Free Me and Mr Darcy by Alexandra Potter

sipping her soup to stare wistfully into the middle distance.
    ‘He’s honourable,’ adds Maeve timidly, seeming almost scared of her own voice. ‘In those days men knew how to treat a woman.’
    There’s a lot of murmuring and nodding of heads.
    ‘Enigmatic? Noble? Honourable?’ mocks Rose, throwing down her napkin. ‘Ladies, please! I can appreciate his finer qualities, but did nobody see the BBC adaptation?’ Her dark eyes are flashing and her shiny black bob swings backwards and forwards. ‘The one when he came out of the lake in that white shirt looking devastatingly handsome,’ she continues pointedly, looking around the room for a reaction.
    Immediately there’s a rowdy response of agreement and a lecherous cry of ‘ Phwoar ’, which, when I turn round, I am taken aback to see came from Rupinda. Jeez. And she looks the picture of elegance in her embroidered sari.
    ‘Mmm, I love Colin Firth,’ yells out someone.
    ‘Oooh, me too,’ agrees another.
    ‘But he was just playing Mr Darcy, ladies,’ interrupts Miss Steane, entering the room, clipboard in hand. ‘Remember, Mr Firth was just an actor, he is not the real Mr Darcy.’
    ‘And who is the real Mr Darcy?’
    All eyes turn to the journalist. He’s looking at Miss Steane, his thick blond eyebrows pitched with interest. He stubs out his cigarette on the side plate he’s been using as an ashtray, leans back in his chair and folds his arms behind his head.
    ‘That’s for you to find out, Mr Hargreaves,’ she replies curtly.
    ‘Please call me Spike,’ he replies in deference, but she’s already addressing the dining room.
    ‘Now, just to remind everyone, we’ll be departing promptly after lunch.’ Turning to leave, she glances at Spike and nods her head. ‘Mr Hargreaves,’ she says politely but firmly, and strides off across the swirly carpet.
    Watching from across the other side of the room, I’m absorbing this information. So Spike’s here to write a story about us, huh?
    ‘Your soup’s going cold.’ Abruptly I turn to see Rose gesturing to my bowl and grumbling, ‘Best eat that up, my dear. The main course is bound to be even more dreadful.’
    Well, if he thinks I’m going to answer his stupid questions, he can think again. And turning my attention back to my soup, I take a hungry mouthful.
    Thirty minutes later lunch is over and we’re back on the tourbus driving through country lanes on our way to the first stop on our itinerary. I, however, am engrossed in the world of Elizabeth Bennet and Mr Darcy. With my book open on my lap, I’m at the bit where they first meet and Mr Darcy sees Elizabeth.
    ‘Which do you mean?’ and turning round, he looked for a moment at Elizabeth, till catching her eye, he withdrew his own and coldly said, ‘She is tolerable; but not handsome enough to tempt me ’.
    God, imagine being described as ‘tolerable’. How insulting. I’d die.
    I turn the page and suddenly my bladder twinges. I try ignoring it. I love this part.
    Crossing my legs tightly, I focus back on the page.
    Like an insistent child, my bladder twinges again.
    It’s no good, I’m going to have to go for a pee.
    Turning over the corner of my page, I tuck the book down the side of my seat and stand up.
    ‘The first stop on our tour is Chawton Manor,’ announces our tour guide, standing at the front of the coach, microphone in one hand, clipboard in the other. ‘Home to Jane Austen in the latter part of her life . . .’
    The microphone fizzes and whines with interference, making it difficult for us to hear, but instead of abandoning her speech, Miss Steane simply ups the vocal ante and firmly proceeds. I have a feeling that nothing would stop our tour guide, short of a ten-ton truck, and then she would probably emerge victorious with only a few hairs out of place, and perhaps a small snag in her thick woollen tights.
    ‘. . . where she wrote and revised many of her novels, including everybody’s favourite, Pride and