Page 24 of Me and Mr. Darcy

What? Hearing him insult Mr Darcy, indignation bites. How dare he? Darcy’s much more of a man than he’ll ever be, I think protectively.

‘. . . it’s all his bloody fault. If it wasn’t for him, I wouldn’t be on a coach full of old women. I swear, forget 18–30, this is like Club 60–80 . . .’

My ears prick up. He’s talking about the tour. And not very favourably either, I muse, absently wondering if he’s going to mention me.

‘. . . there’s just one girl my age . . .’

Oh, wow, he is talking about me. Feeling a curious surge of anticipation, I try leaning a little closer. Not so easy when you’re hovering over a toilet with your G-string stretched round your knees. I steady myself on the door handle. I wonder what he’s going to say?

There’s a pause. I can hear him laughing at something the other person just said, and holding my breath, I wait expectantly. Every second is beginning to feel like an eternity. Not only are my thigh muscles burning but my pelvic floor feels like a dam about to burst. Hold on, just hold on. I grit my teeth, and clench.

‘. . . no way. She’s not my type . . . She seems pretty dull . . . average-looking . . .’

Oh.

Reality slaps me cold in the face. I wasn’t expecting that. I was sort of presuming he was going to say something nice, though I don’t know why – it’s not as if I like him, it’s just . . . My thoughts trail off lamely. God, I feel like a bit of an idiot now. Trust me to get it totally wrong. I mean, not that it matters – he’s an asshole anyway – I just wasn’t expecting him to be so, well, hurtful . . .

Suddenly, much to my astonishment, my nose goes all tingly and I feel my eyes start welling up. Horrified, I sniff the tears back at once. Gosh, I’m being ridiculous. What on earth am I getting all emotional about? I’m not upset, I’m— OK, so I’m upset.

For like a second.

‘. . . and even worse . . . she’s American . . .’

Then I’m furious.

Right, that does it. Plonking myself down on the seat, I finish with not a care for who hears me, or for the fact I’m sitting in someone else’s dribble. I’m not going to have some snotty-nosed Brit think he’s better than me because he’s got a cute accent, a country full of old buildings and Ricky Gervais. We’ve got Madonna, the city of Manhattan and Abercrombie & Fitch, I think defiantly, as I wash my hands and emerge from the bathroom.

OK, so Madonna might be masquerading as a Brit, but she’s still American.

As I slam the door loudly behind me Mr Spike-arrogant-Hargreaves looks up. He’s still on the phone and I throw him my scary face before stomping back to my seat and snatching up my book. Now, where was I? Oh, yeah, the bit where Elizabeth Bennet is being described as ‘tolerable’ by Mr Darcy.

In my mind I hear Spike’s voice again: ‘pretty dull . . . average-looking’. Now I know how Elizabeth Bennet feels, I realise, feeling a new and powerful identification with Jane Austen’s heroine.

‘But I can assure you,’ she [Mrs Bennet] added,’that Lizzy does not lose much by not suiting his fancy; for he is a most disagreeable, horrid man, not at all worth pleasing. So high and so conceited that there was no enduring him! He walked here, and he walked there, fancying himself so very great!’

Honestly, I couldn’t have put it better myself. Who cares what Spike thinks? He’s so conceited and full of himself I’m glad he doesn’t like me. If he did he’d only be trying to hang out with me the whole time. How horrible would that be?

And feeling completely self-righteous, I throw myself back in my seat and turn the page.

Quite frankly, as far as I’m concerned, I’ve had a lucky escape.

Chapter Seven

It’s like stepping back in time.

‘Jane Austen lived here during the last eight years of her life and this is regarded by many to be her literary home . . .’

Our tour guide is chuntering away as she leads us through the seventeenth-century red-brick house which has been turned into a museum, and although I’m trying to focus, my attention keeps drifting.

Gazing around the tastefully decorated rooms of Chawton Manor, filled with original Regency furniture, the twenty-first century seems to have slipped away. Gone is the noise, bustle and frantic pace of modern-day life where you have to run just to keep up. It’s as if someone hit ‘Mute’ and everything’s slowed right down. I’ve entered this peaceful, contemplative world of writing letters with feather quills and Indian ink, reading quietly in button-back chairs and playing the harpsichord after dinner.

I stare at the harpsichord now, picturing myself sitting upright in my corset, tinkling on the keys. Actually, I can only play ‘Chopsticks’, despite years of piano lessons, so I’d probably be reading instead. Poetry maybe, or something romantic in Latin. Not that I can read Latin, but I’m sure it would be different if I’d lived then.

I mean, everything would be so different, wouldn’t it? There’d be no listening to the new Killers album on my iPod, no surfing the Internet and Googling that new man I’ve just met, no ordering Indian takeout and eating spicy shrimp bhuna while watching the first series of Lost on DVD . . .

OK, now that might be tough. I pause for a moment to reflect on a world without Matthew Fox. But you can’t miss what you’ve never had, and think how wonderful it would be to spend your evenings doing something mentally stimulating, instead of slobbing in front of the TV. Like writing a letter to a distant cousin, or discussing the merits of Shakespeare, or doing some needlepoint.

Oh all right – so perhaps the needlepoint might get a little boring after a while. I mean, sewing ‘Home Sweet Home’ probably isn’t that stimulating, but I’m sure you can embroider whatever you want. Like, for example, Coldplay lyrics on to a pillowcase, or a picture of Frida Kahlo on to a dish towel . . . Actually, you know what? That’s probably really hard. Especially if, like me, you’re not that good at art, and you can’t even sew on a button without pricking your finger and making it bleed, but I’m sure you could think of something.