Page 25 of Me and Mr. Darcy

I’m only drawing a blank at the moment because of the jet lag.

‘. . . and ahead of us we have the dining parlour, where she would spend her mornings writing, and the “creaking door”, which would alert her to visitors . . .’

Zoning back in to our tour guide’s commentary, I see she’s now moving through the vestibule and into a room at the front of the house. Gathered loosely into a group, we obediently shuffle along behind her, our footsteps echoing on the polished honey-coloured floorboards. I glance down at them now, at the thick, battle-scarred varnish beneath the crêpe soles of my boots. Gosh, it’s so amazing to think that Jane Austen once walked around this house, and on these very floorboards. She probably stood in this very spot, I tell myself, pausing by one of the many windows to gaze out across the neatly planted garden, which is being slowly drenched. It’s raining pretty hard now and it’s getting dark. It almost looks like there’s going to be a storm.

‘. . . and as you can see, we have photocopies of some of Jane’s letters displayed on the walls, and a copy of Cassandra’s portrait of Jane in 1810 hangs over the fireplace . . .’

Turning away from the window, I follow the group into the parlour and stand on tiptoe to see over everyone’s shoulders. Despite being quite tall, it’s difficult to see. Older women, I’m discovering, don’t swap their high heels for comfy flats and crêpe-soled Hush Puppies once they hit sixty – something that I’ve been led to believe. On the contrary, Rose is wearing a pair of killer black stiletto boots with three-inch heels, and Maeve’s tramping around in a pair of vintage brown leather boots, not unlike the ones Lindsay Lohan was wearing in Stella’s copy of Elle.

In fact, the only person wearing comfy flats with crêpe soles is me.

Dismissing the worrying thought that I’ve been out-fashioned by women old enough to be my grandmother, while simultaneously wishing I’d taken more style advice from Stella rather than hooting with laughter every time she came to work in a wacky new outfit, I peer over the roped area to where Miss Steane is pointing.

‘. . . by the window is the original table where she revised Pride and Prejudice and created the Mr Darcy we know and love today,’ she declares, getting rather carried away. ‘And we also have an example of the type of feather quill she would have used to bring him to life. Or could it be, perhaps, the very one!’

Wow. I stare at the little round wooden table for a moment, absorbing its significance. Just think, that’s where it all happened. Pretty incredible.

‘Amazing, huh?’ mutters a voice close to my ear.

I jump. Spike, the journalist, is standing next to me. Seeing him again is like a trigger.

‘pretty dull . . . average-looking’.

The effect of his words hasn’t dulled. They sting just as hard as when I heard them. I throw him the most withering look I can summon up. I call it my ‘shit-on-my-shoe’ look, and I have to say, it’s pretty effective. I once did it to myself in the bathroom mirror, just to see, and boy, it even made me feel like shit.

Satisfied, I turn away. Well, that’s the last you’re going to be hearing from him, Emily Albright.

‘To think she wrote all her stuff longhand, and with a feather quill. It’s bloody unbelievable, isn’t it? I mean, crikey, I write all my articles on my laptop and it still takes me for ever,’ he chuckles to himself.

Er, hello, is that dumb-ass still talking to me? Doesn’t he realise I’m blanking him? The group is shuffling around the parlour, looking at the various objects of historical interest and reading the plastic-covered information that goes with them. Moving sideways, I stare determinedly ahead. I will not make eye contact. I will not make eye contact.

‘Just imagine not being able to hit the delete key.’

I wish I could hit the frigging delete key. That way, I could delete you, I curse silently.

Anger now, Emily, warns a little voice.

I quickly compose myself. I’m not angry. I’m not angry at all. I really couldn’t care less what he said about me.

‘So, you’re a big Jane Austen fan, huh?’ he persists obliviously.

Right, that’s it. I’ve had enough.

‘Listen, buddy, I couldn’t care less about you, your laptop or your stupid newspaper article,’ I snap, rounding on him. ‘So why don’t you go hassle someone else with your questions and leave me alone?’

OK, I take it back. I’m angry. And I’ve made eye contact. Fuck.

‘Whoah.’ He throws up his hands in mock surrender. ‘Who rattled your cage?’

He pretends to back off, his hands still up in the air, a sardonic look on his face. God, that man is so unbearable, I fume.

Finally he turns away and begins excusing his way through the group, his spiral notebook in one hand, a Dictaphone in the other. I stare after him for a moment and notice how the hem of his corduroy jacket is coming unstitched and the way his jeans are so old they’ve worn away by the back pocket and you can see a flash of boxer-short material beneath.

Huh. And I thought British men were supposed to be all smart and stylish. Or at least foppish like Hugh Grant. I mean, just look at him. This guy is such a mess.

Feeling irritated, I turn and focus on a pair of Victorian buckled shoes in a glass case.

Cute, though, I think begrudgingly.