Page 109 of Me and Mr. Darcy

Tugging out my phone, I scroll down my list of contacts. I’m not expecting anyone to be there, but I can still leave a message. Finding the number, I press dial and listen to it ringing. As expected, it clicks on to voicemail. ‘Hi, Mom and Dad, it’s me. I’m just calling to say I love you both—’

‘Emily?’ My mom’s voice. ‘Is that you?’

I’m startled. ‘Oh, yeah, it’s me. I didn’t think you’d be back from your trip already.’

‘We got back today. Are you still in England?’

‘Um . . . yeah.’ God, this is silly, I should have waited until I got back to New York.

‘Are you OK, honey? What’s wrong?’

I think about saying, ‘Nothing, I was just ringing to wish you a Happy New Year.’ But then if I do that, I know it might be another twenty-nine years until I make this phone call again. And then it might be too late.

I hesitate, and then, before I know it, I just come right out with it. ‘Next year, can we spend Christmas all together. At home. As a family?’

There’s a pause. I can tell my mom’s caught by surprise. Then she says with genuine pleasure, ‘That’s a lovely idea, Emily. I think your father and I can hang up our backpacks for one year.’

Five minutes later, after we’ve said our goodbyes, I hang up the phone and flop back against my pillow. See. It was so easy. I was expecting a row, imagining I’d have to persuade them, but I was so wrong. Turning off the light, I close my eyes. It was as simple as just picking up the phone and asking.

Chapter Thirty-one

Today we’re leaving Bath on the last leg of our tour and travelling north to Cheshire to visit Lyme Park, used by the BBC as the setting for Pemberley for their Pride and Prejudice adaptation and the famous lake scene with Colin Firth.

It’s an early start. We’re due to leave after a 6 a.m. breakfast, and after packing my things quickly – ‘pack’ being a rather euphemistic word for screwing up clothes and stuffing them into my suitcase as if I’m trying to mop up a leaking washing machine (having recently mopped up my own leaking washing machine, I know this to be true) – I dash downstairs to the lobby to send an email.

Since last night I’ve made three big decisions:

I can’t do anything about Spike. It’s too late. That horse has bolted, as my grandmother would say, which is rather apt considering my New Year’s Eve experience. So I’m just going to have to try and forget all about it.

But I can do something about the email I received from Mrs McKenzie. Instead of waiting until I get back to New York, I’m going to bite the bullet and write another reply asking them outright if they are planning to sell the business. I’d prefer to know now, rather than prolong the agony and spending the next forty-eight hours worrying about it. It’s like ripping off a plaster: painful but over quickly.

I’m going to stop using all these ridiculous sayings.

Ten minutes later and I still haven’t sent my email to Mr McKenzie.

Having opened up the mail from Mrs McKenzie and pressed reply, my resolve has failed me and now I’m sitting here, fingers poised on the keyboard, staring at a blank email and a blinking cursor. I don’t know what to write. I’ve already sent them that email hoping Mr McKenzie gets better soon. What I really want to write is, ‘Do I still have a job to come back to?’

Immediately my stomach starts churning and I feel a heavy foreboding descending upon me. On second thoughts, maybe I should give biting bullets a miss for the moment.

I press ‘delete’.

‘So that’s where you’ve been hiding!’

With my finger still on the key, I twirl round in my chair to see Rose bearing down upon me in a pungent cloud of perfume that I don’t know the name of. But then I never cease to be amazed by those girls who the moment they meet you gasp, ‘Oooh, is that Dolce & Gabbana you’re wearing?’ As someone who’s been wearing white musk since the age of fifteen, I wouldn’t be able to recognise a Chanel No. 5 from a Glade air freshener if you paid me.

‘What on earth are you doing tucked away like a little mouse in that corner?’ she’s declaring loudly.

I force myself to sound casual. ‘Oh, I was just sending an email,’ I shrug.

‘To whom?’ she demands, raising her eyebrows. ‘Privacy’ is not a word in Rose’s dictionary.

‘My boss. To see if I’ve still got a job.’

Well, what’s the use of fibbing? Everyone’s going to know soon enough, I think glumly.

Rose looks perplexed. ‘Well, why shouldn’t you, my dear? I’m sure you’re very good at your job. A hard worker.’ She says that with a nod of approval and her diamond earrings rattle agreeably.

I smile gratefully. Rose is being very sweet, but she’s also being very naive. Gone are the days when being a ‘hard worker’ guaranteed success. Now it’s more about having a famous rock star for a parent.