Free Me and Mr Darcy by Alexandra Potter Page A

Prejudice. ’
    Making my way down the aisle, I head towards the bathroom. Out of the corner of my eye I can see the top of Spike What’s-his-name’s head looming, as he’s sitting right at the back. Tufts of blond hair are popping up over the tartan upholstery, and as I near him, his arm rises upwards in a stretch, then begins scratching his scalp in a lazy, absent-minded way. Classic telephone behaviour, I note. It’s the same with every man I know. It’s either the scalp, the belly or the you-know-whats.
    ‘Yeah . . . yeah . . . Absolutely . . .’
    Told you.
    Reaching for the handle on the bathroom door, I glance sideways and there he is. Head turned towards the window, cell phone wedged up against his ear, chatting away. Fortunately, he doesn’t see me, so we don’t have to go through the pretence of that awkward silent hi-nod-wave-of-recognition thingy, and I quickly close the door behind me.
    Now, then.
    Once inside, I’m pleased to find it all looks pretty clean. I take a cautious inhalation. And it smells fine, too. I’m relieved. Stella calls me a hygiene freak, but I don’t know why. OK, so I carry a little bottle of sanitiser in my bag, but that doesn’t make me Howard Hughes. Plus, I admit I wash bags of pre-washed salad, but I’m just being careful. And yes, it’s true, I won’t eat those little mints they have in a bowl in restaurants, but that’s because I once read an article about how they’d put one under a microscope. Do you have any idea how many traces of urine they found on a single mint?
    Hundreds – thousands even – of tiny little bits of pee.
    Ugghh.
    I look down at the toilet and that’s when I notice someone has dribbled on the seat. Oh, God. Yuk. I reach for a piece of toilet paper, but that’s when I notice something else – there isn’t any, just an empty cardboard tube rattling on the holder.
    Damn.
    Suddenly a long-ago story of my mom visiting France comes flashing back to me. Forget stories of Parisian style, St Tropez sunshine and sophisticated sidewalk cafés. All my mother could talk about was the hole in the floor and how she’d had to squat over it. Seriously. And in her stilettos. She’s never been the same since. She blames it on the menopause, but I reckon it was that trip. She was so traumatised she’s been having hot flushes ever since.
    Thankfully I am made of stronger stuff than my mother and so I peel down my jeans and sort of hover. Actually, this is a really good workout for my outer thighs, I realise, as I start peeing. They should put it in Allure or Shape , or one of those health and fitness magazines as a top tip:
    For buns of steel, forget lunges at the gym. Instead, go to a public washroom and squat over the seat for a count of 10. Repeat three times daily.
     
     
    ‘. . . believe me I want to bloody kill my editor . . .’
    Outside, I can hear someone talking.
    ‘. . . all the other journalists are married with children, which left muggins here . . .’
    Muggins? Who the hell is Muggins? Intrigued, I try listening closer. It’s definitely a male voice, so I guess that can only mean—
    Shit.
    Suddenly, in mid-flow, I realise two things:
It’s Spike who I can hear on the phone.
If I can hear him, he can hear me.
    Cue pelvic-floor muscles.
    I stop mid-pee.
    Impressive.
    Silently I thank God for Cosmo and all those articles about doing your Kegel exercises.
    Now I can hear much better.
    ‘. . . right now I should be spending Christmas and New Year in the Alps with my hot French girlfriend . . .’
    My interest is sparked. So that’s who the blonde was in the car? Well, that would explain the Renault and the terrible driving.
    ‘. . . I’m so pissed off. I can’t believe it. It was all arranged. Two weeks of sex and snowboarding . . .’
    He snowboards? Admiration stirs. I never had him down as the sporty type, all those cigarettes and his beer gut made me presume he was unathletic. I adjust my position. My