Mr Darcy pales. I suspect he’s not used to being refused by ladies. But then he’ll have to get used to it, I think ruefully, thinking of the famous scene between him and Elizabeth Bennet when he asks her to marry him. And he will ask her. I’m sure of that now.
Quickly recovering, he stands before me now, hands clasped behind his back.
‘May I enquire one more thing?’ he says, and he says it with such formality that I feel a bitter-sweetness. Despite everything that’s happened, I’m going to miss Mr Darcy.
‘Of course.’ I smile, and then with slight trepidation add, ‘Ask me anything.’
There’s a pause as he composes himself and then: ‘What does he have that I don’t?’
‘He’s real.’
And as our eyes meet a large drop of rain splashes on to my lap. I glance upwards. As dozens more start to fall, big meaty drops that are splattering all over my face and running down my collar. The grey skies have turned black and threatening, and at that moment a splinter of lightning is followed immediately by a loud crack of thunder.
‘Quick, the storm must be directly above us,’ I cry. ‘We’ve gotta find shelter.’
Jumping up from the bench, I put my head down and dash for cover, but the rain has turned into a torrential downpour and the paths are all slippery and I can barely see as the rain is lashing my face so hard. And I’m running and running, and all the trees are bare, and there’s nowhere to shelter, and I’m getting completely drenched, and I’m never going to find my way out—
I stop dead. There, before me, is Lyme Hall. Large and grand, it’s just sitting there as if to say, ‘What took you so long?’ A huge smile breaks across my face and I feel a whoosh of relief. I’ve found my way out. I’m not lost at all.
I whirl round to tell Mr Darcy, but he’s not there. In fact, he’s nowhere to be seen, I realise, scanning my surroundings. Shit, where did he go? Maybe I left him behind, maybe he took a different path, maybe he’s gone back to wherever he came from.
No sooner has the thought struck than I notice the rain has stopped, just as quickly as it started. The birds are tweetering again, noises return, there’s a sweet, fresh smell from the grass. I feel a sudden, unexpected rush of euphoria.
‘Oh, look, there she is . . .’
Hearing voices, I turn round and see Rose and Hilary striding towards the grass with two colossal striped golfing umbrellas. I can’t help smiling. As someone who insists on wearing heels at all times, Rose is not one for taking country walks, and is picking her way precariously across the wet turf. Obviously the gift shop has proved a disappointment.
‘Hi.’ I wave, pushing my wet hair out of my eyes. ‘What brings you out here?’
Reaching me, Hilary throws me her ‘lawyer’ smile. ‘You, my dear,’ she says firmly.
I look at Rose for an explanation. Winded by the walk, she takes a moment to catch her breath, and then, in an uncharacteristic show of affection, reaches for my hand and gives it a squeeze.
‘Can we have a word?’
Chapter Thirty-Five
‘Cheers.’ I grin.
Making sure to keep my ‘little finger out’ (as instructed by Rose), I loop my finger through the handle of my gold-rimmed teacup and raise it aloft.
‘Cheers,’ beam Rose and Hilary, doing the same.
There’s a delicate chink of finest bone china as the three teacups come together, and I feel a burst of happiness.
God, I love England! What a civilised way to do business.
It’s the next day and I’m in London, at the Savoy, having afternoon tea with Rose and Hilary. It’s our last day of the tour. We arrived here this lunchtime and a lot of people have left already in a flurry of address-swapping and cheek-kissing (Ru-pinda wouldn’t go before making everyone sign up for her yoga retreat in Goa next year) and gone to catch various flights and trains home.
Maeve and I said our goodbyes first thing this morning. She was catching a flight from Manchester back to Ireland, and promised to call me next week after her first meeting with Shannon. She was nervous but excited, and there was a quiet confidence about her that was never there before. Ever since that phone call from her brother, the transformation has been incredible. The person who left today was so different from the anxious mouse I met only a week ago, and as I hugged her goodbye I got quite choked up. When I came on this trip I would never have thought I’d make such wonderful friends, especially not ones old enough to draw their pension. But then I’ve had a lot of unexpected things happen to me this week.
