Chapter Nineteen
Letting myself into my room, I flop down onto my bed and dig out my crumpled itinerary. I’m still reeling from my conversation with Maeve and the news of her secret adoption, but with only a few hours to go until the ball, I force my mind to turn to the evening ahead.
Included in the tour are tickets for a charity ball.
Entitled ‘A New Year’s Eve Extravaganza’, it’s being held tonight at the town’s ballroom, famous for housing the actual balls that Jane Austen attended as a young woman, and which were subsequently the inspiration for those described in her novels.
. . . so put on your finest and enjoy a Regency ball, just as if you’re a character in one of Jane Austen’s novels.
I feel a flutter of anticipation as I think about Mr Darcy.
I wonder if he’s going to show up again tonight at the ball?
The way he appeared outside my window. It was like something from Romeo and Juliet.
Feeling all warm and gooey inside, I wonder where he is, what he’s doing, when I’m going to see him again. If only he’d call me.
But of course he won’t. And I can’t call him either. Neither can I text him or email him, I realise, thinking about all the staples of modern-day dating I’ve taken for granted. The flirty text messages, funny emails, hours spent lying in bed at night giggling on the phone . . .
Gosh, I’d forgotten how much fun that can be, I think, feeling a teensy bit disappointed that there won’t be any of that.
But never mind, there’s always letters and they’re a lot more personal and romantic, aren’t they?
I tell myself encouragingly. Although saying that, I can’t remember the last time I wrote a letter, apart from to my bank manager, and trust me, there was nothing romantic about that.
But still, I adore the idea of writing a proper letter.
There’s all that gorgeous textured writing paper you can buy, and I can use real ink and a fountain pen, and maybe even a little wax seal with a stamp with my initial on it.
And I could tie up the replies in a bundle with a faded pink ribbon and keep them in the attic, where I’ll find them when I’m an old lady in years to come and reread them and—
Er, hello? Before you get completely carried away, Emily, where exactly are you going to send these love letters? Seriously. What are you going to do? Address them to Mr Darcy, c/o Pride and Prejudice, England?
Suddenly the whole thing strikes me as even more ridiculous and impossible than it was before – if that’s possible – and even more complicated. It’s like trying to figure out a really difficult math problem: the more you think about it, the more confusing it becomes.
So I’m not going to, I tell myself firmly.
But there is one thing for sure: this time I’m going to make certain I make more of an effort than I did last night. Just in case . . .
Glancing up from the itinerary, I hoist myself off the quilted eiderdown and tug open the pine closet that’s stuffed under the eaves.
Alrighty, so where’s my dress? I peer inside the closet for my black nylon garment-holder.
It must just be at the back somewhere. I rattle through the coat-hangers.
Huh, that’s weird, it’s not there. I could have sworn I hung it up in the closet, but now I come to think of it . . .
Screwing up my forehead, I glance around the room. Maybe it’s behind the door under the coat. Or chucked on the floor along with my suitcase. Or for some strange reason in the bathroom.
But it’s not in any of those places, and padding around my hotel room, picking up T-shirts as if a large, black nylon carry-on might suddenly appear from underneath, I’m beginning to feel a tinge of alarm. Where the hell is it?
I try retracing my steps. When did I last see it?
Well, that’s easy, that would be . . . I draw a blank.
Actually, for the life of me I can’t remember when I last saw it.
Here in Bath? Umm . . . actually, no. At the last hotel?
Um . . . no again. Panic is beginning to rise.
On the coach? When I first arrived at Heathrow? At check-in at JFK?
No. No. No.
In the cab to the airport?
N—
Hang on a minute. My memory focuses in like a long lens.
Oh, shit.
Suddenly I can see it, lying next to me on the back seat.
I hadn’t wanted to put it in the trunk as I didn’t want to crush it.
I’d insisted on placing it on the other side of the armrest, folding it carefully in half.
