Page 110 of Me and Mr. Darcy

‘Thanks, but I’m afraid Mr McKenzie, that’s my boss, the owner of the bookstore, hasn’t been very well. He’s been talking about officially retiring for ever, but now I think he’s really going to do it. And that means selling the business.’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t worry,’ she pooh-poohs. ‘A bookshop will always need a manager. Who else is going to do all that tedious paperwork and what-not . . . ?’

God love her. Only Rose would think insulting my job description like that will cheer me up. And yet, ironically, it does a bit.

My face creases into a smile. ‘I know, but it won’t be the same. It won’t be McKenzie’s any more. Some big company will buy it and it’ll get all refurbished and modernised and totally lose its charm. I can see it now. Espresso machines, wi-fi, loud music . . .’ I heave a sigh, and sink down in the plastic chair. ‘Everybody wants new these days. No one seems to put any value on age and history.’

‘I know, I know . . .’

I glance up at Rose, who’s nodding pensively, deep in thought.

‘Actresses, bookshops, it’s no different,’ she’s murmuring to herself, and I remember what Rose was saying at the ball, about being invisible.

‘Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean—’ I begin quickly. Shit. I don’t want her to think I’m insulting her. But Rose silences me with the palm of her hand.

‘Emily, dear, you have nothing to be sorry about. It is society that should be sorry.’ And closing her eyes, she rests the back of her hand on her brow and takes a huge, shuddering sigh.

I’m almost tempted to applaud. For the first time I see Rose not as the diamond-clad senior citizen on a Jane Austen book tour, but as the youthful twenty-something who wowed theatre audiences as leading lady. And I can see why. She’s actually pretty good.

‘Excuse me, Miss Bierman?’ The manager of the hotel pops his head round the wall. Small, with lopsided features like a Picasso painting, he smiles nervously. Stuck to his chin is a piece of pink tissue where he’s cut himself shaving.

‘Yes?’ Rose snaps her eyes open and transforms herself from tragic victim to demanding diva as she rounds on him. ‘Yes?’ she barks even louder.

The manager swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down furiously. ‘I wondered if you’d care to take a look now. I think you’ll find it’s to your exacting standards.’

His brave stab at sarcasm is punished by an icy look.

‘Well, thank you, Mr Geoffries. Let’s hope it is, shall we?’

‘What is?’ I hiss at Rose, as she turns away to follow the manager, who’s disappeared back round the corner. No doubt with relief that his head is still attached to his shoulders.

Smoothing down her bob, Rose flashes me a bright smile. ‘Come and see.’

The woman smiling down at me in the black-and-white photograph on the wall of the lobby has cheekbones like coat-hangers, delicate almond-shaped eyes and lips so full they’d send Angelina Jolie running for the collagen.

‘Wow, she’s beautiful,’ I murmur. She looks about the same age as me, but it’s hard to tell from a photograph. I glance across at Rose, about to ask her, when I notice she’s just standing there, staring up at the framed photograph, her face filled with pride.

Of course. How could I not notice the resemblance? OK, the lips are not nearly as full, and the eyes are now heavily crinkled in the corners, but there’s no denying it’s Rose. I peer at the signature in the corner. Yup, there it is: Rose Raphael. Her stage name.

And then I remember her conversation with Spike. His suggestion she put a signed photograph of herself up in the lobby, along with all the others, next to Judi Dench, and how I thought he shouldn’t be teasing her like that.

I feel a beat of regret.

Well, that’s another thing I got wrong, isn’t it?

‘Don’t you think it should be a little higher?’

Rose is looking at me, eyebrows raised.

‘No, I think it looks great there.’ I smile brightly.

The manager, who’s standing behind us, holding a hammer and a box of nails, braced for action, shoots me a grateful look. I get the feeling there’s been more than one nail hammered in the wall this morning, trying to get this hung right.

‘But are you sure I’m not clashing with Judi?’ persists Rose.

‘No, I think you’ve both got plenty of room to breathe,’ soothes the manager.

I shoot back a look of admiration. He’s obviously a professional at this. Judging by the number of photographs on the wall, he’s obviously had to deal with his fair share of demanding luvvies.