Me and Mr. Darcy Read online

  To tell the truth, it had been a case of the lesser of several evils. With her bubblegum-pink hair and bizarre asymmetrical outfit that, to a fashion flunky like me, looked frighteningly fashionable, Stella had seemed like she’d be a lot more interesting to work with than some of the other applicants – such as Belinda, a self-confessed ‘Internet geek’ who spent every evening on her sofa updating her blog on MySpace, or Patrick, who was nearly forty, still lived at home with his parents and ‘adored modern jazz’.

  Exactly. Like I had a choice.

  Three years and an entire rainbow of hair colours later, we’re the best of friends, and although professionally speaking I’m her boss, most of the time it doesn’t feel like that. Probably because when I give orders Stella ignores them.

  ‘But seriously, Emily, you should have punched this John guy’s lights out,’ she continues, vigorously shoving a fistful of books on the shelf. ‘If he’d stolen my cab I would have killed him.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it.’ I nod. Behind all those wacky outfits and perfect accessories lies the fierceness of a Rottweiler. In fact, Stella once nearly killed an ex-boyfriend by squirting pepper spray at him during an argument over who should win Survivor. It triggered an asthma attack and he had to spend the night in the emergency room.

  ‘So, what are you going to do now?’

  ‘Delete his numbers.’ I shrug, ripping the tape off a fresh cardboard box.

  From the top of the stepladder Stella throws me a sympathetic look. ‘Oh, fuck. I’m sorry, Em, that sucks.’

  ‘Hey, I’m over it,’ I say, doing my best to sound casual. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not upset over last night. More resigned.’

  I’m trying to put a brave face on things, but to tell the truth, last night really got to me. It wasn’t John that upset me – he was just the straw that broke the proverbial camel’s back. Or to put it another way, the date that broke me. Because that’s it. I’ve decided. No more disappointment, dashed hopes and disastrous dates. I’m done.

  ‘You know, I have a friend who’s got this really hot brother that’s just broken up with his girlfriend . . .’

  ‘Thanks, but no thanks.’ I shake my head determinedly.

  ‘But he’s really great,’ persists Stella.

  ‘If he’s that great, why did they break up?’

  With the palm of her hand, Stella rubs her nose in concentration, her chunky wooden bracelets clanking loudly. According to Stella, ethnic is the new boho. ‘Hmm, I’m not exactly sure. I think it might have been something to do with his drinking . . .’

  I shoot her an incredulous look. ‘You’re trying to fix me up with an alcoholic?’ I gasp indignantly.

  ‘Was,’ she retorts defensively. ‘He’s AA.’

  ‘Well, then he’s not allowed to date anyway,’ I say firmly. ‘It’s part of the twelve steps or something.’

  Stella looks suitably chastised. Chewing the purple nail polish from her fingernails, she waits mutely at the top of the ladder as I resume unpacking the paperbacks, peeling off the plastic wrapping and piling them up on the floor.

  It’s still early and the shop is empty. For a few moments we work together without speaking, until the silence is interrupted by the tinkle of the doorbell. I glance over and see a customer entering. A woman, wrapped up in furs. She catches my eye and smiles, before heading into the biography section.

  ‘Why aren’t men today like the men in books?’ I continue, unpacking a pile of classics. ‘Seriously, Stella, I’ve had enough of modern-day love,’ I say firmly. ‘And I’m sick of modern-day men. From now on I’m going to stick with the men in here.’ I pause over a copy of Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice, fingering the cover affectionately. ‘Just imagine being in a world where men didn’t steal your cab, cheat on you or have an addiction to Internet porn, but were chivalrous, devoted and honourable. And strode across fields in breeches and white shirts clinging to their chests . . . yum . . .’

  Absently flicking open the novel, I plunge straight into a sexually charged scene between Elizabeth Bennet and Mr Darcy. God, I love this bit. I lean against the bookshelf and continue reading.

  ‘I mean, why can’t I go out on a date with Mr Darcy?’ I sigh wistfully. Pressing the open book to my chest, I gaze off into the middle distance.

  ‘Oh, is he the cute guy who works at the Mac store?’ pipes up Stella from the ladder.

  I look up at her. Surely I didn’t hear that right.

  ‘Because I can try to get his number for you . . .’

