Page 15 of Me and Mr. Darcy

‘What about you? Where did you fly in from?’

‘New York,’ I reply, trying not to think of the buzzing metropolis I’ve left behind in favour of this.

I catch myself. Oh, for Godsakes, Emily, pull yourself together. It’s going to be just fine. You’re not going clubbing with them, you’re going on a book tour.

‘Oooh, the Big Apple?’ There’s a lot of murmuring and several curly grey heads appear in the aisle to look at me.

‘So you’re an American?’ asks one.

‘Yes, that’s right.’ I nod.

‘How exciting,’ smiles another. ‘An American.’ She says it as if I’m a species from outer space.

Lots of knowing glances fly around me.

‘Overpaid, oversexed and over here,’ booms a large, striking woman, her head popping above the parapet of the headrest in front of me. Unlike the others, she has dyed black hair, cut into a strikingly severe Cleopatra bob and is wearing a lot of dark-red lipstick. It suits her, despite her seventy-something years.

‘Excuse me?’

‘That’s what they used to say about the Yanks during the war,’ she remarks, her dark, inquisitive eyes shining brightly beneath her fake eyelashes and painted-on eyebrows. ‘And I should know, I married one.’

Hoots of laughter fly around the coach.

She extends a plump hand laden down with diamonds the size of knuckle-dusters. ‘Rose Bierman.’

‘Emily Albright.’

Her handshake is firm and unwavering, and I get the distinct impression she’s sizing me up. How funny, and there was I thinking I was the one sizing her up.

Ten minutes later we still haven’t moved. There’s one empty seat left and we’re waiting for the last person to arrive. Apparently, they’re travelling from Central London so they should be here any minute.

A hum of chatter fills the air, which is already heavy with a cloying cocktail of perfumes. Impatiently I glance at my watch – how much longer? I glance around me, expecting a coach full of discontent, but everyone else seems happy sharing packets of cookies called, strangely, ‘custard creams’, whatever they are, swapping photos of grandchildren and comparing wardrobes from some place called M&S. A couple of passengers have even nodded off, I notice, looking at them now, heads rolled back, mouths open, snoring quietly.

‘Um . . . would you care for a midget gem?’ asks Maeve shyly, shaking a bag at me.

‘No, I’m fine, thank you.’ I smile, not having a clue what a midget gem actually is but refusing anyway. I turn to gaze out of the window. Where on earth is this person? What are they doing? I’ve come all the way from New York and I’ve managed to be on time. What’s taking them so long?

Agitatedly I press my cheek against the glass to see further across the parking lot, my eyes desperately scanning back and forth for signs of a woman of pensionable age. But it’s empty. No short, curly, grey perms. No lilac sweaters from this strange place called M&S. Nothing. Just puddles from where it’s started to rain.

I flop back into my seat. Normally it wouldn’t bother me so much, but I’ve just flown across the Atlantic and I’m exhausted. All I want to do is get to the hotel and freshen up. However, knowing there’s not much I can do, I dig out my copy of Pride and Prejudice. Yawning, I turn back the earmarked corner of my page and continue reading where I left off. It’s the bit about Mr Darcy at the ball . . .

He was looked at with great admiration for about half the evening, till his manners gave a disgust which turned the tide of his popularity; for he was discovered to be proud, to be above his company, and above being pleased; and not all his large estate in Derbyshire could then save him from having a most forbidding, disagreeable countenance, and being unworthy to be compared with his friend.

A male voice talking loudly on the other side of my window distracts me. I glance outside to see a man clambering out of a tiny red Renault with a briefcase, laptop bag and a large holdall. He’s a big guy, unshaven and unkempt, with his shirt tails sticking out of baggy chinos, exposing a little bit of a belly as he leans back into the car.

The driver, meanwhile, is an immaculate blonde in a tight black turtle neck and red lipstick. She’s staring blankly through the windshield, ignoring him while he yells something I can’t quite hear. Hmm, I wonder what they’re rowing about. Intrigued, I watch them for a moment, before remembering it’s rude to stare and turning back to my book.

His character was decided. He was the proudest, most disagreeable man in the world, and every body hoped that he would never come there again.

Outside, there’s the sound of a car door slamming with enough force to take it off its hinges. I’m half tempted to look up, but I ignore it. I can hear the woman now, but I can’t tell what she’s saying as she’s screaming in French.

And I’m reading the same line over and over again.

I give in to my curiosity and look out of the window, just in time to see the Renault reversing at full pelt, its gears whining painfully. With a sharp twist it swerves, brakes, then shoots forward and races out of the parking lot.

Jesus. What happened there? I wonder.

I glance back at the guy. He’s just standing there, leather holdall and briefcase on the ground, laptop bag slung over his slouched shoulder, battered old corduroy jacket flapping in the wind. Raking his fingers through his messy blond hair, he stares after the Renault as if he can’t quite believe he’s been dumped in the middle of the parking lot – and in the rain. He cuts a sorry-looking figure and I feel a pang of sympathy for him.