One of them being the reason I’m sitting here right now in this fancy hotel, on this plush velvet sofa, sipping Earl Grey and nibbling the tiniest triangle of crust-less cucumber sandwich that you’ve ever seen. I gobble it up in one mouthful. I’ve got that giddy, nervous exhilaration that makes me want to eat, even though I’m not hungry. I reach for another cucumber triangle. Saying that, these are rather delicious.
Things have been happening so fast I’m still trying to take it all in. When Hilary and Rose asked to speak to me yesterday I had no idea what it was about.
But Rose, being Rose, came straight to the point: ‘Have you thought of buying your bookshop?’ she asked, without even an introduction.
Coming from a woman wearing ten years of my salary in diamonds, I couldn’t help but smile. ‘I don’t think I’ve got enough in my savings account,’ I quipped ruefully.
To which Rose and Hilary laughed heartily, and Hilary cried, ‘Oh, I do love the New Yorkers’ sense of humour,’ while Rose added, ‘No, you silly girl. Don’t you know the first thing about business? You don’t pay for anything yourself. You get someone else to pay for it.’ I must have looked confused because she went on to explain, ‘Investors, darling! What you need are investors!’
Which is like telling someone who’s run out of gas, that they need to put petrol in the car.
‘Great, but where exactly do I find some of these investors?’ I asked.
And – now this is the best bit – Rose replied, as if it was obvious, ‘Why, you’re looking right at her!’
‘Would you care for a fresh pot of tea?’
I hear a voice in my ear and look up to see our young Italian waiter hovering over us with the kind of attentiveness that makes women of a certain age giggle and swoon.
Hilary wafts him away with a flick of her ballpoint pen. ‘No, thank you,’ she instructs. Having attempted to flirt with him earlier and discovered he was engaged, she promptly branded him a tease. ‘Just the bill, please.’
Hilary is here in her capacity as a lawyer. She might have retired from partnership at a top London law firm, but she’s still got her licence to practise law, and she’s going to draw up the legal papers.
Oh, didn’t I mention it? Silly me, I’m so excited about everything I can barely think straight. So, OK, I’m going to do a Rose and just come out and say it . . .
I. Emily Albright. Am the new owner of McKenzie’s.
Yup. Really! Can you believe it?
No, neither can I, but it’s for real. After talking to Rose and Hilary and discovering that, no, this wasn’t a practical joke, and, yes, Rose was totally serious, I called up Mr McKenzie late last night and, with trembling hands and a voice that was such a high-pitched squeak I sounded like I was mainlining helium, we talked about me buying the bookstore and agreed on a price for the lease and all the stock. He was delighted. ‘Now I know it will be in good hands,’ was how he put it, and I was so over the moon I can’t remember what I said apart from a few hundred breathless thank-yous and a lot about it being a dream come true.
Rose, obviously, is my investor. We’re going into business together. Day to day, nothing much will change. I’ll continue running the store, with a few extra responsibilities, of course, and Rose will be my silent partner.
‘Isn’t this just marvellous!’
Rattling her diamonds as if they’re castanets, Rose leans back in her chair and claps her hands with joy. ‘I’m so thrilled to be getting
my teeth into something new. Makes a change from men, hey?’
OK, I admit, perhaps not so silent.
We say our goodbyes on the pavement (not sidewalk – see, just as I’m about to fly back to New York I’m finally getting into the lingo) outside the Savoy.
‘I’ll be drawing up the papers first thing and I’ll have them Fedexed to you next week,’ Hilary is saying, giving me a firm handshake.
‘Great, thanks.’ I smile, pumping vigorously. ‘Thanks for everything.’
‘My pleasure.’ She nods.
‘Well, no need for us to be saying goodbye, is there?’ chimes in Rose, bustling up to me in full-length fur and a matching muff.
I turn to her. I’m feeling a bit light-headed and I can feel my eyes prickling.
‘No, I guess not,’ I sniff, ‘partner,’ I add, attempting a Texan accent.
Rose cackles delightedly and plants two lipstick kisses on my cheeks. ‘So when’s your flight back to the Big Apple? Ce soir?’
I smile. ‘Yeah, I thought I’d do some sightseeing.’
