Me and Mr Darcy by Alexandra Potter

disbelief. I feel as if I’ve fallen asleep and woken up two hundred years ago. There’s not a Hummer or a Mac store, or even a Starbucks in sight. Just cobbled streets, a village church and real fires, I marvel, watching the smoke spiralling up from the chimney pots. It really is like being on a movie set. It’s hard to believe it’s not just a façade for tourists and as soon as we drive through it will be taken down and flat-packed until the next tourbus runs through.
    ‘And now ladies and gentleman . . .’ Miss Steane’s voice interrupts my daydream and I turn away from the window.
    Gentleman? Hardly, I think dryly, remembering the obscenities this ‘gentleman’ yelled earlier. I flick my eyes back over my shoulder at the culprit in question. Mid-yawn, he catches me staring and sticks out his tongue.
    How old is he? Five ?
    Irritated, I pretend to be looking at something behind him, but seeing as he’s on the back row and behind him it’s the washroom, I’m pretty much busted. Still, I’m way too proud to let him think he’s caught me, so I continue to gaze at the green ‘VACANT’ sign as if it’s the most interesting thing I’ve ever seen until Miss Steane rescues me by chiming,
    ‘This is the Old Priory, where we’ll be staying for two nights, before continuing our journey to Bath.’
    Gratefully I turn back to the view out of the window and—
    Holy shit.
    Turning left into a pair of impressive wrought-iron gates, there’s the delicious sound of gravel crunching under the tyres as we slowly make our way up the broad, sweeping driveway. Just this is enough to set the wings of my anticipation fluttering. I’ve always thought you can tell instantly, just by the driveway alone, whether or not you’re going to love a place. And I’m going to love this place.
    Big, bold and beautiful, it stands at the top of the driveway to greet us like something torn from the pages of Pride and Prejudice – the kind of place I always imagined Netherfield Park, home of Mr Bingley, to be. I gaze at it in awe. Set in beautiful grounds, with ivy-covered walls, an imposing entrance and rambling outbuildings, it’s everything I dreamed it was going to be and more.
    The tourbus pulls up outside the hotel and the next half-hour is spent disembarking, collecting luggage and checking in, while our tour guide flaps around us with her clipboard like a tweed butterfly. The hotel is even more spectacular from the inside: wood-panelled hallway, sweeping staircase, hunting pictures, portraits of bygone ancestors, stone-flagged floors . . . Everything reeks of history.
    ‘You’re in room twenty-eight,’ instructs Miss Steane, standing behind the front desk a few minutes later. Behind her is a large board filled with differently numbered keys, and handing me a small brass one, she ticks me off her list, seemingly oblivious to George, the general manager, who is standing next to her looking rather redundant.
    ‘It’s on the second floor,’ George is now adding timorously. ‘Turn right and it’s all the way to the end of the corridor.’
    ‘Great. Thanks.’ I nod, reaching for the retracting handle on my wheelie suitcase. ‘Which way’s the elevator?’
    There’s a pause.
    ‘The elevator?’ repeats George, twiddling his cufflinks uncertainly. I notice a few glances flying around me and I twig.
    Oh, God, Emily, don’t be so stupid. Of course there isn’t a goddamn elevator. This place is hundreds of years old.
    But just as I’m about to correct myself, I hear a derisive snort behind me and someone mutters, ‘Americans, huh?’
    I stiffen. I know immediately who that someone is, even before I twirl round and see him leaning up against the desk, arms folded, picking his teeth with a matchstick: Mr Asshole. I glare at him challengingly.
    ‘Have you got a problem?’ I demand, trying to appear ballsy and confident and not like the complete idiot I really feel. Unfortunately, my voice doesn’t play along and