I laugh. ‘You’re a nightmare since reading Body Talk, 50 Ways to Know What a Person is Thinking. You analyse everyone.’
‘You’ve got to admit I’m bloody good at it though,’ Mel says defiantly. ‘Darcy does look at you a lot, Soph.’
‘I wish he hadn’t come. He should have stayed at home as he doesn’t like Jane Austen or her fans, and is totally weird and disagreeable.’
‘Perhaps he feels a bit out of his depth here. Maybe he’s studying you as an example of a rampant feminist Jane Austen fan. He’s probably worried you’re going to start quoting novels, or try to set up an illicit book club or something dodgy like that.’
We giggle like a couple of naughty schoolgirls until Emma returns once more and we wipe the smiles off our faces and try to look normal.
‘I wanted to come and continue our chat,’ Emma says. ‘It’s so rare for me to find someone to discuss things that I enjoy. I’d have loved to study literature at uni but my parents wouldn’t let me. Thought finishing school would be better for a young lady, they don’t really see the point of academic pursuits.’
‘That’s a shame,’ I sympathise, unable to really believe that there are still parents with such Victorian views. ‘I guess you sort of get some kind of second-hand involvement through running the agency?’
‘Not that much actually, the majority of clients are city high-fliers, jumping on the mass marketing popularity of remakes of Austen’s novels.’
‘And films like Emma,’ Mel says, clearly really pleased with herself for being able to add to the conversation.
Emma smiles. ‘Yes. I haven’t been to see it yet and I can’t wait, especially as it’s about my namesake. If anyone fancies a girly trip, let me know.’
‘Ooh yes,’ I enthuse. ‘I’d love that. It’s not really the sort of thing my colleagues at Modiste are into. I can’t afford their nights out.’
‘I have a friend who works on the editorial team at Modiste,’ Emma says thoughtfully. ‘Her name’s Miffy Pemberton-Smythe.’
‘Oh my gosh, that’s amazing,’ I gush, which I’ve managed to refrain from doing so far but this is majorly exciting. ‘I’ve always wanted to work on the editorial team but we don’t even go up to their floor, we’re the plebs downstairs on the sales team.’
Emma laughs at my enthusiasm. ‘Miffy’s totally crazy and I don’t know if I’ve ever read much of her work, but she’s really nice. Went to school with her yonks ago, but I can give her a call, perhaps I could introduce you sometime?’
‘That would be so cool, thanks very much.’ I wonder if this could be my big break; finally I would know someone important and perhaps if she likes me, I might even get to escape the sales floor.
‘Meanwhile, have you signed up to the agency yet?’ Emma asks in a businesslike tone. ‘A little bird told me you hadn’t, so there’s no time like the present. I know we’ll have someone who will suit you perfectly. Now, which scheme are you thinking of? Personally for you, I would recommend the Gold Membership, which includes the Ball at Pemberley, it’s the most amazing experience.’
‘Oh, erm, I wasn’t sure whether I’m supposed to apply for that scheme.’ I glance round uncertainly in the general direction of Jessica Palmer-Wright and Darcy Drummond. Darcy’s moved, however. What a relief. Hopefully he’s gone home. Oh no, I’ve spoken too soon, I spot him. He’s coming over. Oh God, Sophie, try not to pass out.
‘Darcy,’ Emma calls pleasantly, ‘have you met Sophie Johnson? She’s a huge fan of Jane Austen, you know, and works at the incredibly glamorous Modiste Magazine.’
‘Good evening, Miss Johnson.’
I try in vain to stop my legs trembling at Darcy’s deep voice and direct gaze. I’m startled by the intensity of his brown eyes, which contrast strangely with his finely chiselled face. He holds his hand out to me formally and I shake it in a bit of a daze. His skin is warm and firm but I try to push the thought of any kind of physical contact with him from my mind, it’s far too distracting. ‘I don’t think we have met properly.’
‘Hi,’ I say rather awkwardly, my voice sounding unusually shrill to my ears. ‘No, I don’t think we have, if you know what I mean.’ I stop abruptly, realising I’m sounding ridiculous.
‘I was just suggesting to Sophie that she joins the Gold Scheme, Darcy, don’t you agree?’ Emma is oblivious to any atmosphere or thoughts to the contrary. She is used to getting her own way but in the pleasantest manner possible.
‘Of course,’ Darcy replies politely. ‘I can thoroughly recommend the Gold Scheme, it offers some amazing social occasions.’
‘Oh,’ I say, my hackles up in spite of my awe at his proximity. ‘So, you’re happy for deluded feminists who don’t live in the real world to join the Gold Scheme then? I must have misunderstood.’
Oops. I shouldn’t really have said that but I don’t have anything to lose, the guy doesn’t like me anyway. To be fair to him, Darcy looks momentarily disconcerted but he manages to collect himself, murmuring politely, ‘We would be most happy to have you in the Gold Scheme.’
Turning to Emma, I say wryly, ‘Darcy is very polite, but it’s not possible.’
Darcy smiles stiffly and excuses himself under the pretext of being waited for, striding away to chat with a group of smartly dressed suits at the other end of the room.
Emma’s looking a bit puzzled at this exchange. I smile apologetically and say quietly, ‘I’m afraid I’m unable to afford the Gold even if I were eligible to join. But perhaps the Silver would be nearly as good? And surely we are allowed to upgrade if we need to?’
‘Yes of course, but you know you’re welcome to join any scheme you like with us. I read and approved your application form, did Jessica not say?’
‘Er, not exactly.’
Emma and I exchange glances and she nods understandingly. ‘Yes well, Jessica does have an issue sometimes with clients living up to her, shall we say, rather exclusive standards? And I don’t mean exclusive from a literary point of view, more a social one.’
I smile gratefully at Emma, she’s so nice.
‘We’ll get that sorted out then,’ she continues. ‘Oh, it looks like your friend, Mel, has found someone to chat to. A new face by the look of it, just what we need.’
I look across to where Mel is standing near the appetisers. She’s being talked at very enthusiastically by a short young man; he must be in his early twenties, with gel-covered dark spiky hair and pale skin. He has round thick-lensed glasses and generally looks kind of geeky but not in a good way. I approach rather hesitantly alongside Emma who’s all smiles and welcome.
The man turns at our approach and thrusts his hand at her. ‘Miss Woodtree, delighted to meet you, charmed. And who’s this lovely lady?’
As he’s looking expectantly at me, I shake his horribly limp hand – one of my pet hates. It’s even more worryingly kind of damp too.
‘Hi, I’m Sophie.’ He’s still staring at me as though he’s expecting something else so I add, ‘Sophie Johnson.’