Page 121 of Me and Mr. Darcy

I laugh inwardly at the very thought. Me? In a nightclub? You’d have more chance of seeing the Pope in a nightclub.

I don’t begin to explain that actually it’s only the middle of the afternoon here, and instead cut straight to the chase and say those little magic words: ‘I’m. At. Topshop.’

There’s a loud screech on the end of the line and I have to hold the phone away from my ear.

‘Em, that is so fucking exciting. I am so fucking jealous!’ she’s now gasping. ‘Tell me, what’s it like? What’s it like?’

She’s almost hyperventilating.

‘Well . . . um . . . it’s big . . . and full of clothes . . .’ I begin uselessly. Overwhelmed by the sheer volume of stuff, I cautiously venture further into the store, my free hand sort of trailing in wonder across racks. ‘. . . and they have these things that look like . . .’ I hesitate as I finger a woollen fabric that looks like a coat but is in fact ‘a cape,’ I finish.

‘A cape?’ shrieks Stella. ‘Oh, my God, they have those capes? I adore those capes. I’ve been coveting them online for weeks now –’ she breaks off to draw breath – ‘I would kill for a cape.’

‘Well, actually, that’s one of the reasons I called. I want to buy you a gift to say thanks for my dress—’

After the word ‘gift’ the rest of my sentence is drowned out by another scream.

‘A gift? For me? From Topshop?’ she says the words with the kind of breathless awe usually reserved for religion. But then for Stella, fashion is her religion. And she is always telling me Marc Jacobs is a god.

‘Oh, Em, I don’t know what to say . . .’

‘Hey, look, you don’t have to say anything. I know you were my secret Santa.’

There’s a pause and then, ‘Your what?’

‘I know it was you who sent me that beautiful dress for the ball,’ I continue, absently looking through the rack of capes.

‘But I didn’t send you a dress,’ protests Stella, sounding puzzled.

Doubt flickers, but I brush it aside. ‘Oh, c’mon, Stella, I know it’s supposed to be secret, but you can admit it.’

‘Look, I really wish I had, but seriously, Em, it wasn’t me. In fact, I feel really bad as I didn’t get you anything and you got me that lovely scented candle.’

I stop flicking through the capes. I’ve had enough years of Stella’s fake phone-in-sick-to-work calls when she’s got a hangover to know when she’s not telling the truth. But this time she is.

‘But I left you a message thanking you.’

‘Oh, is that what that message was about?’ she says breezily. ‘I remember you mentioning something about a dress, but I could hardly hear what you were saying, so I just deleted it.’

My mind is rapidly going through my list of possible secret Santas. So far I’ve drawn a blank.

‘But if it wasn’t you, who was it?’ I demand. ‘I mean, who else is going to send me an amazing dress?’

‘I dunno,’ replies Stella impatiently, and I can imagine her now, sitting on her bed, phone wedged underneath her ear, desperately wanting to get back to her cape conversation. ‘Your fairy godmother?’

I’m about to do a ha-ha-very-funny-type laugh when I remember something Miss Steane said to me at the ball: ‘What a pretty dress. The colour suits you. It brings out the colour of your eyes.’

At the time I didn’t think much about the attention Miss Steane was paying me, but now, on reflection, she had shown a lot of interest in my dress. And then there was that funny way she looked at me . . .

No, this is ridiculous. Why on earth would my tour guide be going around buying me a balldress, for Godsakes? I mean, Jesus, I’m not Cinderella. Why would she want me to go to the ball? I flash back to our conversation.

‘A friend bought it for me as a Christmas present.’

‘How very fortunate. I’m sure you will be a huge hit with the gentlemen tonight.’

‘Oh, I’m not looking to meet anybody.’

‘Nonsense. To quote Jane Austen: “To you I shall say, as I have often said before, ‘Do not be in a hurry, the right man will come at last.’”’