Me and Mr Darcy (27 page)

 

B
arry, my dancing partner, turns out to be a marketing manager for a large pharmaceutical firm in Aberdeen, and for the next twenty minutes he leads me around the dance floor while telling me all about a new breakthrough drug for indigestion. I ask him all the pertinent questions, smile at all the right junctures, and I say ‘wow’ a lot. Men, I’ve learned from my many dates, like to hear the word ‘wow’ a lot when they’re talking about their career.

But what I really want to do is ask him what the new breakthroughs are for boredom, as I’m about to die of it quite shortly.

‘. . . but the most exciting thing about this drug is how it works on your acid reflux. It neutralises the bile in a whole new way,’ he’s saying brightly.

‘Wow.’ I force a smile, but I’m not really listening. Instead, my mind is tied up with thoughts of Mr Darcy. As Barry launches into a monologue about an exciting new development in fungal creams, I glance wistfully around the ballroom for a dark, handsome figure, wondering when he’s going to turn up.

That’s ‘
when
’, not ‘
if
’. Because I’m confident I
am
going to see him again. After all, this isn’t some flaky guy I’ve met in a bar; this is Mr Darcy.

‘May I interrupt?’

My heart jumps into my mouth. Is that . . . ? I twirl round excitedly.

And get a thud of disappointment.

‘Well, actually, me and this bonnie lassie were in the middle of a conversation—’ begins Barry.

And usually I would have agreed. After all, the last thing I want to do is dance with Spike. Except that’s not strictly true. I might hate Spike, but I hate the idea of spending any more time with Barry and his fungal remedies more. So, like a drowning man spotting a lifeboat and seeing his chance of being rescued about to pass him by, I cut in, ‘But now we’ve finished,’ and quickly untangle myself from Barry’s grip.

‘Thought so,’ smiles Spike.

I throw him a frosty look. So what if he’s rescuing me? I still don’t have to like him.

Meanwhile Barry hovers blinking in the middle of the dance floor, not quite sure what just happened. Guilt twinges. I feel mean abandoning him.

‘I actually have some free samples in the car,’ he says hopefully.

On second thoughts I don’t feel
that
mean.

‘Wow. Maybe I could look at them later?’ I smile and, without further hesitation, move quickly away and clamp my hand on Spike’s shoulder. Sometimes in life you just
have
to put yourself first.

We start dancing – well, it’s not really dancing, it’s more holding your partner and shuffling around the room. The awkward, clumsy type that needs conversation and jokes and witty observations about the party, otherwise you end up feeling like a self-conscious idiot and all you can think about is the fact you’ve got your boobs pressed up against a man’s chest, and the only thing between you is a flimsy bit of satin and a cotton shirt.

‘I thought you didn’t like dancing,’ I blurt, saying the first thing that comes into my head.

‘I don’t,’ he agrees, and, as if to prove it, promptly steps on my foot.

‘Ouch,’ I yelp.

‘Bloody hell, sorry,’ he apologises. ‘Are you OK?’

Crouching down to rub my sore toes, I glare up at him suspiciously. ‘Did you do that on purpose?’

‘On purpose?’ he repeats in astonishment. ‘Why would I stomp on your foot on purpose?’

‘Because you think it’s funny,’ I accuse, making a big fuss of rubbing my toes all the more, even though, to be honest, they’re not
that
bruised.

‘Trust me, there’s nothing funny about having two left feet,’ he replies, reaching out his hand.

Ignoring it, I pull myself upright and wordlessly he slips his arm round my waist. We resume dancing. This time I make sure to keep my feet firmly away from his. Neither of us speaks. Deliberately refusing to catch his eye, I glance around the ballroom. All the other couples are laughing and chatting, emphasising the silence between us. Even so, I’m determined not to be the one to break it. Why should I? I don’t want to talk to him anyway.

‘Picture this. I’m eighteen. In a nightclub. And it’s two a.m. . . .’

Spike, however, appears to have no such problem breaking it. Seemingly oblivious to my stony expression, he starts telling his story. ‘You know what that means, don’t you?
The last slow dance.
’ With a woeful expression he shakes his head. ‘Nobody ever wanted to slow-dance with me.’