Black nylon on black leather. Easy not to see if you’re in a hurry.
To forget about if you don’t have change and have to ask passing strangers if they can split a hundred.
To leave on the back seat because your driver has a bad back and you’re left to struggle with your ridiculously heavy suitcase.
My heart plummets.
Somewhere in Manhattan my sparkly black dress is hanging around in a nylon garment-holder, missing out on the party. And I’m here in England, with a New Year’s Eve ball to go to. With absolutely nothing to wear.
I didn’t think my heart could plummet further. But it can. And it does.
What a bummer. I spent ages choosing that dress. And despite what Stella thought, it was a really nice dress, I tell myself, imagining myself in it now, dancing around a ballroom. Disappointment clunks. God, I’m such an idiot.
What am I going to do now? For a split second I entertain the thought of rushing out and buying something else, but it’s late, all the shops are closed. In desperation I dive on my suitcase. I haven’t unpacked properly yet. There must be something I can wear in here instead.
I flip it open and survey the jumbled contents.
Abruptly any hope I might have had stalls.
Oh, dear. Perhaps Stella was right. Perhaps I was a little heavy-handed with my reading material.
Peering gloomily at the suitcase full of books, I wish I’d listened to her.
I mean, I can’t exactly wear Sense and Sensibility, now, can I?
Quickly I begin unpacking the paperbacks and stacking them up in wobbly piles on the eiderdown.
I’ve always thought that you can never be truly alone if you’ve got a book to keep you company.
You can be stranded at an airport, alone in a strange country or stuck in a motel room on a business trip, but if you’ve got a good book with you, you’ll be OK.
Saying that, this is slightly ridiculous.
I tug out a large volume of North and South in the vain hope that there might be something vaguely appropriate to wear underneath. And find that, no – it’s only an Emily Bronte novel lurking in the corner. Damn. I feel a certain inevitability.
Didn’t I bring anything to wear as a back-up?
A scene flashes through my mind of a chandelier-lit ballroom, guests milling around in their finest, quaffing champagne, engaging in polite conversation, staring open-mouthed at the American girl doing the two-step in pink fleecy pyjamas . . .
No! Stop!
With a screech the scene grinds to a halt and I try shaking the image free from my mind.
Come on, Emily, you must have packed something suitable for Plan B.
My heart racing, I push up the sleeves of my grey sweatshirt and dive back in.
Please let there be something in here. For the love of God, please.
Hang on, what’s that?
Feeling a tentative whoosh of relief, I pounce on something black. I knew it! I knew I would have packed a little black dress. I mean, who goes anywhere at Christmas without an LBD?
I do.
I glare accusingly at the item in my hands.
Because it’s not a dress – no siree – it’s the dreaded cashmere sweater, goddamn it.
Dismay resonates so heavy inside it’s almost audible.
Frigging hell. I’m supposed to be dressing up in my finest, not looking like my Auntie Jean.
Flinging it onto the cream carpet, I sit on the bed, fold my arms and survey the mess around me. Shit, shit, shit.
Outside in the corridor I can hear a flurry of excitement and the sound of doors opening and closing as the ladies flit into each other’s rooms to show off their outfits. I glance at my watch. I have fifteen minutes. And no dress.
At once my panic crumples into a weary resignation. I’m totally useless. I didn’t pack anything suitable to wear. I feel a wetness on my cheek. There’s no way I can go to the ball now.
So this is it. Me. On my own. In my hotel room. On New Year’s Eve.
A knock on the door interrupts my disappointment.
‘Who is it?’ I call out, wiping my cheeks with the cuff of my sweatshirt.
There’s no answer and I half think I’ve imagined it.
I wait a moment, but hearing not a sound restlessly pick up a copy of Emma, open it at random and start reading about the Christmas Eve party that the characters all go to.
Only instead of feeling OK, my theory is shot to pieces as now I’m feeling glummer than ever.
I eye the door. You know, it did sound like a knock.
