it’s me,’ I say, resorting to the old cliché.

  His face changes colour and the muscle in his clenched jaw twitches violently. ‘But you told me you had dreamed of this moment, that being with me was like a fantasy,’ he cries. Jumping up from the bench, he begins pacing backwards and forwards, raking his fingers through his hair.

  Did I? I can’t remember. I was so busy being swept off my feet, I was being swept away from myself.

  ‘It was. I did . . .’ I begin, and then falter. God, I’ve never been any good at breaking up with regular guys, but Mr Darcy? What am I supposed to say? That you weren’t how I hoped you were going to be? That you didn’t – and couldn’t – live up to the fantasy. But that it’s not your fault, because no man could. I’d set the bar so high no one could ever reach it. And maybe I’d done that for a reason.

  Because Stella was right. I am a hopeless romantic. A silly, ridiculous, foolish romantic. I live in a fantasy land. I need to get real. And now, for the first time, I’m realising that I want to get real. I want a real relationship with a real man in a real world – with all the real problems, faults and whatever comes with it.

  I glan
ce up at Mr Darcy. Clasping his forehead, he’s leaning his elbow against a tree trying to compose himself, and I know now, more than ever, that I don’t want a romantic fictional hero declaring his undying love. Moonlit horserides in ballgowns might sound romantic, but they kill your ass – trust me, I have the bruises to prove it – and instead of someone reciting poetry, I want someone who can crack a funny joke or discuss the merits of the UK version of the Office versus the US Office.

  I want to go out with a man who’s nice to my friends . . .

  (I have a flashback of Spike encouraging Rose with her headshot.)

  . . . who’s sensitive and funny . . .

  (Who can forget Spike doing the funky chicken on the dance floor?)

  . . . a man who can express his emotions and not smoulder the whole time . . .

  (Cut to my huge argument with Spike after the ball and him saying, ‘You didn’t have to be such a bitch about it. I do have feelings, you know.’)

  . . . who doesn’t mind me eating with my fingers or wearing sexy dresses . . .

  (Remember when Spike looked me over in the ballroom and said, ‘Nice dress,’ with a nod of appreciation?)

  . . . and is impressed, not horrified, by my job . . .

  (‘Crikey, that’s great,’ said Spike in admiration when I told him about my work.)

  . . . who won’t expect me to be able to play the bloody piano or sew samplers, but will hang out and watch Changing Rooms and—

  ‘Is there someone else?’ Mr Darcy is asking me stiffly.

  Snapping back, I look at him and hesitate.

  Oh, for Godsakes, Emily, just come out and admit it. To yourself and Mr Darcy. You don’t want to go out with just any man, you want to go out with Spike. He ticks every goddamn box.

  ‘Yes,’ I say quietly.

  ‘Are you in love with him?’

  The breath catches in the back of my throat. Because as hard as I’ve tried to hate Spike, I can’t. In fact, I’ve gone and done exactly the opposite.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, and this time I don’t hesitate. ‘I think I might be,’ I admit, and I can’t help smiling.