Free Me and Mr Darcy by Alexandra Potter Page B

thighs are beginning to ache. Though, I’m proud to admit, my pelvic floor is holding up pretty damn well.
    ‘. . . I tell you, right at this moment there’s no one I hate more than Mr bloody Darcy . . .’
    What? Hearing him insult Mr Darcy, indignation bites. How dare he? Darcy’s much more of a man than he’ll ever be, I think protectively.
    ‘. . . it’s all his bloody fault. If it wasn’t for him, I wouldn’t be on a coach full of old women. I swear, forget 18–30, this is like Club 60–80 . . .’
    My ears prick up. He’s talking about the tour. And not very favourably either, I muse, absently wondering if he’s going to mention me.
    ‘. . . there’s just one girl my age . . .’
    Oh, wow, he is talking about me. Feeling a curious surge of anticipation, I try leaning a little closer. Not so easy when you’re hovering over a toilet with your G-string stretched round your knees. I steady myself on the door handle. I wonder what he’s going to say?
    There’s a pause. I can hear him laughing at something the other person just said, and holding my breath, I wait expectantly. Every second is beginning to feel like an eternity. Not only are my thigh muscles burning but my pelvic floor feels like a dam about to burst. Hold on, just hold on. I grit my teeth, and clench.
    ‘. . . no way. She’s not my type . . . She seems pretty dull . . . average-looking . . .’
    Oh.
    Reality slaps me cold in the face. I wasn’t expecting that. I was sort of presuming he was going to say something nice, though I don’t know why – it’s not as if I like him , it’s just . . . My thoughts trail off lamely. God, I feel like a bit of an idiot now. Trust me to get it totally wrong. I mean, not that it matters – he’s an asshole anyway – I just wasn’t expecting him to be so, well, hurtful . . .
    Suddenly, much to my astonishment, my nose goes all tingly and I feel my eyes start welling up. Horrified, I sniff the tears back at once. Gosh, I’m being ridiculous. What on earth am I getting all emotional about? I’m not upset, I’m— OK, so I’m upset.
    For like a second.
    ‘. . . and even worse . . . she’s American . . .’
    Then I’m furious.
    Right, that does it. Plonking myself down on the seat, I finish with not a care for who hears me, or for the fact I’m sitting in someone else’s dribble. I’m not going to have some snotty-nosed Brit think he’s better than me because he’s got a cute accent, a country full of old buildings and Ricky Gervais. We’ve got Madonna, the city of Manhattan and Abercrombie & Fitch, I think defiantly, as I wash my hands and emerge from the bathroom.
    OK, so Madonna might be masquerading as a Brit, but she’s still American.
    As I slam the door loudly behind me Mr Spike-arrogant-Hargreaves looks up. He’s still on the phone and I throw him my scary face before stomping back to my seat and snatching up my book. Now, where was I? Oh, yeah, the bit where Elizabeth Bennet is being described as ‘tolerable’ by Mr Darcy.
    In my mind I hear Spike’s voice again: ‘ pretty dull . . . average-looking ’. Now I know how Elizabeth Bennet feels, I realise, feeling a new and powerful identification with Jane Austen’s heroine.
    ‘But I can assure you,’ she [Mrs Bennet] added,’that Lizzy does not lose much by not suiting his fancy; for he is a most disagreeable, horrid man, not at all worth pleasing. So high and so conceited that there was no enduring him! He walked here, and he walked there, fancying himself so very great!’
    Honestly, I couldn’t have put it better myself. Who cares what Spike thinks? He’s so conceited and full of himself I’m glad he doesn’t like me. If he did he’d only be trying to hang out with me the whole time. How horrible would that be?
    And feeling completely self-righteous, I throw myself back in my seat and turn the page.
    Quite frankly, as far as I’m concerned, I’ve had a lucky