Chapter Thirty-Two
Of course it soon gets round about Ernie’s disappearance and it doesn’t take long before rumours begin circulating. According to Hilary, who has it on good authority, Ernie was spotted on New Year’s Eve with a woman from the ball.
Apparently they appeared ‘deep in conversation’, is how Hilary puts it, which reminds me of those murder mysteries you get on TV, where the victims are always last seen ‘deep in conversation’ with a stranger before their untimely death.
Not that I’m implying Ernie has now turned from a con man into a murderer, I’m just saying.
Credence is further added to this story by Rupinda, who relates her visit to a newsagent’s yesterday where she’d encountered Ernie and the aforementioned mystery woman (now a blonde, with bad posture, according to Rupinda).
Ernie, however, did not see Rupinda, and he and the blonde were overheard talking about their last-minute vacation to Jamaica.
Or at least that’s what she thought she heard, admits Rupinda, when quizzed by Rose, but then perhaps it wasn’t that at all.
In fact, now she’s thinking about it, she can’t be one hundred per cent sure it was Ernie after all, as she was too busy flicking through Create ‘proud’, I’ve fast come to realise, means sexist, and as for him appearing ‘arrogant’, in reality, what it really means is he’s actually quite snobbish.
And finally it hits me. I’m not in love with Mr Darcy.
Not even remotely. And you know what? I never was.
I was in love with the idea of him and what he represented, but not the reality.
Of course that doesn’t mean I’m not attracted to him, who wouldn’t be?
But how can anything live up to the airbrushed vision I’ve created in my head all these years?
He can’t. And he shouldn’t be made to. Because that’s the thing about Mr Darcy – he’s a female fantasy.
But that’s all he is, a fantasy. And that’s what he should remain.
‘Emily?’
A voice right next to my ear snaps me back and I look to see Maeve peering at me.
‘My, my, you were away with the fairies, weren’t you?’ she’s chuckling, pushing her glasses up her nose to peer at me even closer. ‘Haven’t you noticed? Look! We’ve arrived.’
She gestures out of the window, and as I turn sideways I see everyone milling about in the parking lot full of excited chatter and anticipation, and I realise the coach is empty.
‘Sorry. I was engrossed in my book,’ I say, making my excuses, and getting up. ‘You go ahead, I’ll follow you.’
‘Okey-dokey,’ nods Maeve, and then throws me a smile. ‘Gosh, isn’t this exciting? Home of the famous lake scene. Perhaps we’ll see our very own Mr Darcy,’ she says, and raises her eyebrows.
‘I hope so,’ I reply, watching as she turns and begins making her way down the coach.
And I really do hope I see him, I think, as I start quickly gathering together my things.
Because I’ve also realised something else.
Mr Darcy and I can never make this work.
And ironically it’s got nothing to do with the weirdness, absurdity and implausibility of it all, and everything to do with something a lot more mundane: irreconcilable differences.
Or, to put it in layman’s terms, we’re just too different.
We have views which are, quite literally, worlds apart. And I need to tell him this. But since I don’t have a number I can call him on, a mobile I can text or an email address I can write to, I’m going to have to do it the hard way and tell him face to face.
I feel my resolve falter.
The only problem is, how on earth do you break up with Mr Darcy?