Me and Mr Darcy Read Free Page A

single verse of beautiful poetry.
    I’ve worked here ever since college, and for someone who loves nothing more than curling up with a good book, it’s my dream job. My parents joke that I was predestined from birth to end up here, that books are in my blood. My parents are academics – my mom teaches English, and my dad art history – and they’re both total bookworms.
    Growing up, there was no TV in our house. Instead, my brother and I were told to use our imaginations and were given books. According to my parents, I learned to read when I was only two and half years old. When all the other toddlers were going to the park to play on the swings, my mom and dad were taking me on trips to the public library.
    Apparently, my first words were ‘Please be quiet.’
    However, Mr McKenzie is getting old, and with his only son a doctor and not interested in taking over the business, there’s been talk of him selling up. Six months ago he had an offer from one of the big coffee chains, who wanted to replace the stencilled glass with their logo, lay a cement floor and put fake books on the mahogany bookshelves. He turned it down, said over his dead body. But even so, I’ve got a feeling my days here are numbered. Not that I’m bothered about myself – I can always get another job – but there’ll never be another bookstore like McKenzie’s. Once it’s gone, it’s gone for ever.
    Handing a customer his change, I turn to the person next in line and see there isn’t anyone. I heave a sigh of relief. Thank God. Stella’s still out at lunch and the run-up to Christmas is always manic. Everyone’s on the hunt for the perfect gift. This is the time of year that most people head to the table first, under the illusion that bigger is always better and only a large, expensive coffee-table book will suffice. True, they make an impact, but invariably these volumes of glossy photographs are flicked through once and then left to gather dust, whereas a much-loved paperback will be enjoyed on the subway, in the bathtub and under the bedcovers, and loaned to friends and family to be read time and time again.
    Nobody will ever forget Wuthering Heights , but who’s going to remember The History of the Romanian Trapeze Artists ? I muse, noticing a figure over by the trestle table. Short and stocky with hair almost a whitish-grey, he’s leafing through the large hardback book. I walk up to him. He’s deep in concentration.
    ‘Is that for Stella?’ I ask, peering over his shoulder.
    He jumps. ‘Hey, Em, how are you?’ he gasps, his boyish face breaking into a grin.
    ‘Oh, you know.’ I smile as he gives me a kiss on each cheek, sprinkling me with the flour that has coated his jet-black hair, making it appear white. ‘How are you, Freddy?’
    Freddy is Stella’s husband, but theirs is only a green-card marriage. They met two years ago when she went into the bakery next door to buy sandwiches for lunch and they’ve been great friends ever since. Freddy’s Italian, and when his visa ran out, Stella offered to marry him. In return she gets to live cheaply in his little apartment above the bakery. It sounds like the perfect arrangement, and it is. Apart from one little fact: Freddy’s obviously hopelessly in love with her – and the only person who doesn’t notice is Stella.
    ‘So, what do you think?’ he’s asking, gesturing to the book. ‘For Christmas.’
    I wrinkle up my nose. ‘Stella might work in a bookstore, but I don’t think I’ve ever actually seen her read a book.’
    ‘Hmmm, I guess you’re right . . .’ He nods, frowning. ‘But she could look at the photos,’ he suggests brightly.
    ‘Have you ever seen her look at a photo that wasn’t fashion photography?’ I ask, raising my eyebrows.
    Freddy slumps and lets out a deep sigh. ‘I give up. I’m useless. I can’t even buy her a gift.’
    He looks so woebegone my heart goes out to him. ‘Look, can I make a suggestion?’
    ‘Sure.’ He nods