Page 20 of Me and Mr. Darcy

‘OK, have it your way,’ I surrender. ‘But you want to be careful what you wish for . . .’

My warning is drowned out by drunken giggling. I feel a wave of irritation. Has she heard a word I just said? I listen for a few moments. God, no. That’s not the sound of her and Scott kissing, is it?

‘Erm, Stella . . . ?’ I say tentatively.

‘Umm, yeah?’ she says distractedly.

Oh, hell. That is the sound of them kissing.

‘You know, perhaps I should talk to you later.’

‘Sure,’ she replies, not protesting. ‘Have fun at your museum.’

God, that makes me sound like a total dork, doesn’t it?

‘It’s not actually a museum, it’s where Jane Austen . . .’ I begin, but my voice trails off as I hear what sounds like Stella groaning on the end of the line. Oh, Lord. I feel as if I’ve rung some kind of adult sex line. ‘OK, well . . . um . . . take care.’

‘Mmmm, yeah . . . bye.’

Hanging up with relief, I glance at my watch. I’m running late as usual, and rubbing on some lip gloss, I grab my coat and sling my old tote bag over my shoulder. Bobbing my head so as not to bang it on the low doorframe, I twist the little brass key in the lock and head down the darkened hallway. Catching sight of my reflection in the mirror at the top of the stairs, I pause. My hair’s gone all limp and the front bits are all static-electric from my mohair scarf. I blow them off my face, only for them to cling straight back on again.

I grimace. Sometimes I hate having long hair. All that hassle of combing out tangles in the shower and blocking up the plughole and having to scoop it out with your fingers. Not to mention the expense of all the leave-in conditioners, serums and hot-oil treatments. I swear I have a cupboard full of them and my hair still looks exactly the same: shoulder-length, darkish brown and with enough split-ends to start a stylist tutting like a metronome. To be quite honest, I don’t know why I don’t just cut it all off. Actually, now I think about it, I do.

Two words: Sienna and Miller.

Not that it matters what my hair looks like, of course. Nobody knows me here so it’s not as if I need to make an effort or anything. But I suppose it wouldn’t do any harm to tip my head upside down and do a bit of volumising with my fingers like this, and then throw my hair back and—

‘Erm, excuse me.’

I hear a voice behind me at exactly the same moment I catch sight of myself in the mirror. Which is when I see three things:

My hair has smeared my lip gloss across my face, making me look like a Jackson Pollock painting.

The blood has rushed to my head, making the veins around my eyes bulge and my face turn scarlet.

Mr Asshole is right behind my left shoulder.

Jesus. How long has he been standing there?

Embarrassed at being caught doing my hair-commercial head-toss, I feel two spots of colour burning on my cheeks. I turn round and, with as much nonchalance as I can muster, rub the lip gloss off my cheeks while saying casually, ‘Yes? Can I help you with something?’

He has one eye squeezed shut and is rubbing the corner of it with his forefinger. ‘You could start by not flicking your hair in my face,’ he complains.

‘Oh, sorry—’ I begin, but he interrupts.

‘Yeah, well, you need to look what you’re bloody well doing. You nearly took my eye out,’ he snaps.

I feel a flash of annoyance.

‘Only nearly? Damn. I’m usually a good aim,’ I reply before I can stop myself. Well, honestly, he’s so patronising – he needs a taste of his own medicine.

‘In that case, I’m glad you’re only in possession of your hair and not a firearm,’ he retorts dryly and strides off down the stairs, shoelaces flapping.

Right. OK. Well, that told him, didn’t it?

For a moment I watch his retreating figure, trying to think of a suitable comeback, then give up. And feeling disgruntled, I follow him downstairs.

Chapter Six