Definitely Not Mr. Darcy

Every episode of How to Date Mr. Darcy was like nails on a chalkboard for Chloe. She didn’t like seeing and hearing herself on TV, especial y her little freak-out over the confiscation of her cel phone that George had al owed to be plastered al over YouTube, the program’s website, everything.

Worse, she saw now how Sebastian charmed his way into every woman’s heart on the show—not just hers. He even seduced one of the chaperones, fifteen years his senior, in the weeks before Chloe joined. If anyone was “accomplished,” it was him.

“You kick ass, Chloe.” Dan ate with his mouth open, and talked with it open, too, so she could see the neon-orange cheese and tortil a chips mashed together in his mouth. “You’re number one!” He’d brought an oversized foam finger and brandished it every time Chloe did something

“cool” like leave Sebastian at the altar, dumbfounded.

In this final episode, after Chloe left in the taxicab, George announced that the tal ied Accomplishment Points were deemed irrelevant due to unforeseen circumstances. He’d done exit interviews with Grace, Fiona, Mrs. Crescent, and Sebastian. After each interview, the screen went black and a little update paragraph about each person appeared. Grace was back to work at her trading firm and dating a British politician. Fiona had set her wedding date with her fiancé, who had come back ahead of schedule from his tour of duty in Afghanistan. Mrs. Crescent’s Wil iam had a successful operation and the lump was benign. Sebastian, thanks to the reality show, had accepted the leading role in a show cal ed The Libertine set to be filmed by England’s Independent Television, and, it turned out, was dating one of the milkmaids from How to Date Mr. Darcy. He shouldn’t have even been talking to the milkmaids. Then a photo of Chloe appeared on-screen and dissolved. The white type on the black screen read: Chloe Parker returned home to Chicago, where she turned

her business around to solvent. The court did move to

modify custody of her daughter, but only granted her ex-

husband custody for one month per summer. And the Na-

tional Trust thanks her for her generous donation to help

restore historic properties throughout England.

The show ended with a short clip about Henry. Chloe sucked down her drink.

“Miss Parker, I know you’re out there watching,” he said into the camera.

Chloe, in her faded blue jeans, propped up her knees and hid her head.

“It was a great pleasure to get to know you and I do hope that you and your daughter consider visiting Dartworth Hal sometime very soon. I quite miss you. You pierce my soul—and al that.”

“Aww,” Emma said.

Dan took a slug of beer and burped. “What was that supposed to mean?”

It seemed forever until they left. Chloe stood looking out the third-floor window of her brownstone. It was Saturday night and fireworks were going off at Navy Pier. Red, white, and blue lit up the night sky.

She’d been thinking about Henry a lot lately. About England. The fireworks dripped in front of her like fal ing petals, or tears.

Alistair sat on his haunches in the living room with his back to her, surrounded by the white, brown, and black feathers from a down pil ow he had just shredded. He was a mouser cat, and unless Abigail was home, he was bored.

“Alistair!”

He didn’t flinch; she clenched her fists.

“Alistair Cooke!”

He slowly turned around and his green cat eyes stared at her as if he knew al . He had a long white feather in his mouth.

Chloe’s heart pounded. At first she actual y thought it was a quil pen. She released her clenched fingers and he dropped the feather at her lime-green painted toenails. She stepped on it with her stiletto heel, then sank down into her once shabby-chic couch that she had since reupholstered in black leather. The leather wasn’t as comfortable. Neither were the stilettos. And lime green was never her color.

“Meow.”

She slipped off her sandals and tiptoed to her desk. The embossed letters on the spine of her Volume I first-edition of Sense and Sensibility gleamed in the moonlight. She pul ed out a sheet of thick writing paper, then put it away and turned on her laptop instead. She clicked on her e-mail and adjusted her horn-rimmed glasses.

Maybe you could mix e-mail and etiquette. Business and bird-watching. Nineteenth-century courtship and modern-day feminism. The best of Austen and the worst of our reality.

Maybe she and Abigail could find a way to live in both worlds.

Dear Mr. Wrightman,

I have been thinking of you.