Me and Mr Darcy (31 page)

I stop stacking and look at him in total astonishment – and confusion. His hands are held stiffly down by his sides and his body is rigid.

‘Is this supposed to be one of your jokes?’ I manage to stammer.

‘No, not at all,’ he replies quickly. ‘I’m totally serious.’ He pulls up a chair and sits down, straddling it with his legs and hugging the back. He looks at me, waiting for my reaction.

Now, when I say I’m totally speechless, I mean it. I stare at him incredulously. He’s got to be joking, right? We hate each other’s guts.

Only he’s not smiling or winking or doing any of the stuff he usually does, which means—

Oh, shit.
He’s really serious.

‘I can’t stop thinking about you, Emily,’ he’s now saying, his words coming out even faster than normal, falling over themselves in their haste, ‘and I know this is all probably coming as a bit of a surprise, but I just wanted to tell you that I think you’re amazing . . .’

Someone please tell me I’m still out cold and this is some bizarre nightmare. This cannot be happening. It just can’t.

‘. . . Really amazing.’

But it is.

Oh, God.

Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God.

All this time I thought Spike hated me, and yet all along he was really
into
me.

I almost feel myself blushing. Despite the fact that I hate Spike I can’t help feeling just the
teensiest bit
delighted. Flattered even. I mean, who doesn’t like being showered with compliments? Even if they are from a liar/love-wrecker/old-man-basher.

‘Even though you know that when I first saw you I didn’t fancy you in the slightest . . .’

Hang on, what was that?

‘. . . far from it. Blondes are usually my type. In fact, I’m a total sucker when it comes to the whole glamorous red-lipstick thing.’ He smiles with embarrassment. ‘And you didn’t have any of that going on . . .’

Excuse me?
My delight is suddenly taking a U-turn.

‘. . . and if I’m honest, I thought you were a bit dull . . .’ He laughs ruefully.

Stunned. There’s no other word for it. STUNNED.

‘. . . but these past few days I’ve really got to know you as a person, and even though I tried to dislike you, and trust me I’ve tried, I can’t. I mean, I’m mad about you, Emily. I’ve even managed to overlook the fact you’re an American . . .’ Having obviously warmed up now, he emits another chuckle at what he obviously thinks is a joke.

But I’m not laughing. I’m angry.

‘. . . I always swore I could never go out with an American – you know I always had this thing about French girls . . .’

Very angry.

‘. . . but you’re different . . .’

Fucking furious. Damn right I’m different, you fucking asshole, I want to scream.

‘. . . and so, well, I just wanted to tell you how I feel and I was wondering . . . well, hoping, really, that you might feel the same way. About me, that is. And that maybe you’d have dinner with me tonight, if you’re not doing anything.’

He stops talking – finally – and, evidently pleased with his monologue, looks at me expectantly. I survey him with every drop of restraint holding my anger tight inside me.

He
says
‘hoping’, but there’s no doubting he’s pretty confident he’s going to get a positive reaction. That I’m going to suddenly swoon into his arms with grateful relief. Now, more than ever, I want to slap him.

Instead, I fold my arms and look at him coldly. ‘And what about Emmanuelle?’

Not only is he a liar, love-wrecker and an old-man-basher. It would now appear he’s also a potential cheat. God, how can I resist?

‘Oh, didn’t I mention it? We broke up last night,’ he says as if to reassure me.

I feel a twinge of something that could be mistaken as pleasure, but I quickly reject it.

‘It was never right between us. We fought like cat and dog. You were right the other day when you said I needed to go out with a normal girl’

‘And I’m normal, am I?’

‘Yeah,’ he enthuses, pulling his chair closer. ‘Absolutely.’

I feel stung. No girl ever wants to be called ‘normal’, do they? You want to be called ‘special’ and ‘amazing’ and ‘sexy’ and ‘passionate’ and a million other words that mean you’re unique. ‘Normal’ is just another word for ‘boring’.

‘Jeez, I’m flattered,’ I say sarcastically. ‘Thanks.’

He looks at me uncertainly. It’s the first flicker that things might not be going the way he’d planned.

