Product Description

Dreams come true in this hilarious, feel-good fairy tale about life, love, and dating literature’s most eligible bachelor!

After a string of disastrous dates, Emily Albright decides she’s had it with modern-day love and would much rather curl up with Pride and Prejudice and spend her time with Mr. Darcy, the dashing, honorable, and passionate hero of Jane Austen’s classic. So when her best friend suggests a wild week of margaritas and men in Mexico with the girls, Emily abruptly flees to England on a guided tour of Jane Austen country instead. Far from inspiring romance, the company aboard the bus consists of a gaggle of little old ladies and one single man, Spike Hargreaves, a foul-tempered journalist writing an article on why the fictional Mr. Darcy has earned the title of Man Most Women Would Love to Date.

The last thing Emily expects to find on her excursion is a broodingly handsome man striding across a field, his damp shirt clinging to his chest. But that’s exactly what happens when she comes face-to-face with none other than Mr. Darcy himself. Suddenly, every woman’s fantasy becomes one woman’s reality. . . .

Praise for Me and Mr. Darcy:

“…Unexpectedly charming. . . Me and Mr. Darcy offers a Pride and Prejudice - appropriate surprise. . . it turns out to be one of the wittier of this summer's offerings, not to mention sharp and sad in its observations about what spinsterhood, identity and aging look like for women in 2007.” — Salon

“[Me and Mr. Darcy] takes the reader on an extended daydream with an appropriately pleasant ending. “ — The Indianapolis Star

“Alexandra Potter’s clever comedy, an affectionate celebration of books and readers — and bookstores — might lead you to start browsing those travel websites yourself.”
— The Times- Picayune

“Pure candy for the imagination. . . Ms. Potter has worked literary magic with the creation of Me and Mr. Darcy.” — CoffeeTimeRomance.com

“…Refreshing…” — Publishers Weekly

Product Details

• Amazon Sales Rank: #153261 in Books
• Published on: 2007-06-12
• Released on: 2007-06-12
• Original language: English
• Number of items: 1
• Binding: Paperback
• 368 pages

Features

• ISBN13: 9780345502544
• Condition: NEW
• Notes: Brand New from Publisher. No Remainder Mark.
• Click here to view our Condition Guide and Shipping Prices

From Publishers Weekly
U.K. author Potter makes her U.S. debut with Emily Albright, 29, a New York bookstore manager, who half-seriously blames Jane Austen's Fitzwilliam Darcy for her abysmal dating life: Darcy sets the bar too high. As Christmas approaches, Emily, to avoid a holiday with co-worker Stella, signs up for a tour of Darcy territory, lighting out, amusingly, with a gaggle of gray-haired Darcy maniacs. As the tour group weaves in and out of Darcy locales, Emily butts heads with Spike Hargreaves, a handsome young journalist interviewing the group. Soon, the jet-lagged, drink-laden Emily finds herself—presto!—time traveling and meeting Mr. Darcy himself, complete with frock coat. As her acquaintance with Darcy deepens, Emily, to her great surprise, finds herself thinking about Spike. Despite the plot's predictability, Potter's chick lit take on Darcy has a refreshing not-trying-to-equal-the-master feel. (July)
Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Chapter 1

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single girl in possession of her right mind must be in want of a decent man.

There’s just one problem . . .

“So we had a drink each and shared a pizza, but you asked for two extra toppings on your half, which means you owe . . . Hang on a minute, I’ve got a calculator on my BlackBerry . . .”

Sitting in a little Italian restaurant on Manhattan’s Lower East Side, I stare across the checked tablecloth and watch, dumbfounded, as my date pulls out his CrackBerry and proceeds to cheerfully divvy up the bill.

. . . where on earth do you find a decent man these days?

I’m having dinner with John, a thirty-something architect I met briefly at a friend’s birthday party last weekend. He seemed nice enough when he asked for my number—nice enough to share a pizza with on a Tuesday evening after work, anyway—but now, watching him hunched over the table, number-crunching, I’m fast realizing I’ve made a mistake.

“. . . an extra seven dollars and seventy-five cents, and that includes tax and tip,” he declares triumphantly, and shows me the screen to prove it.

A very big mistake.

0

To be honest, I blame Mr. Darcy.

