Chapter Two #2
‘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 all-inclusive holidays for adult singles under the age of thirty looking for a good time—’
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.
‘A good time?’ I repeat, warily.
‘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.
‘And you’re about to be out of a job if you keep going,’ I warn grumpily.
‘Oh, come on, Em, it’s just what you need.’
Stella’s enthusiasm is like a bulletproof vest. I swear it’s impenetrable.
I swivel my stool to face her fully. ‘Stella, believe me, it’s the last thing I need.’
‘It’s all-inclusive,’ she adds, winking.
I don’t even want to begin to imagine what she’s referring to. Fortunately, I don’t have to as we’re interrupted by a customer.
‘Excuse me, but I’d like to take this, please.’
I look up and realise it’s the woman from the biography section. Gosh, is she still here? I thought she’d already left.
‘Did you find everything you were looking for?’ I ask, regarding her curiously. Wearing a fur hat, delicate drop earrings and a heavy, flowery scent, she has a quaint, slightly old-fashioned air about her. You’d think she’d just stepped off the set of a period film and not the streets of Manhattan.
‘Yes, thank you,’ she replies in an English accent. Without looking up she slides a slim, leather-bound volume onto the glass countertop.
I pick it up and glance at the title. ‘The Private Letters of Jane Austen’ is embossed in gold lettering.
Funny, I don’t remember ever seeing this book before.
I turn it over, but there’s no barcode on the back, just a handwritten sticker.
It’s not my handwriting. The book must have been sitting unnoticed on the shelves for years, I ponder, ringing up the purchase.
‘Here. Why don’t you take a look at the resort?
’ Reappearing from the back, Stella plops a glossy brochure next to the cash register.
Out of the corner of my eye I see a close-up shot of busty girls in bikinis shrieking with their arms above their heads as they ride an inflatable banana.
The words ‘fun!fun!fun!’ are emblazoned across it in acid-yellow.
‘I’m afraid you’re going to have to count me out,’ I reply, without even picking it up.
‘But why? It’s a really good deal, it’ll be fun. Think of all that sun, sea, sand . . .’ Glancing at the customer, Stella lowers her voice, leans towards me and whispers in my ear, ‘Sex!’
A vision of dancing around in a foam-filled nightclub in a beaded wristband with a pina colada stuffed full of brightly coloured umbrellas fills me with dread.
‘I am,’ I murmur, handing the English lady her receipt and brown paper bag with ‘McKenzie’s’ printed on the side. She dips her head politely, her face still hidden by her gigantic fur hat, and then turns and walks away.
‘I mean, look at this guy. He’s gorgeous.’
I turn my attention back to Stella, who’s poring over the brochure.
‘I’m not going,’ I say firmly.
‘Oh, Em . . .’ she whines.
‘No.’ I shake my head resolutely and move back over to the computer. I resume checking emails: books on order . . . promotional offers . . .
‘So what are you going to do? Are your parents going to be home this year?’
My parents live upstate but they haven’t spent Christmas and New Year at home since I graduated from college. Last year it was a safari in Botswana. The year before it was two weeks on a houseboat in India. And before that . . . Gosh, I’ve lost track, but it was somewhere phones don’t work.
‘Spending your inheritance’ is how they laughingly describe these trips, and I’m really pleased for them.
They’re born-again hippies with money. They wear Birkenstocks, drive a Prius and eat organic – Dad even took up yoga until he put his back out – and every year they disappear without so much as a Christmas card.
‘No, this year they’re going to Thailand on some meditation retreat.’ I shrug. ‘But I’ve been invited to my auntie Jean’s for dinner on Christmas Day.’
Admittedly I used to get a bit upset when all my friends were going to spend the vacation at home, with the tree and turkey and everything, but I’ve got used to it now.
Usually I go stay with my brother, Pete, in Brooklyn, but six months ago he met Marlena, an actress, so this year they’ve decided to visit her parents in Florida for New Year.
Which is fine. I’ll probably stay home this year and curl up with a glass of wine and a good book.
New Year’s Eve is always a huge anticlimax anyway, isn’t it?
‘But what about New Year’s Eve?’ asks Stella, not looking up from her brochure.
Saying that, I’d prefer not to admit my plans to the girl who thinks staying in on just a regular Friday night is a fate worse than death.
I pause, and at that moment I notice something on the counter. It’s a flyer. That’s weird. I didn’t see it before. I wonder who left it? Curious, I reach over and pick it up. It’s a photograph of stunning countryside over which, in black lettering, reads:
Specialist tours for literature lovers.
Spend a week with Mr Darcy. Explore the world of Jane Austen and Pride and Prejudice in the English countryside.
‘I’m going to England,’ I blurt.
As soon as the words come out of my mouth, I want to stuff them back in again. Oh, shit. Why did I go and say that?
‘You are?’ Stella rounds on me, her eyes wide with astonishment. ‘When?’
Oh, double shit. I have no frigging idea.
Anxiously I glance at the flyer. There’s a website address and so, pretending to be still busy checking emails, I quickly type it into the computer. A page immediately opens.
‘Um . . .’ I try to act all casual while quickly scrolling down through the information surrounding the tour.
I’m just going to have to bluff it. ‘Soon . . .’ I hedge, playing for time.
Where are the damn dates? They must be here somewhere.
Trying to stay cool, calm and collected, I smooth back my hair and keep scrolling, my eyes scanning furiously.
I can feel Stella’s eyes burning a hole in the side of my head.
OK. No need to panic, Emily.
An image of the inflatable banana pops into my head.
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.’