Chapter Eight
I stare at him in bewilderment.
What the . . .?
For a moment I’m too startled to say anything. I don’t know how to react.
Then I burst out laughing.
‘Oh, ha, ha, very funny! I get it.’ I grin widely. ‘This is one of those working museums and you’re one of those people who dress up in costume and role-play, aren’t you?’ Suddenly it’s all making perfect sense. The clothes. The formality. The quaintly old-fashioned way of speaking.
‘Role-play?’ he repeats in confusion. ‘I am afraid I do not understand.’
I must say, he’s really good at playing Mr Darcy. He’s just like I imagine him to be. And just as good-looking. Better even.
‘Though it took me a moment to work it out,’ I confess. ‘You really had me going there.’
‘Going where?’ he replies innocently.
‘You know, with the funny clothes and everything . . .’
Puzzled, he looks down at himself, then back at me. ‘Forgive me, I was not going to mention it, but I was thinking the same about yourself.’ He seems to be bracing himself for what he’s about to say next. ‘I do not want to be rude, but are those trousers you are wearing?’
I look down and immediately regret my choice of clothing.
I’m wearing my baggy old pink cords. Stella’s been telling me to chuck these away for years, but I’ve never listened.
They’re about two sizes too big for me and subsequently really comfy.
They’re also, for the exact same reason, deeply unflattering.
Insecurity grips. He’s right. What on earth am I wearing? ‘Trousers’ suggests fashionable and figure-hugging. These are neither. I look terrible. I look like someone’s sofa.
‘Oh, these old things?’ I say, trying to brazen it out and pretend I don’t care.
God, it’s always the way, isn’t it? Why is it that when you do put on some make-up and blow-dry your hair you don’t bump into anyone vaguely attractive, and then when you step out looking like this, you bump into this.
It’s like some horrible law of the universe or something.
Like having a credit note. Before, you covet everything in that store, but as soon as you get a credit note, guaranteed you’ll never find anything you want ever again. It’s so unfair.
I look at this now. Underneath that Victorian costume, he’s obviously one of those really trendy types.
I can just tell. He looks like one of Stella’s friends, with the long sideburns and the dark, floppy hair that falls just so over his forehead.
And I know for a fact that hair doesn’t do that without a lot of product.
‘I got them in a sale. They didn’t have my size . . .’ I can hear myself gabbling as I always do when I find someone really attractive. It’s like my tongue winds itself up like a clockwork toy. ‘. . . But they were reduced from fifty bucks to only fifteen, so I couldn’t say no.’
And that’s another thing I always do – tell people how much I pay for things – it’s as if I have to boast about my bargains and what a savvy shopper I am. Realising I’ve done it again, I cringe inwardly.
‘Bucks?’
‘Oh, I forgot, we’re talking pounds now,’ I correct myself while doing a quick calculation in my head. ‘It’s probably roughly about ten pounds. Or quid,’ I add, feeling a twinge of pride that I’m picking up the lingo.
‘I think you must be mistaken.’
‘Am I? Oops, probably. Math has never been my strong subject, I must admit.’ I quickly redo the figures. ‘No, I think that’s about right.’ I smile self-consciously as he peers at my cords in disbelief.
‘They cost ten pounds?’ He looks at me with concern. ‘I find that very hard to believe. That would be rather a lot of money.’
A typical man’s response, I note, thinking about the reaction of every boyfriend I’ve ever had when I’ve come home from a rare shopping trip and showed them my purchases. Why do men always think clothes should cost the price of a beer?
‘Did you have them tailored?’
‘No, they’re from The Gap.’
‘And where might that be?’
I stare at him, incredulous. ‘You’re telling me you’ve never heard of The Gap?’
His face is serious. ‘Should I have?’
I’m about to answer when it dawns on me that I’m being completely thick. Of course he’s heard of The Gap, he’s just pretending not to. This is all part of the act. It’s probably really important he stays in the role for his job.
‘Silly me, of course not.’ I smile knowingly.
His face relaxes, and thinking it might be rather fun, I decide to play along.
‘But maybe you need to get out more,’ I tease.
OK, make that flirt.
‘I can assure you I do go out,’ he protests haughtily. ‘Only last week I went hunting with Mr Bingley.’
I stifle a giggle. Honestly, I’m going to have to say something. I won’t be able to keep this role-playing thing up. Glancing around to make sure there’s no one about but me, I lean towards him in confidence. He smells deliciously of cologne, and my stomach does this funny flip-flopping thing.
‘You can drop the Darcy act,’ I whisper. ‘I promise I won’t tell anyone.’
