Page 10 of Me and Mr. Darcy

‘Why, because we’re married?’ she teases. ‘You know that was purely so he could get his papers. He’s adorable and I love him to bits, but he’s so not the right guy for me,’ she says decisively. ‘And I’m so not the right girl for him.’

‘Why not?’ I persist.

‘We’re complete opposites,’ she says simply. ‘I’m a vegetarian, he eats salami for breakfast. I’m untidy, he’s a neat freak. I like to stay up late, he’s in bed by nine thirty every night as he has to be at the bakery for four a.m. We’d drive each other crazy if we were really a couple.’ She fidgets with her wooden bangles, rolling them up and down her forearm in agitation. ‘Look, Freddy’s the sweetest person in the whole world, and he’ll make someone a wonderful boyfriend, but not me.’

Grabbing my big, fluffy, mohair scarf, I turn to face her. ‘Well, I think you’d make a great couple,’ I persist.

‘Oh, Em . . .’ Stella shakes her head pityingly. ‘Get real.’

‘I am real,’ I reply indignantly.

‘No, you’re not, you’re a romantic,’ she dismisses.

That’s the second time Stella’s called me a romantic this week, and it’s beginning to grate.

‘I’m also a realist,’ I point out righteously.

Stella throws me a look that says purlease.

‘I am,’ I repeat feebly.

‘And this from the girl who wants to date Mr Darcy.’

Feeling my cheeks burning, I stalk over to my hand luggage to start packing that.

‘Who, might I add, you told me was fabulously wealthy,’ adds Stella, picking up my brand-new copy of Pride and Prejudice, which I bought to take with me on this trip. My old one has been read so many times it’s falling apart. ‘I mean, c’mon. Let’s be honest. That Elizabeth Bennet was only interested in Mr Darcy because he was an aristocrat and had that big fuck-off estate wherever it was . . .’

‘Pemberley in Derbyshire,’ I prompt. Earlier I gave Stella a little potted synopsis of the novel, though I don’t remember it sounding like this.

‘. . . trust me, she would never have even looked at him if he’d lived in a tiny apartment above a bakery.’ Sighing, she puts down my book and absently picks up my itinerary. ‘Ooh, look, you’re going to a New Year’s Eve ball,’ she says, perking up. ‘Groovy.’

‘I know, great, huh?’ I smile, relieved to be changing the subject. Padding into my tiny bathroom, I open my cabinet and begin haphazardly chucking stuff into a sponge bag.

‘So what are you going to wear?’

‘Wear?’ I pause mid-chuck, feeling my frisson of excitement disintegrating at the thought of being hauled in front of the fashion police.

‘Please tell me you have a dress,’ hollers Stella sternly.

I shut the door of the bathroom cabinet and look at my reflection in the mirror: shit.

‘Of course I have a dress,’ I say defensively, emerging from the bathroom. ‘Honestly, what do you think I’m going to wear? T-shirt and jeans?’

By the look on her face that’s a yes.

She narrows her eyes. ‘Well . . . where is it?’

‘In my suit bag.’ I gesture to the black vinyl bag hanging on my closet.

‘Can I see it?’ she asks, reaching for the zipper.

‘Not really. It’s all packed,’ I say, hastily making an excuse. ‘In tissue paper,’ I add.

Good thinking. Tissue paper makes it sound as if it’s from a really expensive boutique.

Stella looks suitably impressed, but still suspicious. ‘Describe it,’ she demands, folding her arms.

‘Erm . . . well, it’s . . .’ I falter as I think about my shopping trip a couple of days ago on a mission to find something. And how I flailed around in H&M with armfuls of dresses, feeling overwhelmed and desperate, until finally I just went for the most— ‘Festive,’ I say vaguely.