Page 32 of Me and Mr. Darcy

‘Umm . . . yes, I’d love to,’ I reply distractedly.

Except of course I know I’ll never be able to take the time off work.

Unlike Enid, a sprightly seventy-year-old with salt-and-pepper hair who’s just bought a VW camper van with her husband and is planning to spend six months next year touring Europe. Or Marion, a widow, who makes all this lovely chunky silver jewellery and has her own website.

In fact, if anyone’s staying home in their bathrobe and slippers, it’s more likely to be me, I realise, taking Marion’s business card and feeling secretly disappointed nobody wants to talk about cupcake recipes.

I love cupcakes.

By the time dinner is served I’ve got to know everyone a bit better. Everyone apart from Spike Hargreaves, that is. Him, I spend all evening avoiding like the plague. I duck into the washroom when I spy him walking towards me down the hallway; I strike up a conversation about ‘women’s troubles’ with Enid and Rupinda when he tries to mingle at the bar. And now I’ve seated myself as far away as possible at the dinner table and have suddenly turned stone-deaf when he asks me to pass him the braised carrots.

Instead, I pick up the dish and calmly help myself to the last of them.

He shoots me a murderous look.

I respond by smiling innocently, piercing a braised carrot with my fork and casually taking a bite. Nobody puts Baby in the corner, I think defiantly.

Actually, that’s Dirty Dancing, Emily.

Well, whatever. He’s still a big bully. And if he thinks he can go around all week insulting me, he’s got another thing coming. Two can play at his game. And feeling his eyes boring into me, I finish off the carrots.

I wouldn’t mind, but I hate carrots.

After dinner we’re all pretty exhausted. It’s been a long day, and following several rounds of yummy wafer-thin mints called After Eights and more goodnights than The Waltons, everyone turns in.

Except I’m not tired. Not even slightly. After my earlier exhaustion I’m now wide-awake and raring to go. It’s the jet lag. Back in New York it’s only three thirty in the afternoon, so the last thing I want to do is go to bed. This is my first night in England. I want to go out, explore my surroundings, be a complete tourist. OK, so it’s eight thirty at night and I’m in the middle of the countryside, but there must be something to do around here.

I glance around the dining room, empty but for a tableful of black After Eight wrappers and a grandfather clock whose rhythmic ticking is the only thing breaking the silence. Then I have a brainwave. Of course. Ye olde village pub.

I feel a buzz of excitement.

It’s only, like, a ten-minute walk into the village. I can go get a drink. Meet the locals . . . Out of nowhere that scene from American Werewolf flicks into my head. You know the one – where he goes into a pub on the moors and all the locals ignore him.

I feel my confidence wobble.

Oh, rubbish, Emily, you’re being silly. If lone women can venture up the Amazon in dug-out canoes, you can venture down to the local pub.

Buoyed up by my idea, I start making my way towards the lobby. It’ll be fine. I’m sure everyone will be super friendly and welcoming, I tell myself firmly. Though it would be nice to go with someone.

‘It’s your auntie here, just ringing to say hello . . .’

Hearing a quiet voice coming from the far corner, I look over and see a figure hunched over the payphone. It’s Maeve.

‘. . . but you must be out again. OK, well, I’ll try you again tomorrow. Bye for now.’ Blowing kisses down the phone, she places the receiver on the cradle. For a moment she remains very still, her hand resting on the phone, her face incredibly sad. She appears deep in thought. Then, seeming to sense something, she looks up and sees me.

‘Oh, hello . . .’ she says, pulling together the edges of her cardigan and smiling self-consciously. ‘I didn’t see you there.’

‘I was just going to grab my coat,’ I explain, gesturing upstairs. ‘I thought I’d take a walk. Check out the village pub.’

‘Oh, I see.’ She nods.

There’s a pause, and I wonder if I should invite her. I don’t really want to, but it seems only polite. I mean, she seems nice and everything; I just wouldn’t really know what to say to her as we don’t have anything in common. Well, apart from the fact we’re both single, I think, noticing her empty ring finger. Earlier, at the meet and greet, I tried to talk to her, but she barely said two words before going to sit by herself on the sofa. Saying that, it’s mean-spirited not to ask. And I’m sure she won’t want to come, anyway.

‘Would you like to join me for a drink?’

There. At least now I’ve asked.

‘Oh, no,’ she answers hurriedly, recoiling back into her turtle-neck sweater. ‘No, I don’t think so . . . But thank you.’