Page 12 of Me and Mr. Darcy

‘I think it’s toodle-pip,’ I grimace, laughing.

‘Oh, well, whatever it is those crazy Brits say.’ She shrugs, and then her face softens. ‘You look after yourself and have a good time, OK?’ Throwing her arms round me, she gives me a hug. ‘Promise?’ she asks, uncharacteristically emotional.

I squeeze her tightly. ‘Promise.’

For a brief moment I feel a twinge of doubt about spending New Year’s alone and not with Stella and her friends, but just as briefly I dismiss it. I’m a big girl. I’ll be fine. ‘Now, make sure you call me from Mexico, let me know how the margaritas are, won’t you?’

‘Definitely.’ She nods, throwing me that famous Stella grin. Releasing the latch, she tugs open the door. ‘Oh, and by the way . . .’ she pauses in the doorway ‘. . . this eyeshadow is awesome.’ And winking at me, she disappears into the hallway.

Chapter Four

Fast-forward eleven hours and I’m standing in the immigration line at Heathrow Airport, jet-lagged but excited. I feel a whoosh of exhilaration. Even now I can’t believe it’s actually happening, that I’m actually here in England. England!

‘Next!’

Stifling a hippo-sized yawn, I look up to see I’m being waved forward by one of the officials, a grim-faced, middle-aged woman with short, frizzy hair and glasses.

‘How long do you intend to spend in the United Kingdom?’ she demands in a clipped voice as I approach the counter.

‘A week,’ I reply, giving her a friendly smile.

It has absolutely zero effect. Taking my passport, she studies it gravely and begins tapping furiously into her keyboard.

‘And what is your purpose for visiting?’

‘I’m here on a tour,’ I reply eagerly.

Without looking up, the immigration officer pushes up her glasses and continues tap-tapping, her lips tightly pursed.

My excitement wobbles. Her silence is beginning to make me a bit nervous. As if I’ve done something wrong somehow. A flashback of being caught shoplifting pops into my head and I feel a beat of worry. Oh, God, don’t say I’ve got some kind of criminal record and they’ve found it on an international database. OK, so I was only eleven and it was Barbie clothes, but still. I have a history.

With my front teeth I begin chewing the flaky bits off my lips, which I only ever do when I’m nervous, and which I shouldn’t do as they always start bleeding.

They start bleeding.

‘What kind of tour?’ asks the officer, breaking off momentarily to flick through my passport. She grimaces at my picture – which isn’t that bad – then resumes her work at the keyboard. What on earth is she typing? An essay? A police report?

My stomach nosedives.

‘It’s a specialist tour for literature lovers,’ I croak, my voice coming out all funny and high-pitched. Clearing my throat, I swallow a few times. ‘A week in the English countryside to explore the world of Jane Austen and Pride and Prejudice,’ I add weakly.

As if she cares, I think anxiously.

‘Pride and Prejudice?’ she repeats sharply, without looking up. Her fingers freeze on the keys. ‘Did you just say Pride and Prejudice?’

My immigration officer seems galvanised by this news.

‘Um, yes.’ I nod, uncertainly.

She looks up, her face flushed with excitement. ‘Oh, my giddy aunt, I can’t believe it! I love Pride and Prejudice!’ she shrieks loudly. Clutching at her polyester chest, she throws me a dazzling smile. ‘I just saw the film adaptation with Keira Knightley on DVD. Wasn’t it wonderful?’

I’m completely taken aback by her transformation. ‘Erm, yes . . .’ I stammer.

Leaning back in her chair, she loosens the top button of her blouse and begins fanning herself with my passport. ‘And that Mr Darcy.’ Rolling her eyes, she shoots me a lustful look. ‘Sex on a stick!’ Leaning forwards, she winks conspiratorially. ‘I tell you what, I wouldn’t kick him out of bed,’ she whispers, and giggles girlishly.

I stare, dumbfounded. I know Mr Darcy has an effect on women, but this is incredible.

Several minutes later we’re on first-name terms and Beryl is telling me all about her recent divorce from her husband, Len, her decision to work over the Christmas period and how much she wished she’d heard about the tour . . .