***Important Note***
This story is temporarily paused because I don't have any free time to write at the moment. I'm hoping to get back to working on the story again soon, but in the meantime I want to avoid anyone else reading the chapters I've posted so far and then being disappointed that it isn't complete yet. Please bear with me.
As soon as I'm in a position to start writing again, I will remove the "On Hold" label from the title, so save it into your library or follow me for updates when I start posting again.
She never saw it coming.
There was no warning. No dark sense of foreboding as the tiny black and white ball sailed across the screen and hit the back of the net.
"Yessss!" Jared jumped up, fist thrusting towards the ceiling as an exultant cry spread through the crowded pub. Her glass, knocked from her hand by the sudden movement, cartwheeled once in midair before smashing against the edge of the table.
He snatched his phone out of harm's way and dried the screen with a loving caress before stowing it safely in his pocket. His friends slithered back to avoid the spreading puddle of vodka and coke dripping off the table like an alcoholic waterfall. Those sitting at nearby tables offered cardboard coasters in a pitiful effort to mop up the mess.
Only then did he spare a thought for Jessica. "You okay?"
The white top had looked so pretty in the shop. Now it had a new pattern; a diagonal slash of dingy brown, like one of those canvases you might see hanging in the Tate Modern. Cold, wet denim clung to her thighs, as her jeans had soaked up nearly half of the liquid. Jess carefully collected some of the larger glass shards that lay in her lap as she bit back a curse. "I think I'll live."
Someone threw Jared a dry bar towel. He grinned as he blotted the coke from her chest until she snatched it off him. The day before, when he'd asked her out, his uneven grin had seemed cute. That was before four and a half pints twisted that cute grin into a lecherous leer that turned her stomach. He bent close to her ear, his beer-breath reeking. "I didn't expect you'd be practising for the wet t-shirt contest tonight."
He was right. The coke hadn't just stained her top. It had turned parts of the white polyester transparent, and Jared's mates into giggling thirteen-year-old boys. The one, admittedly tarnished, silver lining was that it had also stained her white bra a pale beige, so it was less noticeable at a distance. Jess covered the worst of the mess with the towel. "I'd better go and clean up."
"You can come back to our place if you like. We'll get you out of those wet clothes and dry them on the radiators." One of his friends laughed as Jared waggled his eyebrows.
Did he honestly think his offer would appeal to her?
Jess collected her bag and her jacket. She had no interest in spending another minute in their company. "I think I'll be okay. I'm nipping to the ladies room. I won't be—" Her words were smothered beneath a chorus of cheers and boos as one of the teams playing on TV scored another goal. She slipped through the crowd, past flashing fruit machines and the thumping bass of the jukebox, doubting whether he'd even notice she was gone.
She rinsed out the stain and held her top under the hand dryer, hoping it would dry enough for her to get home. It hadn't been a great night, even before the accident, but she couldn't lay the whole blame on Jared's slightly hunched shoulders.
It was all Jane Austen's fault.
Ms. Austen had written most of her favourite romantic heroes: those fictional but otherwise perfect specimens who existed only to sweep a girl off her feet. Yet despite years of fruitless searching, she hadn't entirely given up hope of one day finding a mild-mannered Henry Tilney, a steadfast Captain Wentworth, or—if she was really fortunate—a prideful Fitzwilliam Darcy.
Hell, even George Wickham would be an improvement on Jared.
Everyone knew gentlemen were a dying breed but was it really asking too much to meet one? Or were they consigned to the past; only coming to life within the pages of romantic novels and dusty history books?
~~~~~
Raindrops rebounded from the pavement as the taxi stopped halfway down the deserted street of neat terraced houses. Jessica thrust a moist ten-pound note towards the driver, hunched her shoulders against the storm and flew towards the nearest front door. Once inside she peeled off her jacket, draping it over the radiator as water pooled on the tiles beneath.
Her soggy jeans stuck to her skin, and she eyed the staircase as a mountain to be conquered on her way to some warm dry clothes and a fluffy towel until a disembodied voice floated from the kitchen.
"Is that you?"
She rolled her eyes in the semi-darkness. "No, it's my evil twin. With an axe. I thought I told you to keep the door locked at night?" She glanced in the hall mirror as she passed, running her fingers through the limp clumps of hair plastered against her head and shoulders.
A willowy figure with a mass of red curls and a retroussé nose bounced into the hallway with her arms full of towels. She wrapped a large one around Jessica's shoulders and offered a second for her hair. "I didn't want you to get any wetter while waiting for me to unlock the door. It's horrible out there. How was your date?"
Jess sighed and shook her head. "You wouldn't believe it."
"Pity. I had high hopes for Jared. I thought he showed promise. You go upstairs and get changed, while I put some milk on for cocoa. Then you can tell me all about it."
Jessica smiled at the motherly tone in her house mate's voice but did as she was told. She peeled off her jeans before shrugging herself into pink flannelette pyjamas. Ten minutes later she'd snuggled into the corner of the sofa, wrapped in her soft dressing gown, her hands around a warm mug, inhaling the chocolaty aroma.
Beatrice sat in the chair opposite, her back straight and legs crossed, yoga-style. "So Jared didn't climb too high on your scale of eligible bachelors then?"
"I think even a three would be too generous."
"Not even a Frank Churchill? Ouch. He seemed like quite the gentleman when he bumped into you in the café...all polite and apologetic. You were only meeting him for drinks. How could he mess that up?"
