Chapter Twenty-Five
Tess had been so full of good intentions and hope on Sunday evening, but as the following week flew by, both good intentions and hope had flown right out of the window.
Had she sent off her CV and covering letter to a single editor? No.
Had she stood up for herself when a client who had already signed off a double-page spread on an advertorial for a coach holiday through the Baltic States decided that they hated the copy? Again, no.
Had Tess put up any kind of protest when Claire had made her rewrite it three times before handing it to Jovan, ‘who will do a much better job with it’? She had not. Instead, she’d locked herself in the furthest cubicle from the door in the Ladies loos on a different floor to have a good cry.
Had she even forsaken carbs and wine in the hope of losing at least half a kilogram? Also, no.
Had she finally gone no contact with her mother after receiving a chain of fifteen – fifteen! – text messages about the recent and beautiful wedding of one of her childhood tormentors: ‘If Leanne Wrigley can find someone who wants to marry her, why can’t you?’ Again, very much no.
As double D-Day (Darcy Date Day) approached, as well as half hating herself for not actioning the plan, not even taking baby steps, to become a better version of herself, Tess let the self-loathing give way to terror.
Especially after Ella emailed her the final details.
To: Tess.Hardy@
From: Ella@
Subject: Date with Darcy!
Hi Tess
Hope this email finds you well. Just wanted to give you final deets for your date with the man, the myth, the legend, Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley, Derbyshire.
We agreed Sunday afternoon when we last spoke. The weather forecast is good – a picnic seems like a lovely idea. The library is shut on Sunday so Darcy and I will come to you.
Hyde Park is probably the best location as it’s somewhere Darcy will already be familiar with, as would any Regency-era person of a certain class.
How about we meet on the north side of the Serpentine by the boat hire office at three?
I’ll provide a hamper full of yummy treats.
(No trying to get him into the lake! Just so we’re quite clear about that.)
One small thing. I will be with a photographer.
We just need to do a few quick photos to accompany the piece all about your wonderful afternoon with the heir to your heart.
(Of course, I wouldn’t dream of telling you what to write, but you have wanted to date Darcy from the start and moving you to the top of the waiting list was no mean feat.
Also, we could really do with the GOOD publicity, but no pressure!)
Then the photographer and I will push off so you can you enjoy the rest of your date in peace. When you’re done, give me a call and I’ll come and meet you so I can return Darcy to the library.
If you have any questions between then and now, just let me know.
I can’t wait for you to meet Darcy. I know the two of you will get on like a house on fire. You’re going to have the GREATEST time ever!
All my best wishes
Ella Sharma-Banarjee (Joint Head Librarian)
The email had sent Tess into a panic the likes of which she hadn’t known, probably since the week before her thirtieth birthday when she’d thought she was getting a surprise party and an engagement ring and instead got dumped.
Now she had a stress zit in the middle of her forehead.
She was eating her feelings and she’d barely slept the last three nights – even the book about Plato and the platypus couldn’t make her drop off.
It was hard going even with the jokes. Tess thought that she might identify as an empiricist, though Gabe would know for sure.
But he was the very last person she wanted to be thinking about as she lay in bed, periodically turning her pillow over to the cool side or punching it to make it less lumpy.
Tess wished that she could harness time to make it slow down as much as she wished that she could speed it up and just get the days over and done with so it was time for the date.
Not that she was looking forward to meeting Darcy. The pressure was immense. The expectations too great. The disappointment, on his side at least, seemed inevitable.
But all too soon or all too late, it was Sunday and somehow Tess was in Hyde Park, her brain instructing her legs to put one foot in front of the other as she walked to the allotted meeting point.
She was second-guessing everything but especially her outfit, her make-up, her hair, her everything.
The one productive thing that Tess had done all week was to get a lady in John Lewis to measure her breasts.
A trained bra-fitter that was, not just a random woman shopping for an air fryer.
She was now contained in a new balconette bra, which worked perfectly with the white broderie anglaise, empire-line maxi dress she was wearing.
Her breasts looked good but they were adequately corralled.
It wasn’t territory that Jane Austen had ever covered, but Tess was pretty sure that Darcy wasn’t a breast man and would not be impressed with her turning up with her boobs looking like a pair of 99s minus the flake.
That morning she’d tonged her hair and followed a ten-step guide from TikTok to achieve what was billed as ‘Regency bombshell hair’.
Some of it was up, some of it was down. Some of it was tightly coiled.
Some of it fell around her face in gentle tendrils.
She’d even forgone her usual red lippy and winged eyeliner for a more dewy look.
It was a gloriously sunny day and if the sweatiness in Tess’s knee creases and between her toes was anything to go by, summer was coming on fast. The lush green spaces of Hyde Park were crammed full of large groups of people congregated under gracefully drooping trees to eat picnics and, more importantly, drink.
Tess had never seen so many cocktails in a can outside of her local supermarket. Ditto bottles of rosé.
Yet more people were playing frisbee or walking waggy-tailed dogs of every breed and description. Small children teetered past on balance bikes watched carefully by helicopter parents.
‘Slow down, Achilles!’ cried one anxious mama as a little boy nearly collided with Tess, who managed only by sheer luck not to trip over her hem and go flying.
It was a long walk through Hyde Park to get to the boating lake, so she was wearing flat, gold Gladiator-style sandals and had to hoick up the skirt of her dress so it didn’t drag along the ground. It was then that Tess realised that she’d come in fancy dress.
She was cosplaying a Regency heroine while her sandals were from a completely different era (by a good thousand years and change) and were ruining the whole look.
No wonder that Tess felt all wrong – sticky and out of place – as she approached the appointed meeting place.
She was sorely tempted to turn round, go home and forget the whole thing.
She was actually mid-pivot when she bumped into two teenage girls who were far more appropriately dressed in cut-off shorts and bra tops for that rare occurrence when the temperature in England edged over thirty degrees.
‘I’m so sorry!’ Tess said, her voice already shaky with tears. ‘I wasn’t looking …’
‘Oh my God, love your hair! It’s giving Bridgerton!’ one of the girls exclaimed, her own pink hair wound up into two space buns.
‘Very cool. Excellent dress,’ her friend added and that was all that Tess needed to turn her frown upside down and get an instant ego boost.
Teenage girls were the most terrifying life force on the planet. Also, the most judgemental. Even more judgemental than her own mother, if such a thing was possible. If they thought her outfit passed muster, then who was she to disagree?
It put a spring in Tess’s step as she lifted up the hem of her dress once more and headed to the boat hire kiosk.
As she drew nearer, she saw three people standing to the side.
One, a woman, started waving as one of her companions aimed a complicated-looking camera at Tess and started snapping pictures and the other person, a man, stood tall, proud and erect (but not that kind of erect) as he waited for their date to begin.
Fitzwilliam Darcy, late of Derbyshire, and a man in possession of ten thousand pounds a year.