Page 3 of Me and Mr. Darcy

Without hesitation, he jumps inside and slams the door.

‘Well, thanks for a great evening,’ he says, sticking his head out of the window. ‘Happy Holidays!’

‘Hey!’ I yell, suddenly finding my voice. ‘Hey, you’ve stolen my—’

But the cab takes off down the street with a screeching of tyres.

Abandoned on the slushy sidewalk, I watch the tail-lights disappear into the traffic and, despite my anger, I suddenly feel myself crumple inside. Unexpectedly my eyes prick with tears and I blink them back furiously. Honestly, what’s got into me? I’m being ridiculous. The man was a total moron. I’m not upset. I’m fine, totally fine. And sniffing determinedly, I stuff my hands in my pockets and head off in the direction of the subway.

‘You should have called the cops.’

It’s the next morning and I’m at work at McKenzie’s, a small, family-owned bookstore, where I’m the manager. I look up at Stella, my assistant, who’s standing on a stepladder stacking books.

‘Why? For stealing the first cab?’ Smiling resignedly, I pass her more titles. ‘Please, Officer, my date stole the first cab. He’s not a gentleman. Arrest him.’

‘No, not for that,’ she retorts, putting one hand on her hip and pulling a horrified expression. ‘For wearing pleated pants!’

Stella and I met when she came in for an interview and bowled me over with her extensive knowledge of literature. At least, that’s what I’d been expecting after reading her impressive CV. However, five minutes into the interview it became apparent that works of fiction weren’t just limited to the bookshelves. Having just graduated from fashion college, Stella didn’t have the first clue about books, thought a thesaurus was a dinosaur and finally confessed that the only thing she ever read was her horoscope.

‘Well, at least she was honest, and honesty is very important,’ I’d pointed out to Mr McKenzie, the owner, as justification for hiring her.

To tell the truth, it had been a case of the lesser of several evils. With her bubblegum-pink hair and bizarre asymmetrical outfit that, to a fashion flunky like me, looked frighteningly fashionable, Stella had seemed like she’d be a lot more interesting to work with than some of the other applicants – such as Belinda, a self-confessed ‘Internet geek’ who spent every evening on her sofa updating her blog on MySpace, or Patrick, who was nearly forty, still lived at home with his parents and ‘adored modern jazz’.

Exactly. Like I had a choice.

Three years and an entire rainbow of hair colours later, we’re the best of friends, and although professionally speaking I’m her boss, most of the time it doesn’t feel like that. Probably because when I give orders Stella ignores them.

‘But seriously, Emily, you should have punched this John guy’s lights out,’ she continues, vigorously shoving a fistful of books on the shelf. ‘If he’d stolen my cab I would have killed him.’

‘I don’t doubt it.’ I nod. Behind all those wacky outfits and perfect accessories lies the fierceness of a Rottweiler. In fact, Stella once nearly killed an ex-boyfriend by squirting pepper spray at him during an argument over who should win Survivor. It triggered an asthma attack and he had to spend the night in the emergency room.

‘So, what are you going to do now?’

‘Delete his numbers.’ I shrug, ripping the tape off a fresh cardboard box.

From the top of the stepladder Stella throws me a sympathetic look. ‘Oh, fuck. I’m sorry, Em, that sucks.’

‘Hey, I’m over it,’ I say, doing my best to sound casual. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not upset over last night. More resigned.’

I’m trying to put a brave face on things, but to tell the truth, last night really got to me. It wasn’t John that upset me – he was just the straw that broke the proverbial camel’s back. Or to put it another way, the date that broke me. Because that’s it. I’ve decided. No more disappointment, dashed hopes and disastrous dates. I’m done.

‘You know, I have a friend who’s got this really hot brother that’s just broken up with his girlfriend . . .’

‘Thanks, but no thanks.’ I shake my head determinedly.

‘But he’s really great,’ persists Stella.

‘If he’s that great, why did they break up?’

With the palm of her hand, Stella rubs her nose in concentration, her chunky wooden bracelets clanking loudly. According to Stella, ethnic is the new boho. ‘Hmm, I’m not exactly sure. I think it might have been something to do with his drinking . . .’

I shoot her an incredulous look. ‘You’re trying to fix me up with an alcoholic?’ I gasp indignantly.

‘Was,’ she retorts defensively. ‘He’s AA.’

‘Well, then he’s not allowed to date anyway,’ I say firmly. ‘It’s part of the twelve steps or something.’

Stella looks suitably chastised. Chewing the purple nail polish from her fingernails, she waits mutely at the top of the ladder as I resume unpacking the paperbacks, peeling off the plastic wrapping and piling them up on the floor.