Page 28 of Me and Mr. Darcy

Puzzled, he looks down at himself, then back at me. ‘Forgive me, I was not going to mention it, but I was thinking the same about yourself.’ He seems to be bracing himself for what he’s about to say next. ‘I do not want to be rude, but are those trousers you are wearing?’

I look down and immediately regret my choice of clothing. I’m wearing my baggy old pink cords. Stella’s been telling me to chuck these away for years, but I’ve never listened. They’re about two sizes too big for me and subsequently really comfy. They’re also, for the exact same reason, deeply unflattering.

Insecurity grips. He’s right. What on earth am I wearing? ‘Trousers’ suggests fashionable and figure-hugging. These are neither. I look terrible. I look like someone’s sofa.

‘Oh, these old things?’ I say, trying to brazen it out and pretend I don’t care. God, it’s always the way, isn’t it? Why is it that when you do put on some make-up and blow-dry your hair you don’t bump into anyone vaguely attractive, and then when you step out looking like this, you bump into this. It’s like some horrible law of the universe or something. Like having a credit note. Before, you covet everything in that store, but as soon as you get a credit note, guaranteed you’ll never find anything you want ever again. It’s so unfair.

I look at this now. Underneath that Victorian costume, he’s obviously one of those really trendy types. I can just tell. He looks like one of Stella’s friends, with the long sideburns and the dark, floppy hair that falls just so over his forehead. And I know for a fact that hair doesn’t do that without a lot of product.

‘I got them in a sale. They didn’t have my size . . .’ I can hear myself gabbling as I always do when I find someone really attractive. It’s like my tongue winds itself up like a clockwork toy. ‘. . . But they were reduced from fifty bucks to only fifteen, so I couldn’t say no.’

And that’s another thing I always do – tell people how much I pay for things – it’s as if I have to boast about my bargains and what a savvy shopper I am. Realising I’ve done it again, I cringe inwardly.

‘Bucks?’

‘Oh, I forgot, we’re talking pounds now,’ I correct myself while doing a quick calculation in my head. ‘It’s probably roughly about ten pounds. Or quid,’ I add, feeling a twinge of pride that I’m picking up the lingo.

‘I think you must be mistaken.’

‘Am I? Oops, probably. Math has never been my strong subject, I must admit.’ I quickly redo the figures. ‘No, I think that’s about right.’ I smile self-consciously as he peers at my lords in disbelief.

‘They cost ten pounds?’ He looks at me with concern. ‘I find that very hard to believe. That would be rather a lot of money.’

A typical man’s response, I note, thinking about the reaction of every boyfriend I’ve ever had when I’ve come home from a rare shopping trip and showed them my purchases. Why do men always think clothes should cost the price of a beer?

‘Did you have them tailored?’

‘No, they’re from Gap.’

‘And where might that be?’

I stare at him, incredulous. ‘You’re telling me you’ve never heard of Gap?’

His face is serious. ‘Should I have?’

I’m about to answer when it dawns on me that I’m being completely thick. Of course he’s heard of Gap, he’s just pretending not to. This is all part of the act. It’s probably really important he stays in the role for his job.

‘Silly me, of course not.’ I smile knowingly.

His face relaxes, and thinking it might be rather fun, I decide to play along.

‘But maybe you need to get out more,’ I tease.

OK, make that flirt.

‘I can assure you I do go out,’ he protests haughtily. ‘Only last week I went hunting with Mr Bingley.’

I stifle a giggle. Honestly, I’m going to have to say something. I won’t be able to keep this role-playing thing up. Glancing around to make sure there’s no one about but me, I lean towards him in confidence. He smells deliciously of cologne, and my stomach does this funny flip-flopping thing.

‘You can drop the Darcy act,’ I whisper. ‘I promise I won’t tell anyone.’

He stares at me in confusion. ‘I am afraid I do not understand.’

‘Really?’ I persist, raising my eyebrows in a nudge-nudge-wink-wink kind of way.

‘Really,’ he replies, completely stone-faced.

OK, I give up. This guy obviously takes his job very seriously. There’s no way I’m going to be able to get him out of character. He’s probably like one of those method actors.