Page 63 of Me and Mr. Darcy

Of course. No goodnight kiss. I feel a stab of disappointment. Oh, well. What can I expect? He’s a gentleman, remember?

‘Goodnight, Mr Darcy,’ I add with emphasis.

He waits dutifully as I climb the step and dig my night key out of my pocket. Sliding it into the lock, I turn the key and open the door. Then falter. I can’t just walk into the hotel and close the door behind me, allow him to disappear into the dead of night without knowing what happens now. I just can’t.

‘When am I going to see you again?’ I ask, twirling round.

My voice is urgent and high. I am so not cool. But I have to ask.

Having begun to walk away, he stops under a street lamp and turns, and with his trademark composure, replies enigmatically, ‘Soon.’

Chapter Seventeen

I wake up early the next morning.

Soon.

What exactly does that mean?

Trying to figure it out, I lie in bed, staring up at the ceiling. It’s such a frustrating word. So vague. So ambiguous. So open to misinterpretation. It could mean ten minutes, as in ‘I’ll be ready soon.’ Or anything from a few weeks to a few days, as in ‘See you soon.’ In fact, I told my Auntie Jean I’d see her soon, and that was last Christmas.

Great.

Plunged into gloom, I roll over on to my stomach and bury my face in my pillow.

Honestly, couldn’t he have been a bit more specific? I mean, what’s wrong with tonight, for Godsakes?

The way I see it, words like ‘soon’ shouldn’t be allowed when it comes to love and romance and affairs of the heart. They should be outlawed. Otherwise you’re just hanging around waiting for ‘soon’ to happen.

Or lying face down on your bed obsessing about it.

Damn.

Feeing suddenly annoyed with myself that I’m doing everything I promised myself I’d never do again over a man – any man, not even Mr Darcy – I take a few deep breaths like we do in yoga (which is about the only thing I can do in yoga) and pull myself together.

Right, that’s it, I decide firmly. I’m going to put it right to the very back of my mind. It’s no big deal. I’ll see him again whenever. I take another deep inhalation. See, I’m totally chilled out already.

I hear the faint burbling of my phone.

Oh, my God, that could be him!

I flick up my head sharply, making all these little black dots suddenly appear in front of my eyes, and throw myself over the side of my bed. Furiously groping for my bag, which seems to be submerged under a pile of clothes, I drag it out, stick my hand inside and frantically scrabble around, my fingers grasping at everything but my phone. Shit, it’s going to ring off, it’s going to ring off, it’s going to—

Got it!

‘Um . . . good morning,’ I say, lowering my voice a couple of octaves and trying to sound all cool and seductive into the mouthpiece.

Instead I sound like my brother.

‘Emily, is that you?’

‘Oh, Stella, hi,’ I say over-brightly, flopping back on my pillows.

God, I am an idiot. What am I thinking? Of course it’s not going to be him.

‘How’s it going?’ I ask, hiding my disappointment.

‘Can I just say something?’