Page 74 of Me and Mr. Darcy

It’s the first time it’s ever been said out loud and as soon as I say it I wonder if I’ve overstepped the mark. For a moment there’s silence on the other end of the line.

‘I know,’ he says finally, his easy demeanour gone.

Regret bites. ‘Oh, Freddy, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—’

‘Hey, Em, don’t be sorry, you’re right,’ he cuts in wearily. ‘But you wanna know something?’

‘Sure,’ I say quietly.

‘This being-in-love business frigging sucks.’

I so much want to talk more to Freddy, but I become aware of the Mercedes slowing down and, as we shudder to a standstill, am forced to cut our conversation short. Apologising, I promise to call him the moment I get back to New York, and we quickly say our goodbyes. I really feel for him. He sounds so down, but what can I do?

Troubled, I turn to look out of the window and suddenly everything else slips from my mind as my attention is grabbed by a stunning row of Regency houses. Shaped into a crescent and artistically lit by a row of wrought-iron lamp posts, they look too perfect to be real, as if we’ve happened upon a movie set and any minute I’m going to hear ‘Action’ and see Keira Knightley appear in a corset.

The driver yanks on the handbrake. ‘Here we are,’ he announces cheerily.

‘Thanks.’ Opening the car door, I step out into the glacial evening.

‘So what brings you to Bath at New Year? A fella?’

Passing the driver ten pounds for the fare, I smile. ‘No, quite the opposite,’ I reply, feeling rather proud of myself for being all cultural. ‘My love of Jane Austen.’

‘Oh, right.’ He nods.

His head disappears back into the cab to get change, but I motion for him to keep the rest as a tip. In New York we’re big tippers – twenty per cent is the norm – but I’ve heard stories about how the British simply don’t tip.

But see what a difference it makes, I note, as he looks at me as if he can’t quite believe it, then beams at me so broadly I feel like Angelina Jolie. Obviously giving a tip isn’t quite the same as being a UN ambassador, but it’s still a good deed. Infused with a virtuous glow, I smile generously and pass him an extra pound coin.

‘I saw a programme about your type on telly recently . . .’ He grins, sticking the cab into gear.

‘You did?’ See, it’s all about showing appreciation and respect. I appreciate him as a cab driver, and he respects me as the passenger. Delighted to have done my bit for American tourists everywhere, I smile graciously as he pulls away from the kerb.

‘Aye, and I tell you what, I’d never have put you down as one of them lipstick lesbians.’ He sighs, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘That Jane Austen is a very lucky woman.’

In disbelief I watch him waving at me as he drives off down the hill. Then, gathering the satin hem of my dress as I hurry up the stone-flagged steps, I start to giggle. I wouldn’t mind, but I’m not nearly trendy enough to be a lipstick lesbian. If Stella’s gay friends from art college had heard him, they’d have laughed their Prada pants off.

‘Good evening, madam, shall I take your coat?’

Magically the door opens and I’m greeted by a doorman in a penguin suit and white gloves.

Quickly stifling my laughter, I put on a serious face. ‘Why, thank you,’ I reply, slipping off my thick woollen coat and passing it to him. He whisks it away and I’m left standing in the marble entrance hall, feeling, I have to say, a teensy bit nervous.

The sounds of a string quartet and the popping of champagne corks waft towards me.

Actually, you know what, make that very nervous.

I head towards the noise. It’s coming from the other end of the hallway, and as I round the corner I suddenly catch sight of the magnificent ballroom, its doors flung open wide. I hang back, overwhelmed. I’ve never seen anything quite like it. I’ve been to some lavish parties in New York, even a fancy black-tie do at the Ritz Carlton, but this is something else.

Six dazzling chandeliers spill down from the ornate ceiling, although it seems like more than a hundred as they’re reflected over and over in the vista of mirrors. Running all the way round the walls, they create a sea of glittering diamonds, and for a few moments I just stand there, staring upwards, drinking it all in like I used to when I was a child and I’d gaze at our Christmas tree for hours. There’s something magical about all these tiny lights, I realise, feeling that same flutter of anticipation. I feel as if anything can happen.

Dragging my gaze away, I blink away the brightness, and as my eyes adjust, I take in the red silk bows, shiny green holly wreaths and impressive Christmas tree positioned directly behind the string quartet. The ball is already well under way and the room is thronging with people.

Nervously I scan the crowd for Mr Darcy – just on the off-chance – but there are so many people it’s hard to see. As women flit past I see flashes of silk and taffeta dresses, like chocolate wrappers, in amongst the monochrome dinner suits. There’s an elderly lady in electric-blue velvet, a tall, skinny brunette in scarlet ruffles, a glamorous blonde in a purple off-the-shoulder . . .

I pull at various bits of my dress. Before I got in the cab I was feeling quite confident, but now I feel all lumps and bumps. I suck in my stomach even harder, shove back my shoulders as far as they’ll go and try elongating my body to look taller. God, I’ve never worn anything like this before. Do I look ridiculous? It’s so revealing and clingy and, well, vampish. Plus, with all this flesh on show, I’m suddenly feeling a lot broader than usual.

Then my stomach lurches. There’s a woman wearing the same dress, standing right in front of me! And she looks so much better in it! Crestfallen, I sigh and slump forwards. At the same time I notice she does too. Then I fiddle with my hair. Huh, how funny. So does—