Chapter One #2
‘Well, at least she was honest, and honesty is very important,’ I’d pointed out to Mr McKenzie, the owner, as justification for hiring her.
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, 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 a reality show.
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 number.’ 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. ‘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 in 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 Apple 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 Apple 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.’