They turn towards me. Up close I see they’re all really young, probably in their late teens and early twenties: three lanky guys in novelty ties, and two girls wearing matching feather boas who Stella would describe as ‘sturdy’. They’re drinking straight from a bottle of Moët, its gold tinfoil neck glinting mischievously in the moonlight as it’s passed around them. I watch each of them taking a swig. They remind me of when I was in college.
‘Hi.’ I greet them with a sort of little wave. ‘I was wondering if I could steal a cigarette.’ Then I add the classic non-smoker’s line: ‘I’m supposed to have given up, but, hey . . .’
‘Are you American?’ slurs one of the guys who, with a floppy brown fringe and goofy smile, would be indistinguishable from the others, had it not been for his tie: black-and-white zebra print.
‘Um, yeah.’ I nod, and then as if to prove it I flash them the smile that cost my parents twenty thousand dollars in orthodontist’s fees.
‘And you wanna bum a fag?’ grins one of the other guys whose tie appears to be made from a Union Jack flag.
Now obviously here in the UK this must mean something
very
different than it does back in the States. ‘Um . . .’ I falter, but I’m saved from answering as all the boys burst into hysterical laughter, slapping their knees and giggling hilariously.
I’m a bit taken aback. Wow, talk about high-spirited.
‘Shut up, Henry,’ scolds one of the girls, punching him on the shoulder. She looks at me and smiles. ‘Ignore him, he’s an idiot,’ she confides, taking a long drag of her roll-up cigarette. I get a pungent whiff of something and it’s not tobacco.
And that’s not a roll-up, I suddenly realise. It’s a joint.
Oh, God, I’m such a dope, I think, no pun intended. Cringing inwardly, I kick myself. No wonder they’re all giggling their asses off out here. They’re all completely stoned.
‘Yeah, sorry, no offence meant,’ chimes in Henry, throwing me a sheepish grin and taking a generous swig from the champagne bottle.
‘Want some?’ The girl holds out the joint to me.
Now considering the last time I smoked pot was at college and I threw up all over the back seat of Johnny Rosenbaum’s new VW Rabbit (embarrassing enough in itself, but made worse by the fact both Johnny and I were lying spreadeagled on it having sex), I should probably say no.
Saying that, it would be kind of fun to get high, wouldn’t it?
‘Thanks, don’t mind if I do.’ I smile, reaching out and taking it from her.
Plus, like I said, I need to chill out.
Have you ever noticed how beautiful the stars are? They’re all twinkly and glittery, like millions of little diamonds on a big, big, big,
big
cushion of black velvet . . . a million celestial engagement rings stretching away into infinity . . . for ever and ever and ever . . . Wow, it’s so romantic . . .
The group have gone back inside and I’m resting my elbows on the balustrade staring up at the sky. I can’t remember how long I’ve been here – ten minutes, half an hour maybe, who cares? It’s as if everything has stopped, and I’m in this big, warm, fuzzy bubble that’s sort of floating. I’m not even cold any more. All I can think about is the sky, this big, beautiful black sky. I swear I don’t remember it ever being so amazing. I’m totally mesmerised . . .
I’m also, of course, as high as a frigging kite.
Smiling contentedly at nothing in particular, I take a sip of champagne. That joint really hit the spot. I don’t feel sick or anything, just totally chilled – or
stoned
, depending how you want to look at it – in which case, maybe now’s the time to go back inside and rejoin the party. If I bump into Spike, who cares? It’s not as if I have to talk to him. I’ll just be totally cool and ignore him, like he did to me. Not that I’m being
petty
or anything. Like I said, I’m totally chilled now. And draining the rest of the glass, I pick up the second glass and turn to walk back inside.
And bump slap bang into Mr Darcy.
‘Shit.’ Still clutching the two glasses, I bounce off him, spilling champagne.
Startled, he looks at me. ‘Emily?’
‘Jeez, sorry, I had my hands full and I didn’t see you there and . . .’ I’m babbling. Meanwhile Mr Darcy is here. On the balcony.
Right in front of me.
Holy shit.
I go from chilled to Code Red in less than a second.
‘. . . um . . .
hi
,’ I manage to croak, trying to regain my composure while my stomach thinks it’s in the Cirque du Soleil and starts doing all
kinds
of acrobatics.
