Christie Salvatore’s voice breaks through my distracted thoughts. ‘And to present the award for best wet shave is our very own Darcy Drummond, CEO of our wonderful sponsors Drummond Associates.’
Darcy removes Miss Palmer-Wright’s hand from his sleeve, folds his napkin neatly onto his side plate, and strides up to the podium to be embraced by the delectable Christie. He does look more cheerful all of a sudden, but I guess I don’t blame him; she is captivating. He must have said something suave and amusing to her, as she laughs, showing all her pearly white teeth and he grins back, transforming his features from stern and remote to boyishly handsome. I would give anything for him to smile at me like that.
Darcy eventually returns to his seat, having presented the award to an ironically extremely beardy guy who’s won the best wet shave award. I’m not quite sure how that works. From that point on, I drift off into a pleasant little daydream of my own involving Darcy in a pair of swimming trunks and a sun-kissed beach, while a whole host of famous award winners are presented, and finally it’s time to leave our tables and mingle.
It only now dawns on me that there’s a huge flaw in my plan to meet Darcy Drummond. Things haven’t changed all that much in the two hundred years since Austen. At these evenings you don’t present yourself to someone without being formally introduced, otherwise you end up in the embarrassingly awkward situation of Mr Collins. Just as money begets money, rich people meet other rich people, and I’m about to go home like a saddo on my own again. I don’t belong here.
All through dinner, everyone on my table had been discussing business. The price of shares, profits, mergers, it was a foreign language to me and at least I can speak some of those. I am out of my depth, I’ve been bored to tears. I feel like chipping in with, ‘Did anyone see Victoria last night?’ but manage to stop myself.
I decide to escape to the ladies and then somehow slip off. I can always text Mark later to let him know I’ve gone home early, saying I had a headache or something.
I manage to stand up without stumbling or removing the tablecloth, which is always a bonus. I definitely feel a little wobbly, all those top-ups taking their toll. Thankfully the toilets aren’t too far away and I take the opportunity to chill out a minute and peer in the mirror.
This proves to be a mistake as I find, as usual at this time in the evening, my lipstick is non-existent and my eye make-up is mostly below my eyes rather than on them. I reapply my lippy, half-heartedly scrape at my smudgy eyes with a tissue, and give it up as a bad job. In any case, I have my escape route planned: I’m going to leg it through the hall, round to the entrance, and make fast my exit.
This plan is working fine until I come face to face with, oh God, you’ve guessed it, Miss Palmer-Wright. And standing next to her is the utterly delicious Darcy Drummond. I give a vague smile in his general direction and concentrate on Miss Palmer-Wright to steady my nerves. I don’t think she’d have recognised me but like a blundering idiot, I hail her in a bizarrely false hearty manner. ‘Miss Palmer-Wright, jolly nice to see you!’
‘Oh.’ She recoils. It’s almost comic, you can see she’s trying to remember where she’s met me before, checking her mental log of important people to see if I’m on it. Of course I’m not. ‘Oh, Sophie, isn’t it? You were applying to become a member of the dating agency. I didn’t expect to see you here.’
I bet you didn’t, I think, but instead bluster, ‘No, I haven’t been here before, jolly nice though.’
‘And what a charming dress, but what’s this?’ She pulls at the designer gap in the waist of my Versace dress with a perfectly manicured hand. ‘You seem to have lost half of it, darling!’
I excuse myself, seething inwardly. Trust her to be lurking by the door. And she didn’t introduce me to Darcy, but then that doesn’t surprise me.
Reaching the exit with relief, I rummage through my bag for my mobile so I can text Mark and let him know I’m leaving early. For goodness sake, I must have left it in the ladies while looking for my lipstick; I knew I should have tidied out my bag before I left home. For one wild moment I consider leaving without my phone. No, it contains my entire life. There’s nothing for it but to sneak back to the loo, grab my phone, and get the heck out again.
I reach the ladies room unscathed, I guess that isn’t surprising as I’ve been pretty much ignored by everyone since I got here. I grab my mobile and am about to re-enter the hall when I hear the familiar dulcet tones of Miss Palmer-Wright. I reverse back behind the studded hall door before I can even think what I’m doing. I can’t face meeting her again this evening.
‘Of course, most of our clientele at the agency are far superior,’ she is saying, ‘been to Marlborough College, then gap year, you know the sort of thing. That’s the calibre of client we are looking for. But then we do have to include some plebs, they usually join on the Bronze Scheme, keeps them happy and out of the way of our more salubrious guests. Show them a bit of Regency dancing and where Jane Austen lived and they’re perfectly satisfied.’
Her voice goes lower but I still manage to make her out. ‘Sophie is one of those spinster types who lives in a book. I expect she models herself on Jane Austen. Sad really because she’s not bad looking, I suppose, if you like that sort of thing. Could be quite pretty if she bothered with her appearance, although she’ll put most clients off by twittering on about novels. Probably one of those dreadful feminists! Says she works for some fashion magazine but I should think she makes the tea.’ She gives her hideously annoying tinkly little laugh.
I strain my ears to hear if Darcy says anything in reply. I don’t catch the first bit but then, ‘We’ll talk about targets at next week’s meeting.’
I like his voice, it’s deep and sexy, purposeful.
‘But for God’s sake, we need some kind of marketing meeting asap. We don’t want to attract any more crazy feminist Austen fans who wouldn’t know reality if it jumped up and hit them in the face. It’s bad for business, that’s not the clientele we’re looking for at all.’
I reel back in shock, unable to believe his words. What a complete and utter chauvinist pig. What does he mean by calling me a feminist just because I love Jane Austen? Although it was Miss Palmer-Wright who started it, he could have defended me, not that he knows me, but still. And as for living in the real world, of course I do, it’s just I enjoy a bit of escapism sometimes. Okay, quite a lot of the time. What’s wrong with that? Anyway, it’s more fun than Darcy’s sad boring world of old men, mergers and figures. In any case, why on earth is he running a Jane Austen Dating Agency if he doesn’t even like what she represents? It makes me want to laugh out loud at the ridiculousness of it.
I’m so angry I’m determined not to stay hidden any longer. Why should I hide from such people? Flouncing out from behind the door, flicking my long skirt behind me, I glance at Darcy as I go past, shooting him a dazzling smile. It’s hard not to laugh at his surprised face, demonstrating he’s been in ignorance of my proximity. I keep on walking. Okay, so my heel wobbles and I nearly face-plant in the middle of the dance floor, but I hold my head high in spite of wanting to shrivel up inside, and leave the building.