Hauling myself off the bed, and sending my little pile of books toppling, I pick my way through the debris on the carpet. Most likely it’s Maeve or Rose wanting to see my outfit, I think miserably, tugging open the door.
Huh, that’s strange. There’s no one there.
Standing in my doorway, I glance up and down the pastel-pink hallway.
Nope. It’s empty. No doubt all the ladies have already got dressed and gone downstairs by now, I realise, glancing at my watch.
It’s seven thirty. The coach will be leaving shortly.
Sniffing back any rogue tears, I turn to go back inside and happen to glance down.
There’s a package. Curiously, I bend down.
It has a tag on which is written, ‘Emily Albright.’
I feel a stab of delight.
For me?
I dart back inside my room and start ripping it open. I’ve never been one to carefully unwrap gifts.
Top layer of wrapping off, I discover a second layer underneath.
This time it’s in shiny gold festive paper with little Christmas trees dotted all over.
My curiosity is bubbling over. Someone must have sent me a belated Christmas present.
But who? I don’t recognise the handwriting on the label – besides, who would have my address here?
Squeezing the contents, it feels sort of soft and squidgy, some type of clothing maybe, like a scarf or a pair of gloves . . .
Or a gorgeous slinky dress made from chocolate-brown satin and embroidered with tiny crystals.
I gasp as it spills out onto the eiderdown.
Oh, my God. Looping my fingers through the delicate spaghetti straps, I hold it up and gaze at it in stunned amazement.
Who would send me a dress? And not just any old dress, but a dazzling, exquisitely made, figure-hugging dress.
Jumping up from the bed, I rush over to the full-length-mirror and, pressing it up against my body, angle the mirror’s brass stand to see my reflection.
I catch my breath as I snap into view.
Holy shit. I can’t quite believe it. It’s the kind of dress I’d look at in shop windows but would never have the balls to wear.
Or a ball to wear it to.
Excitement thumps.
Stella. It has to be. I remember now, her sitting on the sofa bed in my New York apartment, watching me pack.
She was reading the itinerary and kept asking me what clothes I was taking.
She must have sent me this as a surprise, a sort of secret Santa.
God knows how she got the address, but she has been a little detective of late, just look how she got Mr McKenzie to come in and cover for us over the vacation . . .
A thought thuds.
Oh, hell. I only got her a scented candle.
Snatching up my phone, I speed-dial her number.
I glance at my watch. I’ve got just over five minutes.
If I quickly wash my face, squirt on a bit of deodorant, pin up my hair and do my make-up on the coach .
. . My mind racing, I start dashing around the room, my phone wedged in the crick of my neck as I dig out my one pair of stilettos.
Stella insisted I bring them, just in case. Now I know why.
‘Hey, you’ve reached Stella. I can’t come to the phone right now, but if you’d like to leave a message . . .’
‘Hi, it’s me, Em,’ I gasp, turning on the taps in the bathroom and splashing my face with icy-cold water.
‘I just got your present and I wanted to say thank you. It’s beautiful, Stella, really beautiful.
’ My voice is muffled as I roughly dry my face on a towel.
‘And I’m sorry I only got you a scented candle, but it’s wild fig and made of soy wax and the woman in the store told me it was supposed to bring you serenity and joy, or something.
Look, I gotta go, but I’ll call you later. And thanks again, honey. I love it!’
Hanging up, I unzip my jeans, hop back into the bedroom and, chucking my phone onto the cluttered eiderdown, begin stripping off my clothes.
I pull off my sweatshirt, unhook my bra and wriggle out of my comfy undies.
I’m breathless with excitement. Oh, my God, I’ve never been brave enough to even try on a dress like this.
I mean, look at it, it’s just so va-va-va-voom.
Scooping up the dress, I slip it over my head, and as it cascades to the floor I feel a sudden thrill. Forget staying in with a good book. This Cinderella is going to the ball.