  ‘Stella!’ I cry in disbelief. I knew her grasp of literature was slim, but this is unbelievable. Surely she’s seen the movie at least. ‘Are you telling me you don’t know who Mr Darcy is?’

  She looks at me warily.

  ‘He’s not the guy that works at the Mac store?’ she asks tentatively.

  ‘No!’ I gasp impatiently. ‘He’s the sexiest, most romantic man you can imagine. Not only is he respectful and knows how to treat a woman, but he’s this dark, brooding hero who’s incredibly dashing and has all this repressed passion that’s just waiting to be unleashed . . .’

  ‘Jeez, he sounds like a female wet dream,’ she giggles.

  I throw her a sobering look.

  ‘So, where do we find this Mr Darcy?’ she asks in a subdued voice. ‘I wouldn’t mind meeting him myself.’

  Picking up a copy of Pride and Prejudice, I waggle it at her like a prosecution lawyer with a piece of evidence.

  Puzzled, Stella narrows her eyes and peers at me for a moment, trying to work it out. Then suddenly it registers.

  ‘A book?’ she gasps in disbelief. ‘This amazing man you’re raving on about is a character in a book?’ For a moment she glares at me, wide-eyed, then she stomps down the ladder and snatches the paperback from my hand. ‘I’ll tell you why you can’t go on a date with Mr frigging Darcy,’ she scolds. ‘Because it’s fiction.’ Climbing back up the ladder, she holds the novel out of my reach. ‘He’s not real. Honestly, Emily. Sometimes you can be such a hopeless romantic’

  She says it with such pity it’s as if I’m suffering from a terminal illness.

  ‘What’s wrong with being a hopeless romantic?’ I demand defensively.

  ‘Nothing.’ She shrugs, plopping herself down at the top of the stepladder and hugging her bony knees to her chest. ‘But I’m afraid you’re going to have to face facts. You need to live in the real world. This is New York in the noughties, not the pages of –’ breaking off, she glances at the blurb on the back of the book ‘– a nineteenth-century novel set in the English countryside.’

  Then Stella descends the ladder, grabs the rest of the pile of Pride and Prejudice and stuffs them unceremoniously on the shelf behind her. ‘Repeat after me, Em: Mr Darcy does not exist.’

  Chapter Two

  The rest of the morning slips away in a frenzy of Christmas shoppers. Most of the bookstores these days are the large generic ones with in-house coffee chains, more interested in 3-for-2 promotions, sales figures and attracting people to buy overpriced non-fat lattes, but McKenzie’s is different.

  Small and owned by the same family for three generations, we’re tucked down a side street and squashed in between a milliner’s and an Italian bakery. Most people walk straight past us, too busy looking at all the weird and wonderful hats in the neighbouring window or dashing next door to order a toasted ciabatta sandwich. They don’t notice the old mahogany door with the original stencilled glass, through which the sun shines of a late afternoon, creating patterns of light on the polished wooden floor. But for those passers-by who do happen upon us, either by chance or through recommendation, their first time is never their last.

  I always think stepping through that door is a bit like stepping through the wardrobe and into Narnia. Outside is the hectic buzz of everyday New York, but as the bell chimes to greet your arrival, you leave reality behind and enter a world of your imagination.

  McKenzie’s is only a small shop but it’s brimming with an eclectic mix
of reading material. The walls are lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves where bestselling paperbacks rub spines with first editions, specialist titles and rare publications, while in the middle of the floor is a large trestle table laden with sumptuously photographed coffee-table books.

  My favourite spot is over by the window. There, next to magazine racks filled with publications from all around the world, is an old leather button-back sofa. Worn and sagging in the middle, over the years it’s where thousands of customers have escaped their everyday lives for the few moments it takes to read the first chapter of the latest suspense thriller or be moved by a single verse of beautiful poetry.

  I’ve worked here ever since college, and for someone who loves nothing more than curling up with a good book, it’s my dream job. My parents joke that I was predestined from birth to end up here, that books are in my blood. My parents are academics – my mom teaches English, and my dad art history – and they’re both total bookworms.

  Growing up, there was no TV in our house. Instead, my brother and I were told to use our imaginations and were given books. According to my parents, I learned to read when I was only two and half years old. When all the other toddlers were going to the park to play on the swings, my mom and dad were taking me on trips to the public library.

