Page 71 of Me and Mr. Darcy

I try retracing my steps. When did I last see it? Well, that’s easy, that would be . . . I draw a blank. Actually, for the life of me I can’t remember when I last saw it. Here in Bath? Umm . . . actually, no. At the last hotel? Um . . . no again. Panic is beginning to rise. On the coach? When I first arrived at Heathrow? At check-in at JFK?

No. No. No.

In the cab to the airport?

N—

Hang on a minute. My memory focuses in like a long lens.

Oh, shit.

Suddenly I can see it, lying next to me on the back seat. I hadn’t wanted to put it in the trunk as I didn’t want to crush it. I’d insisted on placing it on the other side of the armrest, folding it carefully in half. Black nylon on black leather. Easy not to see if you’re in a hurry. To forget about if you don’t have change and have to ask passing strangers if they can split a hundred. To leave on the back seat because your driver has a bad back and you’re left to struggle with your ridiculously heavy suitcase.

My heart plummets.

Somewhere in Manhattan my sparkly black dress is hanging around in a nylon garment-holder, missing out on the party. And I’m here in England, with a New Year’s Eve ball to go to. With absolutely nothing to wear.

I didn’t think my heart could plummet further. But it can. And it does.

What a bummer. I spent ages choosing that dress. And despite what Stella thought, it was a really nice dress, I tell myself, imagining myself in it now, dancing around a ballroom. Disappointment clunks. God, I’m such an idiot.

What am I going to do now? For a split second I entertain the thought of rushing out and buying something else, but it’s late, all the shops are closed. In desperation I dive on my suitcase. I haven’t unpacked properly yet. There must be something I can wear in here instead.

I flip it open and survey the jumbled contents. Abruptly any hope I might have had stalls. Oh, dear. Perhaps Stella was right. Perhaps I was a little heavy-handed with my reading material. Peering gloomily at the suitcase full of books, I wish I’d listened to her. I mean, I can’t exactly wear Sense and Sensibility, now, can I?

Quickly I begin unpacking the paperbacks and stacking them up in wobbly piles on the eiderdown. I’ve always thought that you can never be truly alone if you’ve got a book to keep you company. You can be stranded at an airport, alone in a strange country or stuck in a motel room on a business trip, but if you’ve got a good book with you, you’ll be OK.

Saying that, this is slightly ridiculous.

I tug out a large volume of North and South in the vain hope that there might be something vaguely appropriate to wear underneath. And find that, no – it’s only Emily Brontë lurking in the corner. Damn. I feel a certain inevitability.

Didn’t I bring anything to wear as a back-up?

A scene flashes through my mind of a chandelier-lit ballroom, guests milling around in their finest, quaffing champagne, engaging in polite conversation, staring open-mouthed at the American girl doing the two-step in pink velour pyjamas . . .

No! Stop!

With a screech the scene grinds to a halt and I try shaking the image free from my mind. Come on, Emily, you must have packed something suitable for Plan B. My heart racing, I push up the sleeves of my grey sweatshirt and dive back in. Please let there be something in here. For the love of God, please.

Hang on, what’s that?

Feeling a tentative whoosh of relief, I pounce on something black. I knew it! I knew I would have packed a little black dress. I mean, who goes anywhere at Christmas without a LBD?

I do.

I glare accusingly at the item in my hands. Because it’s not a dress – no siree – it’s the dreaded DKNY cashmere sweater, goddamn it. Dismay resonates so heavy inside it’s almost audible. Frigging hell. I’m supposed to be dressing up in my finest, not looking like my auntie Jean. Flinging it on to the cream carpet, I sit on the bed, fold my arms and survey the mess around me. Shit, shit, shit.

Outside in the corridor I can hear a flurry of excitement and the sound of doors opening and closing as the ladies flit into each other’s rooms to show off their outfits. I glance at my watch. I have fifteen minutes. And no dress.

At once my panic crumples into a weary resignation. I’m totally useless. I didn’t pack anything suitable to wear. I feel a wetness on my cheek. There’s no way I can go to the ball now.

So this is it. Me. On my own. In my hotel room. On New Year’s Eve.

A knock on the door interrupts my disappointment.

‘Who is it?’ I call out, wiping my cheeks with the cuff of my sweatshirt.

There’s no answer and I half think I’ve imagined it. I wait a moment, but hearing not a sound restlessly pick up a copy of Emma, open it at random and start reading about the Christmas Eve party that the characters all go to. Only instead of feeling OK, my theory is shot to pieces as now I’m feeling glummer than ever.