Chapter Four
Fast-forward eleven hours and I’m standing in the immigration line at Heathrow Airport, jet-lagged but excited. I feel a whoosh of exhilaration. Even now I can’t believe it’s really happening, that I’m actually here in England. England!
‘Next!’
Stifling a hippo-sized yawn, I look up to see I’m being waved forward by one of the officials, a grim-faced, middle-aged woman with short, frizzy hair and glasses.
‘How long do you intend to spend in the United Kingdom?’ she demands in a clipped voice as I approach the counter.
‘A week,’ I reply, giving her a friendly smile.
It has absolutely zero effect. Taking my passport, she studies it gravely and begins tapping furiously into her keyboard.
‘And what is your purpose for visiting?’
‘I’m here on a tour,’ I reply eagerly.
Without looking up, the immigration officer pushes up her glasses and continues tap-tapping, her lips tightly pursed.
My excitement wobbles. Her silence is beginning to make me a bit nervous.
As if I’ve done something wrong somehow.
A flashback of being caught shoplifting pops into my head and I feel a beat of worry.
Oh, God, don’t say I’ve got some kind of criminal record and they’ve found it on an international database.
OK, so I was only eleven and it was Barbie clothes, but still. I have a history.
With my front teeth I begin chewing the flaky bits off my lips, which I only ever do when I’m nervous, and which I shouldn’t do as they always start bleeding.
They start bleeding.
‘What kind of tour?’ asks the officer, breaking off momentarily to flick through my passport. She grimaces at my picture – which isn’t that bad – then resumes her work at the keyboard. What on earth is she typing? An essay? A police report?
My stomach nosedives.
‘It’s a specialist tour for literature lovers,’ I croak, my voice coming out all funny and high-pitched. Clearing my throat, I swallow a few times. ‘A week in the English countryside to explore the world of Jane Austen and Pride and Prejudice,’ I add weakly.
As if she cares, I think anxiously.
‘Pride and Prejudice?’ she repeats sharply, without looking up. Her fingers freeze on the keys. ‘Did you just say Pride and Prejudice?’
My immigration officer seems galvanised by this news.
‘Um, yes.’ I nod, uncertainly.
She looks up, her face flushed with excitement. ‘Oh, my goodness, I can’t believe it! I love Pride and Prejudice!’ she shrieks loudly. Clutching at her polyester chest, she throws me a dazzling smile. ‘I just saw the film adaptation with Keira Knightley. Wasn’t it wonderful?’
I’m completely taken aback by her transformation. ‘Erm, yes . . .’ I stammer.
Leaning back in her chair, she loosens the top button of her blouse and begins fanning herself with my passport.
‘And that Mr Darcy.’ Rolling her eyes, she shoots me a lustful look.
‘Sex on a stick!’ Leaning forwards, she winks conspiratorially.
‘I tell you what, I wouldn’t kick him out of bed,’ she whispers, and giggles girlishly.
I stare, dumbfounded. I know Mr Darcy has an effect on women, but this is incredible.
Several minutes later we’re on first-name terms and Beryl is telling me all about her recent divorce from her husband, Len, her decision to work over the Christmas period and how much she wished she’d heard about the tour . . .
‘. . . because it sounds marvellous, love.’ She smiles warmly, handing back my passport. ‘I’d rather be spending the festive season with Mr Darcy than a load of tourists, I can tell you. Maybe next year, eh?’
‘If you want, I’ll let you know how it is,’ I offer pleasantly.
‘Ooh, would you do that?’ Beryl smiles, and scribbles something on a piece of paper. ‘Here’s my email address.’
As I take it from her she squeezes my hand earnestly. ‘Have a great trip.’
‘Thanks, Beryl.’ I smile, slipping my passport into my pocket.
Waving goodbye, I grab my wheelie suitcase and pass through immigration with ease, then pause at the exit to look back.
Just in time to hear Beryl bark, ‘Next,’ and see her smile morph into that scarily grim expression as she summons another nervous passenger.
‘How long do you intend to spend in the United Kingdom?’
I smile to myself. Thanks a lot, Mr D.
Walking through the arrivals gate, I’m greeted by crowds of people leaning over the barriers waiting for their loved ones to appear off their flights.
The place reeks of festive excitement. Strung with Christmas decorations, carols are being piped over the speakers and tinsel and lights are everywhere.
A buzz of English accents hums around me, and my ears home in on pieces of conversation, like a radio being tuned in, picking up the different stations.
‘Oooh, sweetheart, you look smashing with that suntan. Doesn’t she look smashing with that suntan, David? It’s been brass monkeys here . . .’