‘I can’t think what I’ve done to inspire such love and affection,’ I continue calmly. ‘Truly, I’m very flattered. Privileged, even.’ With the anger building inside, I discard the flannel and gather myself up as best I can in a sheet. Sticking out my chin, I say determinedly, ‘But if you even
think
I might feel the same way about you, you’re very much mistaken.’

Spike seems to take a moment to register what I’ve just said. And then his smile seems to freeze and he goes a funny colour. For once he’s lost for words. This is obviously not the reaction he was expecting.

‘And even if you were the last man on earth, I wouldn’t go out to dinner with you,’ I declare ferociously.

A whole range of emotions flit over his features. Shock, anger, disbelief, incredulity, hurt. In fact, he looks really hurt, but then he quickly buries it and, composing himself, says stiffly, ‘You know, I find it really hard to talk about emotional stuff, and it took me a lot of balls to tell you how I feel about you.’

For a second regret stabs. Determinedly I push it aside.

‘So you don’t feel the same way. Clearly,’ he adds, grim-faced. ‘But you didn’t have to be such a bitch about it. I do have feelings, you know.’

He stands up, the injured party, and turns to leave.

Which is when I lose it.

‘You have feelings?’ I exclaim, my face flushing. Jumping out of bed, my sheet wrapped round me, I grab my bathrobe and – while trying to cover myself fully – tug it on. ‘What about my feelings?’ I demand. ‘You stand there and tell me that you thought I was this, that and the other when you met me, but that you’ve decided to like me against all your better judgement, and that it’s
so
out of character for you, but you’ve struggled against it!’ I break off, panting, my chest heaving up and down. ‘And then you expect me to be
nice
to you?’

‘Oh, come on, I didn’t mean it like that,’ he retorts. If he thinks he’s going to start talking he’s got another thing coming. It’s my turn now.

‘Yes, you did,’ I cry, cutting him dead. ‘And who do you think you are? Criticising me! Insulting me! You’re not so perfect, you know. Far from it.’

‘OK, so I thought those things then, but I’m just being honest, isn’t that what you’re supposed to be with each other? Totally honest?’

‘Oh, you want us both to be brutally honest, do you?’ I’m shouting now, my voice high and hoarse, but I don’t care. ‘Well, in that case, let
me
be honest with you about a thing or two . . .’

As I step towards him I see Spike flinch.

‘Let’s imagine, for one ridiculous moment, that I
did
happen to like you. That I
did
feel the same way about you. Do you even
think
–’ I spit out the word ‘think’ as if it’s got a nasty taste ‘– I would ever consider going out with a guy who thinks it’s perfectly OK to go around punching a defenceless old man and threatening him to stay away from his mother or else?’

It’s as if Spike’s been slapped. The muscle in his jaw starts clenching furiously. He looks demonic, but he’s not saying anything.

‘Well, are you going to deny it?’ I yell.

‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ he says coldly, refusing to be drawn.

‘You can’t, can you? You can’t deny it!’ I’m demanding.

Spike’s face turns red with anger. ‘No, if we’re talking about Ernie Devlin, I’m not going to deny it,’ he snaps.

I look at him, shocked that he’s actually admitting to it. He’s not even trying to make up some excuse.

‘I did everything in my power to keep that bastard away from my mother, and if I had to do it all over again, I would.’

‘But you hit him!’ I gasp.

‘Yes, I did.’ He nods. ‘And trust me, I’ve never hit anyone in my life before.’

He seems so genuine I falter slightly, but pull back.

‘Trust you? After everything that’s happened?’ I snort sarcastically. ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t believe you.’

‘Jesus, you’ve really got a great opinion of me, haven’t you?’

‘You lied to Maeve. I know you did. You wanted to prevent any kind of relationship between her and Ernie.’

‘You’re damn right I wanted to keep him away from Maeve.’

I can’t believe it! He’s not even making an attempt at arguing.

‘God, you’re pathetic,’ I gasp. ‘You couldn’t stand your mom loving Ernie, could you? You were so jealous you broke up their relationship. You beat him up and broke his nose, causing him to be so terrified of you he had to quit his job and disappear. You broke your mom’s heart.’

Spike looks so angry that I might feel afraid if I wasn’t so angry myself.