I was just twelve years old when I first read Pride and Prejudice and I fell for him right from the start. Forget fresh-faced Joey from New Kids on the Block or leather-clad Michael Hutchence from INXS—whose posters I had tacked to my wall—Mr. Darcy was my first love. Devastatingly handsome, mysterious, smoldering, and a total romantic, he set the bar for all my future boyfriends. Snuggled under the bedcovers with my flashlight, I couldn’t wait to grow up so I could find a man like him.

But now I have grown up. And here I am, still looking.

Digging out a twenty-dollar bill from my pocket, I pass it to John.

“Have you got the seventy-five cents?” he prompts, his hand still outstretched.

You have got to be kidding.

Except he’s not.

“Oh . . . um . . . sure,” I mutter, and begin rooting around in my change purse.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not Renée Zellweger. I don’t need a man to complete me. I have a career, I pay my own rent, I have a set of power tools and I know how to use them. And as for the other thing, well, that’s what battery-operated toys were invented for.

I hand John the seventy-five cents. Then watch in disbelief as he proceeds to count it.

Still, that doesn’t stop me hankering after a bit of that good old-fashioned romance I’m always reading about in books. Or daydreaming about meeting someone who could sweep me off my Uggs and set my pulse racing. A dark, handsome, faithful man, with impeccable manners, brooding good-looks, witty conversation, and one of those big, broad, manly chests you can rest your head upon . . .

Instead, in the last twelve months, I’ve been on one disastrous date after another. Now, OK, I know everyone has a bad-date story to tell. It’s completely normal. Who hasn’t been out with Creepy Guy/Mr. Nothing in Common With/The Forty-Something Fuck-Up (delete as applicable, or in my case, don’t delete any of them)? It’s just part of being single. It has to happen once. And twice is bad luck. But a whole string of them?

For example, here are a few off the top of my head:

1.Bart had “issues with intimacy.” Translated, this meant he wouldn’t hold my hand as it was “too intimate,” but it was perfectly OK to ask me back to his place to watch a porn movie on our first date.

2.Aaron wore white cowboy boots. Which is bad enough. But after canceling on me at the last minute, telling me that he had to work late, I spotted the boots glowing in the darkness of the movie theater that night. Scroll up and there was Aaron in the back row with his tongue down another girl’s throat.

3.Then there was Daniel, the nice Jewish banker who invited me over for a home-cooked dinner. Unfortunately, he “forgot” to tell me it was his mother doing the cooking. Sorry, did I say mother? I mean, smother. Five courses and three hours of listening to how fabulous Daniel was later, I managed to escape before she got out the baby photos.

4.And now there’s John, otherwise known as Mr. Chivalrous . . .

“So, how about we do this again?” he’s asking me now as we’re leaving the restaurant.

“Oh—” I open my mouth to reply but instead give a muffled yelp as John lets the door swing back in my face. I just manage to stop it with my elbow. Not that he notices—he’s already on the sidewalk lighting up a cigarette.

Rubbing my bruised elbow, I join him outside. After the warmth of the restaurant the cold hits me immediately. It’s December in New York and it’s way below zero.

“What are you doing Friday?” he persists, raising his eyebrows and taking a drag of his cigarette.

Oh, hell, what do I say now?

I falter. Come on, Emily. You’re both adults. It will be fine. Just be honest and tell him.

Tell him what? pipes up a little voice inside me. That you’d rather stick pins in your eyeballs than go on another date with him?

“Um, well, actually—” I say in a constricted voice and then stop mid-sentence as he blows smoke in my face. “I’m kind of busy,” I splutter.

Busy being too busy to go out with a complete dickhead like you, pipes up that voice again. Only this time it’s yelling.

“Too many parties, huh?”

Trust me, I so want to be honest. Why let him off the hook with an excuse? Why protect his feelings? What about those of the next poor, unsuspecting girl he’s going to date? It’s my duty to tell him. I mean, not only is he cheap and rude, but he has hair plugs.

That’s right. Hair plugs.

I glance at them now. Under the streetlamp you can see the neat little rows dotted across his shiny scalp. Tiny seedlings of hair planted in a desperate attempt to disguise his receding hairline. Despite my feelings, sympathy tugs. Oh, c’mon, don’t be so mean, Emily. He deserves understanding and kindness, not judgment and derision.

Swallowing my annoyance, I force a smile. “Yeah, ’fraid so.” I nod, rolling my eyes in a “Phew, I’m exhausted from all this crazy partying” kind of way. Honestly, I could be an Academy Award– winning actress, not the manager of a quirky little bookstore in SoHo.

