Page 53 of Me and Mr. Darcy

Pretty. That’s such a lame word. Only I honestly can’t think of a better way to describe it. After the chaos and concrete that is New York, everything here is so neat and tidy and, well, pretty. I mean, look at all those cute little sheep dotted about in that field. And that little bird over there with a red breast. In fact, is that a robin? I squint at it as we trundle past. Jesus. I’ve never seen a robin in real life, only on Christmas cards.

Gosh, listen to me. You’d think I’ve never seen nature before, when in fact I’ve been to Hawaii, and Mexico, and camping in Montana. (OK, so it wasn’t strictly camping as I was in my friend’s log cabin, but there was no shower and I was in a sleeping bag.) But this is different. I’m only five thousand miles away from New York, but I feel about a million miles away from my life there. And with every mile the coach travels it’s as if I’m moving further and further away from it, as if I’m entering a whole new world.

Gazing out of the window, a smile plasters itself dreamily across my face. Boy, did I need this vacation.

Arriving in Bath some time later, I discover a scene that could have been torn straight from the pages of Dickens’s A Christmas Carol. The blue skies have turned white and it’s started to snow faintly. In the large cobbled squares vendors are roasting chestnuts and selling hot mulled wine, garlands of tiny lights are strung between the old-fashioned lamp posts and rows of shops have decorated their bow-fronted windows with glittering strands of silver and gold tinsel.

I swear, any minute now Tiny Tim’s going to hobble past on his crutches.

Our coach is too wide for the narrow side streets, so we disembark and wheel our suitcases the last few hundred cobbly yards to our hotel, a Georgian townhouse with fake snow sprayed jauntily in the corners of each windowpane.

‘Ooh, isn’t this lovely,’ chorus Rupinda, Maeve and Hilary as we walk into the lobby, where we’re greeted by a Christmas tree so weighed down with baubles and tinsel it looks like it might collapse at any moment.

‘If you like that kind of thing,’ says Rose querulously.

Rose, I’m fast learning, is a bit of a snob and never seems to have a good word to say about anything. OK, so I agree, that tree is not going to win any style awards, but she is being a bit bah-humbug. What happened to getting into the festive spirit?

Instead, with a disapproving expression on her face, she turns her attention to the far wall, which is strewn with signed photographs of stars who have stayed here. Suddenly she perks up. ‘Oh, look, there’s my dear friend Dame Judi,’ she says loudly, pointing to a headshot of Judi Dench.

But no one’s listening. They’re still busy cooing over the Christmas tree, with Hilary enlightening everyone on how to stop the pine needles dropping with the clever use of hairspray.

‘Just give it a couple of liberal squirts when you first buy it – not the firm hold, but the flexible. Make sure you get the flexible.’

‘She was my understudy, you know,’ tries Rose again, only this time louder.

Plopping myself down on the small flowery sofa by the front desk, I look across at her. Standing apart from the rest of the other ladies in her full-length fur, which looks like something befitting an Eskimo, and too much rouge, she cuts a rather sad figure. I feel a bit sorry for her.

‘Wow, really? That’s pretty cool, Miss Bierman,’ says Spike, coming to her rescue.

It’s like someone just flicked the spotlight on her. Rose transforms with his attention, smiling vibrantly and pretending to look surprised that someone’s heard her.

‘Not that I’m boasting of course,’ she adds coyly.

‘Of course,’ nods Spike evenly. Walking over to her, he sticks his hands in his pockets, scrunches up his forehead and surveys the wall. ‘They need to get a photo of you up there,’ he says after a moment.

A look of delight floods Rose’s powdered face, but she quickly tries to hide it. ‘Oh, you’re a darling.’ She laughs girlishly and throws her diamond-encrusted hand against her chest. ‘But it’s been a while since I trod the boards . . .’

Watching Spike chatting to Rose, I feel myself soften towards him. That was kind of him. He didn’t have to do that.

‘Rubbish,’ he’s saying now dismissively. ‘I reckon they’d love to have you up there.’

Maybe I’ve judged him too harshly. First impressions and all that. Maybe he’s not as bad as I thought. Though, saying that, he really shouldn’t tease Rose about hanging her photo on the wall.

‘Oh . . . mais non . . . mais non . . .’ Rose is protesting. Dipping her head in an affectation of modesty, she hides behind her curtain of hair – for, like, a second – then looks back up again. ‘Do you really think so?’ Her eyes are flashing with excitement.

‘Oh, yeah. Definitely.’

‘Well, I do think I might have a black-and-white headshot somewhere,’ she acquiesces, trying to sound casual, while at the same time unzipping her Louis Vuitton hand luggage and, without any rummaging necessary, pulling out a crocodile-skin folder.

She feigns astonishment. ‘Well, I never. I just so happen to have some here with me!’

‘Wow, what a coincidence,’ says Spike humouring her. He glances across at me and catches me watching. Despite myself I have to smile.

‘Though they’re really just snapshots,’ she’s saying self-deprecatingly as she tugs out several large, glossy, black-and-white prints. ‘They’re not very flattering . . .’

‘Oh, I doubt you can take a bad picture, Miss Bierman,’ says Spike.

Rose blushes.