Page 13 of Me and Mr. Darcy

‘. . . because it sounds marvellous, love.’ She smiles warmly, handing back my passport. ‘I’d rather be spending the festive season with Mr Darcy than a load of asylum seekers, I can tell you. Maybe next year, eh?’

‘If you want, I’ll let you know how it is,’ I offer pleasantly.

‘Ooh, would you do that?’ Beryl smiles, and scribbles something on a piece of paper. ‘Here’s my email address.’

As I take it from her she squeezes my hand earnestly. ‘Have a great trip.’

‘Thanks, Beryl’ I smile, slipping my passport into my pocket.

Waving goodbye, I grab my wheelie suitcase and pass through immigration with ease, then pause at the exit to look back. Just in time to hear Beryl bark, ‘Next,’ and see her smile morph into that scarily grim expression as she summons another nervous passenger. ‘How long do you intend to spend in the United Kingdom?’

I smile to myself. Thanks a lot, Mr D.

Walking through the arrivals gate, I’m greeted by crowds of people leaning over the barriers waiting for their loved ones to appear off their flights. The place reeks of festive excitement. Strung with Christmas decorations, carols are being piped over the speakers and tinsel and lights are everywhere. A buzz of English accents hums around me, and my ears home in on pieces of conversation, like a radio being tuned in, picking up the different stations.

‘Oooh, sweetheart, you look smashing with that suntan. Doesn’t she look smashing with that suntan, David? It’s been brass monkeys here . . .’

‘. . . you snogged how many blokes in Bali . . . ?’

‘. . . what on earth do you mean, his plane’s delayed, darling? Crikey! We’re supposed to be at the registry office in less than an hour . . .’

‘. . . so what was Goa like? Did you go to any of those beach raves . . . ?’

‘. . . we’re taping Coronation Street, so as soon as we get home I’ll put the kettle on. I bet you’re gagging for a nice cup of tea after all that foreign muck . . .’

Snogged? Blokes? Crikey? Gagging? Brass monkeys? What on earth are they talking about? Marvelling at all these weird and wonderful words, I weave my way through the crowds. Apparently, someone is going to be here to meet me, but I don’t know how I’m supposed to recognise them . . .

‘Emily Albright?’

In the middle of the scrum of people, I spot a tiny, bird-like figure in a tweed suit holding up a sign with my name on it. I rush over, wheeling my trolley with my luggage behind me.

‘Hi,’ I say politely. ‘Nice to meet you.’

The woman with the sign throws me a lively smile and extends her hand. ‘Miss Steane. Your tour guide. A pleasure to meet you, too,’ she replies jovially, her hazel eyes twinkling.

Something about her makes me falter. She seems really familiar. Have I met her before? For a moment I try to place her. Her face is freshly scrubbed and her hair is pinned up in a no-nonsense fashion. Yet, despite her frumpy appearance, she’s probably only the same age as the forty-something women I see on the streets of Manhattan, groomed to within an inch of their expensive honey-blonde highlights.

I smile, giving up on wracking my memory. Nope, it’s impossible. She probably just reminds me of someone off TV or something, I decide, going to shake hands.

‘We’re delighted to have you onboard our Jane Austen tour.’

‘Why, thank you.’ I nod as she grips my hand and pumps it vigorously up and down.

For such a petite woman, Miss Steane has an unexpectedly firm handshake.

‘I’m sure you’re going to find the next few days truly fascinating,’ she continues.

‘Great, thanks.’

‘You’ll discover a whole new world.’

‘Um . . . wow . . . thanks,’ I say, trying to sound casual.

She still hasn’t let go of my hand.

‘And as your guide I’m here to make sure it’s an experience you’ll never forget,’ she intones earnestly, fixing me with her bright hazel eyes.

Wow, she’s certainly very enthusiastic about her job, isn’t she?