Page 72 of Me and Mr. Darcy

I eye the door. You know, it did sound like a knock.

Hauling myself off the bed, and sending my little pile of books toppling, I pick my way through the debris on the carpet. Most likely it’s Maeve or Rose wanting to see my outfit, I think miserably, tugging open the door.

Huh, that’s strange. There’s no one there.

Standing in my doorway, I glance up and down the pastel-pink hallway. Nope. It’s empty. No doubt all the ladies have already got dressed and gone downstairs by now, I realise, glancing at my watch. It’s seven thirty. The coach will be leaving shortly. Sniffing back any rogue tears, I turn to go back inside and happen to glance down. There’s a package. Curiously, I bend down. It has a tag on which is written, ‘Emily Albright.’

I feel a stab of delight.

For me?

I dart back inside my room and start ripping it open. I’ve never been one to carefully unwrap gifts.

Top layer of wrapping off, I discover a second layer underneath. This time it’s in shiny gold festive paper with little Christmas trees dotted all over. My curiosity is bubbling over. Someone must have sent me a belated Christmas present. But who? I don’t recognise the handwriting on the label – besides, who would have my address here? Squeezing the contents, it feels sort of soft and squidgy, some type of clothing maybe, like a scarf or a pair of gloves . . .

Or a gorgeous slinky dress made from chocolate-brown satin and embroidered with tiny crystals.

I gasp as it spills out on to the eiderdown. Oh, my God. Looping my fingers through the delicate spaghetti straps, I hold it up and gaze at it in stunned amazement. Who would send me a dress? And not just any old dress, but a dazzling, exquisitely made, figure-hugging dress. Jumping up from the bed, I rush over to the full-length-mirror and, pressing it up against my body, angle the mirror’s brass stand to see my reflection.

I catch my breath as I snap into view.

Holy shit. I can’t quite believe it. It’s the kind of dress I’d look at in shop windows but would never have the balls to wear.

Or a ball to wear it to.

Excitement thumps.

Stella. It has to be. I remember now, her sitting on the sofa bed in my New York apartment, watching me pack. She was reading the itinerary and kept asking me what clothes I was taking. She must have sent me this as a surprise, a sort of secret Santa. God knows how she got the address, but she has been a little detective of late, just look how she got Mr McKenzie to come in and cover for us over the vacation . . .

A thought thuds.

Oh, hell. I only got her a scented candle.

Snatching up my cell phone, I speed-dial her number. I glance at my watch. I’ve got just over five minutes. If I quickly wash my face, squirt on a bit of deodorant, pin up my hair and do my make-up on the coach . . . My mind racing, I start dashing around the room, my phone wedged in the crick of my neck as I dig out my one pair of stilettos. Stella insisted I bring them, just in case. Now I know why.

‘Hey, you’ve reached Stella. I can’t come to the phone right now, but if you’d like to leave a message . . .’

‘Hi, it’s me, Em,’ I gasp, turning on the taps in the bathroom and splashing my face with icy-cold water. ‘I just got your present and I wanted to say thank you. It’s beautiful, Stella, really beautiful.’ My voice is muffled as I roughly dry my face on a towel. ‘And I’m sorry I only got you a scented candle, but it’s wild fig and made of soy wax and the woman in the store told me it was supposed to bring you serenity and joy, or something. Look, I gotta go, but I’ll call you later. And thanks again, honey. I love it!’

Hanging up, I unzip my jeans, hop back into the bedroom and, chucking my phone on to the cluttered eiderdown, begin stripping off my clothes. I pull off my sweatshirt, unhook my bra and wriggle out of my comfy undies. I’m breathless with excitement. Oh, my God, I’ve never been brave enough to even try on a dress like this. I mean, look at it, it’s just so va-va-va-voom.

For a moment my excitement stalls. Do I really dare wear this? I mean, can I pull this off? Don’t you have to have a figure like a supermodel to wear this?

Yeah, probably, I decide, my eyes gliding longingly over the folds of chocolate satin fabric. But I don’t have one. So I have two choices: (1) Stay in with a good book. (2) Put on a sexy dress and breathe in.

Scooping up the dress, I slip it over my head, and as it cascades to the floor I suck in my stomach for all I’m worth. Forget staying in with a good book. This Cinderella is going to the ball.

Chapter Twenty

In a minicab.

Sitting on the back seat of an old silver Mercedes, I drum my fingers against the velour armrest and peer impatiently out of the window.

Despite getting ready in record-breaking time, I rushed downstairs only to discover the coach had left without me. Which meant I had to catch a cab. Easier said than done. Bath is not Manhattan. Not even close. There’s no stepping outside and hailing one off the bustling streets.

Trust me, all you’ll catch on these streets will be a cold, Emily, I’d told myself, as I shivered on the sidewalk and peered into the silent emptiness.

In the end I went back inside and found the number of a local firm, but it was well over an hour before the creaky old Mercedes pulled up outside the hotel, its body sunk so low on the suspension it nearly scraped the cobblestones. Plenty of time to panic, reapply my make-up too many times, try out a new hairstyle and drink two Smirnoff miniatures from the minibar in my room.