Page 9 of Me and Mr. Darcy

Actually, to tell the truth, I haven’t really given the clothes bit much thought. After all, I’m only away for a week.

‘And it’s not as if I’m going to need that much,’ I point out in my defence.

‘But you’re going to need some.’

I turn round to see Stella eyeing my little holdall with suspicion.

‘I don’t see any in here yet, and it’s already quite full,’ she continues doubtfully, before suddenly flashing me a smile, ‘Don’t tell me! You’re planning a trip to Topshop the moment you arrive.’

‘What’s Topshop?

Stella looks at me in disbelief. ‘What’s Top shop!’ she cries. ‘Topshop is my holy land.’

I look at her blankly.

‘Never mind, you wouldn’t understand,’ she sighs, shaking her head. ‘Clothes are obviously not a priority.’ She looks pointedly back at my holdall.

‘OK, OK, point taken,’ I say huffily. ‘Maybe I need to bring a bigger bag.’ Reaching under my bed, I tug out my old suitcase on wheels and flip it open. ‘See. Plenty of room.’ Hastily I decant my books into it and turn to my closet.

I tug out a couple of sweaters. One is pink mohair with glittery bits round the cuffs and is sort of my fun sweater – you know, for having a snowball fight or something. Not that I’ve had a snowball fight since I was about ten, but it was featured in a magazine in one of those photoshoots where the models are rosy-cheeked and twinkly-eyed, and wearing mini-skirts and stripy tights. A look I’ve never managed to achieve, being a total fashion flunky. Every season I think about it – for about five minutes – and then put on my old jeans I’ve had for years.

My other sweater’s a black cashmere turtle neck. I bought it in DKNY one January as part of my resolution to be more stylish after Stella, with typical subtlety, had pointed out that ‘Books might be your passion, but you can’t fuck a paperback.’ Even in the sale it set me back a fortune. I thought it would make me look smart and elegant, but to tell the truth I feel really boring in it. Like I’m an accountant or something.

I hold up both sweaters for Stella’s opinion. ‘Pink or black?’

She peers at them with a disapproving fashionista’s eye. ‘Definitely the pink,’ she says after a moment.

‘But the other one’s cashmere,’ I point out.

‘So?’ Stella shrugs.

Being a couple of years younger than me, Stella has not yet reached the age when you read Vogue at the hairdresser’s and crave to be one of those celebrities who, when interviewed about what essentials they buy for their winter wardrobe, reply casually, ‘Cashmere in bulk.’ She’s still happy with an acrylic mix.

‘It’s boring.’ She yawns dismissively.

I stuff both in my suitcase. She’s right – the pink is much nicer – but I have to bring the black with me to justify spending that much. Even if it just passes back and forth across the Atlantic without even leaving my suitcase I’ll feel better. And I might wear it.

No, you won’t, Emily. You’ve had it for three years and you’ve never worn it. It makes you look like Auntie Jean.

Oh, shut up.

Turning back to my closet, I try deciding what else to take. God, I hate packing. I’m crap at it. I have no idea what to take.

Giving up with any pretence of choosing, I chuck in lots of basic stuff – T-shirts, jeans, sweatshirts – then try to zip it up. But the zipper won’t budge. Seeing my plight, Stella untangles her legs from beneath her and joins me. Together we bump up and down on the lid, wiggling our butts and grunting a lot. Finally I zip it up. Just.

‘Right, that’s it. All done.’ I stand back and look at it with satisfaction. ‘What about you? Have you packed already?’ Stella’s flight to Mexico this evening too, but she’s apt to leave things to the last minute.

‘Yep. I did a major splurge at this really hip new store in Greenwich Village,’ she enthuses, idly looking through all the bottles of nail polish on my dresser. ‘And then I found these amazing sarongs in Chinatown. I’m taking a different one for every day that I’m going, to just throw on over my bikini and Havaianas.’ Unscrewing a lid, she paints a thumbnail, holds it to the light, then wrinkles up her nose in distaste and screws the lid back on. ‘I’ve got my whole look planned. It’s a sort of fusion between Miami Beach and the East.’

‘But you’re going to Mexico,’ I point out, puzzled.

‘Honestly, Em, it’s a fashion term,’ she gasps, shaking her head in despair. ‘Oh, and of course I’ve packed condoms,’ she adds nonchalantly, in the way people always do when they’re dying for you to ask them about it. Usually I’d ignore it, but this time I am dying to know.

‘Condoms?’ I repeat, slightly shocked. ‘But what about Freddy?’

‘What about him?’ she says innocently, picking up a copy of The Time Traveller’s Wife from my dresser and leafing through it. Trust me, if ever there was suspicious behaviour, this is it.

‘I thought something might be happening between you two.’