Chapter Ten
I left Cecil Court and hurried across Covent Garden to work.
Whether or not Nick knew exactly what his mum’s copy of Pride and Prejudice did, it was clear he didn’t trust me enough to confide in me, which meant I couldn’t trust him either.
And given that there were no obvious clues lying around Baskerville Books, I was now back to trying to find the explanation for Darcy’s appearance on my own.
My best hope was Lily being able to connect me with this woman who’d asked about the secret book club, as she may well know more about whatever Maggie used to get up to.
And in the meantime, I’d keep searching for clues.
When I arrived at Cake Expectations, I found Enzo in the staff room doing his eyeliner in the small, grubby mirror.
“You’re alive!” he shouted. “I wondered if that Mr. Darcy impersonator had kidnapped you.”
“No, I’m fine.”
“Did you find out what was wrong with the guy? Was it some kind of psychotic episode?”
“I don’t know, probably,” I said, turning to face my locker in case my face gave away the lie.
“He was so weird. I’ve only met one person with energy like that before, and she was dead.”
I spun back around. “Did you say dead?”
“Mm-hmm,” Enzo said, adding a well-practiced flick to the edge of his eye.
“I was at the cinema with my cousin, Lucia; we were watching Inside Out—or maybe it was that film about mutant sharks, I can’t remember.
Anyway, I suddenly felt this really cold sensation on my back, like someone had opened a freezer door behind me, and when I looked, I saw a young girl sitting a couple of rows back, laughing at something on-screen, only she was kind of gray and fuzzy.
I asked Lucia if she could see her, too, but she just rolled her eyes and told me I was being witchy like Nonna. ”
I’d never met Enzo’s Nonna, but I’d heard lots about the woman, a formidable Italian septuagenarian who was the all-powerful matriarch of the family.
When Enzo’s parents had reacted badly to his coming out, it had been his grandmother who’d flown over from Sicily to berate them for not supporting their son.
She was also the source of Enzo’s spirit medium aspirations, and he often told me stories of her “seeing” abilities.
“And you say the Darcy guy had the same energy as the dead girl?” I said, trying not to wince at the words coming out of my mouth.
“I felt it as soon as he walked in, that same creepy, cold sensation on my skin. I’m not saying the guy was dead, but there was definitely something peculiar about him.”
Peculiar indeed. “Enzo, this is going to sound like a strange question, but hypothetically speaking, have you ever heard of a fictional character coming to life?”
“What, like in Enchanted? I love that film; Amy Adams is a queen.”
“I more meant in real life.”
Enzo arched a perfectly microbladed eyebrow at me. “What are you saying? You think our poor man’s Matthew Macfadyen was the actual Mr. Darcy?”
I gave a shrill laugh. “No, of course not! As I said, it was just a hypothetical question. But I know you’re very sensitive to the spirit world, and I wondered if you’d ever heard of people communicating with characters from books.”
He frowned, tapping the end of the eyeliner pencil against his lips.
“I don’t think so, but I wouldn’t rule it out.
The veils between worlds are thin, and sometimes there are small tears where spirits can pass through.
Nonna was once haunted for six months by the wife of the fishmonger, who’d somehow become trapped in our world and kept screaming at Nonna to tell her husband he needed to water the zucchini. ”
Normally when Enzo said things like this, I’d just laugh or dismiss it as mumbo jumbo, but given recent events, I wasn’t in a position to scoff.
“When this happens, how do the spirits get back? Do they ever get stuck here forever?”
“They normally either disappear when whatever unfinished business they have in this world is resolved, or else they find their way back through the tear. So maybe this fictional character of yours should go to the place where they first appeared in our world, in case that’s where the tear is? Hypothetically speaking, of course.”
He gave me a wink, pulled on the Gandalf beard, and headed out to the main floor.
* * *
I spent much of my shift thinking over what Enzo had said about tears between worlds.
As bananas as the whole thing sounded, it was the only practical suggestion I’d had so far about how to return Darcy to Pride and Prejudice, and so by the time I left work, I’d decided that I was going to take him out on the bus the following morning and see what happened.
I caught the Tube back to Kentish Town and hurried toward my flat.
If by some complete miracle Enzo’s suggestion worked, then tonight was going to be my last evening with Mr. Darcy, so I wanted to make the most of every moment I had with this glorious man before he disappeared.
I let myself into the building and crept past Mrs. Atallah’s door, grateful for the noise from her TV so she wouldn’t hear me and accost me for a chat.
I tiptoed up the stairs, but when I got to the top landing, my heart dropped.
My front door was wide open.
“Mr. Darcy!”
I rushed inside to find my sofa empty and the TV screen black.
I checked in the bedroom, the bathroom, and for some reason that’s still unclear to me, the laundry basket, but he wasn’t anywhere in the flat.
Had Darcy somehow disappeared back into Pride and Prejudice of his own accord?
But then why was the front door open? Perhaps he’d worked out that I was holding him captive, picked the lock, and made a run for it?
If so, he could be anywhere by now, roaming the streets of London, getting mugged, harassed, or injured.
I ran back down the stairs and out onto the pavement, but there was no sign of him. Darcy was gone.
“Shit!”
I sank down onto the top step and put my head in my hands, biting back tears. Darcy had abandoned me, just like my dad and Crispin, and I was alone again.
“That’s The Vixen. She looks great but is a total bitch.”
Mrs. Atallah’s voice floated out of her front window. I often heard her chatting to herself while she watched TV, so I paid her no attention. Darcy may have left me, but he was still vulnerable and needed my help. But who should I call: the police, the hospital, or Baskerville Books?
