Page 61 of Me and Mr. Darcy

But still, let’s be honest, it’s all a bit Kate and Leopold, isn’t it? Apart from the fact I look nothing like Meg Ryan and my guy looks way sexier in a tailcoat than Hugh Jackman ever did. However, while I might have a rational explanation for all the blank pages, I haven’t yet got one for my Mr Darcy . . .

Snuggling down underneath the blankets, I turn back to my book. I’m still on volume one, at the part where Elizabeth has met Wickham, the cute blond guy in the military. The one whom everyone, her included, fancies the pants off. (God, isn’t ‘fancies’ just the coolest word? Cat taught me it and it’s heaps better than ‘got the hots for’.) Anyway, this is the conversation where Wickham is telling Elizabeth about what a bastard Darcy has been to him by cheating him out of his inheritance:

‘His behaviour to myself has been scandalous; but I verily believe I could forgive him any thing and every thing, rather than his disappointing the hopes and disgracing the memory of his father.’

God, he’s such a great actor, isn’t he? I read on quickly to get Elizabeth’s reaction.

‘This is quite shocking! He deserves to be publicly disgraced.’

‘Some time or other he will be – but it shall not be by me. Till I can forget his father, I can never defy or expose him.’

Elizabeth honoured him for such feelings, and thought him handsomer than ever as he expressed them.

Shit, I love Elizabeth, but she’s a freakin’ idiot sometimes. She thinks she’s such a great judge of character and so right all the time and yet she gets it so wrong here. Wickham is a real cad, and yet she gets totally sucked in. Honestly, she’s so blind! How can she be taken in by him?

‘I had not thought Mr Darcy so bad as this – though I have never liked him, I had not thought so very ill of him – I had supposed him to be despising his fellow-creatures in general, but did not suspect him of descending to such malicious revenge, such injustice, such inhumanity as this!’

Indignation stabs. I always get so riled up at this part. Talk about misjudging Darcy. He’s so honourable. As if he’d ever stoop so low as to do something like that!

A wave of tiredness washes over me and I glance at my alarm clock. Jeez, it’s past 2 a.m. I need to get some sleep, but I just know I’m going to wake up with jet lag at some weird hour like I have done the last couple of nights. Another yawn rips through me. Right, that’s it . . .

Digging around in my bedside cabinet, I pull out a small bottle. I brought some sleeping pills with me that I had from when I had my wisdom teeth removed. I don’t really like taking them, but one’s not going to do any harm and it will definitely zonk me out. Climbing out of bed, I pad into the bathroom to fetch a glass of water, and on the way back I notice I haven’t drawn my curtains. Tugging them closed, I climb into bed and take my pill. I wash it down with a few mouthfuls of water, then snuggle under the covers.

Mmmmm. Night, night. Sweet dreams . . .

I must have fallen asleep straight away, because the next thing I know I’m being woken by the sound of hailstones rattling against the windowpane.

Rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat.

Wow. It’s so loud, you’d think it’s going to break the glass, I muse, snuggling gratefully back down under the heavy blankets. Thank God I’m not outside.

Except now suddenly it’s all gone quiet again. Huh, how strange. I guess it must be one of those freak storms and now it’s passed over, I decide, curling up into the foetal position and hugging my lumpy feather pillow.

Still, at least now I can go back to sleep.

Rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat.

I sit bolt upright. Shit. There it goes again. Only now it seems even louder.

Curious, I peel off the blankets and clamber out of bed. It’s freezing in my room, even in my fleecy pyjamas, and I pad, shivering, over to the window. Pressing my nose against the glass, I peer out into the darkness. It’s like one minute there’s hail and then the next minute—

There’s Mr Darcy.

My stomach lurches as I spot his figure in the bushes beneath my window. I catch a flash of his white shirt, then he disappears again into the shadows. I rub my eyes to make sure I’m not seeing things, then I open them again – just in time to see him grabbing a handful of gravel from the path and preparing to chuck it up at my window. Suddenly he sees me and freezes.

‘Hang on,’ I gesture, tugging at the catch on the sash window. Only it’s jammed with thick layers of paint and won’t budge. Shit. My heart thumping, I signal to him that I’m coming down, then dash from the window, tug on my jeans and sweater – the pink glittery one that always looks nice against my complexion – and hurry downstairs. He’s here, Mr Darcy’s here, I can’t believe it.

OK, that’s a fib. Ever since yesterday at the cathedral I didn’t know how, or where, or when, but I knew I’d see him again. I just knew.

As I slip out of the front door he emerges from the shadows. He’s taller than I remember, but just as cute. My chest tightens and I feel a thrill of excitement.

‘We’ve got to stop bumping into each other like this,’ I quip, trying to be all nonchalant.

Mr Darcy looks at me blankly.

‘It’s a saying,’ I explain, smiling tentatively. Standing opposite him on the gravel drive, I suddenly feel shy.

‘Ah, I see.’ He nods, obviously not seeing at all.