Page 120 of Me and Mr. Darcy

‘Me?’ I look at her in confusion.

‘For showing me the importance of true friendship,’ she says soberly. ‘For making me realise that I don’t need a chap to make me feel important, to give me self-esteem.’ Lowering her head, she squeezes my hand tightly. ‘For the first time, in a long, long time, I don’t feel invisible any more, Emily.’

‘You were never invisible,’ I reply, and smiling I squeeze her hand back.

Our eyes meet and for a moment we remain like that until we’re interrupted by Hilary, asking, ‘Do you want to share a cab? I’m heading up to Euston Station . . .’

‘A cab?’ repeats Rose in astonishment, turning to face her. ‘Why, don’t be such a silly goose, you can ride with me in the Bentley.’

As she’s speaking the biggest, sleekest black car glides up against the pavement and a uniformed driver gets out and opens the door. He’s wearing white gloves and a peaked hat.

‘Larry, can we give my dear friend a lift to Euston?’

‘Of course, ma’am.’

Ma’am?

Hilary and I exchange incredulous glances, before she disappears behind Rose into a luxurious cocoon of leather upholstery and Larry dutifully closes the door behind them. The engine starts up with a purr and, as they glide away from the kerb, Rose’s diamond-encrusted hand appears from a window and gives a regal wave.

I stifle a giggle. God love Rose. You gotta hand it to her.

Finding myself left behind on the busy street, I glance at my watch. I’ve still got hours to kill before my flight back to New York. I booked a really late one, thinking I’d want time to do lots of sightseeing on my last day: Big Ben, the Houses of Parliament, Buckingham Palace, the London Eye, the Täte and all those other art galleries they have here . . . Except, now I’m here, the funny thing is, I don’t much feel like sightseeing.

Wheeling my suitcase behind me, I start walking. I decided to donate quite a few of my books to the hotel in Bath before we left. Normally I never part with a book, it’s like a part of me, but they had the most pathetic selection on their ‘reading shelves’ that I felt duty-bound. I mean, honestly. Dog-eared copies of Danielle Steele? A book on stamp-collecting? Geri Halliwell’s autobiography? Now they’ve got rather a nice collection of literary works, and I’ve got myself an almost empty – and much lighter – suitcase.

The pavements are thronging with tourists and January-sales shoppers, and I weave in among them, my eyes drifting absently over store windows. I soak up all the sights and sounds and smells of this new city. There’s a certain feeling you always get when you’re alone in a strange city for the first time. The excitement of being totally anonymous, of not knowing what you’re going to find when you turn down a street, of having the freedom to do, for just a few hours, anything that you goddamn please (credit card permitting of course).

With this in mind I cut through a couple of side streets and take a left for no reason other than I just feel like it. I have no clue where I’m heading, and for once, I don’t care. Considering my appalling sense of direction, I’ve decided not to even pretend to look at the little tourist map Miss Steane gave me before she left. She was in a hurry as always. Apparently the coach does a quick turnaround at the cleaner’s, before heading straight back to Heathrow to pick up a whole new set of passengers, so I barely got a chance to say bye and thanks as she stuffed it in my hands and disappeared off with her clipboard.

TOPSHOP.

The black-and-white sign grabs my attention and stops me dead in my tracks. I look at it, slowly registering. Oh, wow, this is it. This is the famous Topshop that Cat was going on about? Stella’s own personal Mecca? A place from which, according to both Cat and Stella, I will emerge a transformed person?

Well, c’mon, I gotta see this.

Wheeling my suitcase behind me, I step on to the escalator. As I ride downwards the thumping music gets louder, my adrenalin starts mounting, and the excitement starts building. Although you’re going down, you feel like you’re coming up.

Well, I haven’t always been a mature bookshop owner, you know.

Reaching the basement, I’m greeted by a vista of clothes racks. On and on they go into a sort of fashion infinity. My nerve falters. I can’t do this alone. I need help.

I need Stella.

Digging out my cell phone, I quickly dial. Even though it’s only been a couple of days, it feels like ages since we last spoke. The phone connects and I listen to it ringing. She was due back from Mexico yesterday, so she should pick up . . .

‘Hello?’

‘Stella, it’s me, Emily.’

‘Em! Hey, when are you back? I got a phone call from Mr McKenzie saying not to come into work today. What’s going on? Is everything OK?’

‘Yeah, everything’s cool,’ I say, quickly reassuring her. I’ll tell her all about it when I get back. Right now there are more important things to tell her. Like I said, Top Shop is Stella’s Mecca.

‘So did you hear from Spike?’

‘Sort of,’ I say, and then quickly change the subject. ‘What about you? Have you spoken to Freddy?’

‘Sort of,’ she replies, equally vaguely. ‘But I’ll fill you in when you get back. Hey, what’s all that music I can hear? Where are you? In a nightclub?’