Page 54 of Me and Mr. Darcy

‘Now, come on, let’s have a look.’

‘Well, if you insist,’ she sighs, handing them over without any insistence necessary.

‘Everyone, if I could have your attention, please . . .’

Engrossed in watching Spike and Rose, I’d almost forgotten about everyone else, but now I turn to see Miss Steane, our tour guide. Circling the lobby energetically, she’s trying to round everyone up like a sheepdog.

‘Leave your luggage here, it will be taken care of,’ she’s instructing. ‘And now if you’d all like to follow me, we shall begin our short walk to 4 Sydney Place, Jane Austen’s former home.’

Dragging myself off the sofa, I glance over at Spike. But he’s not there any more. Just Rose, regaling her Judi Dench story to no one in particular.

‘. . . and so I said to her, “Judi, darling, don’t you worry about fluffing your lines. It happens to even the best of us,” and, oh, my goodness, she was so very grateful, because of course, as you know, I was a very famous theatre actress in those days . . . in fact, the hotel is going to hang a signed photograph of myself on the wall . . .’

Damn. This is what I was afraid of. Now Rose has gone and got her hopes up.

Spike is nowhere to be seen. Obviously he got bored of humouring her and now he’s disappeared to do his interviews. I feel a snap of anger. Everything’s always a joke to him, and always at someone else’s expense.

Poor Rose is going to be so disappointed, I think, turning back to her and throwing her an enthusiastic smile. ‘What an amazing story! Tell me some more.’ And linking arms with her, I listen as she launches into another anecdote – this one being about Tallulah Bankhead and the time they got drunk together – as we make our way across the lobby and step outside on to the street.

A couple of hours later and I’m all tourist-ed out.

Bath is just oozing with incredible history and architecture and there’s tons to see. First off is Jane Austen’s home and a lecture by its owner, then it’s the famous pump rooms, the Regency tea rooms and finally the Jane Austen Centre. Which is all very interesting and fascinating at first, but then I get a bit, well – overwhelmed would be one way of putting it.

Bored would be another.

‘And here we have a rare collection of original cross-stitch samplers, as made at the end of the 1700s . . .’

Don’t get me wrong. I like architecture and history to a point, but there’s only so much a girl can take before lunchtime. Plus, I’m dying to see if I can find an old traditional English bookshop, as well as exploring some of the really cool-looking boutiquey-type shops I spied earlier. Tucked away down tiny cobbled streets, they appeared to sell all kinds of stuff like vintage furniture, handmade stationery and cards, and these amazing lights shaped like teapots that you can hang in your garden.

Not that I have a garden, and they’re probably crazily overpriced like designer-type shops always are. But still, they are really cute . . .

That’s the thing about me. I might not shop for clothes, but I sure well make up for it by shopping for other things.

Wandering aimlessly around the gift shop, I feel an itch to spend some money. This is my third day on vacation and I still haven’t bought anything and my credit card is burning a hole in my pocket. I flick through a couple of guidebooks and cast my eye wide across the various shelves and compartments. Needlepoint cushions, cross-stitch sampler sets, ostrich-feather quills, Mr Darcy soaps (can you believe it?), cameo brooches . . . I toy vaguely with the idea of buying a cameo brooch for Stella as I’m sure I read somewhere that Victoriana is the new boho. Or was that boho is the new Victoriana? Oh, God, I can’t remember.

I spot a carousel of postcards. Ah, that’s a much safer option. I start turning it slowly around, looking at all the different cards. Oh, look, there’s a good one. I think about sending it to my parents, then catch myself. They won’t be there, will they? I feel a twinge of something that feels like disappointment, but I quickly dismiss it. Mom’s never been the kind of mom to stick postcards on the fridge, anyway, or even our drawings when we were kids. No doubt it would just get lost under the pile of mail they’ll have to open when they get back from their trip. Anyway, it doesn’t matter, I’ll send it to Mr McKenzie instead – I’m sure he’ll appreciate it. And I’ll get one for Auntie Jean, too, I muse, turning the rack of postcards.

It turns right back.

What?

I turn it again. It stays like that for a few seconds, but then revolves slowly to the right. Huh. There must be someone on the other side. Gently, but firmly, I move it back to where it was and continue looking at the postcards. Hmm, this one is quite nice . . . It twirls round again.

This time I feel a pinch of annoyance. I push it back, only harder this time. Right, that should do it, I think, feeling triumphant. Immediately it swings back. I glare at it, infuriated. Honestly, sometimes people are so rude. I grab hold of it, but now it won’t move. There’s sort of a tussle. ‘Excuse me . . .’ I gasp, giving it a sharp tug ‘. . . but I happened to be looking at these first . . . Yeowwwikes.’

Suddenly it’s released and it twirls round furiously, nearly rattling off its pedestal.

I jump back as a face appears. It’s Spike.

‘Oh, it’s you.’ I scowl.

He’s wearing a woolly beanie hat and chewing on a red liquorice twirl. He looks at me for a moment, then holds up a postcard and waves it like a little white flag. ‘This is a good one.’

I glance at it. It’s a picture of Matthew Macfadyen playing Mr Darcy. He’s gorgeous, but even so, he’s not a patch on my Mr Darcy.

‘You know, I have to say, I just don’t see what all the fuss is about,’ tuts Spike, wrinkling up his brow and peering at the postcard.

I smile. Is that a twinge of jealousy I can detect in his voice? ‘Well, you wouldn’t, would you. You’re a guy.’ I shrug.