Page 67 of Me and Mr. Darcy

So am I.

‘Well, it’s kind of a long-distance relationship,’ I say, choosing my words carefully.

‘A relationship? Wow, that sounds serious,’ says Stella, impressed. ‘How long have you known this guy?’

‘He was my first love.’

Well, if I’m being honest.

‘Whoah, you’re kidding me!’ she exclaims, then laughs. ‘Wait a minute. Not Arnold Bateman. The guy you used to tell me about who would pull your pigtails?’

‘No, not him!’ I gasp, then hesitate. Shall I tell her? Part of me wants to, but the other part of me is remembering our conversation back in New York. The bit where she insisted Mr Darcy didn’t exist. But maybe if I explain, about the quill, the mysterious blank pages in the book, the newspaper, Mr Darcy himself . . .

Oh, come on, Emily. Listen to yourself. She’s never going to believe you. And do you blame her? You still can’t quite believe it and you’ve seen it all with your own eyes.

‘So, who is it?’ Stella is persisting, somewhat suspiciously. ‘What’s his name?’

But if I don’t tell her the truth, what do I say? My mind draws a blank. I don’t want to lie to her, but—

‘Um . . .’ Walking back into the bedroom, I notice the postcard Spike chose for me resting on top of my dresser. I haven’t written that one yet. Absently I pick it up and turn it over. On the back is written ‘Matthew Macfadyen as Fitzwil-liam Darcy.’

‘Fitzwilliam,’ I blurt.

‘No, what’s his first name?’ she asks.

‘That is his first name.’

‘Wow, what a crazy name,’ she replies. ‘But cool, I like it,’ she adds decisively.

I feel oddly relieved. He’s been given the Stella seal of approval.

‘Well, look, hon, I’m dying to hear more, but I should go to bed. It’s nearly 3 a.m. here and I need to get some beauty sleep. Plus, T-mobile is gonna bankrupt me. Do you know what they charge per minute international?’

‘A lot,’ I say, feeling a wave of relief. Thank God, no more awkward questions.

‘I swear, this is costing me the equivalent of a pair of Prada shoes.’

Perching myself on the edge of my bed, I tug on my socks and boots. ‘OK, go. I’ll call you next time. It’s my turn.’

‘OK. Night. Big kiss.’

‘Actually, it’s morning here.’ I stand up.

‘Whatever.’ She laughs sleepily. But then just as I think I’ve got away with it scot-free she asks, ‘Hang on a minute. How can it be long distance if you were with him last night? I don’t understand. It doesn’t make sense.’

I allow myself a small smile. ‘Like I said. It’s complicated.’

Chapter Eighteen

And things only get more complicated as the day goes on.

Fast-forward to later that afternoon and after having spent most of the day on a sightseeing tour, which included a quill-writing workshop (mockery aside, it actually turned out to be pretty good, but inky, fun), I’m walking back to the hotel with Maeve and nibbling on hot, roasted chestnuts that I’ve just bought from a fingerless-gloved teenager on the corner.

It’s grown even colder. The tip of my nose is almost frozen and I can barely feel my toes, despite two layers of woolly socks. The air is so glacial it almost hurts to breathe, and it smells of winter and woodsmoke and pubs. We pass one now, its door flung open as a group of office workers spill on to the sidewalk, intoxicated by laughter and high spirits.

And about half a dozen pints no doubt, I think, watching them stumble round, arms round shoulders, tinsel draped round their necks like silver and gold ties.

‘Don’t you just love this time of year?’ whispers Maeve. ‘New Year’s Eve always feels so magical, don’t you think?’