Chapter Six #2
I spent the Tube ride to Baskerville Books trying to come up with a cover story for why I was returning that wouldn’t arouse the bookseller’s suspicion but that would allow me to try to find out how and why Mr. Darcy had suddenly magicked himself out of Pride and Prejudice.
But by the time I arrived at the shop, my mind was still blank; I was going to have to wing it.
As I walked in, I was struck once again by how cozy and inviting the shop was once you got past the bleak front window.
If only the owner wasn’t such a romance-hating knob, I could happily have spent hours browsing here.
The knob himself was standing behind the counter, his head bent down as he flicked through a book.
He was wearing jeans and a faded Fleetwood Mac T-shirt, and his hair was even more disheveled than last time, as if he were standing in front of a wind machine in a 1980s pop video.
It should have looked ridiculous, and yet, much to my annoyance, there was something undeniably attractive about this man. Hateful, but hot.
He looked up and spotted me, and I saw his cheeks flush slightly pink, no doubt with rage. I waited for him to shout and demand I return his precious magical book, but when he spoke, there was no anger in his voice, only curiosity.
“I wasn’t expecting to see you in here again.”
“I fancied a bit more shoplifting,” I said, reaching toward the nearest table and grabbing the first book to hand, a huge hardback that, unfortunately, turned out to be Boris Johnson’s autobiography.
“If you want to steal that, you’re going to need a bigger bag,” the bookseller said, and when I glanced over at him, I saw a sparkle of mischief in his eyes.
“I would never steal anything written by this man,” I said. “Not unless I’d run out of toilet roll.”
The bookseller laughed, a deep, surprisingly joyful sound, and I felt my own cheeks color. And then I remembered this was the person who’d called romance novels “toxic.” I put the book down and turned back to the counter. It was time to get down to business.
“Actually, I’m not in a shoplifting mood today. In fact, I’ve come to pay for that copy of Pride and Prejudice.”
He stopped laughing, his face clouding over. “I told you, it’s not for sale.”
“But it’s just a tatty old secondhand book, why wouldn’t you want to sell it?”
The man didn’t answer straight away, and I held my breath, waiting for him to come out and say it: Because there’s a chance Mr. Darcy might escape from its pages while you’re reading on the bus.
“The book’s not for sale because it’s my mum’s. It should never have been on the shelf in the first place.”
Ah, so perhaps she might be able to explain what was going on. “Is your mum here?”
I saw his jaw tense, and he looked away. “No. She’s no longer with us.”
“Oh shit, I’m sorry.” I knew all too well the world of pain behind those words, and I was about to change the subject when he cleared his throat.
“If you can bring her book back, I’ll exchange it for a new, unread copy. I don’t want word getting out that Nick Baskerville stocks ‘tatty old secondhand books.’”
I raised an eyebrow. “Don’t worry, Nick Baskerville, your reputation is safe. I never leave bad reviews for my shoplifting targets…even the misogynistic, romance-hating ones.”
“I told you, I’m not a misogynist. I just dislike one genre of books.”
“Yeah, yeah, one that sells women unrealistic expectations of what love should be like, or whatever patriarchal bullshit you spouted.”
“You make me sound like a monster,” he said.
“You are a monster! What kind of person hates books that bring people joy?”
Nick laughed again, and despite the weirdness of the situation, I found myself smiling.
There was something unguarded about his laugh, like it was a sound he rarely made and so enjoyed all the more when it happened, and I had a strange urge to say something funny just so I could hear it again.
Maybe my first impression had been wrong and he wasn’t as terrible as I’d thought?
In which case, perhaps I could confide in him that Fitzwilliam Darcy was currently sitting on my sofa, watching David Attenborough and eating Nutella out of the jar with a spoon.
“I like lots of novels that bring joy, thank you very much,” Nick said. “Just not ones where the message is that a woman needs to fall in love or be rescued by a man in order to be happy. And especially not ones where that man is a walking advert for toxic masculinity, like in Pride and Prejudice.”
OK, so my first impression definitely hadn’t been wrong. “That just shows how little you understand romance novels, because nowadays the women usually rescue themselves,” I said. “And how can anyone hate Pride and Prejudice? It’s one of the greatest novels in the English language.”
“Where to start? It’s snobbish, the characters are two-dimensional, and it’s given generations of women Stockholm syndrome by making them think they love an arrogant, hypocritical, emotionally manipulative man.”
“Mr. Darcy is not emotionally manipulative!” I said (possibly shouted). “He’s proud and shy, and maybe a bit misguided about Bingley and Jane, but everything he did was out of loyalty to the people he loved.”
Nick let out a sharp laugh, although there was nothing charming about this one.
“I should have known you’d be a Darcy stan.
Let me guess: You were a lonely, awkward teenager when you first saw Matthew Macfadyen’s hand-flex and fell hopelessly in love.
Or was it Colin Firth’s wet shirt that did it for you? ”
I felt a flash of rage at his patronizing tone.
For a second, I was tempted to tell him exactly why I loved Mr. Darcy so much.
How I’d read Pride and Prejudice time and again with my mum, the two of us fangirling over Elizabeth and discussing the many merits of wonderful Mr. Darcy.
How I’d returned to the comfort of that familiar story—and Darcy—when Dad left, Mum died, and I found myself parentless and alone shortly before my eighteenth birthday, and again seven years later, when Crispin broke my heart.
How Darcy had even inspired me to write love stories of my own, before I realized I’d never be good enough to write a relationship as perfect as his and Elizabeth’s.
But instead, I just glared at the bookseller.
“You know nothing about me, you arsehole.”
I saw him startle at the anger in my voice. “I’m sorry, that—”
“I need to go,” I said, turning toward the door. This man might be the only person who could explain my Darcy situation, but he was also the last person on earth I was ever going to ask for help.
“Wait! Just hang on a second, please.”
There it was again, that pleading tone I’d heard last time. I glanced back.
“I’m sorry for being rude just now,” he said. “I just… I really think you should destroy that copy of Pride and Prejudice.”
Destroy it? So he must know there was something strange about the book!
“I thought you wanted me to return it?” I put my hands on my hips, daring him to tell me the truth. “Why should I destroy the book, Nick? What’s wrong with it?”
He looked down at the counter, his brow furrowed as if working out a particularly hard sum.
“My mum…” he muttered.
“What about her?”
He didn’t answer for what felt like ages, and I found I was holding my breath again as I willed him to explain. But when he looked up at me, his face was expressionless.
“I don’t care what you do with the bloody book. Just get rid of it.”