‘Good evening,’ he replies, bowing his head politely.
He looks up, and as we both take each other in I can feel the whole world around me melting away into the cold evening air.
‘Am I intruding?’
I snap back to see him frowning at the two champagne flutes in my hands.
‘Er, no . . . no, not at all,’ I mumble, looking for somewhere to put them. Spotting a small table over by a pillar, I hurry over and plonk both glasses down. ‘I was just a bit, er, thirsty,’ I say lightly, turning round to face him.
Only I turn round a bit too quickly and everything starts spinning. Oh, dear. I get a flashback of me projectile-vomiting on the back of that VW Rabbit and feel a stabbing terror. No. Please, God. No. Anything but that. I grab on to the balustrade to steady myself and look up to see Mr Darcy striding towards me.
Everything freezes.
Men these days don’t stride. They shuffle and trail like Spike, hands slung low in their pockets, shoulders hunched, feet dragging. But not Mr Darcy. I’m staring at him now and it’s like watching one of those slow-motion movie sequences. With his chest out, chin up, jaw set determinedly. If you had to look up ‘dashing’ in the dictionary, I swear you’d see a picture of Mr Darcy.
Involuntarily my body gives a little shudder of pleasure. And while you’ve got that dictionary out, look up ‘smitten’ and you’ll see a picture of me.
He pauses a few feet away and looks at me intently. Unlike many of my dates who have no concept of personal space, Mr Darcy keeps a respectful distance.
‘I’ve been looking for you,’ he replies, his face serious.
‘You have?’ I squeak.
OK, so I’m excited to see him again, but sounding like I just inhaled a helium balloon is neither cool
nor
sexy. And I’m aiming for both.
I clear my throat. ‘You have?’ I say it again, forcing my voice deeper.
‘I wanted to tell you I very much enjoyed your company last night.’
‘Me too.’ I nod, and feel myself blushing.
God, talk about the understatement of the year.
I wait for him to say something else, but he doesn’t, and what began as a pause is now being drawn out like a long breath and I’m thinking I should say something, but my mind has just gone completely blank, like a floppy disk wiped clean, and I’m just staring at him and wondering how long before we do it.
Emily Albright! What did you just say?
I feel a slap of recrimination. Oh, God, I’d forgotten, but
now
I remember why I came to end up in the back of the VW Rabbit. I always get unbelievably horny when I’m stoned.
‘So, how is the ball?’
Finally he speaks.
‘Oh . . . you know,’ I say vaguely, trying to drag my mind away from my raging libido.
‘Have you danced?’ he continues.
I think about Barry and Spike. ‘I don’t know if you’d actually call it
dancing.
’ I smile ruefully.
But Mr Darcy doesn’t smile; instead, his expression remains serious. ‘I was afraid that because I had arrived so late I was going to have to steal you away from another.’
I have a flashback of Spike on his BlackBerry.
Steal me away?
Spike wouldn’t have noticed if I’d been tied up and kidnapped right under his nose. ‘Don’t worry. I’m all yours,’ I joke.
Mr Darcy looks slightly taken aback. ‘You are?’ he replies, and I realise he’s taken me literally.
‘Oh, no, it’s a saying,’ I say quickly. ‘Sort of like a joke,’ I try explaining.
‘I see,’ nods Mr Darcy, although I’m not sure he does really, but I’m no longer thinking about it, as his eyes are sweeping over me like searchlights and my heartbeat is quickening. Wow. I’ve gone from being ignored to being the focus of someone’s full attention. It’s as if he can’t take his eyes off me. Which is incredibly flattering. I’m just not used to it.
But you can get used to it, Emily.
We both fall silent again. With no drink to sip, I fiddle with the tendrils of my hair. ‘Well, this is nice,’ I say after a moment.
Nice?
Did I just say,
nice
?
‘Indeed,’ nods Mr Darcy and stares at me gravely.
The conversation stalls again, and not knowing what to say, I peer down into the inky darkness. It’s New Year’s Eve and in the distance I can see fairylights glittering, someone’s Christmas tree in a faraway bay window, a party taking place in a house across the communal gardens. I drum my fingers against the balcony. Gosh, it’s so quiet. I can actually hear myself breathing.