  Apparently, my first words were ‘Please be quiet.’

  However, Mr McKenzie is getting old, and with his only son a doctor and not interested in taking over the business, there’s been talk of him selling up. Six months ago he had an offer from one of the big coffee chains, who wanted to replace the stencilled glass with their logo, lay a cement floor and put fake books on the mahogany bookshelves. He turned it down, said over his dead body. But even so, I’ve got a feeling my days here are numbered. Not that I’m bothered about myself – I can always get another job – but there’ll never be another bookstore like McKenzie’s. Once it’s gone, it’s gone for ever.

  Handing a customer his change, I turn to the person next in line and see there isn’t anyone. I heave a sigh of relief. Thank God. Stella’s still out at lunch and the run-up to Christmas is always manic. Everyone’s on the hunt for the perfect gift. This is the time of year that most people head to the table first, under the illusion that bigger is always better and only a large, expensive coffee-table book will suffice. True, they make an impact, but invariably these volumes of glossy photographs are flicked through once and then left to gather dust, whereas a much-loved paperback will be enjoyed on the subway, in the bathtub and under the bedcovers, and loaned to friends and family to be read time and time again.

  Nobody will ever forget Wuthering Heights, but who’s going to remember The History of the Romanian Trapeze Artists? I muse, noticing a figure over by the trestle table. Short and stocky with hair almost a whitish-grey, he’s leafing through the large hardback book. I walk up to him. He’s deep in concentration.

  ‘Is that for Stella?’ I ask, peering over his shoulder.

  He jumps. ‘Hey, Em, how are you?’ he gasps, his boyish face breaking into a grin.

  ‘Oh, you know.’ I smile as he gives me a kiss on each cheek, sprinkling me with the flour that has coated his jet-black hair, making it appear white. ‘How are you, Freddy?’

  Freddy is Stella’s husband, but theirs is only a green-card marriage. They met two years ago when she went into the bakery next door to buy sandwiches for lunch and they’ve been great friends ever since. Freddy’s Italian, and when his visa ran out, Stella offered to marry him. In return she gets to live cheaply in his little apartment above the bakery. It sounds like the perfect arrangement, and it is. Apart from one little fact: Freddy’s obviously hopelessly in love with her – and the only person who doesn’t notice is Stella.

  ‘So, what do you think?’ he’s asking, gesturing to the book. ‘For Christmas.’

  I wrinkle up my nose. ‘Stella might work in a bookstore, but I don’t think I’ve ever actually seen her read a book.’

  ‘Hmmm, I guess you’re right . . .’ He nods, frowning. ‘But she could look at the photos,’ he suggests brightly.

  ‘Have you ever seen her look at a photo that wasn’t fashion photography?’ I ask, raising my eyebrows.

  Freddy slumps and lets out a deep sigh. ‘I give up. I’m useless. I can’t even buy her a gift.’

  He looks so woebegone my heart goes out to him. ‘Look, can I make a suggestion?’

  ‘Sure.’ He nods dolefully.

  ‘Let me do a bit of detective work for you, find out what she’d really like.’ I squeeze his arm. ‘And I promise it won’t be Romanian Trapeze Artists.’ I smile, gently easing the book out of his hands. ‘Not that I’m saying it’s not a great book,’ I add, in loyalty to the store. ‘But just not for Stella.’

  Freddy shoots me a grateful look, and after saying our goodbyes he leaves the store. On his way out he nearly collides with Stella, who appears back from lunch, her face flushed with excitement.

  ‘Hey, Freddy,’ she says distractedly. Sweeping right past him and over to me, she announces, ‘Have I got a surprise for you!’

  Over her shoulder I can see Freddy. Pausing momentarily in the doorway, he’s looking at Stella. His expression says it all.

  ‘You are going to love this.’

  As he disappears into the street, I turn back to Stella.

  ‘Love what?’ I murmur. Plonking myself down on to the little wheelie stool behind the counter, I slide over to the computer. I know Stella well enough by now to know that whenever she thinks I’m going to love something, I invariably don’t.

  I begin checking work emails. The shop has finally emptied, apart from the woman still over in the biography section, and it’s a good opportunity to make a start on all the last-minute Christmas orders.

