about my run-in with the English guy downstairs. ‘How about you?’
‘Fabulous. White sand, eighty degrees, lots of men and the best margaritas ever. This is my . . . Um, I’ve lost count,’ she laughs, drunkenly. ‘So, tell me. What’s happening over there?’
‘Well, we just checked into this really amazing hotel . . .’ spying the view from the window I let out a gasp ‘. . . and it’s in the middle of all this gorgeous countryside,’ I continue, looking out at the wide, flat fields dotted with nothing but sheep and crossed with stone walls. It’s like a giant chessboard.
‘Mmmm, really?’ murmurs Stella on the end of the line.
‘And they’ve got all this amazing old antique furniture.’ Flopping down on to the flowery bedspread, I prop myself up by my elbows.
‘Mmmm, really?’
I can tell Stella’s not listening. Antique furniture probably isn’t high on her list of interests right now. If ever. ‘Anyway, it’s lunchtime here so we’re going to grab something to eat and then it’s sightseeing this afternoon,’ I say, changing the subject quickly.
‘So did you meet your Mr Darcy yet?’ she teases.
‘Ha, ha, very funny,’ I reply. Leaning over the side of the bed, I dig out my toiletries bag and slick on some deodorant. ‘No, I met an asshole instead.’
‘Is he cute?’
‘He’s a pain in the ass.’
‘But cute?’ she persists.
I think about him for a moment, with his old corduroy jacket, shirt that’s buttoned up the wrong way, and under which I’m pretty sure love handles are lurking, and his messy hair that needs a good cut.
‘No, you definitely wouldn’t describe him as cute,’ I answer firmly.
‘Huh? Assholes are usually cute,’ tuts Stella, sounding surprised. ‘Oh, well, that’s a shame. A holiday romance might have been fun.’
‘ Fun? ’ I shudder at the thought of having any kind of romance with Mr Asshole. ‘No thanks. And anyway, I’m off men. I want to spend this vacation catching up on all my reading.’
‘I think you should keep an open mind. Just because you had a few bad dates . . .’
‘A few?’
‘Oh, come on, Emily. Live for the moment. Haven’t you read The Power of Now ?’
Hang on a minute. Did she just say what I thought she just said? In all the time I’ve known Stella I’ve only ever seen her read her horoscope and the laundry instructions on her clothes. ‘No, I haven’t. Is it good?’ I ask, impressed.
‘Well, I haven’t actually read it myself,’ she confesses. ‘But I’ve met this guy who’s been telling me all about it. About how we have to stop projecting into the future all the time and not worry about what’s going to happen.’
‘What guy?’ I ask suspiciously. Not projecting into the future and living for the moment translated into man-speak sounds like a ruse to get Stella into bed.
‘His name’s Scott,’ she announces happily. ‘Do you want to say hi?’
‘No, it’s OK,’ I say quickly. One of my pet hates is when a girlfriend puts some random man they’ve just met on the phone. OK, so they’re in a darkened bar, intoxicated by alcohol and male attention, and I can see how it might seem a fun thing to do – sort of – but fun for who exactly? Never you. Nine times out of ten you’re usually at home, in your baggy old sweat pants, doing your hand-washing. Literally scrubbing your gussets with a nailbrush. The last thing you want to do is have a stilted, awkward conversation with a stranger whom you’ve never met and with whom you have absolutely nothing in common.
Apart from your friend, who he wants to sleep with.
‘Aww, go on, he’s right here . . .’
‘No, honestly—’
It’s too late. I can hear the phone being passed over. My heart plummets. Oh, no. Please no.
‘Yo,’ demands a male voice on the other end of the line.
‘Oh, hi.’ I wince. ‘I’m Emily.’
‘Scott,’ grunts the reply.
There’s an awkward pause. I grope around for something to
‘Fabulous. White sand, eighty degrees, lots of men and the best margaritas ever. This is my . . . Um, I’ve lost count,’ she laughs, drunkenly. ‘So, tell me. What’s happening over there?’
‘Well, we just checked into this really amazing hotel . . .’ spying the view from the window I let out a gasp ‘. . . and it’s in the middle of all this gorgeous countryside,’ I continue, looking out at the wide, flat fields dotted with nothing but sheep and crossed with stone walls. It’s like a giant chessboard.
‘Mmmm, really?’ murmurs Stella on the end of the line.
‘And they’ve got all this amazing old antique furniture.’ Flopping down on to the flowery bedspread, I prop myself up by my elbows.
‘Mmmm, really?’
I can tell Stella’s not listening. Antique furniture probably isn’t high on her list of interests right now. If ever. ‘Anyway, it’s lunchtime here so we’re going to grab something to eat and then it’s sightseeing this afternoon,’ I say, changing the subject quickly.
‘So did you meet your Mr Darcy yet?’ she teases.
‘Ha, ha, very funny,’ I reply. Leaning over the side of the bed, I dig out my toiletries bag and slick on some deodorant. ‘No, I met an asshole instead.’
‘Is he cute?’
‘He’s a pain in the ass.’
‘But cute?’ she persists.
I think about him for a moment, with his old corduroy jacket, shirt that’s buttoned up the wrong way, and under which I’m pretty sure love handles are lurking, and his messy hair that needs a good cut.
‘No, you definitely wouldn’t describe him as cute,’ I answer firmly.
‘Huh? Assholes are usually cute,’ tuts Stella, sounding surprised. ‘Oh, well, that’s a shame. A holiday romance might have been fun.’
‘ Fun? ’ I shudder at the thought of having any kind of romance with Mr Asshole. ‘No thanks. And anyway, I’m off men. I want to spend this vacation catching up on all my reading.’
‘I think you should keep an open mind. Just because you had a few bad dates . . .’
‘A few?’
‘Oh, come on, Emily. Live for the moment. Haven’t you read The Power of Now ?’
Hang on a minute. Did she just say what I thought she just said? In all the time I’ve known Stella I’ve only ever seen her read her horoscope and the laundry instructions on her clothes. ‘No, I haven’t. Is it good?’ I ask, impressed.
‘Well, I haven’t actually read it myself,’ she confesses. ‘But I’ve met this guy who’s been telling me all about it. About how we have to stop projecting into the future all the time and not worry about what’s going to happen.’
‘What guy?’ I ask suspiciously. Not projecting into the future and living for the moment translated into man-speak sounds like a ruse to get Stella into bed.
‘His name’s Scott,’ she announces happily. ‘Do you want to say hi?’
‘No, it’s OK,’ I say quickly. One of my pet hates is when a girlfriend puts some random man they’ve just met on the phone. OK, so they’re in a darkened bar, intoxicated by alcohol and male attention, and I can see how it might seem a fun thing to do – sort of – but fun for who exactly? Never you. Nine times out of ten you’re usually at home, in your baggy old sweat pants, doing your hand-washing. Literally scrubbing your gussets with a nailbrush. The last thing you want to do is have a stilted, awkward conversation with a stranger whom you’ve never met and with whom you have absolutely nothing in common.
Apart from your friend, who he wants to sleep with.
‘Aww, go on, he’s right here . . .’
‘No, honestly—’
It’s too late. I can hear the phone being passed over. My heart plummets. Oh, no. Please no.
‘Yo,’ demands a male voice on the other end of the line.
‘Oh, hi.’ I wince. ‘I’m Emily.’
‘Scott,’ grunts the reply.
There’s an awkward pause. I grope around for something to
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