Page 7 of Me and Mr. Darcy

‘Yes, thank you,’ she replies in an English accent. Without looking up she slides a slim, leather-bound volume on to the glass countertop.

I pick it up and glance at the title. ‘The Private Letters of Jane Austen’ is embossed in gold lettering. Funny, I don’t remember ever seeing this book before. I turn it over, but there’s no barcode on the back, just a handwritten sticker. It’s not my handwriting. The book must have been sitting unnoticed on the shelves for years, I ponder, ringing up the purchase.

‘Here. Why don’t you take a look at the resort?’ Reappearing from the back, Stella plops a glossy brochure next to the cash register. Out of the corner of my eye I see a close-up shot of busty girls in bikinis shrieking with their arms above their heads as they ride an inflatable banana. The words ‘FUN!FUN!FUN!’ are emblazoned across it in acid-yellow.

‘I’m afraid you’re going to have to count me out,’ I reply, without even picking it up.

‘But why? It’s a really good deal, it’ll be fun. Think of all that sun, sea, sand . . .’ Glancing at the customer, Stella lowers her voice, leans towards me and whispers in my ear, ‘Sex!’

A vision of dancing around in a foam-filled nightclub in a beaded wristband with a spotty-faced eighteen-year-old and a pina colada stuffed full of brightly coloured umbrellas fills me with dread.

‘I am,’ I murmur, handing the English lady her receipt and brown paper bag with ‘McKenzie’s’ printed on the side. She dips her head politely, her face still hidden by her gigantic fur hat, and then turns and walks away.

‘I mean, look at this guy. He’s gorgeous.’

I turn my attention back to Stella, who’s poring over the brochure.

‘I’m not going,’ I say firmly.

‘Oh, Em . . .’ she whines.

‘No.’ I shake my head resolutely and move back over to the computer. I resume checking emails: books on order . . . promotional offers . . .

‘So what are you going to do? Are your parents going to be home this year?’

My parents live upstate but they haven’t spent Christmas and New Year at home since I graduated from college. Last year it was a safari in Botswana. The year before it was two weeks on a houseboat in India. And before that . . . God, I’ve lost track, but it was somewhere cell phones don’t work.

‘Spending your inheritance’ is how they laughingly describe these trips, and I’m really pleased for them. They’re born-again hippies with money. They wear Birkenstocks, drive a Prius and eat organic – Dad even took up yoga until he put his back out – and every year they disappear without so much as a Christmas card.

‘No, this year they’re going to Thailand on some meditation retreat.’ I shrug. ‘But I’ve been invited to my auntie Jean’s for dinner on Christmas Day.’

Admittedly I used to get a bit upset when all my friends were going to spend the vacation at home, with the tree and turkey and everything, but I’ve got used to it now. Usually I go stay with my brother, Pete, in Brooklyn, but six months ago he met Marlena, an actress, so this year they’ve decided to visit her parents in Florida for New Year. Which is fine. I’ll probably stay home this year and curl up with a glass of wine and a good book. New Year’s Eve is always a huge anticlimax anyway, isn’t it?

‘But what about New Year’s Eve?’ asks Stella, not looking up from her brochure.

Saying that, I’d prefer not to admit my plans to the girl who thinks staying in on just a regular Friday night is a fate worse than death.

I pause, and at that moment I notice something on the counter. It’s a flyer. That’s weird. I didn’t see it before. I wonder who left it? Curious, I reach over and pick it up. It’s a photograph of stunning countryside over which, in black lettering, reads:

SPECIALIST TOURS FOR LITERATURE LOVERS.

Spend a week with Mr Darcy. Explore the world of Jane Austen and Pride and Prejudice in the English countryside.

‘I’m going to England,’ I blurt.

As soon as the words come out of my mouth, I want to stuff them back in again. Oh, shit. Why did I go and say that?

‘You are?’ Stella rounds on me, her eyes wide with astonishment. ‘When?’

Oh, double shit. I have no frigging idea.

Anxiously I glance at the flyer. There’s a website address and so, pretending to be still busy checking emails, I quickly type it into the computer. Thank God for DSL. A box immediately opens.

‘Um . . .’ I try to act all casual while quickly scrolling down through the information surrounding the tour. I’m just going to have to bluff it. ‘Soon . . .’ I hedge, playing for time. Oh, sweet Jesus, where are the damn dates? They must be here somewhere. Trying to stay cool, calm and collected, I smooth back my hair and keep scrolling, my eyes scanning furiously. I can feel Stella’s eyes burning a hole in the side of my head.

OK. No need to panic, Emily.

An image of the inflatable banana pops into my head.