Page 44 of Me and Mr. Darcy

There’s a long pause, and for a few moments we both just sit there, side by side. Me, hugging my knees and trying to check him out by peering sideways without being caught. Him, sitting completely erect, rubbing his temples and frowning.

At least that’s what he seems to be doing, but have you ever tried to peer sideways at someone? It really hurts your eyes.

‘I believe we met yesterday at Chawton Manor,’ he says, turning sideways and catching me staring right at him.

I blush hotly. Honestly, could I get any less cool? ‘Er, yeah,’ I say uncertainly, wondering what’s going to come next.

‘Miss Emily, the American, is it not?’

As he looks at me I can’t help noticing the way the light catches his eyes and how you can see these faint flecks of amber around the edges. ‘And you’re Mr . . .’ I trail off awkwardly.

‘Darcy,’ he finishes firmly. ‘Mr Darcy.’

Oh, right, I see, so we’re still playing this game. I stare at him for a moment, trying to weigh him up. ‘Do you . . . um . . . do this for a living?’ I ask.

‘Do what?’ he asks innocently.

Be all charming and sexy around single American girls.

‘I mean, are you an actor?’

‘An actor?’ He seems surprised. ‘Why, no.’ He smiles, seemingly amused by my question. I smile back, but to be honest, now I’m a bit lost. I mean, I’m not sure what to make of it. If he’s not an actor, then who is he?

Still feeling a bit woozy, I try thinking of some logical explanation to what’s going on here. Is he playing some joke? Is someone going to jump out from the bench in a moment and shout, ‘You’ve been punked!’ or whatever they shout here in England.

I glance around, but everything is peaceful and quiet. There’s absolutely no one around. Just me and this dark, handsome, English stranger.

Then I get a scary thought: what if he’s some weirdo murderer who goes around pretending he’s Mr Darcy to lure gullible young women like me to their doom?

In my mind I suddenly see a newspaper spinning towards me, like in one of those old black-and-white movies, and the headline:

THE TRAGIC DEATH OF A HOPELESS

ROMANTIC – MURDERED BY HER LOVE

OF LITERATURE

‘We begged her to come to Cancün,’ says close friend Stella, recently engaged to Scott, 29, an advertising executive. ‘But she wanted to meet Mr Darcy.’

Right, that does it. I’ve got to just come out with it.

‘Look, what’s going on here?’ I blurt, looking him straight in the eye. Hell, I’m American. We like to straight-talk.

He seems shocked by my abruptness. ‘Pardon me, but I am afraid I do not quite follow.’

‘You. Turning up again. In that outfit. Saying you’re Mr Darcy,’ I continue, feeling emboldened. ‘If you’re not an actor, then who are you?’

‘Mr Darcy,’ he says simply.

I look at him for a moment, trying to figure him out and failing. I really like this guy, but a joke’s a joke. ‘I’m sorry, but that’s impossible.’

‘How can that be impossible?’

‘Because you don’t exist,’ I say simply. ‘Unfortunately,’ I add with a rueful murmur.

‘In that case, could you explain to me how I happen to be sitting here next to you? Are you suggesting that I am in fact a ghost? A figment of your imagination?’ he replies archly.

Now he’s saying it, it does sound a bit far-fetched.