Page 66 of Me and Mr. Darcy

Bingo! That’s it. She’s criticising his fashion sense. The spell’s definitely broken.

‘They were hemmed!’

I don’t know quite what’s wrong with wearing hemmed jeans, but it’s obviously worse than being a serial killer in Stella’s eyes.

‘And he wore a belt with a big silver buckle,’ she’s now shrieking. ‘Oh, Em, it was hideous. It was like something David Hasselhoff would wear.’ She bursts into a fit of howls. ‘Jesus, what was I thinking? I was so impressed by everything—’ she breaks off, and sighs. ‘He was such good fun, though,’ she confesses.

‘So are roller coasters, but after a while they make you nauseous.’

Stella laughs. ‘Thanks, Em.’

‘What for?’

‘For listening to me.’

‘Hey, any time.’ I stifle a yawn.

‘Shit, I have no idea what time it is over there. Did I wake you up?’

‘Um, yeah . . . sort of . . . I was out late.’ Scooping my glittery pink mohair sweater off the floor from where I dropped it when I got in last night, I drag it over my head. It still smells of nighttime, and chimney smoke, and him.

‘Let me guess. Playing dominoes,’ she teases.

‘No, actually. I was with a man.’

So there.

There’s a stunned silence. It turns out to be a delayed reaction.

‘Holy shit!’ she shrieks, then repeats ohmyGodIcan’tbelieveit over and over (I take this opportunity to flush the toilet and wash my hands), until finally drawing breath, she gasps, ‘You were on a date?’

I think about it for a moment. I hadn’t thought of it like that until now, but—

‘Yeah . . . I guess so.’

‘I don’t believe it!’ she says again.

Neither do I, I think, brushing out my hair and staring at my reflection. Memories of last night come wafting back to me: walking arm in arm, skimming stones, rowing on the lake, looking at the stars . . . At the time it was amazing, but I guess it does all seem a bit cheesy now I’m thinking about it.

‘I can’t believe you’ve waited until now to tell me!’

I wouldn’t call being pinned to the earpiece listening to her ranting ‘waiting’, but I’m not going to split hairs.

‘Tell me all about him,’ Stella’s demanding.

Oh, hell, of course. She’s going to want details. I hadn’t thought of that. Suddenly I’m fast regretting telling her.

‘Well, um, it’s a bit complicated—’

‘Don’t tell me. He’s married,’ she cuts in.

‘No, of course not,’ I snap crossly.

‘Oh, silly me, it’s me that’s married,’ she laughs self-deprecatingly. ‘So what’s the problem?’

Shit. Where do I start? He’s a fictional character and yet he’s also real. We’ve met a couple of times, but he has this habit of vanishing into thin air and I never know when or if he’s going to show up again. Oh, and he’s also incredibly famous and every woman wants to date him. And let’s not forget, whereas I live in New York, he lives in England – but probably about two hundred years ago.

Confused?