‘But then to destroy any other relationship that Ernie might enter into is just vindictive. How could you? Maeve’s just the sweetest person and she’s been sad for such a long time. But you wouldn’t have any idea about that, would you? You wouldn’t know that she had to have her baby girl adopted when she was just eighteen, that she’s been wracked with guilt ever since, that on this trip, maybe for the first time in years, Ernie made her smile. Made her laugh. Made her feel worth something again. You wouldn’t care about all that, would you?’ I break off, realising I’ve said too much. I didn’t mean to tell him about Maeve, but I couldn’t help it. I’m just so angry. I pause, my heart thudding. I’m out of breath. ‘And you went and ruined it for her,’ I add quietly.

‘That’s what you think of me, is it?’ asks Spike, finally speaking. ‘That I’m a thug and a liar and a vindictive bastard? That I’d ruin something for Maeve because of my own feelings towards— God, I can’t even bear to say his bloody name.’ He breaks off and gasps, shaking his head. ‘You think that this is all about me?’

‘You said it,’ I reply bitterly.

We face each other, me with my arms folded, Spike with his hands shoved firmly into his pockets. Animosity wafts between us like the chill from a freezer cabinet.

‘You talk about your first impressions of me, well, let me tell you mine. From the moment I met you you’ve been rude, selfish and arrogant. You’re so self-obsessed you think the whole world is about you.’

‘I think you’ve said enough, don’t you?’ he says, his voice trembling.

‘I haven’t even started.’

‘Well, I’m not going to stand here and listen to any more of this crap,’ he says determinedly. ‘You’ve made your feelings pretty clear. I’m sorry I bothered you. I’m sorry I’ve taken up so much of your time.’ He pauses, as if to say something else, then adds simply, ‘I hope you feel better tomorrow.’ And with that, he turns, pulls open the door and slams it so hard behind him it nearly comes off its hinges. I flinch.

‘And a Happy New Year to you, too. Asshole,’ I yell loudly. And then, to my utter astonishment, I burst into tears.

 

I
wake up the next morning with ‘crying eyes’.

You know the ones: the horrible swollen peepers that you get when you combine crying + sleeping. Bloodshot slits with big puffy bags that refuse to respond to any of those age-old beauty tips involving tea bags, cold teaspoons and Preparation H, and leave you with no option but to hide them.

Which explains why I’m going down to breakfast wearing my sunglasses. In
January.

Leaving my hotel room, I let the door fall closed behind me and hobble slowly along the patterned pink carpet. My ankle hurts and I’m still feeling a bit shaky. Last night I must have been suffering from shock. I didn’t realise it at the time, but that’s obviously why I burst into tears. It had nothing to do with anything Spike said – even though it might
appear
like that – no, it was definitely the shock of the fall.

Plus, of course, the concussion I got from hitting my head. I rub my forehead. The lump’s still there, but it’s shrunk quite a bit. I’ll probably end up with a nasty bruise as a souvenir from my trip.

I feel a twinge of self-pity. When I booked this trip I’d had visions of myself wafting around the English countryside in various colour coordinated outfits, my H&M spangly scarf thrown nonchalantly over my shoulder, a copy of
Pride and Prejudice
in my hand. I was going to be sexy, yet bookish. An American girl abroad, turning her back on the shallowness and disappointments of modern-day life and embracing a world steeped in history and literature. A world filled with quaint country pubs and roaring fires – in front of which I’d be curled with my book, sampling a local custom or two and making jovial banter with the villagers, most of whom would be wearing tweed.

I wasn’t supposed to be going around getting drunk
and
stoned, into huge arguments and knocked off horses and
nearly
killed.

As if to remind me, my head begins to throb naggingly.

I’m distracted by the faint burble of my phone, and digging it out of my bag, I look at the display. Stella. I feel a wave of relief. Boy, do I need a friend right now.

‘Hey, Happy New Year. Got the message,’ she says cheerily as I answer. ‘I wanted to find out how the ball was.’

‘Oh, it was great,’ I reply with forced cheeriness in an attempt to match hers. Reaching the staircase, I pause and sort of hover near the grandfather clock.

‘So tell me all about it.’

‘Well, it was in this amazing house, and there was a string quartet and dancing and champagne and . . .’ My eyes start watering again. ‘Oh, God, Stella, I had the most awful row,’ I blurt.