‘Oh, to be an American girl in London for the first time . . .’ Rose closes her eyes as if to swoon. ‘I remember my first trip to Paris in my youth. Strange cities are always ripe for adventures.’ She opens one eye and raises an eyebrow.
‘Um . . . well, I think I’ve had plenty of those.’ I laugh nervously.
Rose gives me a look that says she doesn’t believe a word of it. ‘Well, cheerio, darling,’ she says briskly. ‘I’ll be in touch.’
‘I don’t know how I can ever thank you enough.’
‘Nonsense. I should be the one thanking you, Emily.’
‘Me?’ I look at her in confusion.
‘For showing me the importance of true friendship,’ she says soberly. ‘For making me realise that I don’t need a chap to make me feel important, to give me self-esteem.’ Lowering her head, she squeezes my hand tightly. ‘For the first time, in a long, long time, I don’t feel invisible any more, Emily.’
‘You were never invisible,’ I reply, and smiling I squeeze her hand back.
Our eyes meet and for a moment we remain like that until we’re interrupted by Hilary, asking, ‘Do you want to share a cab? I’m heading up to Euston Station . . .’
‘A cab?’ repeats Rose in astonishment, turning to face her. ‘Why, don’t be such a silly goose, you can ride with me in the Bentley.’
As she’s speaking the biggest, sleekest black car glides up against the pavement and a uniformed driver gets out and opens the door. He’s wearing white gloves and a peaked hat.
‘Larry, can we give my dear friend a lift to Euston?’
‘Of course, ma’am.’
Ma’am?
Hilary and I exchange incredulous glances, before she disappears behind Rose into a luxurious cocoon of leather upholstery and Larry dutifully closes the door behind them. The engine starts up with a purr and, as they glide away from the kerb, Rose’s diamond-encrusted hand appears from a window and gives a regal wave.
I stifle a giggle. God love Rose. You gotta hand it to her.
Finding myself left behind on the busy street, I glance at my watch. I’ve still got hours to kill before my flight back to New York. I booked a really late one, thinking I’d want time to do lots of sightseeing on my last day: Big Ben, the Houses of Parliament, Buckingham Palace, the London Eye, the Täte and all those other art galleries they have here . . . Except, now I’m here, the funny thing is, I don’t much feel like sightseeing.
Wheeling my suitcase behind me, I start walking. I decided to donate quite a few of my books to the hotel in Bath before we left. Normally I never part with a book, it’s like a part of me, but they had the most pathetic selection on their ‘reading shelves’ that I felt duty-bound. I mean, honestly. Dog-eared copies of Danielle Steele? A book on stamp-collecting? Geri Halliwell’s autobiography? Now they’ve got rather a nice collection of literary works, and I’ve got myself an almost empty – and much lighter – suitcase.
The pavements are thronging with tourists and January-sales shoppers, and I weave in among them, my eyes drifting absently over store windows. I soak up all the sights and sounds and smells of this new city. There’s a certain feeling you always get when you’re alone in a strange city for the first time. The excitement of being totally anonymous, of not knowing what you’re going to find when you turn down a street, of having the freedom to do, for just a few hours, anything that you goddamn please (credit card permitting of course).
With this in mind I cut through a couple of side streets and take a left for no reason other than I just feel like it. I have no clue where I’m heading, and for once, I don’t care. Considering my appalling sense of direction, I’ve decided not to even pretend to look at the little tourist map Miss Steane gave me before she left. She was in a hurry as always. Apparently the coach does a quick turnaround at the cleaner’s, before heading straight back to Heathrow to pick up a whole new set of passengers, so I barely got a chance to say bye and thanks as she stuffed it in my hands and disappeared off with her clipboard.
TOPSHOP.
The black-and-white sign grabs my attention and stops me dead in my tracks. I look at it, slowly registering. Oh, wow, this is it. This is the famous Topshop that Cat was going on about? Stella’s own personal Mecca? A place from which, according to both Cat and Stella, I will emerge a transformed person?
Well, c’mon, I gotta see this.
Wheeling my suitcase behind me, I step on to the escalator. As I ride downwards the thumping music gets louder, my adrenalin starts mounting, and the excitement starts building. Although you’re going down, you feel like you’re coming up.