"The first half hour was fine. We were chatting about his job and I thought it was going well. Then his friends turned up and the whole evening suddenly morphed into a boys' night out. At that point, I became slightly less important than the match they were showing on the big screen. I don't expect to be the centre of any man's world, but I would like to rank a bit higher than a stupid ball game, particularly on a first date. It's not as if they were playing a major cup tie, or something important. It was an Italian league game." As Jess described the accident with her drink she realised Jared hadn't even apologised.
"Perhaps you were best off out of it."
"That's what I thought, so when I'd dried off I decided to come home. By the time I left the pub it was throwing it down outside, and I was only wearing my short jacket, so I went for a taxi instead of waiting for the bus."
"If you came home in a taxi how did you get so wet?"
Jess shivered involuntarily as she recalled the moment she'd been drenched by the filthy water. "I swear the first cab drove through the puddle in front of me on purpose. There was no way he didn't see me. So I went from damp to soaked in a matter of seconds. To top it off, the second taxi driver complained about my wet clothes messing up his upholstery and tried to charge me extra. If I hadn't been so desperate to get home I would have told him where to stuff his taxi."
Bea grinned. "Go on, say it."
"What?"
"The same thing you say whenever you have an awful date. Where are all the real gentlemen these days?"
"Wherever they are I can tell you they don't spend much time in the Frog and Dolphin." Her gaze drifted to her shelf next to the TV, which held all her classic novels and her collection of period drama DVDs. She loved the whole idea of living in a time where men removed their hats, bowed to the ladies and didn't feel the need to check their phone every five seconds. "Is it too much to ask for a man's undivided attention for a couple of hours?"
"These days, yes. Besides, you don't just want their attention, Jess. You want someone to sweep you off your feet. You bring all this disappointment on yourself by reading those stupid romance books. Jane Austen is a danger to the sanity of womankind, by raising false hopes all over the world. If she wasn't long dead already I'd be tempted to strangle her myself. You need to realise that modern men aren't like those guys with the tall hats that you watch on telly every week."
"Don't be ridiculous. I don't watch them that often."
"Every other week then. Face it, you're obsessed with those brooding, Byronic heroes with the baggy shirts and tight breeches. What is it about them that you love so much? I never thought Mr. Darcy was all that. He's a stuck up snob at the beginning, thinking he's better than everyone else. His first proposal is borderline offensive."
"You're missing the point. He has to start out like a jerk so he can become a better man. I like the way he listens to Elizabeth, even if he doesn't always understand what she's saying. He goes to visit her, but he's tongue-tied and embarrassed. Once he falls in love with her, his feelings are constant, and he doesn't stop loving her, even after she rejects him. Mr. Darcy is the kind of man who would hold the door for you and let you go through first, rather than letting it slam in your face. He would walk nearest to the road, to protect you from sadistic taxi drivers and puddles. He wouldn't spend all night on his phone, or watching football, because he's only interested in you." She sighed. "I just want to meet someone like that, but there's not many of them around these days. At least, not under sixty."
"At the theatre, Giovanni holds the door for me all the time. He's very sensitive and romantically minded, and he's not even thirty yet."
"I thought you said he was gay?"
Bea shrugged. "All the best dancers are, but you're going to have to lower your standards if you don't want to be perpetually disappointed. You'll never find a man you can be happy with if you measure them all against a mythological creature like Fitzwilliam Darcy."
"You're probably right. Besides, even if he did exist chances are he's most likely married."
"Exactly. You need to cut all these twenty-first-century guys some slack. Then you might not be disappointed so often." Bea uncurled from the chair and stretched her arms above her head before collecting the empty mugs. "Bedtime for me. I have early rehearsals tomorrow. Did you see those letters I left on the table? They were on the mat when I got home."
The brown envelope contained a phone bill. The other had a return address for an office in Streatham; a place she'd visited only a fortnight ago. She ran a shaky finger under the flap and pulled out a thick booklet; a script she already knew by heart. A smile grew as she returned to the living room. "Do you still think I can't find a real-life Mr. Darcy?"
"Never. Like the Yeti, he doesn't exist."
"He does, or at least he will do next month." She waved the script in front of Bea's eyes. "I got the job."
"Which one?"
As the reality sank in her excitement bubbled up inside, like a balloon about to pop. "The job! The one in Derbyshire I told you about. I'm going to be playing the part of Elizabeth Bennet, with the Regency dresses and everything!"
Bea laughed. "You lucky cow. So you will be meeting Mr. Darcy after all. I hope the poor guy realises what he's taken on, playing a role that embodies every virtue. Being the perfect man must be so boring. How long will you be away for?"
"It's a short project for the local tourist office; part of some Jane Austen celebration week they're putting on. We'll have three days prep and rehearsal, then I'll be acting out selected scenes from Pride and Prejudice every morning and afternoon for seven days."
"Only ten days? It's a pity that won't give you very long to get to know Mr. Darcy. And they're actually paying you for this?"
"Not a lot, but to be honest I'd almost have done it for free. We'll be staying in a beautiful stately home, in the middle of nowhere. They're providing all the food and accommodation, and the house is only open in the daytime, so there are no evening performances. I don't care that the money is awful. I've always dreamed about having Jane Austen on my resume, and this might be my only chance. It'll be like spending the week in a real-life period drama."