It’s surprisingly easy to persuade Chloe to come, apparently Kian is going to be working that night thank goodness, though I have a horrible suspicion there’s going to be trouble when he finds out where she’s going.
Mel’s oddly keen for someone who isn’t into Jane Austen in any way, shape or form, and typically decides to make her own dress. This is going to involve a host of late nights with her sewing away at all hours, but nothing really new there.
Work seems to fly by and bizarrely my sales figures have gone up again, perhaps I could be quite good at this thing after all. Amanda has even smiled at me on a couple of occasions; it was quite unnerving. Mark’s thrilled about Daniel, though he keeps asking me how I’m going to move things forward, probably because he knows I’m a complete non-starter when it comes to dating. Having told him about Daniel’s harsh treatment at the hands of Darcy Drummond, however, Mark’s incredulous.
‘How kind of him to give you his whole life story during your first proper date together. God, he’s worse than me!’ Mark says calmly, sipping his mid-morning latte.
‘You think he’s making it up? I believe Darcy’s been a complete b towards him.’
‘I think he’s been reading Pride and Prejudice. It’s scarily similar.’ Mark sees my face. ‘Okay, joking apart, I’m not saying Daniel’s lying exactly, but firstly you don’t know him that well and he could be – how do we know? Secondly, if not, to be fair he won’t be the first person who’s been badly treated by the rich and powerful in this country. He’s almost a bit too plausible.’
‘That doesn’t make it right, and if he’s lying, that’ll be just typical. He’s the first normal guy I’ve met. It’s not fair.’
‘Life isn’t fair though, is it, darling?’ Mark states sagely.
However I feel about Daniel, I’m so excited about the Regency Ball – after much searching, I’ve managed to hire a beautiful long cream empire line dress with a tiny V-shaped neck finished with a very fine gold thread. I don’t even want to think about how much it cost but, put it this way, I had, originally upon hearing the amount, presumed it must be the purchase price. In for a penny, in for a pound, I figure anyway, and as this is my dream to attend a Regency Ball, I have to look the part.
We’ve decided to stay at a small country hotel in Bakewell, the beautiful little village near Chatsworth. That way we can also get a taxi back and make a real night of it. I still don’t know what Chloe has told Kian, but when I asked her about it, she said he’d been fine, which is suspicious in itself considering his usual overprotective behaviour. Mind you, she probably told him it was just a tour of a stately home or something.
The evening of the ball arrives at last, but as I’m trying to get ready, the wearing of Regency dress presents more issues than I had thought possible. Not least the fact that empire line dresses are cut a bit like maternity wear. It may have been all very well in Austen’s day, as women were so tiny and dainty. At least I think they were, if the size of clothes on display at the costume museum and at Jane Austen’s house are to be believed. The gloves and slippers they wore were miniscule. In any case, the reality is that, from the side, I look at least six months pregnant.
Of course I suppose women still wore corsets under their loose dresses. Hmmm, no corsets in my wardrobe, funnily enough. In desperation, I borrow a pair of Spanx from Chloe, which is ironic as she is much more petite than me, but I figure they might pull me in and the dress will then hang elegantly round my sylph-like silhouette. Squeezing them on, however, is more of an operation than I had thought; they’re so impossibly tight.
Finally, I manage, after feeling as though I have been wrestling with a bear and it’s won. I look at myself in the mirror. Yes, if I had been going for the red-flushed beetroot sweaty face look, I’ve succeeded. Worse still, upon examining my outline critically, I now appear to have an extra two pairs of boobs. All my fat has been suctioned up below my chest with the result I look like a freak. Not quite the look I was aiming for.
Angrily, I peel off the offending Spanx, which is easier said than done. It’s a bit like escaping from a giant squid. Dress back on – I decide to concentrate on some subtle make-up and tonging my hair into ringlets before securing it high on my head. Okay, it’s not a bad effort actually.
As I’m admiring my reflection, I’m disturbed by Mel who’s sheathed from head-to-toe in a beautiful soft green dress, delicately decorated by tiny painstakingly hand-stitched embroidered flowers. She really is very talented. Her long curly hair is braided and has tiny ringlets framing her face.
‘Wow – you look amazing,’ I say, genuinely impressed. Apart from anything else, I have never seen Mel in a dress before; she usually lives in trousers and dungarees. In fact, she’s so annoying, she cares so little about her appearance but always manages to look great.
‘So do you,’ Mel retorts. ‘You’re lucky being so pretty. Look out, Daniel!’
The problem remains that my dress still makes me look pregnant whatever Mel says. Then I have a brainwave – of course, Regency women damped their dresses down with water so they clung to their figures.
‘What are you doing?’ Mel asks, probably thinking I’m completely mad.
‘Damping my gown!’ I reply, liberally sloshing water over my dress. ‘Ooh, it’s cold and yuk – it feels horrible.’
I come out of the bathroom to examine myself in the long bedroom mirror. I have to say, the water thing has worked; my dress clings in an intriguing manner and I no longer look so pregnant, or maybe just at the starting-to-show stage, which is an improvement anyway. As long as I don’t freeze – I’m feeling pretty cold wearing a damp dress. The quote ‘il faut souffrir pour être belle’ springs to mind. I can’t remember who said it, but they’re obviously right.
Ideally, we should be travelling by horse and carriage to fit the occasion, but as that isn’t available, a taxi will have to do. Chloe knocks on the door, looking dainty in a pretty long dress she managed to find in a local charity shop. It was so clever of her as it’s all lace and I think it would be worth a lot of money in a vintage store.
I can’t contain my excitement at the idea of going to Chatsworth House, aka Pemberley in Pride and Prejudice; imagine, I am going to be dancing in the same room as Keira Knightley and Matthew Macfadyen. More to the point, I’ll dance with Daniel. Whether he’s spinning yarns or not, I just want to be with him again. Maybe we could even have some pics taken together so I can prove to Mark and my parents that I actually have a real-life decent boyfriend rather than fictional ones.
It’s still light as we ascend to the crest of the hill above Chatsworth, where the view down to the valley below and the imposing stately building takes my breath away. A stream runs in front of the main house, with contentedly grazing sheep dotted about the green landscape.
‘This is paradise,’ I breathe. ‘If I were Lizzie, I’d have put up with a lot of arrogance just to live in this place.’
‘Darcy wasn’t arrogant, if I remember correctly,’ Chloe retorts. ‘We had to write an essay on this in school – he was simply misunderstood.’