Page 33 of Me and Mr. Darcy

See.

‘Well, goodnight, then.’ I nod, and continue on to the staircase.

I’m halfway up when I hear: ‘It’s Emily, isn’t it?’

I turn and see Maeve standing at the bottom wringing her hands. ‘I was just wondering . . .’ she says nervously, ‘. . . about that drink.’

For a split second I feel a clunk of regret, but quickly squash it.

‘You’ve changed your mind?’ I smile warmly.

Immediately her face relaxes. ‘Well, a sherry would be nice.’

‘Cool,’ I reply.

So this is how I’m going to spend my first night in England. Me and Maeve, grabbing a sherry or two at the local pub. Talk about girls gone wild, I think glumly.

And then, quite unexpectedly, a giggle rises in my throat. If Stella could see me now, she’d pee her pants. There she is living it up in a bikini on a tequila-soaked beach in Mexico, and here’s me in my old sweater hanging out with a bunch of senior citizens in the middle of the English countryside.

Covering my mouth, I try to smother another giggle. God, it’s just too funny. Even more so because, given the choice, I’d still rather be going to the pub with Maeve than doing the conga with a bunch of drunk college boys.

Maeve’s looking at me with a puzzled expression, and I throw her a big grin. ‘I’ll just go grab my coat.’

Maybe Stella is right. Maybe I am a kook.

Outside, the temperature has dropped dramatically and despite my layers of thick coat, woolly hat and mohair scarf, there’s an icy wind blowing that cuts right to the bone. We set off at a brisk pace to try to keep warm. The ground is covered in a layer of white frost and the gravel makes a satisfying crunching noise as we head off down the driveway.

For a while we don’t say anything and it’s just the noise of our footsteps, first on the gravel, then the asphalt of the sidewalk and finally the cobbles of the street. We walk side by side, clouds of white breath punctuating the darkness of the night. Thankfully, I had the foresight to borrow a flashlight from the front desk as it’s dark dark. Not city dark, like in New York, where the night-time skies glow marshmallow pink. Instead, overhead is an inky blackness, dotted only with millions of glittering pinpricks.

‘So what’s New York like?’ asks Maeve, after we’ve been walking in silence for at least five minutes.

I turn to look at her but it’s so black I can’t see her face. ‘Have you never been?’

‘No, I’ve never been to America,’ she sighs. ‘I’ve not been anywhere, really. Apart from a couple of trips to London when I was a lot younger. And I went to Paris once.’ She gives an embarrassed laugh. ‘I’m afraid I’m very boring.’

‘You’re doing this book tour,’ I point out. ‘That’s not boring.’

Having reached the edge of the village, we’re under the street lamps now and I see her absorb this. ‘Aye, I guess you’re right.’ She nods and gives a small smile.

‘And we’re going to the pub, and that’s not going to be boring,’ I continue, trying to buoy her up. Despite my initial reservations, I’m really beginning to like Maeve. There’s something about her, something more than you see on first impressions, a silent appreciation for things, a quiet dignity.

‘I’m afraid I must warn you, I’m not very good company—’ she begins apologising, but I cut her off.

‘Rubbish,’ I admonish. ‘Where did you get that idea?’

I suddenly feel very protective of Maeve. God knows what happened to wreck her self-esteem, but it must have been something pretty bad. She’s just so down on herself the whole time.

Maeve throws me a grateful look. ‘You’d never guess, but I used to be the life and soul before . . .’

‘Before what?’ I ask, as she trails off.

She hesitates, as if battling with something inside of her, then says flippantly, ‘Before I got old,’ and smiles.

And that’s the other thing about Maeve. She can’t tell fibs either.

We continue walking. Ahead of us we can now see the pub. All lit up, it’s wrapped in ivy that’s turned deepest red, like a great big Christmas present, and high above the door swings a sign that reads, ‘Ye Olde King’s Head.’ It looks so inviting – a snug refuge from the prickling cold of the night – and as we grow closer I can almost smell its beery warmth.

‘It’s nothing like this.’