I rummage around in my mind for something to say that doesn’t involve some quip. I know I won’t be able to joke around with Mr Darcy like I did with Spike, which might bother some people, but I’m totally fine with that. In fact, the more I think about it, the more I think a good sense of humour is totally overrated. I want a real man, not some idiot, I decide, picturing Spike doing the funky chicken on the dance floor.
I stifle a smile at the memory. OK, so I admit it was very funny, but if I wanted to date someone funny I’d go out with a comedian, I tell myself firmly.
‘I love this time of year, don’t you?’ I blurt finally, breaking the silence.
Wow, I never thought I’d be so pleased to hear the sound of my own voice. In books it always sounds so profound and romantic when the characters spend hours staring into each other’s eyes without speaking. In reality, however, you’d have to be a Benedictine monk.
‘It’s bearable,’ he replies shortly. ‘If you like silliness and fripperies.’
‘Oh,’ I say, feeling shot down. ‘Yes, I suppose it is a bit silly,’ I agree, that same image of Spike twirling round with his tinsel feather boa springing to mind. ‘But being silly can be kind of fun sometimes.’
Mr Darcy frowns as if he’s never heard of the concept. ‘And are you having fun now?’
‘Of course,’ I reply over-brightly.
Well, I wouldn’t call it fun
exactly
, but that’s hardly surprising. I’m too nervous. And anyway, like I said, I’m not here to have fun, I think, sneaking a peak at Mr Darcy and feeling a swell of lust and pheromones at all that repressed passion I know is bubbling under moody arrogance. In fact, I could have sworn I just caught him glancing at my cleavage.
I send up a silent thank you to Stella, thanking her for sending me this gorgeous dress. For once I feel sexy, instead of frumpy.
‘Would you like my coat?’ he offers.
See. As well as being sex-on-legs he’s even Mr Chivalrous. Not like abandon-you-on-the-dance-floor Spike.
‘Oh, no, thanks. I’m not cold.’ I smile, gesturing flirtily to my un-goosepimply shoulders on to which I’ve rubbed this glittery bronze body cream.
‘I insist,’ he says, draping it round my shoulders.
‘No, honestly—’ I protest, but it’s too late, I’m already being swamped in a black frock coat. I feel a twinge of disappointment. It covers up every inch of shimmery shoulder and completely hides my sexy sequinned spaghetti straps.
‘It’s to protect your modesty,’ he explains. ‘Your dress is very revealing.’
‘It is?’ I say with surprise, ‘Oh, OK, thanks.’
Of course! I hadn’t thought of that. I’m so used to living in a world of J-Lo and Madonna and dresses slashed to the navel that my dress doesn’t seem revealing at all. But I guess it’s very different for Mr Darcy: he’s used to women being covered up. If we were to go out with each other I’d probably have to be much more demure. Which is a bit of a shame, as I do have some nice little tops I wear in the summer.
‘So how are you liking your stay in Bath?’ he asks, moving closer.
My chest tightens. ‘Oh, it’s so beautiful here. All the buildings and the architecture and the river,’ I gabble nervously.
On second thoughts, I’m not
that
fussed about those summer tops. I like turtle necks. And things that button up to the chin. Yep. I
lurve
things that button up to the chin. In fact, I’ll just do up this collar right now.
‘Ah, yes, the River Avon.’ He nods, and I feel his warm breath against my cheek.
Mid-buttoning, my fingers seem to get all tangled up.
And did my knees just wobble?
‘I have a surprise for you.’
‘You do?’ My heart gives a little hiccup. I
love
surprises. What can it be?
‘Allow me.’ He holds out his arm for me to take.
I remember John, the architect, letting the door swing in my face a few weeks ago. How I walked home alone in the snow, freezing my ass off and dreaming of meeting a man like Mr Darcy.
And now look at me, I marvel, glancing up at the real thing and hitting ‘delete’ on the memory button of bad dates and erasing every last one of them.
Delete, delete, delete.
‘Why, thank you, sir,’ I say, my mouth twisting into a smile.
I link my arm through his and for a moment he studies my face, his dark eyes drinking me in. Then abruptly his mouth breaks into a smile. ‘Shall we?’
God, he’s just so
masterful.
And, yes, I know it’s shockingly unfeminist of me to find that incredibly sexy.
A cage of butterflies releases in my stomach and I nod happily.
So go ahead: shoot me.
Chapter Twenty-four