Me and Mr Darcy (6 page)

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Authors: Alexandra Potter

BOOK: Me and Mr Darcy
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I smile, giving up on wracking my memory. Nope, it’s impossible. She probably just reminds me of someone off TV or something, I decide, going to shake hands.
‘We’re delighted to have you onboard our Jane Austen tour.’
‘Why, thank you.’ I nod as she grips my hand and pumps it vigorously up and down.
For such a petite woman, Miss Steane has an unexpectedly firm handshake.
‘I’m sure you’re going to find the next few days truly fascinating,’ she continues.
‘Great, thanks.’
‘You’ll discover a whole new world.’
‘Um . . . wow . . . thanks,’ I say, trying to sound casual.
She still hasn’t let go of my hand.
‘And as your guide I’m here to make sure it’s an experience you’ll never forget,’ she intones earnestly, fixing me with her bright hazel eyes.
Wow, she’s certainly very enthusiastic about her job, isn’t she?
‘Fab.’ I nod, smiling harder.
She beams broadly. ‘Splendid!’
Finally releasing my fingers, she deftly snaps the sign to her clipboard and tucks it under her arm. ‘Now, if you’d like to follow me . . .’ And I’ve barely had time to register before she’s taken off across the airport and is disappearing in a blur of tweed into the automatic twirling doors.
For a moment I watch her. Seriously, she really does look very familiar. I wonder if— Oh, God, Emily, you’re being ridiculous. You’ve never met this woman in your life. And pushing it from my mind, I grab my wayward trolley and race after her.
I’m loving England.
OK, so I’ve only been here an hour, and we’re still only in the parking lot, but I’m already won over. For a start, everyone’s just so polite. They keep saying sorry, even when it’s
me
who bangs my trolley into
their
legs. Plus, there are all these orderly lines – sorry, I should say ‘queues’ – for cabs, tickets, the washrooms, you name it, and everyone is waiting quietly and patiently. Which would
never
happen back in the States, they’d be kicking up a fuss and loudly complaining.
Plus, everything just seems so
cool.
Stella’s always telling me that New York is the fashion capital of the world, but everyone looks so stylish here.
Everything
does. Like, for example, the money. I just love how it’s all different sizes and has the Queen’s head on it. Dollars are so boring and green, and just so
samey
in comparison.
And what about the black cabs? Our yellow ones barely fit two people in the back, and my knees are always banging up against the driver’s seat, but I just saw a whole family climb inside one of the black ones a moment ago.
And
with all their luggage. It was incredible.
Stepping on to a pedestrian crossing, I look the wrong way and nearly get myself run over by the aforementioned cab. (Repeat after me, Emily: look right, not left; look right, not left.)
‘Watch where you’re going, luv,’ yells the burly cab driver as he screeches to a halt.
My God, did you hear his accent? Is that real Cockney? Throwing him an apologetic smile, I scoot to the other side. Because I love it. It’s like something out
of Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels.
Which is kind of apt, as I would
kill
for that accent.
‘We’re parked over there,’ Miss Steane is trilling as we hurry across the parking lot. ‘It’s the blue-and-white one at the end.’ She gestures over to a large tourbus and I feel a beat of pleasure. It looks really swanky. The type that has air-conditioning and a luxury bathroom.
See, I knew it wasn’t going to be a battered old minibus or anything, I think righteously, remembering back to Stella’s negative comments last night.
With a whoosh of air pressure the automatic doors swing open and Miss Steane hops up the steps.
‘Leave your luggage right there, dear,’ she instructs, turning from the top step and peering down at me. ‘Ernie will take care of it and pop it in the hold.’ She gestures to the driver, who’s sitting behind the steering wheel, his peaked cap resting on the dash, a newspaper spread out in front of him. He pauses from eating his breakfast, which, by the delicious smell of things, is a fried bacon sandwich, and looks up.
‘Be careful, it’s rather heavy . . .’ I begin guiltily. Perhaps I shouldn’t have brought
quite
so many books.
‘Don’t worry.’ He winks and pretends to flex a bicep.
I laugh and, pushing down the little handle on the suitcase, leave it on the asphalt and clamber eagerly up the stairs.
‘It’s a full house, so I’m afraid there’s only a couple of seats left,’ chimes my tour guide. ‘There seems to be a space next to Maeve.’
I smile happily. I am
so
pleased I didn’t listen to Stella. I
knew
this would be a great trip.
I turn to head down the bus.
Which is when my smile freezes.
In front of me is a sea of curly grey heads. A whole vista of them. Stretching out as far as the eye can see, all the way to the horizon that is the luxury bathroom. It’s like being on a senior citizens’ outing.
All of a sudden someone presses ‘play’ on my cerebral tape recorder and Stella’s voice begins replaying in my head:
Kooks and old people. Kooks and old people . . .
‘Over here . . .’
An Irish accent interrupts my thoughts and I look up to see an arm near the back of the bus waving at me above the headrests. Still reeling, I smile dazedly and walk the plank to my seat.
‘Excuse the ploughman’s . . .’
Almost hidden behind the seat is a small woman with short, grey hair and oversized reading glasses. Tucking her pleated polyester skirt underneath her legs, she pauses from eating a hunk of cheese and smiles up at me timidly. ‘They didn’t have anything to eat on the flight over from Dublin,’ she adds apologetically, trying to cover her mouth with her napkin while standing up at the same time and spilling crumbs everywhere. ‘Oh, now look what I’ve done . . . Look at the mess I’m making . . . Sorry . . .’
I stare at her blankly. I’m experiencing a moment of sheer panic. Oh, shit. What have I done? What am I
going
to do? For a whole week. With a bunch of senior citizens?
As she fusses around me I shuffle past her and into my seat.
‘What about you? Where did you fly in from?’
‘New York,’ I reply, trying not to think of the buzzing metropolis I’ve left behind in favour of this.
I catch myself. Oh, for Godsakes, Emily, pull yourself together. It’s going to be just fine. You’re not going clubbing with them, you’re going on a book tour.
‘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.

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