And it is. I feel lost. I had such high hopes of The Jane Austen Dating Agency; it was going to solve all my problems. I was lined up to meet the man of my dreams, have some fun, marry him (he’d be wealthy, of course) and we’d live happily ever after…
But would we though? How likely is that to have happened?
About as likely as Jane Austen herself was ever likely to find a Mr Darcy of her own and marry him. Her reality was the charming Tom Lefroy, but it came to nothing when his family intervened and that was the end of that. Romantically, he still remembered her years later, after he married a wealthy woman, but that didn’t help, the end result was the same.
The nearest Jane ever came to marriage was Harris Big-Wither. I mean, come on, the name says it all. No wonder she had second thoughts, having initially accepted him and then run away home. I can imagine that was a sleepless night, checking out the size of his library, his estates, the enticing inducements of a comfortable financially worry-free future and weighing it against the fact she would have to accept, perhaps forever, the death of romantic dreams, imaginings and hope.
This would all be exchanged for the nitty-gritty reality of a bore of a husband, probably a Rob Bright-alike, droning on and on, and the endless drudge of repeated pregnancies and childbirth. Poor Jane, no wonder she ran away. Thank goodness for all our sakes she did; we would probably never have her wonderful books today if she had shackled herself to such a man.
Later that evening, I scroll through The Jane Austen Dating Agency website, then sadly close the page with an air of finality. I sit aimlessly staring at the screen and idly flick on to my Twitter account. I’m browsing through the usual mixture of this and that, when a random tweet catches my eye. It’s a quote saying, ‘She needed a hero so that’s what she became.’
And then, just like that, it suddenly becomes clear to me. I don’t need The Jane Austen Dating Agency. I can do it by myself. Darcy’s right, not that I will ever tell him that, but I’ve been living in a dream world. That’s okay because we all need to sometimes. I’m not promising never to dabble in those happy imaginings again, but it’s not right to live in it. The time has come for me, Sophie Johnson, to kick ass and sort out my own happy ever after.
I start the very next day at my meeting with Mark over the obligatory smoked salmon blinis.
‘Sophie, darling, you look… different,’ he says, eyeing my outfit in an impressed manner. ‘New suit?’
‘Yes it is, cost a small fortune but I thought it’s about time everyone began to take me a bit more seriously.’
‘Ooh hark at you… but you look good. It suits you, this new businesslike image.’
‘Thanks.’ I try to bask in the compliment for once, instead of brushing it aside as usual. ‘I have an idea and I need you to tell me how I can manage it,’ I say to him conspiratorially, simultaneously checking the rest of the sales team aren’t around to overhear.
‘How exciting, you know how I love ideas, darling! Fire away!’
‘Have you heard of Scoop?’
‘Scoop? No, what’s that?’
‘It’s a trade show of womenswear held at the Saatchi Gallery. I understand it’s an opportunity for niche designers to exhibit to an international audience, and I think it would be perfect for Mel.’
‘Look at you, knowing all the goss. How did you hear about that?’
‘I didn’t!’ I confess. ‘I’ve been spending a lot of time doing research and I don’t even know how to get Mel in, but it sounds the right sort of place for her to have a chance. I need your help with this though, Mark. Do you think Tim would know anything about it?’
‘He’s bound to; there isn’t a model with a broken nail that Tim hasn’t heard about practically before it even happens. I’ll phone him at lunch and we’ll get a plan together. Mel has talent and I love that. She also beats me every time at arm wrestling, an attribute I find simply irresistible.’
Having completed phase one of the new Sophie, after lunch I begin phase two. This is partly the reason for my sharp new suit, which I took the rest of my savings out to buy. It’s more than I have ever even considered paying for an outfit, but I figure this is a business investment. I take a brief moment to go in the ladies, reapply lipstick, brush through my hair, which for once is doing what it’s told, and straighten my shirt. Yep, I look like I mean business. You can do this, Sophie.
Because today, I’m going up those stairs to Editorial.
I check my surroundings briefly on leaving the loos, to make sure none of the sales team or Amanda are about. The coast is clear, I sneak along the corridor and on to the staircase. The next flight looks imposing and scarily empty. Then I give myself a little shake, these are just stairs and the people at the top of them are ordinary people, they eat, drink and use the toilet like the rest of us, so I have nothing to be scared of.
It’s surprisingly easy actually. I climb the steps and reach the top. It looks very much like the sales floor but a little more homely, with books and papers, all more eclectic in style. I look about to see which way I should go.
‘Can I help you?’ a willowy girl with a perfect complexion asks.
‘I’m looking for Miffy Pemberton-Smythe,’ I announce as firmly as I can.
‘Just through there.’ The girl gestures vaguely towards a blue door and disappears off down the corridor. I wander into a room with a couple of empty desks, computers and loads of magazines. On the wall is a pinboard with a mock-up of this month’s copy of Modiste, all pieced together.
‘I think we should move this page back in the copy, or the flow is affected by this article here,’ says Penny Sanderson, Editorial Director. I’ve never met her before, but I’ve seen her picture in the magazine and on our website’s staff listing. She looks up quizzically as I blunder in.
‘Yes?’ she asks, not unkindly.
‘I’m sorry,’ I stutter, but then I think, No, I’m not sorry. Why should I be sorry? I have every right to come and knock on this door and speak to these people. I work for this company, for goodness sake. I’m not doing any harm.
I try again. ‘I just wanted a word with Miffy, but I can come back in a while if you prefer.’
‘No, that’s fine. I need to go and speak to Jocasta about the Jennifer Lawrence cover.’ Before I can reply, Penny bustles out of the room and I’m left alone with Miffy.
‘Sophie, darling.’ She gives me a couple of perfunctory air kisses in greeting. ‘You’ll have to forgive me this morning, we’re on a copy deadline and a couple of people down. Nats and Bunty have gone awol and I was out at a shoot till 1am.’
‘Oh.’ It doesn’t sound quite as glamorous up here as I thought. In fact, looking around me, it all looks pretty ordinary, although to construct the next magazine would be really something. I’m still clutching my folder of written work. ‘Miffy, I won’t stop you long, it’s just that as you know, I work downstairs in sales.’
‘Yes,’ Miffy mutters, scanning through a couple of pages of typewritten copy. She looks up briefly. ‘Did Amanda send you up with some papers for me?’ She holds out her hand to take my file.