‘Welcome to the Sophie Johnson school of crap dates once again.’ Mel laughs.
‘Ha, ha, you’re so funny,’ I retort while inwardly cringing. She’s so right, why do I always pull the losers?
‘You’re not going to go. Surely no-one’s that desperate.’ Mel looks at me anxiously.
‘Erm, no, I mean yes… well that is, I don’t really know,’ I prevaricate. ‘To be fair, I haven’t exactly been inundated with requests for dates through the agency, or at all actually.’
‘Yes, but it doesn’t mean you accept a total loser, does it?’ Mel sounds really worried, as though she’s seeking acknowledgement I haven’t completely lost my mind.
‘I might go. I’ve never been to the Royal Crescent and would love to visit. And I’ve paid my membership. Might as well get my money’s worth.’
I find myself repeating the same thing rather lamely to Mark at work the next day.
‘If you go on accepting mediocre instead of downright amazing, that’s all you’re going to be left with, darling!’ he declares, probably with more accuracy than I would have liked.
‘I know, Mark, but when no-one else is offering, beggars can’t be choosers,’ I grumble. ‘It’s not like Darcy Drummond or any other fit guy is breaking my door down, ready to carry me off on a white charger.’
‘No, but that’s because you don’t give yourself a chance,’ Mark points out reasonably. ‘You keep selling yourself short and accepting the Rob Brights of this world when you could have a Nick Palmer-Wright, or even land yourself a Darcy Drummond, but because you keep messing around with the likes of Rob, you’ll never know.’
‘Do you really think so?’ I ask disbelievingly. ‘I don’t agree, someone like Darcy will go out with a total babe, like Christie or Jessica Palmer-Wright, someone with beauty and breeding. Men are so predictable. You know the type they go for: five feet ten, slim and beautiful, elegant and refined. Not clumsy, romantic-fiction-obsessed feminists like me. Of course, I’d like to go out with those kind of guys, but they never ask me. Not Darcy Drummond though because he has the personality of a slug.’
‘That’s because you aren’t aiming high enough, due to that ridiculous inferiority complex of yours. You’re beautiful, you just don’t realise it, and that’s much more attractive than those ridiculous try-hard clotheshorses and excuses for women Darcy’s bored to tears with meeting in his every day social circle. You’re funny too and make people laugh. In fact, you are one of the most amazingly talented people I know, yet you’re messing around in a dead-end job, which is pretending to be something it’s not. If only you could stop acting like Charlotte Lucas when you’re meant to be playing the part of Elizabeth Bennet! Stop underselling yourself, get out there and see what happens, sweetie!’
‘You sound worryingly like Amanda, but seriously, that’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me,’ I cry, flinging my arms around Mark. I mean, I’m genuinely touched. ‘If you weren’t gay, I would ditch Mr Darcy himself right now and marry you.’
Mark is such a good friend and maybe he’s right, if only I could stop thinking of myself as Charlotte Lucas – I want to be Elizabeth Bennet. I feel like her, for goodness sake. I can relate to her but somehow, it seems I only attract the Mr Collins of this world.
I’m still brooding on the issue when I get home from work that evening. Perhaps I should try a bit harder.
‘Do you think I’m Elizabeth Bennet or Charlotte Lucas?’ I ask my sister when she rings up later that evening.
‘What do you mean? Oh, you’re on about Pride and Prejudice again. How do I know which you are? I haven’t read it for ages. Okay, I’ll relook at it and let you know, but does it really matter? Have you ever thought you should get out a bit more? If you were a bit busier, maybe you wouldn’t worry about these things?’
I love Chloe, she’s always so matter of fact. But I accept Rob Bright’s invitation in any case – after all, I do need to get out more and, quite honestly, no-one else is asking at the moment.
The day of my hot date with Rob dawns sunny and bright, perfect for something exciting to happen to an aspiring heroine. In the words of Jane Austen, ‘If adventures will not befall a young lady in her own village, she must seek them abroad.’ It sounds great but I’m not at all sure that seeking them out with someone like Rob Bright was quite what she had in mind. Bath is a good start though, I’m so looking forward to being there again as I haven’t visited for years. It is a beautiful city and the perfect place for getting into the Regency mood.
Rob turns up punctually in a silver Vauxhall Corsa, just the car I would have picked for him.
‘Morning, morning,’ he pronounces. ‘Perfect day for it. Hope you’re ready for the adventure of a lifetime.’
This makes me rather comically think of Coldplay’s video with all the dancing chimps, which I think is rather appropriate for Rob. I have a job not to smirk. He’s dressed in jeans with turn-ups, scruffy trainers (yuk), a smart jacket and a white shirt with a neck scarf. I really hate this look.
Fortunately Mel is out so I don’t have to put up with any of her loaded comments or comic expressions behind Rob’s back.
‘Your chariot awaits, madam.’ Rob points to his car. I try to look suitably excited and get in, hoping I’ve remembered to pack headache tablets. He hasn’t opened the door for me but it’s no surprise as I hadn’t got him down as the chivalrous type.
Driving with Rob is not what I would call a pleasant experience. He seems to be under the misapprehension he’s a rally driver and though not a nervous passenger, I don’t really like unnecessarily fast driving, especially when it’s also careless. He corners far too fast, drives with his foot to the floor right up to lights which are obviously about to turn red, then brakes abruptly, narrowly missing a pedestrian more than once. All the time he’s oblivious to anything, chatting away about this and that but actually nothing at all.
‘So, do you play chess?’ he asks, clipping the kerb on a sharp bend.
‘Er… no.’ I reposition myself in the seat and grip the handle on the car door for extra support. ‘No, I don’t really know how to play.’
‘That’s okay. I’d probably beat you anyway!’ And he haw haws at his own comic ability. ‘Of course, I can teach you myself. Think how many cosy evenings we can have pitting our skills against each other. I wouldn’t expect you to try to win because that would be an impossibility for anyone, especially a girl. Attractive as you are, girls simply don’t have the brain power for a strategic game like chess.’
I am so incensed by Rob’s arrogant misogyny that I nearly ask him to pull over by a bus stop so I can go home immediately. But I think better of it, we’re some way into the journey and I’m looking forward to seeing the Royal Crescent. But he’s a complete and utter idiot.
‘I could try my best,’ I assure him sarcastically.
‘Oh, I’m sure you would.’ He smiles in an oily and patronising manner, placing his sweaty hand on my leg. Eww, I’m not sure if he’s actually referring to the chess or something else.