Page 2 of Me and Mr. Darcy

Oh, hell, what do I say now?

I falter. Come on, Emily. You’re both adults. It will be fine. Just be honest and tell him.

Tell him what? pipes up a little voice inside me. That you’d rather stick pins in your eyeballs than go on another date with him?

‘Erm, well, actually—’ I say in a constricted voice and then stop mid-sentence as he blows smoke in my face. ‘I’m kind of busy,’ I splutter.

Busy being too busy to go out with a complete dickhead like you, pipes up that voice again. Only this time it’s yelling.

‘Too many parties, huh?’

Trust me, I so want to be honest. Why let him off the hook with an excuse? Why protect his feelings? What about those of the next poor, unsuspecting girl he’s going to date? It’s my duty to tell him. I mean, not only is he cheap and rude, but he has hair plugs.

That’s right. Hair plugs.

I glance at them now. Under the street lamp, you can see the neat little rows dotted across his shiny scalp. Tiny seedlings of hair planted in a desperate attempt to disguise his receding hairline. Despite my feelings, sympathy tugs. Oh, c’mon, don’t be so mean, Emily. He deserves understanding and kindness, not judgement and derision.

Swallowing my annoyance, I force a smile. ’Yeah, ‘fraid so.’ I nod, rolling my eyes in a ‘Phew, I’m exhausted from all this crazy partying’ kind of way. Honestly, I should be an Academy Award-winning actress, not the manager of a quirky little bookstore in SoHo.

In truth I’ve been to one party. It was at the Orthodontists’ Society and I had a cold. I spent the whole evening popping Sudafed and discussing my cross-bite, and I was in bed by nine thirty. The excitement nearly killed me.

‘But it was nice meeting you,’ I add warmly.

‘You too.’

John appears to visibly relax and I feel a warm, virtuous glow envelop me. See. Look what a difference a few kind words can have. Now I feel really good about myself. Saint Emily. Hmm, it’s got quite a ring to it.

Buoyed up by my success, I continue: ‘And the plugs are amazing.’

‘Plugs?’ John looks at me blankly.

Shit. Did I really just say that?

‘Er . . . I meant to say pizza. The pizza was amazing,’ I fluster, blushing beetroot and trying not to look at his hairline, which of course my eyes are now drawn to with some kind of magnetic force.

Argghh. Look away, Emily. Look away.

There’s an excruciating pause. We both try to pretend we’re not aware of it. Me by picking my cuticles. Him by surreptitiously patting his hair and checking out his reflection in the restaurant window when he thinks I’m not looking. Guilt overwhelms me. Now I feel like a really bad person. Maybe I should apologise. Maybe I should—

In one seamless move, John takes a final drag of his cigarette, grinds it out under his foot and lunges for me.

Oh, God. This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening.

It’s happening.

For a split second I freeze. Everything seems to go into slow motion. I watch him looming towards me, eyes closed, mouth open, tongue sticking out, and realise he’s misinterpreted kindness for a come-on. Fortunately (or should that be unfortunately?), I’ve been on enough bad dates in the last year to keep my reflexes sharp, and at the last moment I come to and manage to swerve just in time.

His lips crash-land on the side of my face and he plants a sloppy kiss on my ear. Eugghhh. I pull away sharply. Even so, it’s a bit of a struggle as he has his hand wrapped round my waist like a vice.

We spring apart and face each other on the sidewalk.

‘Well, in that case, I think I’ll grab a cab home,’ he says curtly, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his pleated pants.

‘Yeah, me too,’ I reply shakily, wiping my spit-soaked ear with my sleeve.

Silence. We both stand on the kerbside trying to hail a cab. Finally, after a painful few minutes, I see the familiar sight of a yellow cab with its light on. It pulls up and I heave a sigh of relief and reach for the door handle, but John beats me to it. I’m pleasantly surprised. At last! A bit of chivalry.

Heartened, I soften and throw him my first real smile of the evening as he tugs open the door. Perhaps I’ve misjudged him. Perhaps he’s not so bad after all.