  ‘I know what you’re going to do!’ Stella continues, oblivious in her enthusiasm. Unknotting her stripy scarf, she skips round the counter and stands next to me, panting breathlessly at my side, not unlike my parents’ Labrador when there’s food around.

  ‘About what?’ I continue typing.

  ‘About all these terrible dates you keep going on,’ she gushes.

  ‘Thanks for reminding me, but I’m not dating any more.’

  Stella waves her fingerless-gloved hand dismissively. ‘You’re going to cheer yourself up and come with me and a bunch of girlies,’ she continues excitedly.

  There’s a pregnant pause as she waits for me to ask where exactly it is I’m supposed to be going with her and a bunch of girlies – no doubt with an equal sum of excitement to hers – but I can only manage a half-hearted ‘Hmmm.’

  Which isn’t enough for Stella, who whoops, ‘Em, you’re going to Mexico!’ in the kind of voice quiz-show hosts use on their poor, unsuspecting contestants.

  I turn away from the monitor to stare at her. ‘Stella, what in God’s name are you talking about?’

  ‘For New Year!’ she gasps, plonking herself down on the counter. I throw her an authoritative look, but as usual she ignores me. Crossing her legs, she yanks up her fishnets and continues: ‘My friend Beatrice who lives in London just called. She’s booked this trip to Cancün in Mexico. Two people have dropped out at the last minute, which means there’s two spaces left.’ She grins excitedly. ‘Me,’ she announces, pressing her thumb against her chest. ‘And you.’ With a flourish, she points her finger at me. ‘We just have to buy our own flights from New York.’

  ‘And who’s going to be working here while we’re both swanning off to Mexico?’ I mutter dismissively. Honestly, Stella has no clue what it’s like to be a manager. She thinks a store runs itself.

  ‘It’s all sorted,’ she says triumphantly. ‘Mr McKenzie’s already offered.’

  ‘As in Mr McKenzie the owner?’ I look up with surprise. ‘You mean you’ve already asked him?’

  ‘I called him earlier. He said he’d be only too happy to look after things while we’re away. To be honest, he seemed rather delighted to be asked,’ she confides happily. ‘Says it will do hi
m good to get out from under his wife’s feet for a change.’ Stella pops some bubblegum into her mouth and starts chewing.

  Taken aback, I stare at her. I don’t know whether to be happy that, for the first time in five years, I don’t have to work the week between Christmas and New Year, or annoyed that Stella’s gone right over my head. I go for the first option.

  ‘Oh, OK.’ I nod, for want of something to say.

  ‘Awesome,’ whoops Stella, blowing out a big purple bubble and popping it with her tongue. ‘It’s gonna be fab. Apparently, it’s one of these package holidays for adult singles – it’s called Club 18–30.’

  Oh, no.

  I get a sudden sinking dread. I’m always flicking through the British mags we sell in the store, so I know all about these types of vacation. Enough to know they’re my idea of hell.

  ‘Club 18–30?’ I repeat, surprised just the words themselves don’t create a gag reflex.

  ‘Uh-huh.’ She beams proudly. ‘Great, huh?’

  Now wait just one moment. Did she actually say the word great?

  ‘Well, the thing is—’ I begin, quickly trying to think of an excuse.

  But she doesn’t let me finish. ‘Oh, fuck!’ she gasps, clamping her hand over her mouth. ‘I didn’t think.’

  Now what?

  ‘I’m so tactless.’ Laying a consoling hand on my shoulder, she says in a hushed voice, ‘I didn’t think about the age issue.’ There’s a pause and then she whispers consolingly, ‘You’re not under thirty, are you?’

  I pull away crossly. ‘Excuse me, but I’m twenty-nine!’ I admonish, putting my hands to my face as if suddenly expecting it to have sagged down by my knees since I last looked in the mirror.

  Honestly. I love Stella and I know she means well, but sometimes I wonder what’s going on in that (currently) platinum-blonde head of hers. First she tries fixing me up with an alcoholic, and now she’s telling me I’m old.

  ‘I’m only two years older than you,’ I add defensively.

  Stella winces. ‘Oops, sorry, I didn’t mean . . . I just meant . . . Well, you know what I’m like with numbers and shit and . . . you’re ageless, Em,’ she finishes brightly, smiling at me with that pink-cheeked, perky-eyed, twenty-seven-year-old face of hers.