Page 14 of Me and Mr. Darcy

‘Fab.’ I nod, smiling harder.

She beams broadly. ‘Splendid!’

Finally releasing my fingers, she deftly snaps the sign to her clipboard and tucks it under her arm. ‘Now, if you’d like to follow me . . .’ And I’ve barely had time to register before she’s taken off across the airport and is disappearing in a blur of tweed into the automatic twirling doors.

For a moment I watch her. Seriously, she really does look very familiar. I wonder if— Oh, God, Emily, you’re being ridiculous. You’ve never met this woman in your life. And pushing it from my mind, I grab my wayward trolley and race after her.

I’m loving England.

OK, so I’ve only been here an hour, and we’re still only in the parking lot, but I’m already won over. For a start, everyone’s just so polite. They keep saying sorry, even when it’s me who bangs my trolley into their legs. Plus, there are all these orderly lines – sorry, I should say ‘queues’ – for cabs, tickets, the washrooms, you name it, and everyone is waiting quietly and patiently. Which would never happen back in the States, they’d be kicking up a fuss and loudly complaining.

Plus, everything just seems so cool. Stella’s always telling me that New York is the fashion capital of the world, but everyone looks so stylish here. Everything does. Like, for example, the money. I just love how it’s all different sizes and has the Queen’s head on it. Dollars are so boring and green, and just so samey in comparison.

And what about the black cabs? Our yellow ones barely fit two people in the back, and my knees are always banging up against the driver’s seat, but I just saw a whole family climb inside one of the black ones a moment ago. And with all their luggage. It was incredible.

Stepping on to a pedestrian crossing, I look the wrong way and nearly get myself run over by the aforementioned cab. (Repeat after me, Emily: look right, not left; look right, not left.)

‘Watch where you’re going, luv,’ yells the burly cab driver as he screeches to a halt.

My God, did you hear his accent? Is that real Cockney? Throwing him an apologetic smile, I scoot to the other side. Because I love it. It’s like something out of Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels. Which is kind of apt, as I would kill for that accent.

‘We’re parked over there,’ Miss Steane is trilling as we hurry across the parking lot. ‘It’s the blue-and-white one at the end.’ She gestures over to a large tourbus and I feel a beat of pleasure. It looks really swanky. The type that has air-conditioning and a luxury bathroom.

See, I knew it wasn’t going to be a battered old minibus or anything, I think righteously, remembering back to Stella’s negative comments last night.

With a whoosh of air pressure the automatic doors swing open and Miss Steane hops up the steps.

‘Leave your luggage right there, dear,’ she instructs, turning from the top step and peering down at me. ‘Ernie will take care of it and pop it in the hold.’ She gestures to the driver, who’s sitting behind the steering wheel, his peaked cap resting on the dash, a newspaper spread out in front of him. He pauses from eating his breakfast, which, by the delicious smell of things, is a fried bacon sandwich, and looks up.

‘Be careful, it’s rather heavy . . .’ I begin guiltily. Perhaps I shouldn’t have brought quite so many books.

‘Don’t worry.’ He winks and pretends to flex a bicep.

I laugh and, pushing down the little handle on the suitcase, leave it on the asphalt and clamber eagerly up the stairs.

‘It’s a full house, so I’m afraid there’s only a couple of seats left,’ chimes my tour guide. ‘There seems to be a space next to Maeve.’

I smile happily. I am so pleased I didn’t listen to Stella. I knew this would be a great trip.

I turn to head down the bus.

Which is when my smile freezes.

In front of me is a sea of curly grey heads. A whole vista of them. Stretching out as far as the eye can see, all the way to the horizon that is the luxury bathroom. It’s like being on a senior citizens’ outing.

All of a sudden someone presses ‘play’ on my cerebral tape recorder and Stella’s voice begins replaying in my head: Kooks and old people. Kooks and old people . . .

‘Over here . . .’

An Irish accent interrupts my thoughts and I look up to see an arm near the back of the bus waving at me above the headrests. Still reeling, I smile dazedly and walk the plank to my seat.

‘Excuse the ploughman’s . . .’

Almost hidden behind the seat is a small woman with short, grey hair and oversized reading glasses. Tucking her pleated polyester skirt underneath her legs, she pauses from eating a hunk of cheese and smiles up at me timidly. ‘They didn’t have anything to eat on the flight over from Dublin,’ she adds apologetically, trying to cover her mouth with her napkin while standing up at the same time and spilling crumbs everywhere. ‘Oh, now look what I’ve done . . . Look at the mess I’m making . . . Sorry . . .’

I stare at her blankly. I’m experiencing a moment of sheer panic. Oh, shit. What have I done? What am I going to do? For a whole week. With a bunch of senior citizens?

As she fusses around me I shuffle past her and into my seat.