Page 73 of Me and Mr. Darcy

‘So, you’re not from round these parts, are you?’

Above the noise of Band Aid’s ‘Do They Know It’s Christmas?’ playing loudly on the radio, I hear a gruff voice. Turning away from the window, I see my driver peering enquiringly at me in his rear-view mirror. He’s looking at me in the way people from town look at people from out of town. As a stranger, a foreign tourist, an object of curiosity. Quite amusing, really, considering he’s wearing a fake red Santa hat wrapped in tinsel and, with his almost-white beard and matching cotton-candy eyebrows, looks like a real-life Santa Claus.

Albeit in thick prescription glasses and a navy-blue parka.

‘No, I’m from New York,’ I yell to make myself heard over the rousing chorus.

‘So good they named it twice, huh?’ My driver laughs and I smile politely. ‘Me and the wife went to Florida once. Ever been to Florida?’

‘No, never,’ I reply.

Only I don’t think he can hear for Boy George singing the descant, as he begins telling me all about his trip to Fort Lauderdale to see his brother who has angina. After a few minutes I feel myself zoning out.

Out of the corner of my eye I notice a tiny, fake Christmas tree glued to his dashboard. Illuminated, it’s flashing on and off in different sequences and my gaze is drawn to it. I haven’t eaten yet and the alcohol is giving me a warm, slightly woozy feeling – the type of feeling that makes a miniature plastic Christmas tree fascinating to watch as it blinks on and off, on and off, on and off—

I’m broken from my hypnotic trance by the shrill warbling of my phone. I quickly dig it out of my bag.

‘Hello?’

‘So, how’s England treating you?’ asks a faint and crackly voice on the other end of the line.

I don’t immediately recognise who it is as it’s difficult to hear – not helped by my driver, who’s in the middle of his monologue: ‘. . . and we went to Disneyland. Ever been to Disneyland? You don’t know what you’re missing. They’ve got some cracking rides, you know . . .’

Then it registers: ‘Freddy!’ I cry, partly for the benefit of the cab driver, but mostly because I’m so pleased to hear from him. ‘How are you?’

‘Good, good,’ he replies brightly. Too brightly.

‘Great,’ I enthuse, playing along. Freddy and I are friends, but we’re not the kind of friends to call each other for cosy chats. There’s obviously something up. And I’ve got a pretty good idea what – or who – that is.

‘Actually, to be honest I’m pretty terrible. I miss Stella,’ he confesses dolefully.

‘Oh, Freddy,’ I sigh quietly.

‘I know, I know,’ he acknowledges. ‘I’m a lost cause.’

‘You’re not a lost cause, you’re a great guy,’ I protest, trying to lift his spirits. He sounds really down. New Year’s Eve sucks for unrequited lovers. ‘Stella’s just an idiot,’ I tut.

Forget the loyalty. I love my friend, but sometimes I want to shake her.

‘Do you think I should just give up and move on?’ asks Freddy resignedly.

‘God, I’m hardly qualified to give relationship advice, am I? Me. The girl who’s spent the last year going on one disastrous date after another . . .’

‘Sometimes you’ve gotta kiss a lot of frogs—’

‘What? Before I meet Prince Charming?’ I finish, smiling ruefully. ‘I didn’t know you were such an old romantic, Freddy.’

‘For my sins,’ he quips.

‘Hey, me too,’ I console.

‘Maybe you and I should have got together, Em,’ he suggests teasingly.

‘Maybe.’ I smile, playing along. ‘But you’re forgetting one thing . . .’

‘Oh, yeah?’

‘You’re in love with Stella, Freddy.’