In truth I’ve been to one party. It was at the Orthodontists’ Society and I had a cold. I spent the whole evening popping Sudafed and discussing my cross-bite, and I was in bed by nine-thirty. The excitement nearly killed me.

“But it was nice meeting you,” I add warmly.

“You too.”

John appears to visibly relax and I feel a warm, virtuous glow envelop me. See. Look what a difference a few kind words can have. Now I feel really good about myself. Saint Emily. Hmm, it’s got quite a ring to it.

Buoyed up by my success, I continue: “And the plugs are amazing.”

“Plugs?” John looks at me blankly.

Shit. Did I really just say that?

“Er . . . I meant to say pizza. The pizza was amazing.” I’m flustered, blushing beet-red and trying not to look at his hairline, which of course my eyes are now drawn to with some kind of magnetic force.

Argghh. Look away, Emily. Look away.

There’s an excruciating pause. We both try to pretend we’re not aware of it. Me by picking my cuticles. Him by surreptitiously patting his hair and checking out his reflection in the restaurant window when he thinks I’m not looking. Guilt overwhelms me. Now I feel like a really bad person. Maybe I should apologize. Maybe I should—

In one seamless move, John takes a final drag of his cigarette, grinds it out under his foot, and lunges for me.

Oh, God. This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening.

It’s happening.

For a split second I freeze. Everything seems to go into slow motion. I watch him looming toward me, eyes closed, mouth open, tongue sticking out, and realize he’s misinterpreted kindness for a come-on. Fortunately (or should that be unfortunately?), I’ve been on enough bad dates in the last year to keep my reflexes sharp, and at the last moment I come to and manage to swerve just in time.

His lips crash-land on the side of my face and he plants a sloppy kiss on my ear. Eugghhh. I pull away sharply. Even so, it’s a bit of a struggle as he has his hand wrapped around my waist like a vice.

We spring apart and face each other on the sidewalk.

“Well, in that case, I think I’ll grab a cab home,” he says curtly, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his pleated pants.

“Yeah, me too,” I reply shakily, wiping my spit-soaked ear with my sleeve.

Silence. We both stand at the curb trying to hail a cab. Finally, after a painful few minutes, I see the familiar sight of a yellow cab with its light on. It pulls up and I heave a sigh of relief and reach for the door handle, but John beats me to it. I’m pleasantly surprised. At last! A bit of chivalry.

Heartened, I soften and throw him my first real smile of the evening as he tugs open the door. Perhaps I’ve misjudged him. Perhaps he’s not so bad after all.

Without hesitation, he jumps inside and slams the door.

“Well, thanks for a great evening,” he says, sticking his head out the window. “Happy Holidays!”

“Hey!” I yell, suddenly finding my voice. “Hey, you’ve stolen my—”

But the cab takes off down the street with a...

Customer Reviews

Doesn't quite live up to its promise
First let me say that I accepted the book for what it was, and I do think it was a clever premise. But It could have been so much better. Ms. Potter missed an opportunity to do something classy here, and it's really too bad. So - what was wrong? Several things.

First of all (and maybe this was just me), I didn't sympathize with the main character. She wasn't particularly nice, nor was she charming. When I read Bridget Jones's Diary, I really liked Bridget and rooted for her throughout. This character was melancholy, moody, rude instead of "arch," and - this was a real problem for me - drunk and/or high during some of the key scenes. Very little romance in inebriation, in my view.

Secondly, and it's related to the above, I never understood why Mr. Darcy would be drawn to this person. When you read Pride and Prejudice, you adore Elizabeth, who is smart, witty, intensely well-meaning, loving of her family, and just generally, all-round charming. The heroine here is forever dropping foul language in Mr. Darcy's hearing, and - while he reacts to other things he considers "improper" in her behavior - he seems to take her potty mouth in stride. Weird.

Some of the details were off: Darcy is not "Victorian." (!!!) "Crikey" seems to me more Australian than British, but I could be wrong about this. It just didn't seem like something the reporter would say. Also, the potential charm of some of the references to film and pop culture was ruined by explaining them to the reader.

So I'll give this three stars for the clever idea. Though I wish I could give it two and half, maybe. In any romance novel (and this includes Austen), you have to like and care about the characters. There wasn't enough character development here to make that possible.