‘. . . what on earth do you mean, his plane’s delayed, darling? Crikey! We’re supposed to be at the registry office in less than an hour . . .’
‘. . . we’re taping Coronation Street, so as soon as we get home I’ll put the kettle on. I bet you’re gagging for a nice cup of tea . . .’
Smashing? Crikey? Gagging? Brass monkeys? Marvelling at all these weird and wonderful words, I weave my way through the crowds. Apparently, someone is going to be here to meet me, but I don’t know how I’m supposed to recognise them . . .
‘Emily Albright?’
In the middle of the scrum of people, I spot a tiny, bird-like figure in a tweed suit holding up a sign with my name on it. I rush over, wheeling my cart with my luggage behind me.
‘Hi,’ I say politely. ‘Nice to meet you.’
The woman with the sign throws me a lively smile and extends her hand. ‘Miss Steane. Your tour guide. A pleasure to meet you, too,’ she replies jovially, her hazel eyes twinkling.
Something about her makes me falter. She seems really familiar.
Have I met her before? For a moment I try to place her.
Her face is freshly scrubbed and her hair is pinned up in a no-nonsense fashion.
Yet, despite her frumpy appearance, she’s probably only the same age as the forty-something women I see on the streets of Manhattan, groomed to within an inch of their expensive honey-blonde highlights.
I smile, giving up on wracking my memory. Nope, it’s impossible. She probably just reminds me of someone off TV or something, I decide, going to shake hands.
‘We’re delighted to have you onboard our Jane Austen tour.’
‘Why, thank you.’ I nod as she grips my hand and pumps it vigorously up and down.
For such a petite woman, Miss Steane has an unexpectedly firm handshake.
‘I’m sure you’re going to find the next few days truly fascinating,’ she continues.
‘Great, thanks.’
‘You’ll discover a whole new world.’
‘Um . . . wow . . . thanks,’ I say, trying to sound casual.
She still hasn’t let go of my hand.
‘And as your guide I’m here to make sure it’s an experience you’ll never forget,’ she intones earnestly, fixing me with her bright hazel eyes.
Wow, she’s certainly very enthusiastic about her job, isn’t she?
‘Fab.’ I nod, smiling harder.
She beams broadly. ‘Splendid!’
Finally releasing my fingers, she deftly snaps the sign to her clipboard and tucks it under her arm. ‘Now, if you’d like to follow me . . .’ And I’ve barely had time to register before she’s taken off across the airport and is disappearing in a blur of tweed into the automatic twirling doors.
For a moment I watch her. Seriously, she really does look very familiar. I wonder if— Oh, God, Emily, you’re being ridiculous. You’ve never met this woman in your life. And pushing it from my mind, I grab my wayward cart and race after her.
I’m loving England.
OK, so I’ve only been here an hour, and we’re still only in the parking lot, but I’m already won over.
For a start, everyone’s just so polite. They keep saying sorry, even when it’s me who bangs my cart into their legs.
Plus, there are all these orderly lines – sorry, I should say ‘queues’ – for cabs, tickets, the washrooms, you name it, and everyone is waiting quietly and patiently.
Which would never happen back in the States, they’d be kicking up a fuss and loudly complaining.
Plus, everything just seems so cool. Stella’s always telling me that New York is the fashion capital of the world, but everyone looks so stylish here.
Everything does. Like, for example, the money.
I just love how it’s all different sizes and has the Queen’s head on it.
Dollars are so boring and green, and just so samey in comparison.
And what about the black cabs? Our yellow ones barely fit two people in the back, and my knees are always banging up against the driver’s seat, but I just saw a whole family climb inside one of the black ones a moment ago. And with all their luggage. It was incredible.
Stepping onto a pedestrian crossing, I look the wrong way and nearly get myself run over by the aforementioned cab. (Repeat after me, Emily: look right, not left; look right, not left.)
‘Watch where you’re going, luv,’ yells the burly cab driver as he screeches to a halt.
My God, did you hear his accent? Is that real Cockney? Throwing him an apologetic smile, I scoot to the other side. Because I love it. It’s like something out of Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels. Which is kind of apt, as I would kill for that accent.
‘We’re parked over there,’ Miss Steane is trilling as we hurry across the parking lot. ‘It’s the blue-and-white one at the end.’ She gestures over to a large coach and I feel a beat of pleasure. It looks really swanky. The type that has air-conditioning and a luxury bathroom.
See, I knew it wasn’t going to be a battered old minibus or anything, I think righteously, remembering back to Stella’s negative comments last night.
With a whoosh of air pressure the automatic doors swing open and Miss Steane hops up the steps.