I try picturing him as his eighteen-year-old self, with teenage acne and a floppy blond fringe, and find it surprisingly easy.

‘I’m the worst dancer,’ he continues. ‘I have no rhythm, zero moves and was once compared to a pregnant duck.’

He smiles sheepishly, but I refuse to smile back. I keep getting the image of Ernie, sitting across from me at the table, his eyes brimming with tears as he talked about Iris. If Spike thinks he can charm me with a few funny comments, he’s got another thing coming.

‘I bet even your dad is a better dancer than I am.’

‘Now
that
I find hard to believe,’ I reply sarcastically, prompted to say something about the image that has popped into my head of my father jigging around at a cousin’s wedding. ‘My father thinks hip hop is a Dr Seuss children’s book.’

‘Isn’t it?’ he asks innocently.

I’m amused, but quickly hide it.

‘No, that’s
Hop on Pop
,’ I snap, instead.

Spike’s straight face crinkles into a mischievous grin and I realise this is his famous English sense of humour and he’s joking with me. Again. I feel a wave of irritation.

‘In that case, how about I give you your first dance lesson?’ I suggest over-brightly.

Well, if he wants to joke around, it would be churlish of me not to play along, wouldn’t it?

Spike’s smile fades and he looks at me doubtfully. ‘What? Here? Now? Are you being serious?’

‘Totally.’ I nod. ‘I’m a good teacher. I studied dance until I was in freshman. Modern, classical, tap, ballet.’

‘Wow, I’m impressed,’ he says in admiration.

Me too, I tell myself. My entire dance knowledge comes from watching
Fame
as a kid and wearing leg warmers, but that’s not going to stop me having some fun. Spike has been having a laugh at my expense for too long. It’s about time he got a taste of his own medicine.

‘You see, first you need to loosen up your hips . . .’

‘Um . . .’ Uncertainly, he begins bending one knee and then the other.

‘No, you need to shake them more,’ I instruct.

God, I can be evil when I want to be.

‘Like this?’ Brow furrowed in concentration, Spike begins earnestly wiggling his hips.

‘Exactly.’ I nod solemnly. ‘But you need to take your hands out of your pockets.’

‘Oh . . . right . . .’ Obediently pulling out his hands, he holds them out to the sides as if they’re a pair of ornaments he doesn’t know where to put and continues jiggling his hips even faster.

Ha, ha, ha, he looks like such an idiot, I think, feeling a sense of satisfaction.

I stand back as if I’m a teacher observing their student. Like in
Fame
, I think to myself, wishing I was like Miss Grant and had a little cane so I could hit the floor and cry, ‘Fame costs, and here’s where you start paying for it.’ God, I loved that show.

‘Hey, I think I’m getting the hang of this,’ Spike is enthusing. Grabbing a strand of shiny pink tinsel from a nearby holly wreath, he tosses it flamboyantly round his shoulders like a feather boa. ‘Well, might as well get into the festive spirit, hey?’ He grins.

I watch, dumbfounded. I thought he’d fall for the joke, but I never thought he’d fall for it
quite
so hard. Not only is Spike gyrating his pelvis like Elvis on acid, but he’s concentrating so hard he’s doing the white man’s underbite. Sweating profusely he’s causing such a commotion people are starting to stare. I stifle a laugh. He looks so ridiculous. That’ll teach him to always make fun of other people.

Only the thing is, he doesn’t even realise the joke’s on him, I think, feeling a tad disappointed. Instead, he just seems to be obliviously enjoying himself, which wasn’t the idea.

‘It’s actually really quite easy when you know,’ he’s panting.

Just at that moment a waiter passes behind me with a tray of champagne and Spike pauses to reach out and take two glasses.

‘All that dancing’s thirsty work.’ He grins, passing me one. He begins mopping his brow with a napkin. ‘So tell me, when do I get to interview you?’

‘Aren’t you going to misquote me, anyway?’ I say archly.

‘Only if you want me to,’ he laughs, taking a swig of champagne.

‘Well, I know how you like to play with the truth,’ I reply, thinking about Ernie.

But if he knows what I’m talking about I don’t get a reaction.

‘Journalists call it artistic licence,’ he corrects, smiling.

