‘Where have you been? I thought you must have fallen asleep at the desk or something.’
‘No,’ I reply innocently. ‘You’re only talking to the highest achieving sales recruit of the century!’
Mark laughs when I tell him what happened, but in spite of my amusement, I feel a total fake as I know it was nothing more than luck. It’s lifted my mood for a while though and we sit and enjoy our favourite lunch at Yo Sushi on the corner.
I tell Mark about Dean and even manage to laugh off his weird behaviour – he hasn’t phoned again so perhaps the message has finally got through.
‘You just don’t have high enough standards, darling,’ Mark states categorically, chomping his way through his fourth yasai roll. I don’t know how he always manages to eat so neatly. I’ve already dropped soy sauce down my shirt.
‘I do,’ I protest, trying without much success to remove the stain. ‘I order Prince Charming but instead I keep finding trolls.’
‘Then you’re not looking in the right places.’
As usual, he’s flicking through a magazine he’s found on the table, expertly critiquing the designers, the photography and the style. Mind you, Mark has excellent taste and always looks immaculate, I think he has his suits handmade at Lock and Co.
I peer over his shoulder, checking out the latest fashions. ‘You really ought to be a designer,’ I say. ‘You’re wasted in Account Management.’
‘Maybe one day.’ Mark smiles. ‘At the moment, this job pays the bills and Tim’s enough of a diva for both of us!’ Tim is Mark’s long-standing, long-suffering partner who works at a top London fashion house.
Mark turns to the classified ads at the back.
‘I don’t want to look at those,’ I protest. ‘I’ve been trying mostly unsuccessfully to sell them all morning.’
‘You should be studying other magazines. Check out the competition.’
‘Oh my God!’ I grab frantically at the mag as Mark continues, mechanically turning the pages. ‘Stop, stop. Go back!’
‘What? Why? You made me jump.’
I take the magazine and finally manage to find the ad that had attracted my attention.
‘Look at this.’ I point triumphantly at the page.
Exclusive dating agency for ladies to meet real gentlemen in beautiful settings – only the truly romantic may apply! Dine like Elizabeth and Darcy at Chatsworth aka Pemberley, picnic like Emma and Mr Knightley on juicy strawberries and sparkling champagne on Box Hill. The possibilities are endless… Fed up with looking for Mr Right? Bored with dating complete blockheads whose idea of romance is asking what you are cooking them for dinner? Then look no further than The Jane Austen Dating Agency… Call 0207 946 0801 for more info or check out our website on janeaustendatingagency.com
‘The Jane Austen Dating Agency,’ I repeat slowly. ‘It’s like a dream come true.’ And it is… I can’t believe it. Just imagine, Regency Balls, champagne picnics, men in tight breeches and maybe even a Colin Firth wet shirt… OMG, book me in now.’
‘Sounds utterly fabulous. I’d join if I were single.’ Mark is the best friend ever. Even though I’ve only known him a short while, he’s totally supportive. He also loves Austen – in fact, he always says Pride and Prejudice is one of the best heterosexual love stories he’s ever read, which is quite a compliment I think.
‘So, what you gonna do?’ he asks, winking at me dramatically. ‘I should phone now quickly before there is a crowd of desperate damsels queuing down the street, beating the door down for Mr Darcy.’ Mark grabs my phone and starts dialling the number.
‘No, give it back.’ I laugh, snatching it from him. ‘I need to think about it first. After all, I’m not sure about a dating agency. I’m not that desperate yet.’
‘Believe me, girl, you are! And anyway, this is something special; it’s The Jane Austen Dating Agency.’
I smile enigmatically, trying to conceal my excitement, while inside my mind is going crazy with fantasies of arriving at the ball at Pemberley in Regency dress.
You know, I think The Jane Austen Dating Agency is exactly what I need in my life.
Chapter 2
‘Miss Johnson?’ A stylish and expensively dressed young woman, probably in her late twenties, appears from nowhere and wafts elegantly across the room wearing this season’s pale lilac Jimmy Choos. Looking at her, I begin to wonder if I should have worn something a little more designer, and I squirm uncomfortably in my seat.
‘Yes?’ I leap to my feet, trying ineffectually not to appear like an overexcited puppy. Keep it cool, Sophie, slow it down.
The woman gingerly takes the tips of my offered hand and shakes it limply, releasing it far too quickly for politeness.
There’s an awkward silence as she scrutinises me from head-to-toe, her eyes narrowed, making me feel completely out of place. I brush my top randomly, pretending to remove a stray hair which doesn’t really exist. This woman is the limit; I hate it when people deliberately look you up and down – don’t they realise they’re doing it or are they just plain rude?
‘I am Miss Palmer-Wright, Head of Membership at The Jane Austen Dating Agency. My colleague, Miss Emma Woodtree, who processed your online application, is currently off-site shooting locations for our annual ball.’
‘Oh, how exciting!’ I gush. I always gush when I am ill at ease. ‘That must be so romantic!’
‘Yes, the ball at Pemberley is a splendid occasion,’ Miss Palmer-Wright gives me another glance, ‘but it is only available to our Gold members.’ She eyes my outfit from the high street with undisguised distaste. ‘I shall continue to explain our terms and conditions in my office. Follow me please.’
I wonder if this woman is for real. Her tone has made it quite clear it’s highly unlikely I’ll qualify to be included in any invitation to the ball. I’m feeling worryingly like Cinderella dealing with her wicked stepmother. I’m not sure what I’d expected, Regency dress perhaps, but I’d incorrectly assumed that anyone who loves Jane Austen would be nice, not a prize bitch.
‘You will need to complete some more forms so we can assess your suitability for the agency,’ Miss Palmer-Wright states decisively, striding out along the corridor.
I find myself trotting at her heels, stammering, ‘Yes please, thank you very much,’ as gratefully as though she is offering me a thousand-pound Prada suit for nothing. I hate that about myself, I’m just so Miranda Hart. I don’t look like her, but the whole thanking someone even when they are being rude thing. Even if someone told me to get lost, I would probably thank them very much a la Mrs Bennet in Pride and Prejudice, ‘Thank the gentleman, Jane.’
In fact, I blame my mother, for my ridiculous politeness in the face of blatant bitching is all her fault. Manners were a huge part of my childhood, and as for older people, they were always right, the same for doctors, teachers and policemen. I think it’s a generation thing; her mum, my gran, was always the same. So Victorian. Then my mother spends her whole life saying, ‘You need to learn to stand up for yourself. Don’t let people push you around,’ while she tells me what to do and pushes me around.