A/N: The Lost in Austen mini-series has always held a special place in my heart. Though it is a bit unhinged, there's a certain charm about it that I just can never pass up; which is why I re-watch it at least once a year. :)

The plot of this story will, for the most part, follow along with the mini-series. However, as this is fanfiction, there will be some deviations here and there. Nevertheless, I hope you enjoy the changes I've made, while still allowing Amanda's personality to shine through!

Feedback is always welcome.

Enjoy!

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"To you I shall say, as I have often before, do not be in a hurry, the right man will come at last."
—Jane Austen

December, 2008

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 sec, I've got a calculator on my cell..."

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 cell phone 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 celebration 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 declared triumphantly, and shows me the screen to prove it.

A very big mistake.

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. Fitzwilliam Darcy was my first love. Devastatingly handsome, mysterious, smoldering, and a total romantic, he had set the bar for all of 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 purse, I pass it to John.

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

You've got to be kidding.

Only, he isn't.

"Oh, um...sure," I mutter, and begin rooting around in my wallet.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not Renee 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 feet 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 year, I've been on one disastrous date after another. Now, okay, I know everyone has a bad-date story to tell. It's completely normal. Who hasn't been 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. Michael had "issues with intimacy." Translated, this meant he wouldn't hold my hand as it was "too intimate," but it was perfectly okay to ask me back to his place to watch porn 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 at 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 homecooked 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...

4. ...of listening to how "fabulous" Daniel was later, I managed to escape before she got out the baby photos.

5. And now there's John, otherwise known was Mr. Chivalrous...

"So, how about we do this again?" he's asking me, just 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 City and it's way below zero.

"What are you doing Friday?" he persists, raising his eyebrows and taking a drag of his cancer maker.

Oh, hell, what do I say now?

I falter.

Come on, Amanda. You're both adults. It'll be fine. Just be honest and tell him.

"Um, well, actually—" I say in a constricted voice, then stop midsentence as he blows smoke in my face. "I—I'm kind of busy," I splutter out.

If truth be told, I'd rather stick pins in my eyeballs than go on another date with him.

"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, Amanda. He deserves understanding and kindness, not judgement 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, John," I add warmly.

"You too, Amanda."

John appears to visibility 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 Amanda. Hmm, it's got quite a nice ring to it.

Buoyed up by my success, I continue: "And the plus are amazing."

"Plugs?" John looks at me blankly.

Shit. Did I really just say that?

"Erm... 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.

Look away, Amanda! Look away!

There's an excruciating pause. We both try to pretend we're not aware of it. Me by picking at 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 cannot be happening.

But it is.

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 just below 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 isn't 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 screeching of tires.

Abandoned on the slushy sidewalk, I watch the taillights disappear into the traffic and, despite my anger, I suddenly feel myself crumple inside. Unexpectedly, my eyes prick with tears and I blink them back furiously.

Honestly, what has gotten into me? I'm being ridiculous! The man was a total moron.

I'm not upset. I'm fine, totally fine.

And sniffing determinedly, I stuff my hands into my pockets and head off in the direction of the subway.