Page 115 of Me and Mr. Darcy

I take a gamble and head towards the gardens. Now, I don’t know the first thing about gardens. Living in New York, the most green-fingered I’ve ever got is growing some chili peppers on my windowsill. I used to have the most beautiful shocking-pink orchid Stella bought me, but when all the flowers fell off I thought I’d killed it and threw it away. Only to learn that, apparently, that’s what’s supposed to happen, and new flowers grow. Suffice to say, Stella killed me.

However, you don’t have to be an expert to see that these gardens are something else. Even in winter there are all these amazing-looking shrubs and plants, hedges displaying some incredible – and very steady-handed – topiary, manicured borders, ornate trellises, formal nurseries and a maze of pathways winding round. On any other occasion I would love to take my time and wander along them, like when I was little and I used to go to nurseries with my dad and wander around the greenhouses, looking at all the different plants, inhaling the humid scent of soil and flowers. But right now there’s something I need to do, a conversation I need to have: I owe it to Mr Darcy.

And sticking my childhood memories firmly in my pocket, I hurry off down one of the paths.

After a while of zigzagging backwards and forwards and weaving left and right, on the lookout for a flash of his tailcoat, a whiff of his cologne or the sound of gravel crunching under his footsteps, I’m beginning to lose hope. It’s getting late, we’ll be leaving soon and there’s still no sight of him. I’m totally at a loss.

I’m also, I abruptly realise, totally lost.

Shit.

Slowing down my pace, I glance around me, trying to find my bearings. OK, no problem, I just have to find the sun as that will tell me— Actually, I’m not exactly sure what that will tell me – but anyhow I can’t find the sun as the sky is now heavy with a dark wadding of clouds and it looks like it’s going to rain any minute. Double shit.

I try looking for other clues. Only I’ve been looking ahead for Mr Darcy the whole time and haven’t been paying attention to anything else. I can’t remember any clues. In fact, I can’t even remember if I just turned left by that fountain or right. Or did I go straight?

I gaze doubtfully at the myriad of paths. It’s like a maze with all these tall hedges on either side. Gut instinct is telling me that I came from that direction, but then gut instinct once told me that gate 20 at JFK Airport was ‘that way’ and I ended up going completely the wrong way, nearly missing my flight and being whooshed through the airport on an electric cart with a flashing light and a siren blaring in order to make it. The word ‘embarrassing’ doesn’t even come close.

Spotting an old stone bench, I abandon my attempts at orientation and wander over to it. It’s tucked away under an even older-looking tree and covered in lichen and moss, but I sit down anyway. Instantly I can feel the cold seeping through the denim of my jeans. I try tugging my coat underneath myself, but it’s not long enough and won’t stretch. Defeat stabs.

Ever get that feeling that nothing’s going right? That you’ve totally messed up? That whatever you do, you’re not going to be able to make it right again? That it’s too late?

Pressure thumps against my temples and I feel a flash of weariness. I’m tired. I’ve had enough. I can’t go chasing around the countryside for a man who’s not supposed to exist. Just so I can break up with him. Just so I can say goodbye.

Unexpectedly, I feel a wetness on my cheek and a big fat tear rolls down my face. Furiously I brush it away with the sleeve of my coat. But another one appears, and another, and another, until my sleeve is all wet and the tears are coming thick and fast.

I give up. I totally and utterly give up on everything. I give up trying to find Mr Darcy, I give up hoping Spike will forgive me, and I give up believing that somehow I’m going to fix things and there’s going to be a happy ending.

And hugging my knees to my chest, I bury my face in my scarf and sob my foolish heart out.

Chapter Thirty-four

I don’t know how long I stay like that. Curled up tight into a ball, my shoulders shaking. Or how long I would have stayed like that if I hadn’t felt a hand on my arm.

Even before I look up, I know who it is.

‘Emily, dear, whatever is the matter?’

Mr Darcy is peering down at me, his sharp features etched with surprise. I sniff frantically, rubbing away the strands of damp hair that are sticking to my clammy face. I want to feel relieved that he’s here, I should feel relieved, but I don’t. Everything’s such a mess. I’m such a mess, I think miserably, sniffing again, as my nose won’t stop running. God, I must look terrible.

Without saying anything Mr Darcy offers me a white handkerchief. I take it gratefully and wipe my puffy eyes, streaking the cotton with big black smudges of eyeliner and mascara, and then blow my snotty nose. Oh, what the hell. Forget the feminine mystique, I don’t care any more. Screwing the handkerchief into a ball in my fist, I finally raise my swollen eyes to look at him.

As usual, he’s standing there, immaculately groomed and completely stoic. Stoic to the point of impassive.

‘Emily, please. Why are you crying?’

There’s a faint air of impatience in his voice and I notice his hand is still resting on my arm. Now more than ever do I want someone to just put their arms round me and give me a hug, instead of being all repressed and brooding.

‘I was looking for you, I saw you swimming, but I couldn’t find you . . .’ I sniff, my voice coming out a bit trembly.

‘Oh, Emily, do not distress yourself further. I was never far – I simply put on some fresh clothes and took a walk.’

‘. . . and I needed to see you, to tell you something . . .’ I swallow hard, twisting the handkerchief in the palms of my hands as I try to think of the right words.

But before I get a chance to speak, Mr Darcy says, ‘I feel exactly the same way. I too have something I need to tell you, something very important, something that I cannot hide from you another minute longer . . .’

I stop sniffling and look up with slight apprehension. He’s staring at me with that dark intensity, but whereas at first I found it sexy, now it’s making me really uncomfortable.

‘. . . something that will change our lives for ever . . .’