He stares at me in confusion. ‘I am afraid I do not understand.’
‘Really?’ I persist, raising my eyebrows in a nudge-nudge-wink-wink kind of way.
‘Really,’ he replies, completely stone-faced.
OK, I give up. This guy obviously takes his job very seriously. There’s no way I’m going to be able to get him out of character. He’s probably like one of those method actors.
‘Don’t worry, forget it.’ I smile.
But he doesn’t smile back. Instead, he studies my face with his dark, liquid eyes. My chest tightens. There’s something very sexy about him, yet I can’t work him out. One minute he seems shy and almost gauche, and the next he has an air of arrogance about him. It’s a lethal combination.
‘Your accent, where is it from?’ he’s asking now. ‘I have been trying to place it, but—’
‘New York,’ I blurt, breaking his gaze and looking away. He’s making me all jittery.
‘New York?’ His expression is one of astonishment. ‘You are from America?’
Just the way he speaks is adorable. He has that lovely deep voice and the sexiest English accent.
Er, hello, now it’s your turn to say something, Emily.
‘Um . . . yeah. I’m here on a literature tour – you know, a week exploring the English countryside, visiting museums, places of interest, like, for example, Bath and Winchester . . .’
Hearing myself blabbering off my itinerary, I cringe inwardly. Oh, God, what am I doing? I sound like a moron. Normally I can be counted on to come out with a witty one-liner, or at least something vaguely amusing, but today I don’t know what’s happened to me.
You like him. That’s what happened to you, Emily.
‘. . . and it’s been really great so far. I’ve met a lot of interesting people.’ I break off and see he’s watching me with apparent fascination. I wonder if he’s got a girlfriend?
I smile shyly and this time he smiles back.
It’s a slight, awkward, unsure smile, almost as if smiling isn’t something he does very much, which of course makes it incredibly seductive.
Who wants to be smiled at by someone who throws them out willy-nilly?
No, this smile feels special. I feel special.
‘Would that include myself?’ he asks quietly.
Flip-flop. There goes my stomach again.
‘Um . . . yeah,’ I manage a wobbly reply. He must have a girlfriend – he’s far too gorgeous to be single.
‘Well, then allow me to return the compliment.’
Oh, go on then – if you must, I feel like quipping. Thankfully I don’t.
There’s a pause and a look passes between us. If he wasn’t way out of my league, I’d think he liked me.
‘Look, I should be going,’ I say reluctantly, my voice coming out all high and tinny. I swallow hard and try to compose myself. Honestly, Emily, what’s come over you? It’s like you’ve got a crush or something.
‘Yes, I too have matters I need to attend to. A letter I promised to write to my sister.’
‘Well, nice to meet you, Mr Darcy,’ I say pointedly, holding out my hand again to shake his.
He glances at my outstretched hand, then bows his head. ‘It was a pleasure to meet you, too, Miss Emily,’ he says, his eyes lingering on me.
OK, so it’s official. I have a crush. A full-blown, adolescent crush.
I stand there for a moment, not wanting to leave as I know I’m never going to see him again, but knowing I’ve got to.
After all, I can’t stand here all day just gawping at him, can I?
I have to preserve some modicum of cool.
I’m a twenty-nine-year-old New Yorker, the manager of a bookstore, a mature adult with a pension plan and the beginnings of faint pencil lines around her eyes.
I can’t be going around acting like some giddy, love-struck teenager.
Even if right now I feel like one.
Tossing my hair over my shoulder in what I hope is a sophisticated, yet casual move, I turn and walk confidently across the room.
Reaching the door, I tug it open, then glance back.
He’s seated at the little writing table, the fading sunlight from the window casting him almost in silhouette.
Huh, he must have moved the plastic barrier as it’s not there any more, I muse.
Back ramrod straight, he’s dipping his quill in the ink, tapping the nib against the glass neck of the bottle.
He’s obviously found some sheaves of paper from somewhere as, with a steady hand, he begins writing his letter.
I have to say I’m impressed. You’ve got to hand it to the museum: he’s pretty goddamn realistic.
If you didn’t know better, you really would think he’s Mr Darcy come to life.
‘There you are.’
Stepping out of the room, I walk into the darkened hallway and crash headfirst into the warm armpit of a corduroy jacket.
‘Mumph.’ I give a muffled yelp and jump backwards.
Of course. It had to be, didn’t it? Spike Hargreaves’ corduroy jacket.
‘Oh . . . hi,’ I mumble, hurriedly smoothing down my mussed-up hair.
‘Where the hell have you been?’
I feel a snap of irritation at his belligerent mood. ‘None of your goddamn business,’ I reply archly.