Page 8 of Me and Mr. Darcy

I panic.

Then I see them. Written in fine type at the bottom are all the various dates for tours. At last! Spotting one that coincides with the vacation to Cancún, I click on it. Well, you never know, they might have a cancellation over New Year. Surreptitiously I cross the fingers of my left hand underneath the counter. And anyway, it’s not as if I’m actually going, I’m just pretending.

I do a double-take as ‘ONE SEAT LEFT’ pops up on the screen and stare at the words in astonishment.

‘How soon?’ challenges Stella.

Then again, it might be rather fun. England for New Year. I can just imagine it now. All those cute little villages, cosy British pubs with open fires and bursting with history.

And not an inflatable banana in sight.

I move the mouse to ‘BOOK NOW’ and click.

‘Next week.’

Chapter Three

A week later, having spent a quiet Christmas Day at my auntie Jean’s, I’m back at my flat packing for my trip. It’s December 27 and my flight leaves in a few hours. Stella’s sitting on my sofa bed eating her way through a tub of hummus and watching me trying to squeeze more books into my holdall. No matter that I’m only going for a week, I have to be prepared. Obviously I’ve had to pack all six of the Austen novels, which takes up a fair amount of room, although I’ve left out Pride and Prejudice to take in my hand luggage as I want to read it again.

Then of course there’s the contemporary stuff, like this book by a new writer that’s been number one on the New York Times bestseller list for the last six weeks that I’ve been dying to read.

‘You’re going to spend the holidays in England. In the freezing cold. With some Jane Austen book club?’ asks Stella, interrupting my thought process.

‘It’s not a book club, it’s a specialist tour. And it’s for literature lovers,’ I correct primly, quoting the flyer.

Scooping up a blob of hummus on the end of a baby carrot, Stella looks at me with undisguised despair. She’s come over with the excuse of borrowing my flat-irons, which I’ve never used and are still in their box, to take to Mexico. But now, nearly a whole tub of hummus later, I realise it’s all been a ruse – she’s here to try and get me to change my mind.

And she’ll stop at nothing.

‘You know what that means, don’t you?’ she continues, munching loudly, her chin resting on her black Lycra-clad knees.

Reluctantly turning away from a pile of paperbacks on my bedside table, I make a start on my sock drawer. ‘No, but I’m sure you’re going to tell me,’ I say stiffly, bundling socks into little balls.

‘Kooks,’ she says matter-of-factly, throwing me a look.

I pause mid-sock-ball. ‘What do you mean, kooks?’

‘You know. Weirdos. Misfits. Old people.’

Aghast, I stare at Stella. ‘I can’t believe you just said that.’

Oh, OK, so I’m not really shocked, but being her boss I have to at least appear to take the moral high ground here.

‘Well, think about it. What kind of people want to spend the vacations with a bunch of strangers, talking about books?’

‘I do,’ I gasp, offended.

Stella throws me a look of pity.

‘I happen to like books. I’m the manager of a bookstore, remember? Does that make me a kook?’ I ask haughtily.

Stella scrapes another baby carrot round the sides of the plastic tub to get the last of the hummus. ‘No. You were a kook anyway.’ She smiles, licking off the excess.

Throwing a velvet cushion at her, I turn back to my bookshelves to make sure I haven’t forgotten anything.

‘Forgive me if I’m being stupid, but are you actually going to take any clothes on this trip?’ asks Stella after a moment.

‘Of course,’ I reply indignantly. ‘I just haven’t gotten round to that bit yet.’