Page 122 of Me and Mr. Darcy

At the time I felt as if she was referring to Mr Darcy, but I suppose she could have been referring to Spike . . .

Shit. I’ve done it again. Thinking about Spike when I promised myself I wouldn’t. Right, that’s it. No more of this dress nonsense. I’ll have to get to the bottom of that mystery later. Firmly I turn my attention back to Stella, who’s still hanging on the line with bated breath. ‘OK, so what size are you in a cape?’ I ask her.

Theres a squeak, and then she launches into, ‘Well, actually, I’m a size zero, but that’s in the US. In the UK they have an entirely different sizing chart . . .’

I end up buying Stella the cape and three pairs of Union Jack G-strings. I also buy myself a few things. But I don’t even try trusting my own judgement. Even without Stella’s reminder that I am a fashion flunky, I know better. Instead, I get myself one of the store’s personal shoppers. A personal shopper! I didn’t even know there was such a thing!

And now look at me! I think, staring happily at my reflection as I ride back up the escalator. I have a neck. A waist too. And all these wonderful clothes that mix and match. I’m wearing one of the outfits my personal shopper picked out for me, a pair of skinny jeans (yes, me, in skinny jeans!), a pewter-coloured jumper (see, I’m practically British now. I’m not going to use the word ‘sweater’ ever again), a pair of cute black ankle boots with these little cuffs that sort of turn over and the most adorable bright canary-yellow pea-jacket. I would never in a million years have chosen it, but it looks really cool and I’ve already had a few admiring glances. I think about Stella and smile to myself as I imagine her reaction. She is going to freak out. She’s going to think I’ve had a brain transplant, not a vacation.

I emerge into Oxford Street a new – albeit poorer – woman. OK, so now what? I hesitate. I could grab something to eat, except I ate all those cucumber sandwiches and I’m not really hungry. Or maybe I could go to an art gallery, but then, like I said, I’m not really in the mood to look at paintings.

Or you could go see Spike.

My stomach doubles over and I feel a sort of tugging in my chest. I’ve been trying not to think about him all day, but the voice pops into my head loud and clear. I ignore it. Alternatively there’s always having a mooch around some bookstores. Maybe Charing Cross is near here somewhere and I’ve always wanted to go, ever since I saw that movie with Anthony Hopkins and Anne Bancroft.

He works in London. The offices of the Daily Times can’t be far. You could jump in a cab.

Stop it. I am not going to see Spike. There’s no point. Like I said, I’m just going to forget about him.

Except my memory has other ideas. Pressing play on the tape recorder in my head, I hear Miss Steane’s voice: ‘Prejudice can be a terrible thing, Emily. As can pride. You know, Jane Austen always made her heroines feisty. They stuck by their principles, went after what they wanted, were not afraid to admit when they were wrong. Not doing anything can be worse than doing the wrong thing.’

Up ahead I can see a black cab heading towards me, its yellow light on. I watch as it gets closer and closer. Any minute now and it’s going to whizz right past me.

I stick out my arm. At the very last moment the cab swerves deftly to the kerb, and quickly tugging open the door, I scramble inside.

‘Where to, love?’

The driver looks at me in his rear-view mirror.

My heart is thumping. I feel almost sick with nerves.

‘The Daily Times, please.’

Chapter Thirty-six

It’s one of those modern metal signs that doesn’t have the words written on it but instead has them inconspicuously engraved into it: THE DAILY TIMES. If it wasn’t for the cabbie I would never have noticed it, but the newspaper has probably been here for years and it’s their way of saying, ‘We’re so famous we don’t need a proper sign as you’d have to be moron not to know this is the Daily Times building.’

Which takes me from nervous to borderline panic.

Checking my reflection (again), I take a deep breath and push open the steel and glass doors. Inside, the foyer is all black marble and the heels of my new boots make a loud clip-clopping as I walk across to the front desk.

‘Hello, can I help you?’

The overly made-up desk clerk smiles at me politely.

‘Um . . . yeah. Could you tell Spike Hargreaves that Emily Albright is here to see him?’

My heart is beating so hard in my chest right now I feel as if it’s going to burst open.

‘And what should I say it’s regarding?’

I swallow hard and force a smile.

‘Just tell him I’m here for my interview.’

Ten minutes later I’m still waiting. Well, OK, looking at my watch, it’s not exactly ten minutes, it’s more like six and a bit, but it feels like he’s keeping me waiting. It’s probably his way of punishing me, I decide, nervously tapping the heels of my new boots against the marble floor. This is probably a really bad idea. Like, a really, really bad idea. Like I should just pick up my bags and wheel myself and my suitcase out of the Daily Times and never come back again.

In fact, you know what—