Page 117 of Me and Mr. Darcy

‘It’s an American saying,’ I quickly explain. ‘It means she really admires you, thinks you’re attractive and honourable and . . . um . . . a great equestrian,’ I finish, crossing my fingers behind my back. God, if Jane Austen could hear me she’d kill me. I’m completely destroying one of her finest heroines.

Mr Darcy looks briefly impressed, and his chest seems to rise an inch or two, but he’s still not satisfied. Mr Darcy, it would seem, like most men, cannot take rejection.

‘Am I not making my advances clear?’ he insists, glaring at me.

For a brief instant I’m struck by my bizarre situation. Here is Mr Darcy, the most dashing hero of all time, telling me he’s in love with me. And here I am having a panic attack.

‘You’re not my type,’ I bleat weakly.

‘Type?’ he repeats in bewilderment, obviously never having heard of such a notion.

I make another stab. ‘It’s not you, it’s me,’ I say, resorting to the old cliché.

His face changes colour and the muscle in his clenched jaw twitches violently. ‘But you told me you had dreamed of this moment, that being with me was like a fantasy,’ he cries. Jumping up from the bench, he begins pacing backwards and forwards, raking his fingers through his hair.

Did I? I can’t remember. I was so busy being swept off my feet, I was being swept away from myself.

‘It was. I did . . .’ I begin, and then falter. God, I’ve never been any good at breaking up with regular guys, but Mr Darcy? What am I supposed to say? That you weren’t how I hoped you were going to be? That you didn’t – and couldn’t – live up to the fantasy. But that it’s not your fault, because no man could. I’d set the bar so high no one could ever reach it. And maybe I’d done that for a reason.

Because Stella was right. I am a hopeless romantic. A silly, ridiculous, foolish romantic. I live in a fantasy land. I need to get real. And now, for the first time, I’m realising that I want to get real. I want a real relationship with a real man in a real world – with all the real problems, faults and whatever comes with it.

I glance up at Mr Darcy. Clasping his forehead, he’s leaning his elbow against a tree trying to compose himself, and I know now, more than ever, that I don’t want a romantic fictional hero declaring his undying love. Moonlit horserides in ballgowns might sound romantic, but they kill your ass – trust me, I have the bruises to prove it – and instead of someone reciting poetry, I want someone who can crack a funny joke or discuss the merits of the UK version of the Office versus the US Office.

I want to go out with a man who’s nice to my friends . . .

(I have a flashback of Spike encouraging Rose with her headshot.)

. . . who’s sensitive and funny . . .

(Who can forget Spike doing the funky chicken on the dance floor?)

. . . a man who can express his emotions and not smoulder the whole time . . .

(Cut to my huge argument with Spike after the ball and him saying, ‘You didn’t have to be such a bitch about it. I do have feelings, you know.’)

. . . who doesn’t mind me eating with my fingers or wearing sexy dresses . . .

(Remember when Spike looked me over in the ballroom and said, ‘Nice dress,’ with a nod of appreciation?)

. . . and is impressed, not horrified, by my job . . .

(‘Crikey, that’s great,’ said Spike in admiration when I told him about my work.)

. . . who won’t expect me to be able to play the bloody piano or sew samplers, but will hang out and watch Changing Rooms and—

‘Is there someone else?’ Mr Darcy is asking me stiffly.

Snapping back, I look at him and hesitate.

Oh, for Godsakes, Emily, just come out and admit it. To yourself and Mr Darcy. You don’t want to go out with just any man, you want to go out with Spike. He ticks every goddamn box.

‘Yes,’ I say quietly.

‘Are you in love with him?’

The breath catches in the back of my throat. Because as hard as I’ve tried to hate Spike, I can’t. In fact, I’ve gone and done exactly the opposite.

‘Yes,’ I say, and this time I don’t hesitate. ‘I think I might be,’ I admit, and I can’t help smiling.