Page 82 of Me and Mr. Darcy

‘Want some?’ The girl holds out the joint to me.

Now considering the last time I smoked pot was at college and I threw up all over the back seat of Johnny Rosenbaum’s new VW Rabbit (embarrassing enough in itself, but made worse by the fact both Johnny and I were lying spreadeagled on it having sex), I should probably say no.

Saying that, it would be kind of fun to get high, wouldn’t it?

‘Thanks, don’t mind if I do.’ I smile, reaching out and taking it from her.

Plus, like I said, I need to chill out.

Have you ever noticed how beautiful the stars are? They’re all twinkly and glittery, like millions of little diamonds on a big, big, big, big cushion of black velvet . . . a million celestial engagement rings stretching away into infinity . . . for ever and ever and ever . . . Wow, it’s so romantic . . .

The group have gone back inside and I’m resting my elbows on the balustrade staring up at the sky. I can’t remember how long I’ve been here – ten minutes, half an hour maybe, who cares? It’s as if everything has stopped, and I’m in this big, warm, fuzzy bubble that’s sort of floating. I’m not even cold any more. All I can think about is the sky, this big, beautiful black sky. I swear I don’t remember it ever being so amazing. I’m totally mesmerised . . .

I’m also, of course, as high as a frigging kite.

Smiling contentedly at nothing in particular, I take a sip of champagne. That joint really hit the spot. I don’t feel sick or anything, just totally chilled – or stoned, depending how you want to look at it – in which case, maybe now’s the time to go back inside and rejoin the party. If I bump into Spike, who cares? It’s not as if I have to talk to him. I’ll just be totally cool and ignore him, like he did to me. Not that I’m being petty or anything. Like I said, I’m totally chilled now. And draining the rest of the glass, I pick up the second glass and turn to walk back inside.

And bump slap bang into Mr Darcy.

‘Shit.’ Still clutching the two glasses, I bounce off him, spilling champagne.

Startled, he looks at me. ‘Emily?’

‘Jeez, sorry, I had my hands full and I didn’t see you there and . . .’ I’m babbling. Meanwhile Mr Darcy is here. On the balcony. Right in front of me.

Holy shit.

I go from chilled to Code Red in less than a second.

‘. . . um . . . hi,’ I manage to croak, trying to regain my composure while my stomach thinks it’s in the Cirque du Soleil and starts doing all kinds of acrobatics.

‘Good evening,’ he replies, bowing his head politely.

He looks up, and as we both take each other in I can feel the whole world around me melting away into the cold evening air.

‘Am I intruding?’

I snap back to see him frowning at the two champagne flutes in my hands.

‘Er, no . . . no, not at all,’ I mumble, looking for somewhere to put them. Spotting a small table over by a pillar, I hurry over and plonk both glasses down. ‘I was just a bit, er, thirsty,’ I say lightly, turning round to face him.

Only I turn round a bit too quickly and everything starts spinning. Oh, dear. I get a flashback of me projectile-vomiting on the back of that VW Rabbit and feel a stabbing terror. No. Please, God. No. Anything but that. I grab on to the balustrade to steady myself and look up to see Mr Darcy striding towards me.

Everything freezes.

Men these days don’t stride. They shuffle and trail like Spike, hands slung low in their pockets, shoulders hunched, feet dragging. But not Mr Darcy. I’m staring at him now and it’s like watching one of those slow-motion movie sequences. With his chest out, chin up, jaw set determinedly. If you had to look up ‘dashing’ in the dictionary, I swear you’d see a picture of Mr Darcy.

Involuntarily my body gives a little shudder of pleasure. And while you’ve got that dictionary out, look up ‘smitten’ and you’ll see a picture of me.

He pauses a few feet away and looks at me intently. Unlike many of my dates who have no concept of personal space, Mr Darcy keeps a respectful distance.

‘I’ve been looking for you,’ he replies, his face serious.

‘You have?’ I squeak.

OK, so I’m excited to see him again, but sounding like I just inhaled a helium balloon is neither cool nor sexy. And I’m aiming for both.

I clear my throat. ‘You have?’ I say it again, forcing my voice deeper.