Me and Mr Darcy (41 page)

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.’

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.

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.

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?’

I’m about to do a ha-ha-very-funny-type laugh when I remember something Miss Steane said to me at the ball: ‘
What a pretty dress. The colour suits you. It brings out the colour of your eyes.
’

At the time I didn’t think much about the attention Miss Steane was paying me, but now, on reflection, she
had
shown a lot of interest in my dress. And then there was that funny way she looked at me . . .

No, this is ridiculous. Why on earth would my tour guide be going around buying me a balldress, for Godsakes? I mean, Jesus, I’m not Cinderella. Why would she want me to go to the ball? I flash back to our conversation.

‘
A friend bought it for me as a Christmas present.
’

‘
How very fortunate. I’m sure you will be a huge hit with the gentlemen tonight.
’

‘
Oh, I’m not looking to meet anybody.
’

‘
Nonsense. To quote Jane Austen: “To you I shall say, as I have often said before, ‘Do not be in a hurry, the right man will come at last.’”
’

At the time I felt as if she was referring to Mr Darcy, but I suppose she could have been referring to Spike . . .