Page 6 of Me and Mr. Darcy

‘For New Year!’ she gasps, plonking herself down on the counter. I throw her an authoritative look, but as usual she ignores me. Crossing her legs, she yanks up her fishnets and continues: ‘My friend Beatrice who lives in London just called. She’s booked this trip to Cancün in Mexico. Two people have dropped out at the last minute, which means there’s two spaces left.’ She grins excitedly. ‘Me,’ she announces, pressing her thumb against her chest. ‘And you.’ With a flourish, she points her finger at me. ‘We just have to buy our own flights from New York.’

‘And who’s going to be working here while we’re both swanning off to Mexico?’ I mutter dismissively. Honestly, Stella has no clue what it’s like to be a manager. She thinks a store runs itself.

‘It’s all sorted,’ she says triumphantly. ‘Mr McKenzie’s already offered.’

‘As in Mr McKenzie the owner?’ I look up with surprise. ‘You mean you’ve already asked him?’

‘I called him earlier. He said he’d be only too happy to look after things while we’re away. To be honest, he seemed rather delighted to be asked,’ she confides happily. ‘Says it will do him good to get out from under his wife’s feet for a change.’ Stella pops some bubblegum into her mouth and starts chewing.

Taken aback, I stare at her. I don’t know whether to be happy that, for the first time in five years, I don’t have to work the week between Christmas and New Year, or annoyed that Stella’s gone right over my head. I go for the first option.

‘Oh, OK.’ I nod, for want of something to say.

‘Awesome,’ whoops Stella, blowing out a big purple bubble and popping it with her tongue. ‘It’s gonna be fab. Apparently, it’s one of these package holidays for adult singles – it’s called Club 18–30.’

Oh, no.

I get a sudden sinking dread. I’m always flicking through the British mags we sell in the store, so I know all about these types of vacation. Enough to know they’re my idea of hell.

‘Club 18–30?’ I repeat, surprised just the words themselves don’t create a gag reflex.

‘Uh-huh.’ She beams proudly. ‘Great, huh?’

Now wait just one moment. Did she actually say the word great?

‘Well, the thing is—’ I begin, quickly trying to think of an excuse.

But she doesn’t let me finish. ‘Oh, fuck!’ she gasps, clamping her hand over her mouth. ‘I didn’t think.’

Now what?

‘I’m so tactless.’ Laying a consoling hand on my shoulder, she says in a hushed voice, ‘I didn’t think about the age issue.’ There’s a pause and then she whispers consolingly, ‘You’re not under thirty, are you?’

I pull away crossly. ‘Excuse me, but I’m twenty-nine!’ I admonish, putting my hands to my face as if suddenly expecting it to have sagged down by my knees since I last looked in the mirror.

Honestly. I love Stella and I know she means well, but sometimes I wonder what’s going on in that (currently) platinum-blonde head of hers. First she tries fixing me up with an alcoholic, and now she’s telling me I’m old.

‘I’m only two years older than you,’ I add defensively.

Stella winces. ‘Oops, sorry, I didn’t mean . . . I just meant . . . Well, you know what I’m like with numbers and shit and . . . you’re ageless, Em,’ she finishes brightly, smiling at me with that pink-cheeked, perky-eyed, twenty-seven-year-old face of hers.

‘And you’re about to be out of a job if you keep going,’ I warn grumpily.

‘Oh, come on, Em, it’s just what you need.’

Stella’s enthusiasm is like a bulletproof vest. I swear it’s impenetrable.

I swivel my stool to face her fully. ‘Stella, believe me, it’s the last thing I need.’

‘It’s all-inclusive,’ she adds, winking.

I don’t even want to begin to imagine what she’s referring to. Fortunately, I don’t have to as we’re interrupted by a customer.

‘Excuse me, but I’d like to take this, please.’

I look up and realise it’s the woman from the biography section. Gosh, is she still here? I thought she’d already left.

‘Did you find everything you were looking for?’ I ask, regarding her curiously. Wearing a fur hat, delicate drop earrings and a heavy, flowery scent, she has a quaint, slightly old-fashioned air about her. You’d think she’d just stepped off the set of a Merchant Ivory film and not the streets of Manhattan.