‘How convenient,’ I remark. I can feel myself getting more and more annoyed. I know I’m not supposed to say anything, I know I promised, but it’s proving impossible. He’s just so
smug.

‘I’ll have to take you to lunch and do it.’

‘Talking of lunch, I had lunch with Ernie yesterday.’

I’m sorry, but I
tried
biting my tongue.

The effect of mentioning his name is immediate. Spike stiffens and his face suddenly whitens.

‘He’s such a sweet old man,’ I continue pointedly.

‘Well, you know what they say about first impressions,’ he mutters gruffly.

I can’t contain it any longer.

‘Well, mine were right about you,’ I snap back, my anger bubbling up to the surface.

Spike looks shocked. ‘Meaning?’ he demands.

But before I have a chance to answer, a phone suddenly starts ringing, its tone loud and warbling.

‘Shit, that’s me,’ he curses. ‘Hold this –’ Shoving his glass of champagne at me before I can refuse, he begins frantically checking all his pockets, until finally he finds it.

Well, at least now he’s going to turn the darned thing off.

He glances at the screen.

Doubt twinges. Surely he’s not going to answer it. We’re in the middle of an argument.

He answers it.

‘Yeah, hi, it’s Spike . . . yeah . . . Spike . . . Can you hear me?’ He frowns into the earpiece, shaking head. ‘Christ, the reception in here’s terrible.’

Right, that’s it. I’ve had enough. I turn to leave.

‘Hold on. Don’t move,’ he hisses, pressing his BlackBerry to his chest and flinging out his hand in a sort of ‘Stop’ sign. ‘This is only going to take a moment.’

I hesitate. I suppose this
could
be some kind of emergency. Something to do with work. A breaking story or something. I hold on.

He turns back to his BlackBerry. ‘Oh, c’mon, don’t be angry at me, sugarplum.’

‘
Sugarplum?
’ I gasp.

He shoots me an apologetic look. ‘I know, I know . . .’ he continues pacifying, then quickly covering the mouthpiece hisses, ‘It’s Emmanuelle.’

For a split second my chest tightens, but I quickly put it down to anger. I mean, honestly. I don’t frigging believe it. Does he think I’m just going to stand here like a lemon, holding his drink, while he whispers sweet nothings to his girlfriend?

Actually, yes, Emily, seeing as you
are
standing here like a lemon, holding his drink, while he whispers sweet nothings to his girlfriend.

Argghhh.

Furious with myself and Spike, I shoot him one of my scariest looks, then turn on my stiletto heel and, still holding a glass of champagne in each hand, march off the dance floor. Anger is swishing around inside of me like hot lava and I’m in serious danger of erupting all over some poor, unsuspecting person.

At the far end of the dance floor French windows lead on to a large balcony, but no one is allowed out there. I make a beeline for them. They’re not locked. And nobody’s looking. I slip through and step outside.

 

O
K, now just chill out, Emily. Chill.

The balcony is empty, and apart from the muted strains of the string quarter playing softly inside, it’s also still and quiet. It’s a welcome relief after the noise and chatter of the ballroom. Pacing over to the edge, I place both champagne flutes on the balustrade, spread my arms far apart and, gripping the cold stone beneath my fingertips, stare out into the darkness.

I take a deep breath.

I’m fuming about Spike. I was right the first moment I ever laid eyes on him. He really is an asshole of the first degree. The way he behaved towards Ernie is despicable. As is telling lies about him to Maeve.

And as for shoving his drink in my face and answering his phone like that and then just
ignoring
me!

I exhale, watching my breath escaping in large white clouds. It’s freezing out here and I’m shivering like crazy in my flimsy dress, but I’m too angry to go back inside. It’s times like this I wish I smoked. That’s what people always do in movies when they’re pissed about something, isn’t it? They drag heavily on cigarettes and somehow it seems to make them feel better.

A peal of laughter disturbs my thoughts and I look over to see a group of twenty-somethings who have snuck outside too. They’re huddled together at the far end of the balcony, laughing at some joke or other. But what interests me most is one of them appears to be smoking.

Emboldened by my shitty mood and the numerous glasses of champagne I’ve consumed during the course of the evening, I walk over to them.

‘Erm, excuse me . . .’