“And what, pray tell, is occurring here?”
Darcy! I felt relief flood every cell in my body at the sound of his voice. I jumped up and ran back into the building, pounding on the downstairs door.
“Mrs. Atallah! Can you hear me?”
“All right, all right, keep your hair on!”
The door swung open to reveal my landlady, wearing electric-blue eye shadow and copious amounts of gold jewelry, a grin on her face so wide that I could see smudges of red lipstick on her teeth.
“Where is he?” I said, pushing past her into the room. “Is he OK?”
Mrs. Atallah’s flat was decorated like a particularly chaotic charity shop.
Every wall, surface, and inch of carpet was taken up with pictures, ornaments, and furniture, all arranged with no obvious concern for period or style.
But it wasn’t this that made my mouth drop open.
It was the sight of Mr. Darcy, sitting in a throne-like chair, dressed in a shiny lime-green tracksuit, his eyes glued to an episode of what appeared to be RuPaul’s Drag Race.
“Oh my God, what have you done to him?” I gasped.
“I’ve rescued him, is what I’ve done,” Mrs. Atallah hollered. “The poor man was stuck up there watching boring old documentaries, with nothing but a pathetic little sandwich for lunch.”
“What is he wearing? Is that a shell suit?”
“It was Charbel’s favorite back in the nineties. I’ve lent it to your friend while I wash his costume. He’ll never get the deposit back if he doesn’t keep it clean.”
I blinked as I tried to process this all. “How did he get down here, Mrs. Atallah?”
“You mean how did he get out of your locked flat?”
I glanced at her and saw she was staring at me with beady eyes.
“I can explain. I was worried he might get lost or get into trouble, so I wanted to—”
She dismissed me with a wave of her hand, sending the dozens of bangles on her arm clanging like a discordant percussion section.
“I heard a shout while I was dusting the stairs, so I went up to check. The door was locked, so I let myself in with the spare key. Don’t look at me like that; I thought you might have left him chained to the bed. ”
“What? Eww!”
“Anyway, he was watching some awful documentary about meerkats and chewing on a disgusting-looking sandwich, so I took pity on him. And look, see how much happier he is now!”
She pointed at Darcy, who was watching RuPaul’s contestants take part in a runway walk, his face a mixture of terror and delight.
“Did he, uh…” I paused, wondering how to phrase the next question. “Did he tell you who he thinks he is?”
She nodded vigorously. “He did, but I’m not concerned.
I had a cousin whose wife thought she was the Egyptian queen Cleopatra, and she lived a very happy life.
I’ve always believed that some people are not born for our cruel world, and so take refuge in their own.
And to be honest, given the shit show we live in right now, who can blame them. ”
I swallowed, suddenly nervous Mrs. Atallah might have broadcast Darcy’s appearance to the whole of North London. “Have you mentioned him to anyone?”
She wrinkled her nose. “Of course not! Who do you think I am? The man isn’t harming anyone, and he seems perfectly content. Although he did ask me if I know the way back to Netherfield.”
“Well, thank you so much for looking after him. I’ll take him off your hands now.”
“Not so fast, habibti.”
Her tone had changed, and I immediately recognized it as the one she used whenever I tried to complain about the mouse infestation or asked her to investigate the smell of gas in my kitchen. It was her “don’t fuck with me” voice.
“I was thinking that perhaps we could come to a little arrangement.”
“What kind of arrangement?” I asked.
“Well, clearly you are enjoying the company of this gentleman for whatever sex role-play thing you have going on.”
“It’s not like that.”
“There is no judgment from me,” she said, holding her palms up. “As long as it’s consensual, two adults may do whatever they please. It is consensual, isn’t it?”
“Mrs. Atallah!” I shrieked.
“Well, I’m happy to keep your little secret, on the condition that you let your friend come and visit me when you’re at work.”
“What? But why?”
“Because I enjoy his company,” she said. “He’s erudite and interesting, even if he does sometimes behave like he has a stick up his ass. But it’s been a long, long time since I had a handsome, charming companion to talk to.”
I paused. In the two and a half years I’d lived here, I’d thought of Mrs. Atallah as many things: noisy, interfering, completely inappropriate. But in all that time, I’d never once considered that she might be lonely too.
“I can feed him, if you like. He’s a big fan of my cooking.”
As Mrs. Atallah said that, I noticed all the empty dishes on the low table in front of the TV.
If my plan to take Darcy out on the 88 bus was successful, then he’d be gone by this time tomorrow—but if it didn’t work, then Mrs. Atallah’s idea wasn’t such a terrible one.
After all, I’d bankrupt myself if Darcy was here much longer and I kept ordering takeaway, and I wasn’t sure he’d be happy to eat my diet of fruit and instant noodles.
Plus, he was bound to get bored sitting in the flat on his own, especially if he was still here on Friday night when I was going to Bianca’s engagement party, and Mrs. Atallah could make sure he was safe.
“If you’re sure it won’t be a bother,” I said cautiously.
“Not at all. Do you hear that, Fitz? What good news!”
Darcy looked away from the TV, blinking as if waking from a dream. “Did you address me?”
“Yes!” Mrs. Atallah said, practically dancing with glee. “Miss Knight says you can come and hang out with me while she’s at work. Isn’t that great?”
“Will you prepare more of those delicious fal-fals?”
“I will make all the falafels your little Georgian heart desires. And tomorrow, I’ll introduce you to the greatest work of art of the modern era.”
“Would that be Leonardo da Vinci’s Mona Lisa?” Darcy asked.
“No, season five of Love Island!”