The very worst
I read all the Austen prequels, sequels, variations, and based-upons that I come across. I read those set in the past, the present, and even one really odd one set in the future. I know going in that some will be good and some not so good, but even the not so good are generally at least mildly entertaining. Not this one.

This is, hands down, the worst.

The writing is poor, the plotting is non-existent, and the characters unlikeable and unbelievable. The lead female thinks that the unkempt and pot-bellied "hero" is arrogant and crass. He thinks she is unattractive and b itchy. I think they are both right.

The author spends 3 pages detailing how well the lead female character can "hold her water" midstream as she tries to listen to the lead male talk about her while she is in the restroom. Seriously.

The lead female is supposed to be an educated woman approaching 30. She talks like a particularly obnoxious and ignorant teenager. And her totally classless behavior, especially on a picnic with Darcy, was actually painful.

And Darcy!! OMG, the author has managed to take one of the most romantic characters in literature and absolutely ruin him. She manages to turn him into a huge bore and a craven jerk! He bears no resemblance whatsoever to Elizabeth's Mr Darcy.

My sympathy to the poor trees that were needlessly sacrificed for this waste of paper.

Absolutely Hideous!
This review contains some spoilers, so beware.

This book has potential, but as so many others have commented, it fails utterly to deliver on its promise. The novel attempts to comment on the way in which classic literature such as Austen's P&P encourages women to form unrealistic expectations about the nature of love, romance and relationships. Emily, our heroine, has the mistaken notion that Mr. Darcy is the world's most romantic figure. In this, Mr. Darcy seems to be this generation's misinterpreted romantic hero, much the way that Heathcliff has been for past generations. On this strange Austen bus tour Emily takes, she somehow travels either back in time or into the world of literature (it's never entirely clear where/when/how these meetings occur, except that they occur sometime after Darcy has met Elizabeth but before he's fallen in love with her) and meets the `real' Mr. Darcy. Had Emily actually met the real Mr. Darcy, the book might have been more entertaining, since she would have been confronted with a snobby jerk who wouldn't give her the time of day. Instead, Emily meets a conglomeration of romantic stereotypes that says more about the author's misinterpretation of P&P than it does about the average female reader's misreading of Darcy as romantic hero. Mr. Darcy takes Emily on long moonlit walks, private picnics, and even recites poetry at (rather than to) her, all the while, while Emily is either drunk, stoned, swearing up a blue streak, or wearing clothing that could only be interpreted by Darcy as that of a prostitute (not because she is one, but because of standards of dress and morality in Regency England). Darcy seems bent on overwhelming Emily with conventionally bad romance, despite her increasingly apparent lack of interest, the complete lack of chemistry between the two, and Emily's own completely distasteful personality.

Ultimately, Emily's rejection of him encourages Darcy to take a stronger interest in Elizabeth, although it apparently teaches him nothing about how to treat women, since Darcy will still go on to propose to Lizzie without being aware that she hates him. Not only is this part of the novel utterly ridiculous, but it's also totally arrogant on the part of the author, whose protagonist shows none of the wit, charm, and spark of Elizabeth, and could in no way inspire anyone to see a resemblance between the two.

The only justification for Darcy's inexplicable behavior is that Emily has a secret fairy godmother in the form Jane Austen, who somehow happens to be the tour leader--apparently Jane Austen is somehow immortal and has magical powers that she uses to help women in need of a love life. In order to help the love lost, Austen is apparently willing to twist her novels into complete trash to bring together people who, frankly, don't deserve anyone's help. Emily's destined love, an unwashed and uncouth slob, has none of the class, or `gentlemanly behavior' that allows Darcy to recognize his own flaws and attempt to correct them. The developing romance between Emily and the reporter ploddingly follows the plot of P&P, which Emily happens to be reading at the time (why it takes her nearly to the end of the novel to pick up on the scene for scene similarities between the novel and her relationship with the reporter is anyone's guess).

Ultimately, the biggest problem with this novel is its complete lack of self-awareness. Austen's work is not only romance, but social satire. She presents her protagonists as flawed people who manage to find each other both in spite of and because of their failures. Potter builds in the flaws, but forgets to include any form of self-awareness--these characters have no understanding of their own motivations, desire, faults, or anything else that might demonstrate some sort of substance. Instead, they seem to fall in and out of love because they must follow the plot of another and better novel. In this way, it can never comment on the unrealistic expecations of female readers of romance, since it in know way understands them!