Page 64 of Me and Mr. Darcy

Suddenly I get a heavy, weary feeling. I know what this means.

‘Men suck!’

Stella has called up to vent. Not because she wants to have a conversation. Or find out how I am and how my trip is going. Or even to ask my advice.

No, Stella’s just annoyed about something. (In this case it’s men, though in the past we’ve had subjects ranging from her neighbours’ ‘frigging yapping chihuahua that kept me awake all night’ to ‘Why does it cost three dollars for a cup of tea at a café when a tea bag only costs ten cents?’)

‘I was supposed to see Scott tonight and he totally blew me out . . .’

I don’t actually have to say anything. I just have to listen, quietly and without interruption, apart from the occasional ‘Uh-huh’ or ‘Seriously?’ interjected at relevant points.

Like, for example, now.

‘Seriously?’

‘Yeah. Can you believe it? We arranged to go out for dinner tonight – he was taking me to this fancy restaurant over in Playa del Carmen – but he never called . . .’

Sitting upright, I swing my legs out from underneath the blankets and sit there for a moment trying to come round. I’ve never been one of those people who can just leap out of bed on a morning all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.

‘. . . and I thought, There’s no way I’m going to stay in, mooning over some guy . . .’

‘Uh-huh.’

Silencing a yawn, I glance at my watch. Yet again I’ve managed to wake up with just ten minutes to spare before breakfast finishes. I need to get ready.

Stumbling into the bathroom and resting my fleecy elbows on the basin, I peer at my reflection in the mirror. Ugh. It’s not pretty. I’d like to blame it on the unflattering overhead lighting (which makes me think every electrician in the world must be a man, as no woman would ever install overhead lighting), but I have a sneaky feeling I really do look this rough. Though it’s not surprising: I hardly slept.

Well, you shouldn’t have been such a dirty stop-out, should you? Gallivanting around Bath in the early hours with Mr Darcy.

At the memory I feel a buzz of something warm and gloopy inside.

‘. . . so I went clubbing with Beatrice to Amigos . . .’

I zone back in with a ‘Seriously?’

‘You’re damned right I did!’ she exclaims.

Careful only to turn on the cold tap a trickle, I dampen my facecloth. One of the rules when listening to Stella’s rants is that I am required to give her my full concentration. No matter that she might have called me up in the middle of something crucial – I have to drop everything. I am not allowed to be caught – heaven forbid – multi-tasking.

‘. . . and I wore my new hotpants, the ones with the silver stripe down the side, and tied one of those sarongs I bought from Chinatown round my boobs. It made this adorable little tube top . . .’

Finishing washing my face, I grab my toothbrush. Hmm, now this could be tricky.

I squeeze on a squiggle of toothpaste and attempt to brush my teeth with my mouth closed. It’s surprisingly effective. Although toothpaste does froth up pretty quickly.

‘Uh-huh . . . uh-huh . . .’ I mumble, my mouth full.

‘Anyway, so Bea and I were in the club sharing a pitcher of margarita . . .’

Spitting it silently in the basin, I forgo rinsing in the name of friendship and wipe my mouth on a towel. So far so good. And at this rate I’ll make breakfast.

‘. . . and guess who I saw?’

But first I need to pee.

‘Scott!’ she shrieks down the handset.

‘Um . . . seriously?’ Honestly, why is it that I always need to go at the most inconvenient of moments? I think, having a flashback to that day on the coach and Spike. Maybe I should start drinking cranberry juice or pomegranate or whatever it is that’s good for your bladder.