store?’ she asks tentatively.
‘No!’ I gasp impatiently. ‘He’s the sexiest, most romantic man you can imagine. Not only is he respectful and knows how to treat a woman, but he’s this dark, brooding hero who’s incredibly dashing and has all this repressed passion that’s just waiting to be unleashed . . .’
‘Jeez, he sounds like a female wet dream,’ she giggles.
I throw her a sobering look.
‘So, where do we find this Mr Darcy?’ she asks in a subdued voice. ‘I wouldn’t mind meeting him myself.’
Picking up a copy of Pride and Prejudice , I waggle it at her like a prosecution lawyer with a piece of evidence.
Puzzled, Stella narrows her eyes and peers at me for a moment, trying to work it out. Then suddenly it registers.
‘ A book? ’ she gasps in disbelief. ‘This amazing man you’re raving on about is a character in a book ?’ For a moment she glares at me, wide-eyed, then she stomps down the ladder and snatches the paperback from my hand. ‘I’ll tell you why you can’t go on a date with Mr frigging Darcy,’ she scolds. ‘Because it’s fiction.’ Climbing back up the ladder, she holds the novel out of my reach. ‘He’s not real. Honestly, Emily. Sometimes you can be such a hopeless romantic’
She says it with such pity it’s as if I’m suffering from a terminal illness.
‘What’s wrong with being a hopeless romantic?’ I demand defensively.
‘Nothing.’ She shrugs, plopping herself down at the top of the stepladder and hugging her bony knees to her chest. ‘But I’m afraid you’re going to have to face facts. You need to live in the real world. This is New York in the noughties, not the pages of –’ breaking off, she glances at the blurb on the back of the book ‘– a nineteenth-century novel set in the English countryside.’
Then Stella descends the ladder, grabs the rest of the pile of Pride and Prejudice and stuffs them unceremoniously on the shelf behind her. ‘Repeat after me, Em: Mr Darcy does not exist. ’
Chapter Two
T he rest of the morning slips away in a frenzy of Christmas shoppers. Most of the bookstores these days are the large generic ones with in-house coffee chains, more interested in 3-for-2 promotions, sales figures and attracting people to buy overpriced non-fat lattes, but McKenzie’s is different.
Small and owned by the same family for three generations, we’re tucked down a side street and squashed in between a milliner’s and an Italian bakery. Most people walk straight past us, too busy looking at all the weird and wonderful hats in the neighbouring window or dashing next door to order a toasted ciabatta sandwich. They don’t notice the old mahogany door with the original stencilled glass, through which the sun shines of a late afternoon, creating patterns of light on the polished wooden floor. But for those passers-by who do happen upon us, either by chance or through recommendation, their first time is never their last.
I always think stepping through that door is a bit like stepping through the wardrobe and into Narnia. Outside is the hectic buzz of everyday New York, but as the bell chimes to greet your arrival, you leave reality behind and enter a world of your imagination.
McKenzie’s is only a small shop but it’s brimming with an eclectic mix of reading material. The walls are lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves where bestselling paperbacks rub spines with first editions, specialist titles and rare publications, while in the middle of the floor is a large trestle table laden with sumptuously photographed coffee-table books.
My favourite spot is over by the window. There, next to magazine racks filled with publications from all around the world, is an old leather button-back sofa. Worn and sagging in the middle, over the years it’s where thousands of customers have escaped their everyday lives for the few moments it takes to read the first chapter of the latest suspense thriller or be moved by a
‘No!’ I gasp impatiently. ‘He’s the sexiest, most romantic man you can imagine. Not only is he respectful and knows how to treat a woman, but he’s this dark, brooding hero who’s incredibly dashing and has all this repressed passion that’s just waiting to be unleashed . . .’
‘Jeez, he sounds like a female wet dream,’ she giggles.
I throw her a sobering look.
‘So, where do we find this Mr Darcy?’ she asks in a subdued voice. ‘I wouldn’t mind meeting him myself.’
Picking up a copy of Pride and Prejudice , I waggle it at her like a prosecution lawyer with a piece of evidence.
Puzzled, Stella narrows her eyes and peers at me for a moment, trying to work it out. Then suddenly it registers.
‘ A book? ’ she gasps in disbelief. ‘This amazing man you’re raving on about is a character in a book ?’ For a moment she glares at me, wide-eyed, then she stomps down the ladder and snatches the paperback from my hand. ‘I’ll tell you why you can’t go on a date with Mr frigging Darcy,’ she scolds. ‘Because it’s fiction.’ Climbing back up the ladder, she holds the novel out of my reach. ‘He’s not real. Honestly, Emily. Sometimes you can be such a hopeless romantic’
She says it with such pity it’s as if I’m suffering from a terminal illness.
‘What’s wrong with being a hopeless romantic?’ I demand defensively.
‘Nothing.’ She shrugs, plopping herself down at the top of the stepladder and hugging her bony knees to her chest. ‘But I’m afraid you’re going to have to face facts. You need to live in the real world. This is New York in the noughties, not the pages of –’ breaking off, she glances at the blurb on the back of the book ‘– a nineteenth-century novel set in the English countryside.’
Then Stella descends the ladder, grabs the rest of the pile of Pride and Prejudice and stuffs them unceremoniously on the shelf behind her. ‘Repeat after me, Em: Mr Darcy does not exist. ’
Chapter Two
T he rest of the morning slips away in a frenzy of Christmas shoppers. Most of the bookstores these days are the large generic ones with in-house coffee chains, more interested in 3-for-2 promotions, sales figures and attracting people to buy overpriced non-fat lattes, but McKenzie’s is different.
Small and owned by the same family for three generations, we’re tucked down a side street and squashed in between a milliner’s and an Italian bakery. Most people walk straight past us, too busy looking at all the weird and wonderful hats in the neighbouring window or dashing next door to order a toasted ciabatta sandwich. They don’t notice the old mahogany door with the original stencilled glass, through which the sun shines of a late afternoon, creating patterns of light on the polished wooden floor. But for those passers-by who do happen upon us, either by chance or through recommendation, their first time is never their last.
I always think stepping through that door is a bit like stepping through the wardrobe and into Narnia. Outside is the hectic buzz of everyday New York, but as the bell chimes to greet your arrival, you leave reality behind and enter a world of your imagination.
McKenzie’s is only a small shop but it’s brimming with an eclectic mix of reading material. The walls are lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves where bestselling paperbacks rub spines with first editions, specialist titles and rare publications, while in the middle of the floor is a large trestle table laden with sumptuously photographed coffee-table books.
My favourite spot is over by the window. There, next to magazine racks filled with publications from all around the world, is an old leather button-back sofa. Worn and sagging in the middle, over the years it’s where thousands of customers have escaped their everyday lives for the few moments it takes to read the first chapter of the latest suspense thriller or be moved by a
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