Well, I haven’t always been a mature bookshop owner, you know.
Reaching the basement, I’m greeted by a vista of clothes racks. On and on they go into a sort of fashion infinity. My nerve falters. I can’t do this alone. I need help.
I need Stella.
Digging out my cell phone, I quickly dial. Even though it’s only been a couple of days, it feels like ages since we last spoke. The phone connects and I listen to it ringing. She was due back from Mexico yesterday, so she should pick up . . .
‘Hello?’
‘Stella, it’s me, Emily.’
‘Em! Hey, when are you back? I got a phone call from Mr McKenzie saying not to come into work today. What’s going on? Is everything OK?’
‘Yeah, everything’s cool,’ I say, quickly reassuring her. I’ll tell her all about it when I get back. Right now there are more important things to tell her. Like I said, Top Shop is Stella’s Mecca.
‘So did you hear from Spike?’
‘Sort of,’ I say, and then quickly change the subject. ‘What about you? Have you spoken to Freddy?’
‘Sort of,’ she replies, equally vaguely. ‘But I’ll fill you in when you get back. Hey, what’s all that music I can hear? Where are you? In a nightclub?’
I laugh inwardly at the very thought. Me? In a nightclub? You’d have more chance of seeing the Pope in a nightclub.
I don’t begin to explain that actually it’s only the middle of the afternoon here, and instead cut straight to the chase and say those little magic words: ‘I’m. At. Topshop.’
There’s a loud screech on the end of the line and I have to hold the phone away from my ear.
‘Em, that is so fucking exciting. I am so fucking jealous!’ she’s now gasping. ‘Tell me, what’s it like? What’s it like?’
She’s almost hyperventilating.
‘Well . . . um . . . it’s big . . . and full of clothes . . .’ I begin uselessly. Overwhelmed by the sheer volume of stuff, I cautiously venture further into the store, my free hand sort of trailing in wonder across racks. ‘. . . and they have these things that look like . . .’ I hesitate as I finger a woollen fabric that looks like a coat but is in fact ‘a cape,’ I finish.
‘A cape?’ shrieks Stella. ‘Oh, my God, they have those capes? I adore those capes. I’ve been coveting them online for
weeks now –’ she breaks off to draw breath – ‘I would kill for a cape.’
‘Well, actually, that’s one of the reasons I called. I want to buy you a gift to say thanks for my dress—’
After the word ‘gift’ the rest of my sentence is drowned out by another scream.
‘A gift? For me? From Topshop?’ she says the words with the kind of breathless awe usually reserved for religion. But then for Stella, fashion is her religion. And she is always telling me Marc Jacobs is a god.
‘Oh, Em, I don’t know what to say . . .’
‘Hey, look, you don’t have to say anything. I know you were my secret Santa.’
There’s a pause and then, ‘Your what?’
‘I know it was you who sent me that beautiful dress for the ball,’ I continue, absently looking through the rack of capes.
‘But I didn’t send you a dress,’ protests Stella, sounding puzzled.
Doubt flickers, but I brush it aside. ‘Oh, c’mon, Stella, I know it’s supposed to be secret, but you can admit it.’
‘Look, I really wish I had, but seriously, Em, it wasn’t me. In fact, I feel really bad as I didn’t get you anything and you got me that lovely scented candle.’
I stop flicking through the capes. I’ve had enough years of Stella’s fake phone-in-sick-to-work calls when she’s got a hangover to know when she’s not telling the truth. But this time she is.
‘But I left you a message thanking you.’
‘Oh, is that what that message was about?’ she says breezily. ‘I remember you mentioning something about a dress, but I could hardly hear what you were saying, so I just deleted it.’
My mind is rapidly going through my list of possible secret Santas. So far I’ve drawn a blank.
‘But if it wasn’t you, who was it?’ I demand. ‘I mean, who else is going to send me an amazing dress?’
‘I dunno,’ replies Stella impatiently, and I can imagine her now, sitting on her bed, phone wedged underneath her ear, desperately wanting to get back to her cape conversation. ‘Your fairy godmother?’
Me and Mr. Darcy Page 31