Page 57 of Me and Mr. Darcy

Love, Emily x

‘There you go, dearie.’

It’s lunchtime and I’m sitting upstairs in a cosy, traditional-looking café, tucked away in a flock-wallpapered corner. I look up at the waitress, who is holding out a plate piled high with thick, chunky-cut chips, a golden hunk of battered cod and something described fascinatingly on the menu as ‘mushy peas’.

‘Fish and chips?’

My stomach gives a loud gurgle of approval. ‘Mmm, yes, please.’

I hastily clear away my postcards to make room for her, and she puts the plate down in front of me, together with a big plastic ketchup tomato and a bottle of something called Sarson’s Vinegar, and bustles off, her opaque tights rustling against her nylon underskirt.

I inhale deeply. Just the smell makes my mouth water and I suddenly realise how hungry I am.

Yum, England’s famous fish and chips. Unrolling my knife and fork from the pink paper napkin, I eye my plate hungrily. Well, it would be rude not to try the national dish, wouldn’t it?

I squirt a dollop of ketchup on to my plate. That’s the amazing thing about going on vacation: it’s a get-out-of-jail-free card when it comes to calories. Like money in airports. It’s not real money, just like they’re not real calories.

Offering up a silent thank-you that I’m not Stella right now and don’t have to be squeezing into a string bikini, I forgo my fork and pick up a chip with my fingers. Well, that’s the only way to eat chips, isn’t it? It’s hot and burns my mouth, but I persevere. They’re real chips, big and chunky, not like the skinny fries we get at home.

‘You look like you’re enjoying that.’

I turn sideways and suddenly notice Ernie sitting across from me at the next table. He’s wearing a tartan shirt, rolled up to reveal his tattooed forearm, and is reading a newspaper.

‘Mmmm . . . ummm.’ I can only manage to half grunt, as my mouth is full of red-hot potato.

Ernie laughs. ‘I’ll take that as “yes”, then.’

I finish chewing and swallow. ‘Sorry, they were just too delicious to wait.’

‘I bet.’ He nods. ‘’Fraid the doctor won’t let me within a mile of fish and chips,’ he grumbles and pats his tartan paunch with a certain pride. ‘I’m having the baked potato. Tuna and sweet-corn. No butter.’

I throw him a look of sympathy.

‘Blimey, those chips do smell bloody good.’

‘Want one?’

He hesitates for a moment. ‘Go on, then,’ he whispers. ‘One isn’t going to kill me, now, is it?’

At that moment his baked potato and tuna makes an entrance. Even with the jaunty attempt at a salad garnish, it still looks really boring. I watch Ernie peer at it, see his ruddy face collapse and a weary resignation appear in his eyes.

‘Hey, why don’t you join me?’ I suggest brightly. ‘You can steal a few chips. There’s far too many for me anyway, and that way it doesn’t count.’

‘How do you reckon that?’ he asks, raising a bushy eyebrow.

‘Oh, it’s an old female trick,’ I confide, scooting over to make room for him and grabbing some cutlery off his table. ‘You have the salad but you get your boyfriend to order the fries. Then you spend the whole meal stealing them off his plate until they’re all gone. But that’s OK, you don’t have to feel guilty. You only ordered the salad.’

Ernie smiles. ‘I’ll have to remember that.’

‘Oh, yeah, it’s great. It works with other things too. Dessert at restaurants . . . popcorn at the movies . . . hot dogs at the game . . .’ Pushing away his baked potato, I move my fish and chips into the middle of the table so we can share. ‘It’s pretty incredible.’

Ernie laughs. ‘So is that what you do with your boyfriend back in America, then?’

‘Oh, no.’ I shake my head. ‘I don’t have a boyfriend. I’m single.’

I try a scoop of mushy peas. They taste like Mexican refried beans. Only they’re green.

To be honest, I don’t really like them.